WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 64

Villaviciosa to Gijón: 27km

(Warning: this blog post contains several references to Gijón (Xixón). Please note this should be pronounced in your head as the ‘hee-haw’ of a donkey braying. It adds immeasurably to the charm of the place).

“Why have I not seen you since the convent?” asks Miriam. Last time I saw Miriam she was being nominated to read the Irish blessing by the nuns. It’s a good question. We’ve stayed in the same towns, near enough. Some people you rarely see, others are a constant.

There are two hostels in Villaviciosa. In the other hostel are most of the people I know. In this hostel, a few irregular faces, mainly from the convent. Grace is here, of course. It’s almost as though this particular hostel has a strange draw to women of a certain age.

Florian is the one man at breakfast. I don’t know where I met him, but apparently we had a good conversation once over breakfast. I start the conversation today with , “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met.”

We then proceed to make the coffee urn work, with increasing desperation. Eventually, I resort to removing the lid and scooping the coffee out. Knowledge which is then passed down through the successive generations of breakfasters as they appear

Two things dominate this stage. First of all, a mountain, which I haven’t registered in my planning until top-bunk Yvonne (also from the convent) refers to it at breakfast. The second thing is a lot of men out in high-vis, doing stuff with dogs, and I don’t know what. Thinking about this is what gets me up the hill, along with the second coffee taken five minutes out of town.

At the bottom of the hill, there are a lot of men with dogs, either on long ropes or with strange, loose plastic leads hanging off them. The men are all walking with groups of four dogs. The dogs are all big. They could be hunting dogs. Some of them might be bloodhounds. Higher up the mountain, a man with a walkie-talkie is shouting down the mountainside for his dog, or dogs. They’re clearly all communicating with each other in whatever missionthey are on. At the top of the mountain, or near the top, there are cars, which clearly have been used to transport dogs here as well.

If anyone knows anything about Asturian man-and-dog culture, I’d be very grateful for an explanation. Having said that, trying to work it out myself has almost got me to the top.

On the other side of the mountain, I meet Polish Ella, and she gives me the very good news that her brother is waiting for her at the bar just down the road. It is the bar I am excited about.

A few familiar faces are there. I sit at the bar, unsocially. Iván comes by and confirms Nives changed her mind at the last minute and decided not to take the Camino Primitivo. I am glad to hear this. Her little group stays intact.

I continue at the bar as everyone moves on and write my blog, until eventually the next batch of pilgrims comes along. Just a few stragglers and people who’ve walked a long day from Ribadesella. And one of them, to my delight, is Joon.

Joon tends to walk alone. If I believed in auras, I’d say he has a fine one. We meet often but only fleetingly. I first met him at the monastery, looking for a towel. I met him sheltering at a bus stop when I was walking with Maria to the convent. He popped over to the albergue in Pendueles when we were sitting out for our meal, and he was alone in the hostel next door.

I’ve been thinking I’d like to speak more to Joon. So I walk over to his table, where he has got a bocadillo. They told me there were none left. I let this go and I ask him about surfing.

He’s an Australian, and he surfs when he can. I learn a lot about forecasts, wave types, long boards, short boards. He refers to surfing as a language, which had been my own growing opinion. It is a brief chat, but I don’t feel talked at at all. I feel very much talked to. I have to admit, that bocadillo couldn’t have been served to a nicer person.

They sneak in one more hill after leaving Casa Pepito bar. And then I am flying. Thoughts of detours along the coastal route long since gone. The only view I want is of my bed in my first hotel room.

The idea of having to leave this room once I’m in it horrifies me. I stop in an edge-of-town supermarket to do a big shop. My plan is to sit in that room, watch whatever television programmes come on the screen, lie in the bed and eat chocolate. It’ll be the best Saturday night of my life.

I reach Gijón. It is a proper big town. I like it, but I won’t be tempted. I keep straight on, eyes down. Less than two kilometres to the hotel bed. I won’t be drawn in.

Past the Mercadona, past the Lidl, past the cider shop. I do not need to stop.

Past the down-at-heal corner café with a woman, Mrs Slocumbe-style, bouffant blue hair sitting at the counter. I do not need to go in and join her.

Past the restaurants, the chocolate and churros takeaway, the prominently displayed cheesecakes.

I am nearly there. I can hear the sea, but that won’t tempt me either.

Finally, I am in my room and it is everything I could wish for: not even a view to tempt me. It has a bed, a TV and a bath. God bless you, Hotel San Miguel.

I stay up late, bathing, falling asleep as the History Channel tells me about how aliens started it all. And I catch up on this blog.

Gijón I will see tomorrow.