After a travel day so long and so chaotic that Dante might have made it an extra circle of hell, we finally arrived at our hotel in Tui—and miracle of miracles — it was the first thing that went off without a single hitch. No lost reservations, no language barriers, no need for interpretive dance to explain dietary restrictions. Just a kind young woman at reception who spoke such flawless English I briefly suspected she’d been imported from Stratford-upon-Avon.
Now, our room did suffer the tragic loss of its air conditioning system, which had, we were told, died peacefully sometime the night before. But no matter! The heroic receptionist presented us with fans, which we politely accepted and promptly ignored, as Galicia had decided to throw us a breeze and a blessing.
After unpacking our slightly battered luggage and declaring ourselves only mildly dishevelled, the first order of business was clear: real food. Having survived on the gastronomic equivalent of sandpaper—airport chicken—we ventured out into the ancient streets of Tui in search of something edible and, ideally, deliciously Spanish.
By divine grace and sheer hunger, we stumbled into a lovely little bar-restaurant that served traditional Galician fare and, even more miraculously, a gluten-free menu. It felt like the Holy Spirit had not only guided us to this place but also whispered in the ear of the chef.
We ordered the seafood platter. Because, well, when in Galicia… And let me tell you, dear reader, it was not a mere meal—it was a liturgy of shellfish. Our waiter, with the solemnity of a Eucharistic minister, brought us a bottle of house-made white wine. I took one sip and briefly considered canonizing the vineyard.
And then, it began.
Plate after glorious plate of shellfish appeared, as if the kitchen were reenacting the feeding of the five thousand, only with more mussels and fewer loaves. Each dish seemed determined to outdo the last—razor clams, cockles, mussels, prawns—all seemingly in competition to become the patron saint of my tastebuds. David and I ate with the enthusiasm of condemned men enjoying their final meal… which, given the amount of food, was not entirely out of the question.
Dessert, or postres as the locals say, came next. David was presented with a cheesecake that looked positively angelic. My gluten-sensitive self was limited to Helado de Cítricos. But before you shed a tear on my behalf, let me assure you: this citrus ice cream was less a dessert and more a revelation. I half-expected the tablecloth to part and a heavenly choir to descend.
We waddled back to the hotel in that special kind of fullness that turns your legs into sandbags and your mind to pudding. Showers were the next sacramental act. David went first, emerging minutes later as a new man. I followed, and by the time I stepped out, wrapped in the dignity of a hotel towel, the only sound in the room was David’s snoring—rhythmic, unashamed, and utterly unbothered. I joined him in unconsciousness moments later.
Tuesday morning arrived, and I awoke feeling more rested than I have in months. The hotel breakfast—or desayuno, which sounds far fancier—was abundant. David had more options than a cruise ship buffet. My choices were fewer, but glorious: fresh yoghurt, paper-thin slices of chorizo and prosciutto, and not one, but two café con leches… and a cortado for good measure. Friends, if breakfast were a sacrament, this one would be valid, licit, and deeply satisfying.
Today, we’re at leisure to explore Tui—a medieval town that deserves more than a passing glance. Tomorrow, the boots come on. The Camino begins in earnest. And if it’s even half as nourishing—spiritually or culinarily—as today, then sore feet will be a small price to pay.
I will post a part II for this day as it goes on. For now, it is time to go and explore this beautiful place.