SANTANDER

By the time I returned from my short tour of the Cathedral and adjacent streets, the albergue was filling up. It was just one large room of bunks, two semi-broken computers, and a small kitchen, where one could do laundry. I had a bunk near the window, which opened into the rear of the building forming a sort of courtyard, but really just a space for the mechanical systems for the buildings round it, and a way for light to enter. It was black with dust and grease, and apart from harbouring a few pigeons, and laundry, it was a wasteland. Not exactly an inspiring hangout.

Richard, the Canadian, and I went to the cafe near the albergue for an early supper and then into the evening streets, where, it being Semana Santa, Holy Week,
we encountered a religious procession, complete with solemn, hooded penitents, young and old, in rich regalia. The huge, ornate silver litter was lit by lanterns at the corners, and surmounted by a statue of the Virgin, in her dolorous persona. This, and the crowds, were all far outside my experience of Easter. I tried to capture the event on film, but try as I would, I couldn't get a shot in focus.





This was a metaphor for my state of mind at the time. I felt I was losing my focus entirely. I have a friend from my first Camino who described perfectly the trajectory of the pilgrim experience by describing four stages of the pilgrim's state of mind while on the Camino. The first is, Oh, Isn't This Interesting! The second is, What the Hell am I Doing Here? I had most definitely entered Stage Two. I wasn't a religious pilgrim, per se, and so the hardships of reaching the goal of Santiago de Compostela were not part of a sacrifice that I could dedicate to God. I wasn't an endurance athlete, so "no pain, no gain", "no guts, no glory" didn't really pertain either. But, I wasn't really just a tourist either; I didn't just want to head off to something else. I wanted to walk this walk, but I wasn't enjoying this part of it at all. I felt that, in revivifying the ancient route, whoever was in charge in Cantabria had missed the point. Maybe the ancient Camino route WAS the same as that of the current highway, and maybe tradition had its place, but maybe, I thought, there ought to be some leeway to ensure pilgrim safety and the health of our legs. So much traffic and pavement meant a less than pleasant sojourn, for me, at least. I had been warned, by the guidebooks, by the internet, and by Ernesto. I'd been sure I would be able to handle it, but so far, I hadn't got used to it, and I liked it less every day. The wonderful experiences of the coastal sections weren't quite enough to make putting up with the rest of it something I was happy to do. Sure, it was instructive to see how modern times were changing the face of the world, and almost never for the better, but I knew that already. If I'd wanted to go for a walk by the side of a secondary highway, I could have stayed home. I see that even now, a year later, I'm ranting a bit. If the Camino is a metaphor for the Walk of Life, I guess there are bound to be rough patches here and there. Pilgrims, even second timers, even waffly agnostics, expect the Camino to be unremittingly uplifting. I remember a conversation I had with a Danish woman on my first Camino. "When do we get to have insight?" she asked "I'm travelling with my three sisters, and its all about planning where to eat and where to sleep!" "First World Problem", my kids would say. To myself I say, "Suck it Up, Princess!" There, I consider myself lectured.

BY CLIFFS AND BEACHES TO SANTANDER

Breakfast the next morning was every bit as convivial as supper the night before, but eventually, it was time to go. My diary tells me that I was feeling glum, and didn't want to continue, but that the rising sun was a tonic to my spirit. From the albergue, I walked through the rest of the neighbourhood to a minor road. As I reached the junction of the main road to Somo, my Guemes experience was bookended, as Ernesto and Katia zoomed by in the little white van, beeping and waving!



The trail led through the streets of Galizano, a small town with an imposing church. Here I ran across the couple from Bilbao, who had decided to take a taxi to Santander as the rash on the girl's legs was much worse now. They'd been walking with Ramiro, so he and I now set off together to walk along the cliffs to Somo.

The weather was fine and we walked at the same pace. We both had bad knees, and it was nice to be able to say "Hey, let's stop for ten minutes" without feeling like we were holding the other one back. We talked about the usual things; our lives, our situations. We stopped to take pictures at the beauty spots, we photographed one another, trading cameras for "self" portraits.



We climbed bluffs, waded through tall grass, rested above sheer cliffs, and walked barefoot along fantastic beaches. We met holidaymakers, retirees mostly, and came across a encampment of travellers, who made Ramiro look positively staid by comparison. Ramiro talked about working in IT in Barcelona, and wanting to travel the Middle East, but also wanting to head home to Argentina to meet his new neice, who was nearly one year old already. He spoke with sadness about how the unrest in Egypt and other countries in the region would make travel there next to impossible for the next few years, even though he could probably escape notice because of his dark hair and eyes. He called himself a "moustache traveller". I had to look that up in case it meant something rude, but I think he only meant that he could blend with the appearance of the men of the region.




We got to the boat dock at Somo just in time to miss the boat, so had a half hour waiting in a shelter. The tide was going out by the time we boarded, along with a surprising number of other people, and the pilot had to manoeuvre his way carefully among the sandbars.



Soon we were in Santander, and easily found the albergue, which was not yet open. Time for lunch! I can't remember which of us treated the other, but it started a tradition. At each opportunity for the next few days, whenever we were together for a meal or a drink, we took turns to pay.



Santander had that same fin de siecle elegance which characterized all the seaside towns, but there was something hollow about the place, something grey, and grubby, and uninspired; and it smelled faintly of drains.

TO BE A PILGRIM

The afternoon unfolded lazily. As soon as I arrived, I was introduced to some of the many volunteers who were also at the albergue that evening. They came from all over the place, Spain, Germany, South America, the next town. Some cooked, some built, some played and sang for us. All of them were in love with the work that was going on under Ernesto's guidance. I was shown to my room, where I found my lovely Barcelonan family from Castro, a German woman named Silke, and lo, and behold, another Canadian, Richard from Montreal. We were informed that later on, we'd have a talk by Ernesto, and then supper. There was lots of time for shower and laundry, and lounging around on the patio, chatting, comparing blisters and guidebooks, and patting the exceptionally large dog. Everything was clean and relaxing. Incredibly, I felt pampered!







By the time we headed upstairs to a lounge for our "conversation" I counted 11 peregrinos. Only Richard had no Spanish to speak of, so I was delegated to be his interpreter. After a lovely song about the Camino by one of the regular volunteers, Ernesto spoke in Spanish; about the meaning of the Camino, its history, and most importantly what it might mean to each of us. He hoped that we would take it home with us, and discover how it might make our lives more meaningful. He spoke of how heartened he was to see that it was possible for young female peregrinas to make these kind of journeys. He also told us about some of the outreach projects with which he has been involved, but never once did he ask for money. We were amazed by his office, in which every wall space was filled, even to the open rafters, with probably millions of slides, carefully labelled, from all over the world.

The Camino, in Cantabria, he told us, was challenging! The key to success would be creativity and imagination! The distances were long, and often the way was not very pleasant. (Tell me about it!), but for those willing to accept the challenge, he suggested, there were treasures of experience to be had. He gave the example of the route of the following day. There were three ways to go; one was short but on pavement, one was on a bike path, and one was longer but travelled by the cliffs. He challenged us, asking what kind of Camino we wanted to have. He also had lots of really useful hints about how to manage the later stages through Cantabria. It made me feel a bit weak, but I knew that I'd continue to avoid highway stages; so that challenge gave me pause for thought.




Dinner was lovely, simple soup and bread, with wine; and fruit for dessert. We had chance to meet some of the other peregrinos. My little tramp was called Ramiro, from Argentina. He had a lovely smile and laughed a lot. There was a quite adorable young couple from Bilbao on a sort of honeymoon, somewhat spoiled by a creeping rash on the young lady's legs. They had been to a doctor, but were thinking about taking the bus for a while, rather than make the condition worse by the stress of hiking. They were very keen on the next province, Asturias, and made me promise to have three things while there. Fabada, a bean stew; sidra; and a meat dish made with a special Asturian cheese, the name of which I didn't catch. They said the name was hard to say, but I could remember it as "ze cheez zat smells like fite" Hard to forget.

Because I was late arriving I'd ended up with the top bunk. But it was lovely and comfortable. As I drifted off, I heard Silke barking, and felt a bit of a tickle in my own throat. I had a feeling those chickens of Castro Urdiales might be coming home to roost.

WITH PADRE ERNESTO

I had just sat down on a bench in the cool dark, when a small white tradesman's van drove up and parked in front of the ermita. With a boisterous Hola! and "Here's a tired peregrina" or words to that effect in Spanish, I was introduced to the famous Ernesto, and his helper for the day, a young German girl, Katia. I recognized Ernesto from my guidebook. Did I mention it's excellent! You can find out more about it here:

http://www.jacobeo.net/caminodelnorte.php

It's in Spanish though.

Ernesto doesn't look terribly priestly in his casual attire; when we met he was wearing a T-shirt, a fisherman's vest, sweatpants and birkenstocks. He's very tidy and clean looking. He has beautiful curly white hair and a rather cherubic face. You know he's a fount of kindness the moment you meet him. Before I'd known Ernesto for five minutes, he was affectionately cuffing me round the back of the head as if he was my grandpa. I could see what all the fuss was about.

Katia reminded me of myself a bit, when I was about her age. I was never so adventurous as she is though. After walking the Camino the first time, when she came into contact with Ernesto, she had gone off to the third world and helped out with outreach projects. Now she was back, and had returned to Guemes to help with some building projects. The back of the van was full of all sorts of stuff from the hardware store.

I helped them put away some folding chairs, and then Ernesto asked me if I was planning to stay at the albergue. Would I like a ride the rest of the way?

Would that be alright? I wondered aloud, though I sure didn't want to walk the rest of the way. Did they have enough room for me? Of course they did. Katia and my pack went into the back atop a pile of lumber and rolls of steel sheeting, and I got into the passenger seat.

The road to the albergue was labyrinthine. It would have taken me hours to arrive at the albergue. I thanked God MOST SINCERELY for sending me these two angels.

THE AFTERNOON OF THE LONGEST DAY

The afternoon of that day is something of a blur to me now. It was sunny and hot. The camino followed minor roads and streets, up and down, through little barrios, where nothing much was going on. It was pleasant enough, but I wasn't really paying attention. I had filled my water bottles in Noja, but by the time I got to San Miguel de Meruelo, only about 7km away, I had to stop and refill them in a bar, and have a coke. I got a bit turned around heading out of the village, so stopped in at another bar, where they were closed but getting ready for evening. In this bar, the owner had been to Canada, even to Kingston! So we talked about Fort Henry, which he found impressive. He asked if I was going to Guemes, and sang the praises of Ernesto. I think he called him "muy macho"!! (Actually, on second thought, I think he said "muy majo".  Magic makes a better fit).

The camino passed by a neighbourhood called Solorga, where the road was lined with sixteenth century houses, still happily lived in. They were beautiful. One had a wide stone archway, somewhat incongruously filled with one of those rubber dust curtains so popular in Spain, and I longed to take a picture, but the householders were about, and it felt like an invasion of privacy, so I didn't. I could kick myself now.

I was really flagging. I knew I "ought" to go and see the Romanesque church at Bareyo, off the camino and up a hill, but I just couldn't make my feet go that way. I was already out of water; AGAIN. I hoped for a shop in Gancedo, but it looked like nothing but modern suburbs from the road. Instead, I took a chance on the offices of Camping Molinos, where the young lady behind the desk acted as if pilgrims were always barging in, begging for water. Well, maybe they were. I downed one can of water, and filled two more. It was getting to be late afternoon, and I still had the best part of four hilly Spanish kilometres to go.

As I rested by a wall, soaked to the skin, I noticed with horror that my right ankle was starting to puff up. I'd seen enough suffering pilgrims on the last Camino to realize that this was not a good sign. Overheating and too much pavement led to these kinds of injuries, and the prescription was rest, and icing. That last bit was out of the question right now, but I still needed to cool down. I amused myself by photographing yellowish lichens on the wall.

Eventually, I got the gumption to get going for the last push into Guemes. Well, I'm not sure you can actually get "into" Guemes, which seems to be dotted all over a funny little round valley. At the far end of it, is La Cabana del Abuelo Peuto, Ernesto's place!

The sun showed no signs of letting up. I noticed that the ermita was open and I longed for the dark and cool of an ancient building. I entered without hesitation.

THE LONGEST DAY

Part Two: To Noja



Never trust a hill which has a name. And when its name is "El Brusco", you might expect that it could be abrupt, rough, even rude. Luckily it wasn't quite as much like Cleopatra's Needle as the profile in my excellent guidebook suggested, but it was plenty steep for all that. I was lulled into a false sense of security when I viewed from across the bay. Why, its not even very tall, I thought. However, I was soon to discover that its name was well-earned.




It didn't help that the first hundred feet or so of the climb was in loose sand. After that it was bright orange clay studded with rocks. The rocks were polished by the passage of centuries of feet, human and animal. I was glad I was here on a dry and sunny day. I worried about Gisbert, a day behind me, and rain in the forecast.







It was beautiful to be able to look at long strands of beach both before me and behind me. I met a few goats and was once again put to shame by a father and his two young sons out for a holiday scramble. But I was happy as I always was to be beside the sea. Once I got down the other side of the hill, I was to make a discovery. Walking in your bare feet on hard wet sand is the best therapy for tired feet. I walked all the way to Noja that way, and on every beach thereafter. It made you feel even more free than even the idea that you were wandering along with no responsibility! I suspect people would hike naked if it weren't for the pack straps chafing. Certainly people felt free to bathe naked. None of them looked as natural as this little dog though. He's so in tune with nature that he's barely visible!



I arrived in Noja, a lovely clean resort town with wide plazas and an imposing church, in time for lunch. I had a great sandwich and a few cokes under a green umbrella, served by a young man, who by his non-lisping pronunciation and his Indio features must have been from the New World. I felt like we were cousins! More sabotaging homesickness at work!

The little tramp was right behind me, but didn't stop for lunch. I figured that, like me, he was probably headed for Guemes that night. Everybody wants to stay in Guemes, at the albergue run by Padre Ernesto, one of the Camino Angels, por seguro! Our paths had been criss-crossing for two days now. It was about time we met!

SANTOÑA

I set off in the early morning to walk down the length of El Puntal. My transportation on this day was to include a boat ride! It was another gilded morning, cool and damp, but sunny. I walked along the front of the modern development, behind a low dune separating the apartment blocks from the beach proper, passing empty streets strangely named for such places as the Republic of Cuba and France.

I arrived at the end of the spit and followed a little footbridge which was signed for the boat launch. The path went up and over the dune and there it was....n’t!
A wide beach lay in front of me. I could see my destination, the town of Santoña, across the bay, and the great lump of rock which housed the ruins of forts and an infamous prison, and which protected Santoña from the sea.



To my right, fishermen with long fishing rods were casting into the rising sun at the mouth of the estuary. To my left I could see the yacht club. But of a boat launch there was no sign.

Over at the yacht club, I could see someone gesticulating at me. Obviously, even at a distance, I looked lost. He pointed, and I moved to where it looked as if he meant. Right? His hands told the story...No, not quite....I shuffled closer to the water’s edge...Here?. He made pushing motions. Eventually, by increments, I finally ended up in the right place, an entirely non-descript piece of sand in an indeterminate location. I waved my thanks, and got the thumbs up.

I still had my doubts since it was now 9.15, and the first boat of the day was supposed to leave at 9.00. Eventually, I could see a red boat detach itself from the vista of the harbour of Santona, and head towards me. As it came to shore, the pilot executed a neat turn, and came alongside the beach. I still couldn’t see how I was to get aboard, until the deck hand pulled out a long ramp and swivelled it to the shore. He came onto the beach and motioned me aboard. Then he proceeded to fill a bucket with sand from the beach. Digging for clams, I wondered?

Once he was back on board, he collected my pittance, and I had a private taxi across the bay. Just as we pulled away, I saw the little tramp of yesterday cresting the dune. He’d have to wait for the next passage, I guess.

Once on the other side, I discovered what the pail of sand was for. The wharf on the far side was covered in green algae, making it wildly slippery! The deckhand set out the ramp, and jumped onto the wharf, covering it liberally with the sand, and then handed me down, most gallantly!


Santoña was completely charming. While Laredo felt down at heel and a little desperate, Santoña was a little gem. I stopped in a café for some breakfast and admired the tidy brightly painted houses,

and yet more fin de siècle seaside mansions. Then it was on past the prison. And on, and on. The stone wall, with its wrought iron gates festooned with razor wire, was over a kilometre long.

In the hills above I could see traces of fortifications from Napoleonic times. It reminded me of Kingston, and I had a major twinge of homesickness. One just never knows what will set one off.

The day was hot, and even after a relatively short walk, my feet were uncharacteristically uncomfortable. I sat on a bench by the road for a sock change and a snack before taking on...El Brusco!