Before long I had reached the summit of Monte Igueldo. I followed the yellow arrows across a road, and into the parking lot of a bar. I soon saw one of the wooden montones which mark the Camino in the Basque country.Thetrail was taking me toward the sea. Fantastic! I couldn’t wait to get away from the urban area and I was thrilled with how wild things looked. Thrilled for a little while at least. In about half an hour, though there were yellow arrows aplenty, it became clear to me that if this was the Camino, it was a highly alternative route or perhaps, indeed, a former route. I stopped at a little menhir on a saddle between the mainland and a near island to rest and snack. I couldn't see any trail going on from there, but I had no interest in going back the way I had come, so I pressed on. I was nearly down the other side of the hill near the rocky shore when it became crystal clear to me that I would have to climb back up again and try to find the right road. I was hot and tired. My feet ached and I needed to go to the bathroom.
I passed some sheep huts and saw lots of footprints, both of sheep and men. At one point, I found myself walking on what had once been a tarmac road, but which was quickly reverting to nature. A little later and a little higher, I came upon some huge sections of tarmac which were uprooted, and lying at crazy angles, as if there had been a highly localized earthquake. I decided that it must be a municipal dump of some sort, but there was no choice but to climb up and hope that nothing tottered when it should have teetered. After some pretty major bushwacking, I came out of the undergrowth into a field which led to a lane which led to a road. There were markers advertising a pequeno recorrido, a local walking trail, and I followed it west, hoping that it would, at some point, hook up with the Camino Proper.
I knew I had to be on the right track when I entered a small suburban neighbourhood. I flagged down the first person I saw and asked him the way. He wasn’t a local but was visiting a family to whom he took me. They were wonderful! They assured me that I was on the Camino already and would soon see a yellow arrow. Then they invited me in for a chicken barbecue. I was sorely tempted, but declined. It was such a relief to know I was heading the right way!
Soon I was walking on a section of Camino what was also part of the Gran Recorrido, a system of paths which are intended to make Europe one continuous walking path. This part went up and down the hills along the coast. There were beautiful white farms set into the hills; glorious on a day like this, but perhaps a little forbidding in winter
As the road went ever onward, I was rather wishing I had gone for the chicken barbecue. I had drunk the water they’d given me, and was getting no satisfaction from my map, since I didn’t know if the Camino I was on was the main route or the alternative shown in the guide. I was just wondering how many extra kilometers I had let myself in for when, by Camino magic, the Bar Nikolas appeared by the side of the road. I was thrilled and relieved. I still didn’t know where I was, but here was a source of water, toilets, a place to sit down, and best of all, Coca Cola. There is something about the Camino which makes me crave its throat-stripping, insulin-boosting, sweetness. I had two!
Just after the bar, I understood that I was on the alternative route, since the road disappeared and the Camino went through some beautiful ferny woodland on a dirt footpath, with paved sections here and there. It was very quiet and still, and just a teeny bit spooky, since it was that mid-afternoon time that is always a bit creepy when you are on your own. There were signs on the gates telling you not to let the wild horses out, which made me want to see the wild horses. Later someone reminded me that the horses were food animals, which made me want to leave all the gates open. There were lots of ups and downs and sharp bends, especially when the trail left the woods and came into open grasslands. There were all sorts of trails made by animals and fourwheelers. You had to keep a pretty close eye on the markers to make sure you were still on the right track. Pretty soon I could see and hear the main highway up above on the top of the ridge, so I thought I must soon come to Orio where the albergue was. No such luck! The road seemed interminable. At one point, as I was crossing a style and talking to some inquisitive donkeys, I was surprised by a cycling peregrino. I felt a little silly getting caught like that!
I saw an hermitage up on the hill and thought, “Aha!, at last”. My albergue was supposed to be very close to the hermitage of St. Martin. This, however, was some other hermitage, and I still had miles to go. When I came to the hamlet of Aupe, there was a sign telling me that Santiago was now a mere 787 km away. This was not as daunting to me as the fact that Orio was still 2.4 (Spanish ) kilometres distant, and that the path seemed to be heading down a cliff. I plunged down into the woods below. All was very beautiful except for the new A-8 highway I could see in the valley. The road was obviously an ancient one, made of red sandstone cobbles. They were high and domed and slick. I had to pick my way very carefully, and my knees were starting to protest. My mind was starting to get a bit desperate and my body was very tired.
As I neared the road it looked as if the Camino came to an abrupt stop, but some makeshift yellow arrows marked the detour to the new route, a tunnel under the A-8. If I had had to cross that crazy highway, I might just have given up and gone home. I wanted to do that too, when I realized that on the other side of the valley, I had to climb a road almost as steep as the one I’d just come down. At least this one was paved. I passed the hermitage of St. Martin with scarcely a look. I just wanted my albergue!
I met a couple out for an evening stroll, and asked them if they knew the Albergue de Rosa. They didn’t but were happy to help me look for it as we came into the outskirts of Orio. There was a large house on the left which looked promising. It had no sign but on the front porch were lots of symbols of Basque agricultural heritage, wooden shoes and the like. I told the couple I would ask at this place. As I went up the walk, a woman wearing an apron rushed out, and grabbed me in a hug. “You must be the Canadian!” Putting two and two together, and wiping soapsuds off my face, I exclaimed “You must be Rosa!”. De veras! I felt like the lost sheep and the prodigal son rolled into one! Such a welcome! Ana and Margi hugged and kissed me and told me how worried they had been that I was lost. The couple with whom I had been walking wondered what had become of me, and came round the back to make sure that this was the place. My energy roared back. Suddenly I was having a great day.
Ana and Margi were going into Orio to have some fish roasted on open hearths, and they invited me to go with them, but I had done enough walking for one day. I opted to take my supper with Gisbert and two French couples, in Rosa’s little cabana overlooking the beautiful hills on the other side of the Orio river. Rosa was a great cook, and the company was good. The day was saved.
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