gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
The table went over along with a couple of chairs. Glasses and bottles smashed down onto the tiled floor.
Over the years I’ve seen jagged glass cause some nasty wounds. I now really hate the sound of glass breaking.
Bodies crashed down amongst the furniture.
A red liquid started spreading across the floor.
“Blood,” I thought, and started to rise from my chair. I paused mid-rise as I realised almost immediately it wasn’t.
It was Ginja.
Ginja. You've gotta try it.
Should be compulsory for all pilgrims.
This sweet cherry liqueur that originated in Lisbon is based on Aguardente, the spirit derived from distilling the grape-skins and stems left after the initial stage of the wine making process.
This distillation I’m told can reach an alcohol percentage of 60%, and that’s just the legal stuff.
It is then infused with Ginja (Morello) cherries and lots of sugar.
Ginja is served straight, sometimes with the choice of an alcohol laden cherry.
The Portuguese are very fond of their Ginja. Way back, it was dished out to all and sundry, even children, as a wonder cure for all manner of illness. No wonder then that appreciation for this drink has passed down through the generations.
The boys had been on the Ginja.
I’ve walked far enough today. This’ll do me.
I usually tend not to plan where I’m going to stay.
Just wander along until I don’t want to walk any further. Then start looking for suitable accommodation.
But as far as finding accommodation goes, it's a bit of a hit and miss strategy.
Gets me into trouble sometimes.
Well, not trouble exactly. More like interesting situations. But it would be a bugger if life was boring wouldn’t it.
Brierley’s ‘Maps Only’ guide shows me two pensions in this town, but I’m a couple of ks past them.
Here’s an A for albergue symbol on the map.
The facing page identifies it as 'Fundacao CEBI'. Strange name. Wonder what that means? 5 euro.
That’s ok. I’ve splashed out a bit of dosh lately. Tonight I’ll be good and economonise.
It takes a bit of finding but I’m finally standing before a large iron gate. I'm looking through the bars. A few large buildings are being protected. In the near distance a group of children are cavorting about on a playground.
Whatever. There is an electronic access button that needs pressing.
A door opens and a young security guard approaches.
He looks me up and down.
“You!” he exclaims enthusiastically. “You are a pilgrim! You require accommodation for tonight!”
“This’d be a bright boy,” I’m thinking, “very quick on the uptake, considering this is an albergue and here I am with a pack on my back.”
“Indeed I am a pilgrim, and indeed I do require accommodation,” I reply politely - I am also a pilgrim who knows on which side his bread is buttered.
He unlocks the gate, ushers me inside. “Please follow me to reception where I will find people to attend to your needs.”
He chats away as I follow. His enthusiastic helpfulness is making me feel ashamed of myself now.
I can be a bit sour sometimes. Specially when I’m tired or wounded.
I peer through passing windows and realise that this appears to be quite a large school.
At reception he leaves me in the care of a lady who takes my details, gives my credential a stamp, points out a donativo box.
Five euro, you can’t give them five, don’t be mean. Then again I’m probably going to be sleeping in the gymnasium. Whatever, don’t be mean. Ten it is.
Formalities completed, two ladies arrive and lead me across the playground to another large building.
Sure enough, it’s the gymnasium. But now we are in a smaller room where gear is stored. They stack tumbling mats two high to form a double mattress, point out the door leading to the large bathroom, then leave me to it.
Sleeping bag on the tumbling mats. This’ll do me. A bit basic, but I’ll be comfy enough.
But the ladies return, laden with linen and pillows. Even a towel. Although I protest that I am big and ugly enough to do it myself they insist on making the bed. After the under-blanket and sheets, a big white feather duvet gets fluffed out across my bed. I’ll be lovely and snuggly tonight.
It’s just on 4.30pm when they leave me to it, after imparting one final piece of faintly disturbing information. As it’s the last day of school before the holidays start, I must be back inside before 8pm, when the gate is locked, and I will be unable to leave until the gate is re-opened tomorrow morning at 9 am.
Strange....but that just means an early dinner tonight, and a late start after a sleep-in tomorrow. No great problem.
Right, first I’m into the shower and then it’s down for a rest on my lovely bed. I’ll need to head off at about 6pm to find an early dinner. That’ll give me two hours before I have to be back at 8pm. Then a couple of hours reading before lights out.
My conscience makes me grab a handful of Werther’s Originals from my pack on the way out. I push into the security guy’s office and drop them on his desk. He can suck on them during his final boring two hours of work this evening. He happily thanks me then gives directions to a hopefully good suburban cafe.
It looks good. Lots of locals being served in the bar at the front. Always a good sign. Kids running in and out. An empty table down by the back door, next to the kitchen. Do me. I plonk myself down, peruse the menu. I order a meal, a ginja and a beer chaser from the young waitress. An older lady is running the bar, another is in the kitchen cooking.
Football is on the TV. Men are seated, chatting, drinking, watching.
A pretty regular Portuguese cafe then.
A man walks over from the bar to an occupied table. He stands talking, I presume about the football, to the table’s seated occupants.
A woman walks across the bar to him, tugs on his arm. Tug, tug, tug. Obviously the wife. She's pleading, wants him to go, home probably. He’s taking no notice of her. She eventually gives up, goes away.
My dinner arrives. Ok then. So enough of the people watching for a while.
Then a surprise. The table of football watchers explodes. It’s all on.
Eight or ten people rush from everywhere to join in.
A packed scrum of bent, clutching bodies forms. The newcomers are not attempting to fight, just to prevent harm to their particular friend. A side of this low-swaying, clutching beast stumbles over a table leg. Under the combined weight the furniture collapses. I cringe at the sound of glass breaking.
I’ve probably had more experience in this type of situation than anyone else in this cafe. But I've just started my dinner! Most impolite of them to interrupt a pilgrim bloke at his dinner.
I pick up my main course and hold it out towards the young startled waitress who is standing wide-eyed at the kitchen door. I point back inside the kitchen from where the cook is watching through a peek-a-boo glass panel.
“Take this back in there and look after it,” I instruct her forcefully. “Stay there! And tell those other two ladies to stay in there also until this ruckus is over.”
It didn’t occur to me at the time that she wouldn’t have the faintest idea what I was talking about.
Right, what to do first. There’s a woman with a pre-teen child watching from inside the doorway. I point to the door.
“Get that child out of here,” I yell.
She doesn’t need to be told twice.
There’s a big bloke standing with his back to the wall watching the hullabaloo attentively.
I get his attention, point to the smaller of the two initial antagonists and tap my chest.
“He, is mine!” I indicate that I will hoist him out the door at the back of the cafe.
He nods at me.
“You! You grab the other bloke, he’s yours,” I point him out, “and get him out the front door. OK?”
He gives me the thumbs up....I give him the countdown.
"Um...Dois...Tres....Go!"
We move in unison. Blimey he is a big strong bloke. He has absolutely no trouble in grabbing his man by the arm, detaching him from the scrum, then forcefully manoeuvring him away towards the front door.
Meanwhile I duck behind my man and slap a full nelson on him.
I’m much taller than him and as I stand upright his arms and legs waggle angrily but fruitlessly.
He complains bitterly as I drag him backwards through the cafe and out the back door.
As you’d expect he gets a bit mouthy when he is free of my grasp.
His mates come to see what’s happening and I encourage them to take him away home.
They smile knowingly and man-handle him away down the street. He’s not happy. I can see and hear him yelling back at me. Now he's taking a wild swing at one of his mates.
I walk back into the cafe. Out through the front window I can see the other bloke. He’s not happy either. His wife is giving him a right good tongue lashing, accompanied by the occasional slap.
He looks suitably abashed.
Now she’s yanking and pulling him away home.
Wouldn’t like to be in his shoes.
The gals have started sweeping up the glass, cleaning the mess. It doesn’t take long. No one has been hurt. Customers are sorting themselves out again.
My big mate comes back inside.
We shake hands and I indicate to him that we’d best have a drink.
He smiles and nods in agreement.
I walk to the bar.
“Duas ginja por favor.”
The lady chef look at me sternly.
“No ginja for you!” she says sternly. “You go!” She's pointing at the door.
“What? Me? What have I done wrong?" I protest. "And where's my dinner?”
“In rubbish,” she replies. “You are rude to my waitress (the waitress nods in agreement), you are shouting at the mother and child, then I see you fighting with my customer. You….go!”
My big mate attempts to intervene on my behalf but she’s having none of it.
“I see him!” she says emphatically.
Ah well. Best be off I spose.
I bid goodbye to my big mate and wander disconsolately out the door.
It's just like mother used to say.
“A good turn often deserves a good punishment.”
It’s getting towards eight o’clock. I’d better get back to the school.
There’s no dinner for me tonight.
Hope there’s a banana or something else in my pack.
And no breakfast til after 9am. Bugger.
Sometimes it’s a hard life being a pilgrim eh?
Next morning, 7.30am and I’m starving.
I’m all packed up and ready to leave.
Not waiting til nine. I’ve spied a fence over which I can escape.
Hang on. Here’s a problem. Can't get out.
I’ve been locked inside this gymnasium all night.
I eventually find a fire escape door.
But it’s alarmed.
I’ll take the chance.
I push the door open. The siren wails.
I jump outside, slam it shut again.
The siren still wails.
I’m over the fence and gone, stumbling and bumbling away down the street fast as I can to the first open cafe.
I’m hoping they’ll figure the alarm is just an electrical fault.
It takes about an hour until the siren wails no more.
By then I’m well gone.
Some towns just don’t like me.
Regards
Gerard....I'm a Portugeezer
Over the years I’ve seen jagged glass cause some nasty wounds. I now really hate the sound of glass breaking.
Bodies crashed down amongst the furniture.
A red liquid started spreading across the floor.
“Blood,” I thought, and started to rise from my chair. I paused mid-rise as I realised almost immediately it wasn’t.
It was Ginja.
Ginja. You've gotta try it.
Should be compulsory for all pilgrims.
This sweet cherry liqueur that originated in Lisbon is based on Aguardente, the spirit derived from distilling the grape-skins and stems left after the initial stage of the wine making process.
This distillation I’m told can reach an alcohol percentage of 60%, and that’s just the legal stuff.
It is then infused with Ginja (Morello) cherries and lots of sugar.
Ginja is served straight, sometimes with the choice of an alcohol laden cherry.
The Portuguese are very fond of their Ginja. Way back, it was dished out to all and sundry, even children, as a wonder cure for all manner of illness. No wonder then that appreciation for this drink has passed down through the generations.
The boys had been on the Ginja.
I’ve walked far enough today. This’ll do me.
I usually tend not to plan where I’m going to stay.
Just wander along until I don’t want to walk any further. Then start looking for suitable accommodation.
But as far as finding accommodation goes, it's a bit of a hit and miss strategy.
Gets me into trouble sometimes.
Well, not trouble exactly. More like interesting situations. But it would be a bugger if life was boring wouldn’t it.
Brierley’s ‘Maps Only’ guide shows me two pensions in this town, but I’m a couple of ks past them.
Here’s an A for albergue symbol on the map.
The facing page identifies it as 'Fundacao CEBI'. Strange name. Wonder what that means? 5 euro.
That’s ok. I’ve splashed out a bit of dosh lately. Tonight I’ll be good and economonise.
It takes a bit of finding but I’m finally standing before a large iron gate. I'm looking through the bars. A few large buildings are being protected. In the near distance a group of children are cavorting about on a playground.
Whatever. There is an electronic access button that needs pressing.
A door opens and a young security guard approaches.
He looks me up and down.
“You!” he exclaims enthusiastically. “You are a pilgrim! You require accommodation for tonight!”
“This’d be a bright boy,” I’m thinking, “very quick on the uptake, considering this is an albergue and here I am with a pack on my back.”
“Indeed I am a pilgrim, and indeed I do require accommodation,” I reply politely - I am also a pilgrim who knows on which side his bread is buttered.
He unlocks the gate, ushers me inside. “Please follow me to reception where I will find people to attend to your needs.”
He chats away as I follow. His enthusiastic helpfulness is making me feel ashamed of myself now.
I can be a bit sour sometimes. Specially when I’m tired or wounded.
I peer through passing windows and realise that this appears to be quite a large school.
At reception he leaves me in the care of a lady who takes my details, gives my credential a stamp, points out a donativo box.
Five euro, you can’t give them five, don’t be mean. Then again I’m probably going to be sleeping in the gymnasium. Whatever, don’t be mean. Ten it is.
Formalities completed, two ladies arrive and lead me across the playground to another large building.
Sure enough, it’s the gymnasium. But now we are in a smaller room where gear is stored. They stack tumbling mats two high to form a double mattress, point out the door leading to the large bathroom, then leave me to it.
Sleeping bag on the tumbling mats. This’ll do me. A bit basic, but I’ll be comfy enough.
But the ladies return, laden with linen and pillows. Even a towel. Although I protest that I am big and ugly enough to do it myself they insist on making the bed. After the under-blanket and sheets, a big white feather duvet gets fluffed out across my bed. I’ll be lovely and snuggly tonight.
It’s just on 4.30pm when they leave me to it, after imparting one final piece of faintly disturbing information. As it’s the last day of school before the holidays start, I must be back inside before 8pm, when the gate is locked, and I will be unable to leave until the gate is re-opened tomorrow morning at 9 am.
Strange....but that just means an early dinner tonight, and a late start after a sleep-in tomorrow. No great problem.
Right, first I’m into the shower and then it’s down for a rest on my lovely bed. I’ll need to head off at about 6pm to find an early dinner. That’ll give me two hours before I have to be back at 8pm. Then a couple of hours reading before lights out.
My conscience makes me grab a handful of Werther’s Originals from my pack on the way out. I push into the security guy’s office and drop them on his desk. He can suck on them during his final boring two hours of work this evening. He happily thanks me then gives directions to a hopefully good suburban cafe.
It looks good. Lots of locals being served in the bar at the front. Always a good sign. Kids running in and out. An empty table down by the back door, next to the kitchen. Do me. I plonk myself down, peruse the menu. I order a meal, a ginja and a beer chaser from the young waitress. An older lady is running the bar, another is in the kitchen cooking.
Football is on the TV. Men are seated, chatting, drinking, watching.
A pretty regular Portuguese cafe then.
A man walks over from the bar to an occupied table. He stands talking, I presume about the football, to the table’s seated occupants.
A woman walks across the bar to him, tugs on his arm. Tug, tug, tug. Obviously the wife. She's pleading, wants him to go, home probably. He’s taking no notice of her. She eventually gives up, goes away.
My dinner arrives. Ok then. So enough of the people watching for a while.
Then a surprise. The table of football watchers explodes. It’s all on.
Eight or ten people rush from everywhere to join in.
A packed scrum of bent, clutching bodies forms. The newcomers are not attempting to fight, just to prevent harm to their particular friend. A side of this low-swaying, clutching beast stumbles over a table leg. Under the combined weight the furniture collapses. I cringe at the sound of glass breaking.
I’ve probably had more experience in this type of situation than anyone else in this cafe. But I've just started my dinner! Most impolite of them to interrupt a pilgrim bloke at his dinner.
I pick up my main course and hold it out towards the young startled waitress who is standing wide-eyed at the kitchen door. I point back inside the kitchen from where the cook is watching through a peek-a-boo glass panel.
“Take this back in there and look after it,” I instruct her forcefully. “Stay there! And tell those other two ladies to stay in there also until this ruckus is over.”
It didn’t occur to me at the time that she wouldn’t have the faintest idea what I was talking about.
Right, what to do first. There’s a woman with a pre-teen child watching from inside the doorway. I point to the door.
“Get that child out of here,” I yell.
She doesn’t need to be told twice.
There’s a big bloke standing with his back to the wall watching the hullabaloo attentively.
I get his attention, point to the smaller of the two initial antagonists and tap my chest.
“He, is mine!” I indicate that I will hoist him out the door at the back of the cafe.
He nods at me.
“You! You grab the other bloke, he’s yours,” I point him out, “and get him out the front door. OK?”
He gives me the thumbs up....I give him the countdown.
"Um...Dois...Tres....Go!"
We move in unison. Blimey he is a big strong bloke. He has absolutely no trouble in grabbing his man by the arm, detaching him from the scrum, then forcefully manoeuvring him away towards the front door.
Meanwhile I duck behind my man and slap a full nelson on him.
I’m much taller than him and as I stand upright his arms and legs waggle angrily but fruitlessly.
He complains bitterly as I drag him backwards through the cafe and out the back door.
As you’d expect he gets a bit mouthy when he is free of my grasp.
His mates come to see what’s happening and I encourage them to take him away home.
They smile knowingly and man-handle him away down the street. He’s not happy. I can see and hear him yelling back at me. Now he's taking a wild swing at one of his mates.
I walk back into the cafe. Out through the front window I can see the other bloke. He’s not happy either. His wife is giving him a right good tongue lashing, accompanied by the occasional slap.
He looks suitably abashed.
Now she’s yanking and pulling him away home.
Wouldn’t like to be in his shoes.
The gals have started sweeping up the glass, cleaning the mess. It doesn’t take long. No one has been hurt. Customers are sorting themselves out again.
My big mate comes back inside.
We shake hands and I indicate to him that we’d best have a drink.
He smiles and nods in agreement.
I walk to the bar.
“Duas ginja por favor.”
The lady chef look at me sternly.
“No ginja for you!” she says sternly. “You go!” She's pointing at the door.
“What? Me? What have I done wrong?" I protest. "And where's my dinner?”
“In rubbish,” she replies. “You are rude to my waitress (the waitress nods in agreement), you are shouting at the mother and child, then I see you fighting with my customer. You….go!”
My big mate attempts to intervene on my behalf but she’s having none of it.
“I see him!” she says emphatically.
Ah well. Best be off I spose.
I bid goodbye to my big mate and wander disconsolately out the door.
It's just like mother used to say.
“A good turn often deserves a good punishment.”
It’s getting towards eight o’clock. I’d better get back to the school.
There’s no dinner for me tonight.
Hope there’s a banana or something else in my pack.
And no breakfast til after 9am. Bugger.
Sometimes it’s a hard life being a pilgrim eh?
Next morning, 7.30am and I’m starving.
I’m all packed up and ready to leave.
Not waiting til nine. I’ve spied a fence over which I can escape.
Hang on. Here’s a problem. Can't get out.
I’ve been locked inside this gymnasium all night.
I eventually find a fire escape door.
But it’s alarmed.
I’ll take the chance.
I push the door open. The siren wails.
I jump outside, slam it shut again.
The siren still wails.
I’m over the fence and gone, stumbling and bumbling away down the street fast as I can to the first open cafe.
I’m hoping they’ll figure the alarm is just an electrical fault.
It takes about an hour until the siren wails no more.
By then I’m well gone.
Some towns just don’t like me.
Regards
Gerard....I'm a Portugeezer
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