The death of the spray

The day the Walker meets a nurse who misses her Algarvian accent (accent? which accent?)

T4: E9 – Pedra Furada>>Aborim

Yesterday, still full from lunch, but wanting to watch the national team play, I went back to the restaurant. There was almost no one there, so I sat next to the owner who was having dinner, asked if he could get me some cheese and ham and we started having a happy chat while we watched the game.

Remembering that I was at the Palhaçudo hostel, I realized that this name was anything but consensual. If everyone was satisfied with the recovery of a dilapidated primary school, not everyone liked the name, they would have liked a more noble name. Anyway, things from the villages.



Let's now turn to the case of the death of the spray. He had promised M. that he would deal with the matter in Barcelos today, but he was in a hurry.

But I had to go to the pharmacy to buy one of those creams that contain arnica, St. John's wort, etc. and that they are great for relaxing and hydrating your legs (the packaging I brought was large, but it deceives customers because it should only be half full).

From pharmacy to pharmacy, I asked if there was a nursing center nearby. To my great surprise, I managed to find one and only waited two minutes until I was served.

By the way, the spray didn't bother me at all, it didn't hurt, it even felt like it had healed. I immediately told the nurse that it was a big shitter and he, after observing me, said that everything was fine, that it had burst and there was almost no liquid left. In other words, the spray had committed suicide before they could finish it off. Anyway, he disinfected the thing there and made a new bandage.

I was paying (seven euros) when a door suddenly opens and a girl, with a big smile, says “How I miss hearing people talk like that!!!”.

He threw a party because he had completed the course in Faro and it had been a long time since I heard the Algarve accent (accent, which accent?)

She commented that she perfectly understood my difficulty in being understood here, because when she went down there, she went through the same thing, she always had to repeat her sentences. And we are a small country…



Here in this area of ​​Barcelos, the pilgrim is king. Lots of signs warning that there are pilgrims on the road, lots of advertising for hostels, benches dedicated to pilgrims, monuments, statues, even a “yellow brick road”, one can sense the boost this represents for the local economy.



Today I was questioned by a local who, in addition to gestures indicating the Path, made a point of stopping his motorbike to talk to me. I confess that I didn't understand more than half of what he said, but I know that he was watching the corn (whatever that was), had four goats and a goat, and that he advised me to eat round nearby.

Then I realized that eating round was eating on a plate, instead of just having sandwiches.

And so I did, in yet another cafe dedicated to pilgrims and working people and where, once again, they thought I was English. I had some cod pastries (they call them cod cakes) with roast potatoes, rice and salad, a chicken soup, two imperials, all for eight euros.



And they also made a point of stamping the credential, with a stamp dedicated to the Path.

Interestingly, today I saw almost no pilgrims. I was resting a little near another hostel when one passed by, without my backpack. When I started. He was coming back and almost stopped me, speaking French and asking if I wouldn't stay there and go and do another twenty-one kilometers. There I reassured him, saying that he would just walk a little longer.



In the gardens section, this has been weak, but even so we have the three pyramids today.

Today's route, 23,3 kilometers, was essentially urban, because the lands are next to each other.



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