We walked on, rising and falling through a couple of small passes and began the descent towards Triacastela. We intended to stop somewhere on the mountain, but none of the albergues we passed looked very appealing. We entered one and there was loud music and a beery fug and a set menu that seemed to contain lots of carcase parts. We walked on. And on. At 4.00 we had walked 31 km, and we entered the little town of Triacastela and found a room in the very comfortable little albergue. We wandered into the town and I bought una cervasa grande, por favor, a beer of, I´d guess, close to a litre in size. It disappeared remarkable quickly, a testament to the fact of our water pouches being empty for the last 3 or 4 hours of the walk.
We slept for 11 hours or so, and this morning set out for this place, the home of the oldest monastery in Spain. The walk was only 12 km, on a soft earth path through oak and sweet chestnut forest winding beside a shallow, slow moving river.
Every ten minutes or so we passed small farmsteads and tiny hamlets built of the local schist. There were stone walls and blackberry and wild apples. It was like walking through a Constable painting. Around midday we stood on the top of a hill and looked down on this magnificent place.