Total distance: 73.6 km. Climb:  850 m.

When I awaken at 7:30 the sun is shining brightly through the second-floor window of my well appointed lodging in the hamlet of O Cebreiro. But a dense fog comes to shroud the ridge during the time that we gather in the bar that serves as the dining area for our lodge. In addition to the usual bread, cold cuts and fruit, breakfast includes a cake of soft, mild cheese to be slathered with honey and eaten in large chunks – a nice variation on the usual fare.

As we set out, the thick cloud cover keeps me cool  as I ride the first 7 km along the ridge in the company of John-Giebler, climbing gradually to the peak at Alto do Poio (1,337 m). The walking path is right beside the road, and I pass a lone pilgrim or two. The sun seems on the verge of breaking through, and we pause at the bar there to consider whether a windbreaker will be necessary during the upcoming descent. I hear someone call out my name and look back at the trail to see the five Dutch women from the night before. They rose early, ate breakfast at the albergue and got an early start and have already walked seven kilometers. John and I bid them good morning and farewell. We will not see them again. As with all the other pilgrims we meet, our period of camaraderie is brief. By nightfall we will be 50 km ahead of them.

John and I elect to remove our windbreakers. The sunshine, coupled with exercise, provides enough warmth during the next 2-3 km of rolling terrain. But as we begin what will be 12 km of steep 7% downgrade, the road descends into the heart of the cloud. Time to put the insulation back on. John-Giebler disappears into the fog ahead. Visibility is so limited that no features of the landscape are visible; the ever-shifting curves in the road appear from behind a curtain of fog, as if painted in random patterns on the spur of the moment for some challenging arcade game. To maintain a sense of control I ride the brakes continuously and hold my speed around 30 kph, which gives me a comfortable reaction time. After many tense minutes pass, I begin to discern some logic to the curves of the winding road. Each one has a fairly constant radius, the surface is smooth and both the center and edge of the road are well marked with white lines. Unpredictable twists are not likely to be a problem, and the only real threat would be an unexpected obstacle in the middle of the road. Then, just as this line of reasoning begins to boost my confidence, I round a corner and two large cows materialize out of the mist – one far to my left and the other to my right, grazing on opposite edges of the road, thankfully. Nevertheless, the potential hazard leads me to keep my speed down.

In the mist my tinted lenses fog up, further limiting visibility. The brake levers are wet, and I’m not sure my grip would hold if I had to brake hard. I lower my glasses on my nose and stare over the top edge, naked eyes glued on my only two cues, centerline and shoulderline, white ribbons that feed toward me and disappear at the limits of my peripheral vision. For a while there is nothing else to see and not a spare second to look down at the speedometer. Moisture gathers on the front of my helmet, occasional drops coalesce and fall just in front of my eyes.

Adding to the multisensory overload, my baggy windbreaker flaps madly from the relative wind of motion. This produces a deafening roar that exaggerates my speed. Because I need maneuvering room both right and left I ride toward the center of the lane. I hope that no car comes speeding up behind me. Fortunately, traffic is light. One small car does materialize behind me, but its driver is not is not pushing it much more than I; he comes out of the fog slowly and passes me with a wide margin. Gradually the visibility improves to a more comfortable range and I let up on the brakes. At this point my hands are numb from the cold and from the road vibrations. By the time I have a chance to squint through my fogged sunglasses at the speedometer I have accelerated to a surprisingly fast 50 kph.

John-Giebler reappears ahead of me, and before long we arrive at Triacastello, the bottom of the steep descent. We have lost nearly half our elevation, dropping from 1,350 m to 700 m. A Café Bar provides a good place to thaw out. I sip a warm Cola Cao, and we talk with two cyclists from London who say they have seen me before.

Refreshed, we commence a quick 10 km run toward a monastery at Samos. On this section the road passes through a gorge with a sheer red rock wall on the right and a rocky tree-covered slope to the left. I consider it one of the most scenic parts of the day, if not of the entire tour.

Arriving at Samos around 12:15 I am the last one at this checkpoint. Not to be confused with the more famous Greek island, this Samos is the site of a once-powerful monastery founded in the 6^th century, although the surviving building was constructed about a thousand years later. Most of the other group members have ridden on, but I am interested in seeing what’s inside. Loreto is there to act briefly as interpreter and inquires if I can join one of the last guided tours of the day. The answer is affirmative, and I hurry in to begin the tour. Loreto and John-Giebler bid me well and move on.

At first it appears that I will tag along with a large group. But at the last minute a robed monk appears and pulls me and one other late arrival, a woman from Germany, for our own private tour. A private tour, unfortunately, in a language of which I don’t understand very much. For the benefit of us two non-Spanish speakers this Benedictine monk speaks slowly and uses simple words. In fact, it begins to sound like a lesson in elementary Spanish as he repeats things two or three times until one of us shows a sign of recognition. He begins by pointing toward the iglesia and speaking of las ventanas, las cornisas, el domo, y la linterna, and I realize that he is naming the architectural elements in ascending order. Then he leads us to the upper floor of an open quadrangle. It is a new cloister, and the walls are covered with modern murals portraying various robed figures among monasterial buildings against an unnaturally blue sky. Some of the characters have photo-realistic faces; my guess is that these are latter-day celebrities of the monastery. Some figures have no faces at all. The whole thing looks rather atrocious to me.

The monk points to a figure and says, “San Benito. San Benito.” He leads us forward a few steps, points to another figure with similar features and repeats, “San Benito. San Benito.” This repeated appearance of St. Benedict makes sense in a Benedictine monastery. If I had planned my visit I might have read in the CCH that “the seemingly endless modern mural, executed in 3 styles, depicts various episodes from the life of San Benito.” But as we round a corner and the monk begins introducing us to the characters on the second wall I can only wish that he would summarize the mural in a sentence or two and move on to other, more interesting parts of the monastery. The introduction to the saints continues, with little to comprehend other than their names. I feel as if I have arrived late at a party of religious dignitaries and am being introduced to several dozen guests; I can’t enjoy the experience because I am already dreading the moment when the host abandons me and the guests start coming by to chat, fully expecting me to remember their names and recognize them by their attributes. The monk points at one figure in the mural whose outstretched arm seems to be pointing toward something else. He demonstrates that as we move to another vantage point the painted arm seems to point to something different and even to protrude from the mural. Among the monk’s words I catch la Capilla Sistina – and in my head it clicks that he is comparing this with the hand of God reaching out to Adam in Michelangelo’s famous Creation fresco.

As we proceed the monk speaks directly to the German woman, who seems to follow with greater understanding and more interest than I. But to convey the message to me he chooses a supplementary mode of communication: to underscore certain points he places both hands firmly on my arm, reinforcing the lesson with tactile impression.

Over the course of thirty or forty minutes we complete the quad. The monk identifies most of the major characters in the paintings, including an autoretrato of one artist who stares right back at the viewer.

Eventually we make our way into the actual church. He reiterates our lesson in basic architecture, this time pointing at the actual things: las ventanas, las cornisas, el domo, y la linterna.Then, pointing to the large carved characters who support el domo at four points, he identifies San Anselmo and others.

When I emerge from the tour I am alone, hungry and, I fear, at least an hour behind the others. I race most of the 12 km to Sarria, a suggested lunch stop. On one rather steep hill I meet a couple from Munich whose bikes are too heavily loaded to ride up the incline. I dismount and walk along with them for five or ten minutes. They tell me that they have covered the route all the way from their home in sections over a three-year period. This is their third and final leg.

Sarria is a larger, modern town with little to commend it. I ride along the main street, in traffic, trying to stay clear of vehicles and watch the road carefully for chalk arrows that might recommend a meal, and all the time  my ears are assaulted by a constant series of gunshots or explosions in the distance. Is Sarria under siege? I see no sign of my comrades and no arrows pointing to food, water or anything other than the far side of town. There seem to be more banks than places to eat. I finally choose a bar at random near the end of town. I have a glass of Estrella Galicia and a few finger sandwiches from a plate sitting on the counter. The bar is full of men smoking and watching television. Glancing at the screen I see not sports of adult entertainment but a broadcast of Matt Groening’s popular cartoon series, The Simpsons. American popular culture overdubbed in Spanish. Later I learn that this show is a very popular afternoon pastime for many Spaniards.

As I set out on the last 24 km leg I am surprised when three members of our group come riding up from behind. One of them is John-Giebler, riding as sweep today. But the surprise is the people in his company: Geoff and Martha, the couple who are normally so far ahead that I’ve had no opportunity to observe their riding speed. I learn that Geoff had two flat tires today. When John eventually arrived to help repair the second, he was unable to find any obvious cause for the recurring problem, so he used his cell phone to call Loreto and request a spare wheel from the van. Replacing the tube once on their own and waiting for assistance to repair the second flat knocked Geoff and Martha from the front to the back of the pack. But they are making up for lost time when they pass me and they leave me far behind climbing a moderate hill. On a subsequent downgrade, riding as fast as I can, I manage to get a glimpse of them again, but that is the last time I see them until dinner. Even youthful John-Giebler, who stays behind with me, confesses that he was relieved that I happened to be there so he didn’t have to keep pace with them for the rest of the ride.

At my own pace I find the rest of the ride very enjoyable. Rolling hills set us up for alternating periods of climbing and soaring downhill. In the last 8 km we drop more than 200 m into the valley of the Rio Miño. The highway has wide, smooth, perfectly banked curves and no traffic to worry about, so I am free to make full use of the lane and push my limits for downhill cornering. The curves are posted at 55 kph for motor vehicles. Gliding along I see my speed hovering in the low 50s as I enter a gentle turn; then in the highest gear I pedal hard and push my speed toward 60. Just a mild taste, I imagine, of what it might feel like to ride in the Tour de France.

Portomarín is a quiet town, and the newest town, by centuries, of any we have stayed in on this tour. Even its fortress-like Romanesque Iglesia de San Juan dates from the early 13^th century, this town is younger than me. How can this be? In the late 1950s, under the rule of Francisco Franco, a dam was built on the Rio Miño, and all of old Portomarín lay in the flood zone. According to CCH, “[the] major monuments were removed, block by numbered block, and reassembled in the new town of Portomarín created ex nihilo on the west side of the Miño gorge.”

I have a spacious room at the three-star Hotel Pausada with a view of farmland to the east of town. We are noticeably lower in elevation than on previous nights, and my combined sense of the heavier air, the late afternoon light, and the subtly drier landscape somehow reminds me of southern Utah. Yet the land is still quite green – everything I have seen in Spain has been much greener than I expected, certainly much greener than most of California at the same time of year.

For dinner we have the treat of going to an agriturismo, an establishment, similar to those in Italy, which, under government license, caters to tourists, serving meals prepared almost entirely with fresh, locally grown and harvested ingredients. I wouldn’t consider it a gourmet meal, but it is fresh home cooking. It certainly offers variety. In addition to the usual jamon serrano y chorizo, we enjoy a bounty of tortilla (the Spanish potato omelette, in case you are joining this tour late), empanada, macaroni salad, octopus, pork ribs, french fries and green salad. Everything except the eels and trout once praised by Domenico Laffi, an Italian priest who came through Portomarín on three pilgrimages in the late 17^th century and wrote about his experiences here, as elsewhere.

Our hyperkinetic host, Mario – having entertained us before dinner with a spectacle highlighting the talent of his hounds at rounding up horses (which Mario chased out of the corral to begin the demonstration) – also holds something in store for us after the meal. Loreto has informed us that there is a tradition for benevolent witchcraft in this region, Galicia, and has forewarned us that Mario would perform a ceremony for us after the meal. Two members of our party who feel that their religious sensibilities might be offended (or who were simply tired at the end of this late meal) make a quick exit after dessert, but the rest of us stay for the cultural experience.

Mario dims the lights, brings out a cauldron and fires it up. He speaks in very rapid Spanish, pausing now and then to give Maria Elena a chance to give a synopsis of what he is saying. The brew is a mix of coffee, sugar and whiskey, she explains. Mario’s speech sounds like a scripted ritual. He goes on for a long time, stirring the cauldron continuously with a ladle. Even without comprehending the specific words, one could intuit that he is tracing the origins of life and the universe from a distinctly non-Christian perspective. He is elucidating the characteristics of the life force that flows through us and through everything. This potion that he is concocting is a time-proven recipe. It will instill vitality and potency in those who partake of it. The cauldron flames and sizzles for 20 minutes or more. At the climax of his speech he shouted verses of an incantation, as if to drive out any malevolent forces. Finally, Mario invites each of us to walk to the head of the table, don a ceremonial burlap hood, and stir the cauldron. I am one of the first to come forward, and, recalling fiery rituals of my youth, I lift the ladle high and gently pour a waterfall of flame back into the pot.

After each of us has taken a turn, Mario extinguishes the flame and serves us each a cup. The elixir tastes to me like burned, oversweetened coffee with a heavy dose of cheap whiskey. Not nectar of the gods, but foul medicine. But it’s true that some bitter potions can bring healthful results. Perhaps it is unfortunate that our tour does not still hold in store for us a long, dry day on another meseta or the strenuous climb of another Cordillera Cantábrica. We will not have a real chance to find out if this drink brings new vitality to our riding.