WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 53

Pobeña to Pomar: 30km

I pack while three pilgrims, also having a late departure, sit and chat. One man holds forth with views on how you should walk the Camino, the others defer, with the occasional interjection of, “To each their own Camino,” to which there is a general murmur of agreement before the discussion continues.

One guy says, “But I like to listen to music sometimes.” “But then how can you hear the birds?”. To each their own Camino. “Leaving in the dark is pointless”. To each their own Camino. “Walking too fast is not the correct spirit of the walk”, but of course, to each their own Camino.

One pilgrim hear says how he always likes to be the last one to leave every hostel, and much as I like to keep this title for myself, I’m really not going to hang around for a standoff on this one.

As I walk up the hill from beautiful Pobeña, I do think about the way I walk my camino. I decide, because walking is something that is the basis of my life right now, I can do whatever I feel like doing.

If I want to speak to friends and family on the phone, I’ll speak to them. If I want to listen to music when I’m tired, I will. Sometimes I like to stop. Sometimes I like to go fast. I don’t mind being the last to leave anywhere. It’s often the case. But I don’t have the energy to make a point of anything.

The only thing I’m working on is trying not to judge. To each their own Camino…

I am enjoying walking my own Camino today. Of late, there have been too many lists of names and interactions, and this, then this, then this. Where is the truth of it?

Because the vast part of my day is me looking at a map, looking at the hills, looking at the sea, making up stories, making up theories, just like it was in France. Yet people, interactions with people, somehow seem to dominate my memory, or my idea of what needs to be recorded.

The coastal path starts breathtakingly well, as it climbs the cliffs and then twists up into the mountains. But then, for the next hour or so, it goes along the main road. I’m happy because I’m covering ground, and this is the fast track to more rocks and mountain cliffs. There is also a small petrol station, where I can sit in the shade and enjoy a second breakfast from the vending machine: nutritional value ‘E’.

I meet Ilka sometime after the service station, in a meeting so seamless I can’t remember when it happened. Somewhere along the road.

Ilka’s perfect. Dutch, and with an attitude to the Camino that I understand. She loves it, but she doesn’t romanticise it. When she talks about a hostel somewhere on the way where a wise old pilgrim will recount his tales to those who stay and who pilgrims write of with great awe as the most wonderful part of their Camino experience, she puts her fingers to her mouth to mimic vomiting, in a very good-natured way.

And then, about a minute later, she falls flat on her face in the road, and I tell her this is for badmouthing the guru. She gets the joke and not an impression of my lack of compassion..

We part at the first café, and from now on it’s me. I’m having the walk I want today. It’s a pretty perfect day.

I take a wrong turn, drawn by the magnificent half-crane, half-bridge structure jutting out over the sea. And a man, from Bilbao (everyone today is from Bilbao), tells me it’s not the way, but I might want to go there anyway. And so I do.

Yesterday Jésus told me all about the mining that used to dominate this area, so it’s good to see a bit of this history intact. I walk through an old tunnel and out along the structure, with the wild sea beneath me, and I wait patiently for a man to take a very professional timed selfie of himself, his wife and his dog. As a thank you, he offers to take my picture.

He is as careful with the photography of me as he was for himself. I never take a nice picture, especially not for strangers. But he says, “Don’t worry, these are good ones.” And so they are.

For a long time now, I’ve been thinking I need a picture of older me to represent me online. And here’s a picture of older me, which I can finally use.

A breathtaking walk takes me over into Castro Urdiales. Every day seems to feature a bay and cliffs opening up in front of you. This time I manage to hang behind a small group that is led by a tour guide, and I hear him say, “This is not a Basque town officially, but 95% of the population is Basque. So you decide.” I think the guide may be Basque.

He also tells the group he can take them a shortcut down the hill, so I follow along.

Now one of the things discussed by the man holding forth in the albergue earlier, was not using mobile phones. But due to the fact I’m desperately trying to find a supermarket on mine, this being a festival, of course, and most shops closed, a woman, from Bilbao (of course), approaches me and walks me into the town to a small supermarket I would never have otherwise found.

And after this, it’s just up to me to get a stamp, then get blown away on the beautiful promontory with the church and the lighthouse, while trying to eat a salad. Leaves below away before reaching my mouth.

And now, back in the hills, I’m treated with my favourite thing: rocks in a wood, with the added bonus of rocks in a wood by the sea. In fact, rocks in a wood by the sea, with big rocks down below in the sea. It’s pretty much everything I could ever ask for.

And this leads me all the way to Islares: a big beach with big rocks and big sea. I do wonder if I’ll get bored of this at some point. But the rocks are always slightly different, and I’m in Cantabria now, so I’m sure very soon I’ll barely recognise the place.

I descend to Islares and have one last pause at a campsite bar before the final stretch along the road, the magnificent estuary beach to my right, little beaches forming on all sides, currents flowing in all directions.

But the highlight of this day is yet to come, one of the reasons to follow the Norte, my one reason for doing this extra push today.

In the barrio of Pomar there is a beautiful old house, which I have been watching from afar as it has been brought back to life over the last two years. This is the house and future albergue of Birgit and Edwin, two pilgrims I last saw four years ago after walking across the Pyrenees. Two pilgrims I had, even then, mistaken for hospitaleros.

And soon it shall come to pass.

I feel mounting excitement as I walk the final few hundred metres to the house. And then wind back and let it start mounting back up again when I realise I have entered the wrong address on Google Maps.

Finally, here I am sitting in the gardens of the house that has no innards, apart from a small lightbox of a bathroom that shines modern and white, like an alien capsule among the timbers and the builders’ tools. But the house has a new roof on top and a vision about to be created inside.

As for me, I could happily live in the garden forever, which is what Birgit and Edwin are temporarily doing in style. I have the use of a tent, already more luxurious than many hostel beds. Dinner is taken in the old chicken house, converted into a miniature kitchen diner. Vegetables from the garden are served.

I don’t tend to do caminos twice. But this is a story I need to revisit.