It was a day of fine views as I slowly lost the height gained in the last couple of days and the weather was a far cry from this morning's patches of wispy, vertical grey threads of rain seen in the distance as I began my climb out of Campobecerros. For the most part I followed a wide track, carved out of the edge of the valley and following the gentle curve of the landscape. A few hundred feet below lay the thickly wooded valley floor, the view spoilt only by the slender mass of a concrete bridge for the high speed rail line making a brief appearance between tunnel mouths as it straddled the valley beneath us. Occasionally I would round a curve in the path and get a clear view of the landscape ahead: the grey and purple outlines of hills filled my view from the middle distance to the far horizon, like some hazy and mysterious gateway to a mythical world. I could not help but think that somewhere in that direction lay Santiago de Compostela and the hills that lay between would need crossing.
At the tiny village of As Eiras, nothing more than a handful of small houses of stone, wood and daub strung out along the path, a small area had been set out as a feeding station for pilgrims: table, sofa and chairs, coffee flask and biscuit tins plus a small box for your donation. The flask was empty so instead four of us pooled our resources and enjoyed a mid-morning snack of bread and cheese and mussels with biscuits and fruit before continuing. By now we had descended far enough that everything was noticeably greener and the track had become a narrow tarmac road hemmed in by trees and the smell of pine. I would catch glimpses of a distant village, sitting in the hills as if its surroundings had grown around it, and if you were to swap the blue sky and those red-roofed, white-walled houses for grey clouds and grey slate and granite you might well have thought yourself in the Lake District rather than northern Spain.
By the time I had reached the valley floor I was upon Laza, my destination for the night. It is another larger place by the standards of previous days but still quiet and small and hemmed in by hills. Some were to press on from here but Patrick was staying and I thought I would join him. We are both in a well appointed hostel rather than the albergue so it is the luxury of a private room and freshly laundered clothes for me today. We shared lunch with others who like us had decided to spend the night here before I relaxed in my room. In the evening we met for a drink, cowering in the bar a little longer than anticipated before heading back while a downpour and lightning drenched the streets.
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