Total distance: 44.1 km. Climb: 1,000 m.

The elevation plot on the day sheet is a bit intimidating. It resembles the graph of an exponential function in mathematics: climbing slowly at first, then growing increasingly steep at the end. Fortunately, it is a relatively cool and quiet Sunday morning as we trend northwestward from Cacabelos. The town of Villafranca del Bierzo, today’s cultural highlight, has a simple Romanesque church, where I have my first opportunity to light a candle. At the first European cathedral I ever visited – Notre Dame de Paris – I was attracted by the idea of lighting a votive in memory or honor of someone. But at the four cathedrals I have seen so far in Spain – Pamplona, Burgos, Leon and Astorga – real wax candles have been supplanted by banks of plastic candles with electric bulbs. When you insert a coin of one euro or a fraction thereof in offering to a saint at one of the side chapels, a proportional number of electric candles is illuminated for a preset length of time. Presumably, this eliminates soot buildup on the walls and stained glass windows of a cathedral; but somehow it’s not the same. Now, finding a church with real candles, I waste no time lighting two for the health, happiness and prosperity of my sister and my struggling expatriate friend JC.

Outside the church is a cemetery full of modern Italian-style sarcophagi. Although this town is known as the final resting place of pilgrims who could not bear the rigors of traveling and who died before crossing the last mountain range before Santiago, there is no sign in the cemetery of simple crosses or plaques that might mark the remains of impoverished pilgrims. The church’s north portal, which is closed up, is known as the Puerta del Perdón, the place where pilgrims who could not continue their journey would come to beg for absolution. There I talk to a younger man from London, who is guiding two others on a walking tour of a relatively short section of the camino.

Beyond this town our quiet road winds around the green foothills of the Cordillera Cantabrica. Nestled between the small hills are little farms and pastures, which strike me as the most scenic countryside I have seen yet on the tour. All this must be hidden from view of the people in vehicles who speed by on the superhighway far overhead, the A6, which hops from one ridge to the next, supported in the middle by concrete struts, some of which must be a hundred feet long. At Vega de Valcarce I stop with Dean and Loreto for refreshments – a Cola Cao instant cocoa for me, served by an unresponsive woman who seems to be sedated. The lonely road wanders westward, providing me opportunities to lag behind taking photos and buying a walking stick from a roadside merchant. It’s a little tricky lashing the five-foot stick to the center tube of my bike, but I eventually find a position that will not interfere with my pedaling or steering. Behind the end of the pack again, I stop alone at a bar in Herrerias for a beer to recharge my energy for the long, steep climb ahead.

At the end of town the road disappears from the Michelin map, but in reality a decent two-lane road continues, leading me up a steep hill for 12 kilometers. A couple places the slope is so steep that I have to stand on the pedals, but usually I can pedal sitting down while in the lowest gear ratio. Because the sun is hot and my slow movement provides little cooling effect, I seek every opportunity to ride in the shade of trees. During the long climb I find two roadside fountains with cold, flowing ground water; in addition to filling my water bottle I pour cold water over my head and saturate the front of my jersey. This road is shared by the walking pilgrims, and I encounter a family with three young children walking the route. I see no cars, and other than this family I see no other soul on this stretch of road.

The climb is interminable. The end of every grade only brings me around a corner and onto a new grade. When my odometer registers 39 km I come to some buildings and merge with another road. Believing I am near the end of the ride, I expend extra energy racing to stay ahead of a tractor moving slowly, but inexorably along the road. Eventually it takes a different turn. Then the next corner only brings into sight a steep grade in full sunshine. Dean and Loreto are on it, climbing slowly. I power past them and pedal hard to toward the destination. It is still another couple kilometers away, and I reach it only after exhausting my water supply, by pouring as much over my head as down my throat.

Once in O Cebreiro, after settling into my spacious second floor suite in a stone building, I stroll around the town. It doesn’t take long. This is a small town completely removed from the rest of the world – detached from population centers by distance and elevation, and made unique by its singleness of purpose. There is no business here other than catering to the needs of pilgrims. Our day sheet applies the word “hamlet” to O Cebreiro, and the uniqueness of that term fits well. On my walk I find the little Iglesia de Santa Maria la Real, another church with real candles. I light one as a wish for a new job for another friend of mine. I look into one of two traditional stone buildings with thatched roofs that contains an artisan/souvenir shop, but most of the items for sale contain a bit too much of the mystical/crystal element for my taste, so I leave quickly.

Having seen most of the town in short order I stop at one place I haven’t yet been: the tavern. Seated at the bar I find Dean and the party duo, of course, and I join them for an Estrella Galicia on tap and some seafood appetizers. Dean has already gotten friendly with the woman pouring the drinks, whose name also happens to be Estrella, and who. I have happened along just at the time when he is ready to pose the significant questions. “Are you married?” he begins, followed by “Is your husband in town?” to gauge, I suppose, any flexibility in the affirmative answer to the first question. The line of questioning continues with “Do you have any daughters?” It’s a blunt change of course that risks offending as I see it; but again there is something about this man’s innocent charm that quiets any suspicion in Estrella’s mind. A few minutes later, when she has a chance, she produces photos of her daughters, who are quite lovely. “How old are they?” Dean asks, wanting to make sure that he doesn’t risk running afoul of the law, even in thought. And I swear, when Estrella answers, that they are 17 (diez y siete) and 19 (diez y nueve), but when she writes it down for Dean they are 19 and 21. (Perhaps it’s just that they have aged since the photos were taken.)

After a couple beers I step outside and happen upon four group members who are about to climb to a cross on a small hill behind the town. Always ready for a little exercise, I join them. A fog has settled on the mountain, and a cold wind bites through our clothes as we ascend the broad path. Still, even with no view beyond a dim glimpse of the obscured hamlet, I have a sense of being at the highest vantage point of the tour.

During our dinner of peasant foods including the usual jamon serano and chorizo, collard greens, and revueltos Dean does not join us. A sentry quickly determines that he has elected to stay in the bar and Estrella is feeding him. After a dessert of fresh, light cheese topped with honey I return to the bar to check on Dean. He has moved to a table that he is sharing with five blonde women, who all seem well humored in his company. Like the rest of us who are no residents of O Cebreiro, they are pilgrims, and they immediately accept me into the group as I order another draft and sit down. They are from the town of Volendam in the Netherlands and after crossing most of nothern Spain on foot have arrived at the place that their travel literature billed as “the Volendam of Spain.” Dean’s side of the table, I notice, is littered with a history of things consumed: beer glasses, shot glasses. It appears that Dean is far beyond the point of losing good judgment and approaching the point of losing consciousness. He asks Estrella if she has something like Sambucca, and orders a round of something that tastes like Jagermeister.

Dean’s tab comes to a hefty total, and I throw in a little extra above the beer and shot that I had. Maria Elena is on hand to make sure that Dean stops drinking and to escort him back to the lodging. To wind down a bit before bed we sit in a parlor downstairs. I find a classical guitar and try to recall a Bach piece. Dean asks if I know “Stairway to Heaven.” That one I can recall even in the thin air of O Cebreiro. I think it will take a miracle to restore Dean to riding condition by breakfast, but again he surprises me.