It rains the whole night. When dawn breaks it is still raining. Paca and I leave Ferreiros with the picture of Galicia that everybody has in mind: drizzle, fog and meadows. It is seven o’clock a.m.

We see almost no pilgrims until Puerto Marin. Only a foreigner in a raincoat with a rope tied around his waist, armed with a bulky rucksack and a big wooden rosary overtakes us.

• "Hola, no se ve a nadie en el Camino!"

• (No answer)

• "There are no people in the Camino!"

• "Yes."

• "Probably because it’s raining."

• "Yes."

• What a useful thing to speak English!

(Is this not enough to kill her?)

It stops raining in Puerto Marin and the show starts again. The ones without rucksacks, the ones bussing it, the ones going by cars... some of them following their plan of action, others trying to deceive themselves (Easy thing, of course).

A new bar is open in Castromaior. Paca and I reward ourselves with a can of beer. Most people drink "Acuarious". But we prefer wine-like drinks. However, there is no accounting for tastes

Walking very fast, we arrive at Palas de Rei. Ales is right. I notice my boots are ripping. My boots must belong to the same lot of those I broke in my training. Ales predicts they would break. Well, to be honest, he told me I was not going to arrive at O Cebreiro in one piece with these boots. He is just about right. What a smart guy! I have to arrive at Santiago with the boots no matter what.

Palas de Rei is chockablock. People in charge of the pilgrims’ hostel allocate us a bunk bed (there is only one left) for Paca and me, because we have come from Roncesvalles. A bunk bed for both of us! As our bunk bed is the top one, Paca says that she is not going to sleep there and she prefers to sleep on the floor with my mat and hers. We get by that way. People tell us that the pavilion of the gymnasium is also full up and in the camp (Kosovo-style) you can still find a place. We prefer to remain in the village because the camp and the gymnasium are more than a kilometre away. We also try to find a room in the hotels, inns, and even in private houses. We fail.

Galicia is turning into a race for us. What a pity we cannot enjoy this beautiful countryside!

We come across Marisa and her father in Palas de Rei. Marisa lends her mat to Paca, so she sleeps like a queen on three mats.

Our bed neighbour warns us: "I snore a lot". He is a stout man that falls asleep from the very moment his head hits the pillow. He sleeps heavily and, of course, he is the greatest snorer we have ever heard. He snores in a firm and persistent way. The Camino is home for the big snorers, so the last sentence is not to be taken lightly. When our neighbour starts to snore, nothing interrupts him, nothing disturbs him, and nothing bothers him. We try all known methods to stop him. Mission impossible. We get bored, I think we get to sleep by his snoring. Next morning he is the last one in waking up, deaf to the noise of people getting up, insensible to lights on and off, oblivious to the rucksacks rolling on him. Out like a light. At once he asks me:

• "Did I snore?"

(There is a murmur of cracking of jokes in the room.)

• "Not at all", I say with a touch of irony.

• "So the man who snored must be you, because I have been hearing someone snore the whole night!" He says to me, to my surprise. He is totally sure!

People plainly burst out laughing. Marisa’s father asks the man at this moment:

• "Excuse me, who told you that you snore?"

• "Fuck, my wife continuously says that to me", answers the man.

• "So, my friend, please, believe her!" Declares the Gallizian with the tone and certainty of a man who proclaims a universal truth.