GOOD FRIDAY

I could have stayed in Comillas for another day just going from one Modernist architectural gem to the next, but what I really wanted to see was Gaudi’s Caprichio, where I was looking forward to a cup of overpriced (but worth it for the ambience) coffee. Alas, it was no longer a restaurant, so I had to content myself with looking at the tower on my way out of town the next morning. On the other hand, I did get to see Domenech’s fountain, and the exteriors of the Sobrellano palace and the Pontifical University as I passed by. My favourite things were an entire house covered in exquisite tiles, which I can’t show you, because those pictures turned out fuzzy, and an archway treated the same way, which turned out a bit better.



Today’s route was only a short 12 km trip to San Vicente de la Barquera, where I wanted to stay because there was lots to see. I was particularly enamoured of its famous medieval bridge spanning the estuary. In keeping with the tradition of every other section being on pavement, this day featured lots of roads, and there were a couple of times where I felt distinctly unsafe.



But it was more than made up for by the views; snow covered mountains to the left, and the sea to the right. There was one farm in El Tejo which was for sale that had both, and overlooked a venerable golf course, started in the 1840's. I was tempted until I remembered that I don’t play golf and don’t really want to. Ramiro and I crossed paths, and I walked for a while with a chain-smoking, pony tailed local who was on his way to San Vicente, and who talked a blue streak! But eventually my slow pace was too much for him and off he went. The conditioning of these people, even the smokers, is incredible. Just going for a constitutional involves major cardiac exercise.

The views of the Oyambre marshes as I approached San Vicente were very pretty, but for a Canadian who experiences such things in plenty every day of the week, it was no big deal. Much more impressive to me were the sandstone bridge with its solid stone stanchions, the Romanesque church dominating the top of the hill, and the Castillo guarding the harbour. Like so many of the seaside towns, the streets were exceptionally steep, and traversed the sides of the hills in a switchback manner. All I knew was I needed to be up at the Church, because that’s where the albergue was.



Because it had been such a short stage, the albergue wasn’t yet open, so I headed for the café next door. I went in to find Ramiro already ensconced. We had some refreshment, and when the kitchen opened we had lunch. Today it was Ramiro’s turn to pay.

The albergue was located in the basement of a school of navigation, and was marked by a large sculpture of a full masted sailing ship on the wall. The entry was less than prepossessing, being through a former garage, now a laundry. Soon we were using the washing machine and vainly hanging our things to dry on the indoor clotheslines. Our hosts were an older couple, Luis and Sofia, who were the epitome of hospitality. There was a communal meal in the evening, and everyone was expected to help. I did dishes and swept the floor. Sofia was an incredible cook. It being Good Friday, fish dominated the menu. We had a delicious fish soup for the first course, and merluza con patatas(hake with potatoes) for the second course. I’ve forgotten if there was dessert, but if there was it was probably fruit. There weren’t that many of us there, Ramiro, me, a quiet man from San Sebastian, named Rodrigo, two jolly Frenchmen, large, hale and hearty, a German female cyclist, and another German, a young boy named Philip, who had chosen the Camino del Norte, almost at random, as his gift to himself for finishing school.

Philip was a remarkable young man, bright, polite, wide-eyed and open to every new experience. Counter to the rules, he’d been at the albergue for three days, just soaking up the ambience in San Vicente, and having Luis and Sofia fall in love with him. They truly did not want to let him go!
Since he had near perfect English (and Spanish) I was able to talk about lots of things with him. I told him about the Camino Primitivo, about which he didn’t know and showed him where I was still thinking about going, despite my bad knees. He liked the look of that route, so different from the bustle of the seaside roads.




In the afternoon, I explored the exterior of the church,and admired the view from its commanding position. Something twigged. There were no windows in the lower stories of the austere building, and there was a wall round it. That thing was a fortress first and foremost. It also had a number of imposing doorways. There was the Door of Power, the Door of the People, and a couple of others besides. It had wonderful carvings including ones of the nobles who contributed to its original building fun. These were my favourites, so naively carved, and looking so pleased with themselves.



Philip and Ramiro and I decided to go to the Good Friday service at the ancient church. It was very well attended, though people seemed to have no scruple about arriving late. The age old story of Christ’s passion was told through readings, which, since I already had the gist of it, were fairly easy to comprehend. The service began with an ancient life sized wooden Crucifix sculpture swathed in a red hanging. When the sacrifice was revealed, it was moving, no matter what your belief.



When they got to the part about “into your hands, I commend my spirit”, it resonated deeply with me in my current situation. Let Go and Let God seemed like particularly good advice. I would have to stop thinking ahead and worrying about whether I’d be able to do the Camino Primitivo or not. I would just have to take what came.

We watched the procession around the church after the service, first a beautiful sculpture of a sorrowing Virgin, delicately carved, her subtle body language telling more than her expression of her pain. She was followed by the dead Christ, lying on a litter. He was much more robustly made, more a carving of the people than a piece of art, brightly painted, his wounds great stripes of red on his sides. This was not a moment for tourism, and the few photos I took were surreptitious, and drew frowns from the processors.

That night after dinner, Luis gave a talk similar to the one Ernesto had given in Guemes. He suggested that although the road was dangerous, it halved the distance to the next town, Unquera, allowing you to make it to Llanes in one go. The official route was 44 km. He also mentioned that you could start at Unquera if you took the bus. That was the route for me, I thought, especially since I’d started to exhibit the same barking cough that the vagrants and Silke had earlier in the week. The two Frenchmen were particularly troubled by my cough, and urged me to take care of myself. One of them gave me a mask, telling me it would ease my breathing by creating a more humid environment. In fact, I’m sure that he was doing it from naked self -interest, so that I didn’t make him sick too. I didn’t mind wearing it at all. Who wanted to be sick?