WALK THIS WAY
Famed more for cooking than his passion for endurance sports, chef PAUL FLYNN surprised everyone by falling in love with the Camino trek.
Chef Paul Flynn found joy in the simple pleasures while traversing the Camino
Like many others, my awareness of the Camino started with the film The Way, but then again, anything with Martin Sheen in it is compulsory viewing for me. I found President Jed Bartlet a reassuring intellectual presence in the White House (if only!), and it was totally believable to me that he would walk his troubles away on the Camino. Walking the Camino dates back hundreds of years. Historically, it was from your front door to the nearest established route and from there to the tomb of St James in Santiago de Compostela. The fervent walked from as far away as England and from all over Europe, converging in one of the holiest sites of medieval Christianity. The most popular route is the Camino trail through France that starts in Jean Pied de Port before arduously traversing the Pyrenees. But you can also choose from routes that take you through Portugal or Spain.
The French route is just under 800 kilometres and takes 36 days, not including breaks. I’d need to up my training regime for that one and organise frequent applications of industrial quantities of Sudocrem; and anyway, the quieter but no less beautiful paths in life appeal to me, so I set my sights on the Portuguese route.
I’d like to say I then embarked on a strict and well-planned fitness schedule, but I didn’t. I did plan to, but time just slipped away. There was one day Liam Crocker and I walked from Kilmacthomas to Dungarvan along a stretch of the Waterford Greenway. It’s 23km, a nice easy walk along a smooth surface with no challenging hills, so why that night did my body feel as if I had been set upon and clobbered mercilessly? I was marginally better the next day, but I did curse my lack of preparation for the Camino.
Crocker’s preparation was better than mine, but he never fully divulged his training regimen, which left me suspicious and yet more anxious. We f lew into Santiago Airport and taxied the 100km or so to Vigo: I nervously took note of the distance (gulp) and rather intimidating mountainous landscape, well aware that we would have to walk all the way back to Santiago.
There are lots of hostels along the route, but we chose to stay in hotels with our bags efficiently transferred each day. I’m sorry, I’m too old and spoiled to do hostels, plus I’m told they have a curfew – what’s that all about? They don’t call me Paul “free-range” Flynn for nothing.
On our first day, we set off from Vigo taking some time to find our way; in truth, we discovered pretty quickly that it’s almost impossible to get lost between the yellow arrows and the numerous scallop shell markers.
That first day was an easy enough 14km to Redondela along a glorious coastal path that left us in no doubt that we were going to have a magnificently different week. Food is my life, and Crocker to be fair plunged into that life with enthusiasm.
The first sign that we were in for a week of fabulous food was in the first café we hit in Redondela. While sipping a triumphant post-walk beer, a little tranche of turbot in a glowing puddle of saffron stock was placed in front of us. Not believing my eyes, I prodded it – it tasted of Spain – and it was free. If the food was going to be as good as this, I commented to Crocker, the week was going to be even better than anticipated.
The next day proved to be much more difficult – a challenging 20km stretch to Pontevedra, including a two-and-a-half-hour uphill trek until the terrain plateaued. Crocker powered on steadily, but I struggled, huffing and puffing to the top.
Discovering Pontevedra – a bustling, beautiful town rich in history and the birthplace of Christopher Columbus – was a joy. It came alive in the evening sunshine as we sat in the busy square, realising that every day on this journey was going to be different.
We quickly settled on a routine: up at 7am, a good breakfast but not too big, to get us back on the road no later than 8.15am. Next up was 22km to Caldas de Reis. We chatted when we wanted, stayed silent in comfort, stopped when we felt the need, and just drank up the landscape. The surprise heroes of our trip were undoubtedly the Galician grannies, who toiled endlessly in their immaculate plots. We took it all in and walked on, our legs adapting, grateful for the addition of a few stretches in the morning. Looking back, I think it was the pace of it that I loved the most; you had time to notice things: the colours, the smells, the people, the ancient buildings that seem to nuzzle their way out of the landscape as you walked by.
That evening, we were in for the treat of a lifetime. Just outside Caldas de Reis, we came to our guesthouse, Torre do Rio – a renovated mill set in spectacular grounds. The swimming
“I’m told hostels have a curfew – what’s that all about? They don’t call me Paul ‘freerange’ Flynn for nothing.”