Off the Beaten Egg

The young bartender adjusted his smudged glasses as he peered at our drunken faces.

"Do you remember how much you had? It was six, yes?" he asked.

We nodded, not exactly sure how many beers our table had consumed, but six was an affordable number. As he fumbled with the till, we shook our heads at the thought of Spanish honesty -- no Anglo-Celtic pub would ever dare be so lax about their alcohol supplies.

Still, we had good reason to celebrate. It was the eve before our arrival in Santiago de Compostela and, after 32 days of walking across Spain, our goal was only a 5km skip down the road. Along the way our numbers had dwindled, as the original fellowship of pilgrims broke away, while new faces had passed through only briefly: it seems that friendships from the first days of the Camino set firmer than those of the sophomore weeks.

Naz had left, driven off by dogs and blisters. Scott and Peter reached Santiago days ahead of us, and were already back in their normal lives. Abigail, determined to reach the Cathedral of St James for the feast of Corpus Christi, had pushed on into the black, soaking night by herself. The final challenge of suburban labyrinths, followed by the majesty of the cathedral itself, was enough to strike her down with tears at her destination. Alone and crying in the Praza do Obradoiro,
Abigail ended her pilgrimage by checking into the most expensive hotel in the city.

The concierge at the desk gave her a 70 euro discount.

But let´s go back, before the end, before the rain and wind and more beer than anyone could dishonestly remember. Before we crossed the frontier, leaving red mesetas for the drenched emerald of Galicia, there was another table dressed in empty mugs.

"I´m interested in seeing how all of the food changes from province to province, as we travel across the camino," said Laurie, her hippy gums and peaceful whites shining across at us.

"In the start it was all of this asparagus, then lomo, lomo, lomo. It´s so wonderful being able to walk past these things, growing in the land, and then finding it on your plate that night, knowing that you probably waved at the farmer who picked it."

Laurie was very right about this, and from that moment onwards I started taking note of the food around me on my journey towards Santiago de Compostela.

Pork, otherwise known as lomo, was a major staple of the early Camino. This has been one of the greatest mysteries for me - despite Laurie´s observations about homegrown food, I never once saw a single pig on my travels. Yet, bacon, ham and pork took up the greater part of my digestive system over this last month.

Probably best not to dwell on that one, given that lomo directly translates to the scarily vague "loin".

This is why I jumped to eating beef the moment I saw cows in the fields beside me. Sometimes this could be a little cruel, especially when I ordered veal a few hours after patting the head of an inquistive calf. But that´s the beautiful horror of life, I guess.

Galicia is renowned for its cows, as well as its octopus, which I´ve had the pleasure of trying a few times. My best experience was in the town of Melide. Here, an old woman plunged fresh, whole octopi into a bit vat of boiling water. The bubbling liquid turned purple from leeching all the deep sea hue out of the creatures´gelatinous bodies. When an order was placed, she´d fish out a monster and hack its tentacles into bite-sized chunks, drowning them in salt, chilli and olive oil. We ate them, sucker pods and all, with bread and white wine that was so homemade that it looked like murky water.

Burgos, a city of so long ago that I only have a stamp to remind me that I visited it, is equally famous for its "Morcilla de Burgos", which is a type of blood sausage. I´m neither here nor there about its ingredients, but it was always very tasty and one night in Burgos we ate it as tapas while being treated to an impromptu magic show by some very talented bartenders.

However the crowning honour of most amazing, useful and cheap dish has to be awarded to the Spanish potato omelette, aka Tortilla aka Tortilla de Patates.

It was a bad day when breakfast didn´t start with a slice of this delicacy. The potatoes, rich in carbohydrates, and the eggs, powerhouses of protein and fat, were the best possible ingredients to push weary pilgrims across the finish line.

Which is why a cold fear set in when we arrived in the lush land of Galicia and found that tortilla isn´t that popular in these parts.

Any sense of torment, of starvation and exhausted collapse on empty roads were dispelled shortly afterwards, thankfully, when we were introduced to something that the Galicians do make in great abundance. Empanada, the spanish pie, sometimes filled with fish, mystery meat or chorizo and wrapped in the crispiest pastry imaginable, has occupied the tortilla-shaped hole in my heart ever since.

I know that last time I promised to talk about what I´d discovered by stopping in towns off the recommended way, but the rumbling of my stomach might have had something to do with my sudden change in topic. So, for now, it´s time for me to go and discover some new gastronomical wonder, or canoodle with an old favourite.

Or both, because I´ll need my energy for the days ahead.

Tomorrow I set off west - towards the end of the earth.