And so, dear reader, in the great tradition of pilgrims everywhere — and by that I mean those motivated primarily by caffeine — we once again set out into the afternoon sun of Tui in search of that most sacred of Spanish sacraments: a really good cup of coffee.
Fueled by an optimistic disregard for topography, we wandered down the winding streets from our venerable hotel to the edge of the Miño River, blissfully unaware that every delightful step downhill would soon become a penitential uphill return.

The riverfront, I must say, was glorious. The view of Portugal, reclining lazily on the far bank like a smug neighbour who finished their chores before lunch, was absolutely lovely. The breeze danced across the water like a hymn, and somewhere in the distance, a bell tower rang the Angelus, prompting my Canadian stomach to declare, quite unilaterally, that it was suppertime—even though in Tui, not even the flies had stirred from their siesta yet.
The streets, in fact, were so empty I began to wonder if some ancient Iberian custom forbade movement before sunset. Perhaps everyone was inside praying. Or eating. Or waiting for the weather to turn its wrath elsewhere.
In our continued wandering (or as I call it, liturgical strolling), we found a charming heladería. Naturally, I ordered a café con leche and a scoop — or three — of gelato. The young woman behind the counter nodded and began assembling this holy offering.

But then, just as I was about to indulge, she froze (pun unintended), gasped, and dashed over as if I’d just asked for pineapple on a tortilla.
“You said… celiac?” she asked.
I nodded, half a spoonful from joy.
With the solemnity of a Eucharistic minister intercepting a dubious wafer, she confiscated my gelato. Then she disappeared into the back for several minutes. When she returned, she was triumphantly bearing a new bowl of gelato — this time assembled from unopened, untainted, immaculate containers. Truly, dear friends, it is easier to keep kosher in Galicia than it is to navigate a potluck back home.
By the time we made our slow, heroic ascent back to the hotel, the bells were striking seven, and the town had begun to come alive. Locals emerged from doorways like actors entering stage left—all freshly dressed, well-rested, and suspiciously cheerful—as though the day’s heat hadn’t happened at all.

Inspired by their liveliness (and by the sudden pang of hunger triggered by the smell of garlic in the air), David and I decided to reverse the natural order of things. We had already had our postre — gelato — and now we would enjoy our supper. A backward meal for a backward hill.
The local café we selected featured a “Russian salad” as the special. Now, when one hears “salad,” one thinks perhaps of lettuce, tomatoes, a cucumber if you’re lucky. But no—this “salad” was, in fact, a majestic mound of fresh tuna, lightly supported by some modest vegetables, which seemed to have stumbled into the dish by accident. It was delicious, mysterious, and deeply unRussian.
By some continued miracle—possibly the Camino itself at work — my blood sugar remained remarkably steady, even after wine, seafood, and enthusiastic gelato consumption. No insulin needed again. I am now convinced the Camino Diet may become a spiritual discipline at home. Wine, walking, and whipped tuna—it’s practically sacramental.

Now back at the hotel, knowing that tomorrow holds the longest walk of our pilgrimage, it is time to retire. The sandals are off, the feet are up, and my soul—which has been trailing slightly behind me since Toronto—is finally catching up.
So I leave you, dear reader, with this simple prayer:
A Prayer for Letting the Soul Catch Up
Lord of the long road and the quiet evening,
Thank you for this day of simple gifts —
a breeze on the river, a quiet bell, a scoop of ice cream.
Let my heart be still long enough to notice
where You’ve been walking beside me all along.
Help my soul catch up with my feet.
And tomorrow, walk with me once more.
Amen.