I am a peregrino, I have discovered, who doesn’t like non-peregrinos.

I love cities when on holiday for short stays, for the buzz of everything that goes on. You look around anywhere and there are people, people who are doing their own thing, at their pace, with not too much attention to anyone else.
Cities are the places where you people watch, not people meet.

There have been a very few times in my life when there has been an instant love of strangers. It’s so hard to explain.

As I climbed onto the bus the Frenchman shouted, “You will know what to do for your brother”, a lump swoll in my throat and I had to fight back the tears – not so successful with that one.

I had been talking to him about Finisterre and how the American girl Summer and I had been talking about the piling of the stones along the way. She and I discussed the best place to leave the stone for my brother John.

I told him that I was wondering what to actually do with this memento and this is what led him later to call out to me as I stepped onto the bus.

Makes you wonder, with all the crap that is going on in the world, why a total stranger would feel the need to give me his advice, advice he meant from his heart to mine. Hit hard that did as I clambered aboard the bus. I sat mid-way up the bus and he and his wife were still watching and gave a simple wave as the bus pulled out.

The next town was only 35 minutes away and, as I looked out of the window, I could see peregrinos on the long, long walk up the arrow-straight road leading to Vilar de Mazarife with the sun beating down relentlessly on them. This was one of the routes to take to Mazarife, this was the one the peregrino who was doing it for penance would take I think.

I arrived in Mazarife around 4:15 pm and was dropped at the other side of the village from the albergue I had pre-booked.

When I arrived at albergue San Antonio de Padua I felt part of the family again.

As I walked through the beautiful garden where peregrinos where relaxing in the sun I almost got a wolf-whistle for my kilt. I may have to start wearing this for good. Would shock the punters in George’s bar back home. Still, who cares, they wouldn’t get it.

Back later, dinner calls ……