Richard caught up with me as I was refilling my water bottles in a park on the outskirts of town. He had been walking since early in the morning, driven out of his fleabag albergue somewhere between Requejada and Santillana by an attack of bedbugs, to which he is allergic. Boy Howdy! He wasn't kidding either. He showed me his swollen hand and arm, puffed up like a marshmallow and red. His plan was to get to Cobreces and get clean. Everything he owned would have to be washed in hot hot water, and dried in a dryer if possible.
While Richard was in agony, I was having a lovely walk though through an enchanted valley. Oranges and lemons, and flowers of all kinds flourished in a microclimate more Mediterranean than Atlantic. Some kids had the Spanish version of a lemonade stand going so I spent some time chatting with them, and watched a horse chasing some piglets around the farmyard.
This was the day I saw my first tudanca; Cantabrian native cattle. The males are grey with white muzzles and eyerings, turning black as they get older, and the cows are chestnut. I thought they were very pretty and like nothing I'd ever seen before, but it wasn't until I returned to Canada and did some research that I realized how rare and special they were.
I got to Cobreces by lunch time to discover that the albergue wouldn't open until three, and that the albergue was at some distance from the holiday town, which was down a steep hill near the sea. Richard arrived, and we sat for a while in the shade of the abbey. Sandrina and her husband waved at us as they passed by, refreshed by their stay in one of Santillana's best hotels.
I had some lunch and hung around the restaurant patio with Silke for a while, drinking Coke and writing in my journal. I learned that she too was taking lots of buses. Her feet were killing her. Cobreces looked pretty dull, and I really needed some compeed for the blisters that had formed from me holding my left foot awkwardly, so I took the bus to Comillas, which has been the summer playground of the rich and famous since the end of the nineteenth century. All the famous Spanish architects of the day, including my main man, Gaudi, had left their mark on the place. Comillas had the first electric lights and the first television service in Spain.
At the bus stop, I met the young couple from Bilbao, who had now come to terms with the fact that their Camino had turned into a bus trip, and looked like they were really enjoying themselves. Once I got my bearings, I went first to the albergue located in an old jail where Ramiro and the Barcelonan family were sunning themselves on the lawn. There were hugs all round. But all was not well. I was too late, they told me with sincere concern on their faces; for the albergue was completo.
So, I discovered, was everything else. Everywhere I inquired I was turned away. I almost had a room at the rather nice Hostal Esmeralda, but the couple whose room I was going to have if they didn´t show up by 7.30 screeched up to the hotel at 7.25 in a heavily laden station wagon, trailing clouds of frazzlement, with two small children in tow. Oh well; I figured they needed it more than I did. I went back to trudging the busy streets. Eventually, I found an out of the way pension, where I feared there might be bedbugs, but at 8.30 at night during Semana Santa, peregrinas can't be choosers.I took the room, and took the precaution of tying my backpack up in a garbage bag on a chair.
As the sun was going down, I hiked out to the cemetery which had a great view of the sea and then I turned in for the night. However, in Comillas, it seemed, the party never stopped. I had several groups of young lady (sic) revellers decide that my window was the best place to stand and declaim loudly of the merits and deficiencies of their various and several swains, at 3 am, 5 am, and 7 am. Still, between these bouts of drama I slept very well. A double bed in a room by myself. LUXURY. And, for the record, no bedbugs either.
No comments:
Post a Comment