I'd been dreading this stage since the beginning, because I was afraid when it came to it, I would be tempted to take the dangerous railway bridge across a river in Boo de Pielagos, rather than walk an extra seven km to a footbridge. But now that I was accustomed to doing the most sensible thing, rather than the so called "right thing" it made sense just to get on the train for one stop, to get myself over the river.
Its amazing how we build things up to worry about in our minds, only to have them dissolve into phantoms as we approach. All that energy wasted!
To try and shake myself out of my angry mood, I also started looking for little things to make myself happy. Like looking down at my hobbit-like toe caps, keeping up a steady rhythm on the pavement; locust trees in fragrant bloom; a field of mares with their foals; the unerring ability of nature to create the perfect harmonious combinations of wildflowers, with unusual combinations, but never a jarring note. Swooping magpies, camellia TREES!; and the sound of the cuckoo.
I encountered Ramiro as he waited for the train in Morgata, and then in Morga, as I got off the train after my river crossing, I met Richard, looking disconsolate and lost. We decided to go for lunch at a hotel by the tracks. What a good decision! We had a three course meal personally served by the chef himself, and very delicious it was too. I had a bean stew, followed by a stewed chicken quarter, and finished up with a grappa-soaked Cantabrian specialty cake, sobao. More on that,
here
This stage in the guidebook was 44 kn long. I knew I'd never walk that, and had always planned to break the journey. To that end I had booked a night in the Posada El Pradon in Mar, a former cattle farm which had been converted into a small hotel, about 25km from Santander. After lunch, Richard and I walked for quite a while together on a lovely little road, but when we approached Mar, it was time for me to start looking for my posada. I had been so looking forward to some privacy and a bath! Alas, no-one seemed to know what I was talking about. Not in the bar with old-timers at the bar, and young people behind the bar; not at a house by the side of the road where a woman was hanging out laundry; not in the village proper; not in the other pub, which was shut up. I looked everywhere, but didn't see the distinctive building. I felt terrible about breaking my reservation, but I had no access to a telephone, so I just kept walking. When I got back to Canada, I wrote the owners a letter of apology, and in the email exchange which followed, I learned that I'd walked right past it. I found that nearly impossible to believe, but not so impossible as that no-one at all had ever heard of it. I looked for it on Google Maps, and there it was, right across from the closed up bar.
The next place was Polanco. I'd heard bad things about the albergue there, and it was worse than I'd imagined, in a tiny island of ground surrounded by roads. No way! To make it worse, the sky was now dark and there was thunder rumbling in the distance. I decided to find the next train, and head for Santillana del Mar.
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