AN EPIC 9:00 A.M. LIE-IN, followed by coffee and toast in the café. I feel happy and on top of the world. “There Must Be an Angel” by the Eurythmics is playing on MTV, and I resign myself to the fact that I still have no hope in hell of mastering the Stevie Wonder harmonica solo in a million years. I could quite happily sit here all day, deep in contemplation, but the wheels of steel are already in motion. According to Swiss John’s theory, these last few kilometers are where I should be reflecting and wondering how to live the final chapters of my life, but the thought of returning to Scunthorpe fills me with dread.
On the outskirts of Sarria I see the two very familiar figures of Dr. Andreas and Greta resting at a bridge. They are amazed to see me again, and the good doctor is even more amazed that I’m fully recovered. They laugh loudly as I tell the story of “the miracle at Ruitelán.”
Both the good doctor and his wife look absolutely shattered.
Greta explains. “We spent the night at the monastery at Samos in a converted crypt where everybody had nightmares.” She shudders.
“It’s where the plague victims used to sleep,” says Dr. Andreas.
“Truly horrible and now we are shattered again,” she says.
I feel for both of them, and I’m pleased I stayed where I stayed, but I have to be on, so I bid farewell to my friends and hope to see them in Santiago.
As I approach the hostel in the woodland village of Ferreiros, I notice the blank, expressionless faces of ghostlike pilgrims, haunting around the entrances and exits with their worried gray faces already deciding my position in their queue. “Well, not today, José.”
I give them five loud blasts of The Great Escape theme and a V for victory sign as I pass. Their shocked, sour faces say it all.
Rain clouds gather above me and the sky turns black, but I don’t care.
I feel alive! Then, without warning, the heavens open and the cleansing, baptizing, rejuvenating rain ruins my last cigarette.
The light fades quickly as I cross the great bridge of Portomarín, with the yellow arrows leading me into a deserted hostel with no sign of life. So, cold and hungry, I trudge farther into the deserted town, sitting for a while on the steps of an empty hotel as darkness falls.
The place reminds me of a seaside resort closed down for the winter, and I can’t sit here all night, so I follow my instincts and press on through the deserted streets.
I hear him before I actually see him. “Theo!” I shout.
After an eardrum-shattering, hand-crushing reintroduction, he shows me inside the hostel to the bottom bunk on the very last bed, telling me that most of the lightweight pilgrims have stayed here for another night because of the rain, creating a pilgrim backlog of miserable faces.
I manage to find a dry T-shirt at the bottom of my pack and have the pilgrim’s meal at the restaurant with Alyssa, who tells me that Dave and Eva are very much an item now, staying in cheap motels and pensions instead of the pilgrims’ hostels.
“They’re even talking about starting a family,” she says.
So on that note, I opt for an early night with Pablo Coolio. Maybe now in my sobriety I can understand what on earth he’s talking about.
It might make me a better person, maybe even benefit from reading it? I climb into my damp sleeping bag and settle down for an interesting evening with Cocker’s old book, but someone else has other ideas.
The man in the bunk next to mine is laid on his back with his legs in the air, farting loudly and laughing. His horrible wife on the bottom bunk next to him thinks it’s funny too! The bitch.
I, however, do not think it is funny in any way, shape, or form, as a cloud of obnoxious fart gas drifts into my sleeping zone.
“Did you hear that? Ya, dat vas ein beauty!” he jokes.
“Ya, vell done, Rolf.” She grins.
I knew my rehabilitation wouldn’t last long.
Hatred, medieval torture, and painful death fantasies invade my once-peaceful mind. I put my earplugs up my nose and pull my sleeping bag over my head, exposing my bare legs to the damp, cold air. A deep, dark vengeance unfolds in my agitated mind, involving a large firework, a roll of duct tape, and a farting German bottom hole.
I wake up freezing in the middle of the night to a chorus of snoring and now I’m wide awake and still angry.
Pablo Coolio gives me an idea.
The industrial elastic band that once formed the cover of Cocker’s prized book is now stretched tight, like a catapult, with a neatly triple-folded piece of Pablo Coolio front cover missile. Gripping it between my teeth, I take aim at the snoring German.
A couple of shots go wide. The snoring stops, and I fear my position is compromised, so I hide beneath my covers until the snoring starts again. Vengeance is mine, said the Lord.
Twang!
“ARRRRGGGGHHHH!” echoes through the darkness.
“Mich hat eine wespe gestochen” ” he screams.
“Rolf, vas was dat, wat was dat?” says his wife, with her head torch on.
“Vat is happening there?” says another German.
“Rolf has been stung by a vasp!” she says.
The snoring has now stopped, and others are awake, babbling, but it was worth it. Well worth it. Pablo Coolio 1; Germany 0.