Home to Santiago – Day 59
San Vicente de la Barquera to Pendueles: 28km
I wake up in the dormitory to a message from Maria, back at work, seizing assets and sending love.
I leave late and, rather than setting straight off, head to the viewpoint behind the church for the views over the river towards the Picos de Europa. I am envious of the group of three Spanish women about to set off to cross them on the Camino Lebaniego. I have spent hours trying to fit this route into my journey, but it would require three extra days, which Brexit does not allow me. Another time.
Walking with these beautiful mountains ahead of me, I sadly book my ticket home. I have worked out my final stages to arrive at Santiago, and for the first time on this walk, I feel the destination is in sight.
Walking up a hill to the first bar of the day, I meet with Stéphane, the French pilgrim I met about a week ago. I say “bonjour” but not recognising me, he replies, “Sorry, I don’t speak German.” When he does remember me, we chat until we reach the bar. I stick to English to avoid further confusion.
After leaving the bar, I decide I am going to do a small part of Lebaniego after all. It seems to go parallel to the Camino del Norte and not on roads.
I’m feeling particularly smug about my decision, even more so when I come to a little roadside café at the end of the Lebaniego stretch. I treat myself to a tinto de verano with my little bocadillo. I think I can manage it. When I rejoin the main route, I find everyone sitting exhausted by the side of a road they’ve walked along, and I’m feeling smugger than ever.
It’s a bit of a roady walk to the river Deva, but then, up from the river, along a beautiful paved track, I ascend to Colombres, a village full of fine houses, built by the men who made their wealth in South America. I have entered Asturias.
I admire the display of wealth, walk past the square, where Iván and some others staying here are winding down after the day. I have another two hours to walk and dinner at 7 sharp. No time to join them. Then, on the edge of town, I see a sign for cider. I stop. This is Asturias, after all.
When I go inside, I’m told that they don’t sell it by the glass; they sell it by the bottle. The bottle is open before I have time to retract my order.
I see a pilgrim, a Czech, Honsa, who I remember introducing himself at the encounter at El Convento two days ago. I ask if I can sit with him. We have a small chat about Central European history and Slavic languages while I get started on the cider.
He tells me that Czech has two and a half million words, and English only 350. I take a sip of cider and say nothing. With only 350 words to choose from, it’s hard to find the appropriate response.
I decant the remaining cider and set off once more. Now my only goal is to arrive at my albergue before dinner is served. I won’t have time to wash my clothes, so I shall be well fed and filthy today.
When I get to the main road, I realise I have gone the wrong way. So I turn back, willing to do the extra few minutes. As I turn, a woman comes out onto her balcony and insists I continue. “You were going the right way! Carry on!”
It’s very hard to not listen to someone who tells you you were right. So I carry on along the main road, as she insisted I should. I go past a big cross and an arrow saying, “Turn around and do a U-turn”. I ignore it. I’m scared the woman will come out and tell me off. Besides, I’ve tried ignoring women like this before. It’s no use. They chase you around the village until you submit. I’d be more likely to walk away from a head-on collision with a lorry.
Eventually, I leave the road and I’m in dangerous territory on a coastal path. Not that the cliffs crumble away here, like they do back home. But they lure you in to look at them and slow you down. They risk you missing your dinner.
Just as I’m giving up on the idea of walking the direct route across a massive natural arch, and , I get a call from the albergue asking me if I’m on my way. When I say “yes, I’m at the natural bridge, I’ll be there for seven”, they do not believe me, “No. It’ll be twenty past seven before you get here.”
But I have more than one gear, and I don’t like to be proven wrong. I arrive at the albergue at seven precisely. The bell for dinner is rung.
I sit outside with many familiar faces. Italian Tommy has become Javier’s disciple, and sits by him. I am at the other end of the table torturing Nuria and Álvaro, a charming Argentinian priest, with my Spanish conversation. Friends drop by. We are the village tonight.
And by some strange miracle, I have been given a double bed.
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