WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 67

Muros de Nalón to Playa del Silencio: 25km

Walking with the threat of rain gives a certain focus. On top of that, the breakfast at La Naranja Peregrina is so huge that I couldn’t really justify stopping for a second breakfast today, even if the opportunity had arisen, which so far it has not. I expect good progress and the chance to finally get some washing done.

Just a few metres further on from my albergue, I meet Betty, a Dutch pilgrim staying at the other albergue, just a few metres away. It’s good to hear news of Ilka, although I’m sad to hear that she is one of those who turned off onto the Camino Primitivo.

I walk with Betty for until hills separate us. There are a few other pilgrims around, as I’m not doing detours today, but as someone who always leaves late, I never really get to see a crowd.

The way winds peacefully through eucalyptus forests, past chestnut trees, fields of horses, goats and cows, rolling paths. Far overhead, traffic passes on giant elegant viaducts.

Right now I am descending to the village of La Concha, slightly down at heal, but that could be the effect of rain on seaside places. There’s an old burnt-down restaurant at the edge of the village, right next to the tiny railway station. And I imagine what a place that must have been, what views it must have had. But no, it’s another seven kilometres till I get my café.

Coming up out of La Concha and back up under the viaduct, I have the pleasure of meeting Hugo, a pilgrim who puts my walk in the shade. He started from France, has gone to Santiago already and is now walking back, but not straight home. First he will go to Rome, and then maybe to Jerusalem, if his legs will take him. “Then I might go home”, he says.

He has a big rucksack and talks about sending stuff ahead. I tell him I’ve sent my tent on, but we both agree that losing a tent is hard. It is good to know you carry your accommodation on your back should you need it.

Descending through the last bit of woods with extraordinary views towards Soto de Luiña, a village nestled under the mountains, I am overtaken by a figure I don’t recognize. “Broken your charger yet?” he shouts out. And so the Melbourne pilgrim passes once again, and off he disappears, not to be seen in another week, two weeks, never again. Who knows? A recurring minor character over hundreds of miles.

I am headed straight for the Tasca de Rosa, the first bar in town, which I’ve been eyeing up for an hour or so now. For some reason, I want a liquid lunch today: shandy and smoothie. That covers all the liquid food groups. I’m joined by the lovely Betty, who has picked up a German and a Texan since we parted mid-morning, and then b top bunk Yvonne. They’re all staying here; I’m moving on. When I leave, Betty and Yvonne hug me. “You’ll be ahead of us from now on”, they explain. The cast changes once more.

I plough through the last bit of Luiña and after covering the last few miles find a back way to my albergue, approaching the famous Playa de Silencio via another hidden beach, which is a bit of a stretch for people from the car park to get to.

Having had glimpses of the grandeur of the coast ahead, I’m completely taken by what feels to be my own little cove. A series of caves creates a little church in the rocks, another cave has,formed a tunnel under the headland, which offers access to a further beach.

Eventually, I carry on over to the Playa de Silencio, where a few people have gathered to look and a few have even gone down the zigzag staircases onto the beach. It’s a rock lover’s dream, cliffs and rocks at all angles, eroded in all ways. The tide is not quite in, so I dump my rucksack and start down the stairs to get a close-up.

The hostel has been built and is run by one man, who takes my washing on arrival. Most faces are a repetition from last night. A couple missing. A couple new. Noticeably an Argentinian doctor, Florencia, walking not backwards, just the other way from us. She’s upset that people keep telling her she’s going the wrong way. ” I’m just walking back to Barcelona to get back to work”.

There’s another communal meal, which the albergue owner joins us for, serving up and clearing plates between mouthfuls of his own dinner. Iván mentions an English friend of his who suggested that children could live in Asturian grain houses. I chip in. “Exactly!” I’ve been thinking just this as I walked along. The adults could live in the house and the children could stay in the grain houses until they got to big for them. The response to this: “What is it with the English and children?”

Afterwards, I share a bottle of cider with Ivan and Emilio. This involves the utilisation of a special stand, that tilts the glass to the correct angle, and an aerating dispenser which can be attached to the bottle. I am determined I shall bring one of these home.

Before bed, I take one last walk down to the viewpoint over the sea, just to hear the waves and to see the sweeping beam of the distant lighthouse. The Playa del Silencio is never quite still.