A SETBACK: THREE DAYS IN LLANES

The next morning,  I was well and truly sick.  My cough was worse, and was producing gobs of green goo.  I couldn't stay in that expensive little cell.  I needed somewhere warm and dry.  Luckily I had a reservation at the private hostel,  "L'Estacion", which was located in the former railway station.  That wouldn't be opening for a few hours though, so I would explore the old part of Llanes as far as possible.  I walked from La Portilla, which was a suburb, into the main town.

I was shocked to discover that despite the fact that it was Easter Morning, most of the shops and cafes were open.  I couldn't believe my luck.  I went to a farmacia and got some cough syrup which started to work immediately, and had the bonus side effect of making me exceptionally sleepy.   I found a cafe for some coffee and zumo (fresh squeezed orange juice--Heaven), and a croissant.  I tried very hard not to cough on the lovely family at the next table, but it was certainly evident to everyone that I was a plague vector.  Even though the shops were crammed with beautiful Easter pastries, I couldn't have gagged one down if I tried.  I was strictly interested in real food, and hot.  Especially since it was still raining.  

Lunch in a bar served my purposes very well.  I had fabada asturiana, one of the three dishes prescribed for me in Guemes.  Nice enough.  I had crepes with asparagus for the second plate, and for dessert some flan; all flan is not created equal.  I decided to eschew the whipped cream, just in case.

Then, it being Easter, I decided to go to church.  Because of the rain, the procession, featuring statues of the Holy Mother,  St. Veronica, complete with handkerchief, and a reliquary, had to be held inside.  I didn't stay long; part of the service involved the jubilant ringing of handbells by all of the children in the congregation .  The joyful potential represented by all of these people at the beginning of their life's journey made me quite emotional.  I had to get out before I cried or coughed or fell over.

"L'Estacion" had lost my reservation, but when I mentioned that it had been done by email, it was easily found.  The old railway station was also the new railway station, I discovered.  The old one had the potential to be wonderful, with interesting tile floors, fireplaces, and friezes, but it was very down at heel, and depressing on that account.  The albergue was not full, and I asked to have a room by myself so as not to disturb or infect people with my coughing.  Kindly, and cleverly, my host agreed.

I checked my emails, and crawled upstairs to bed.  I was feeling lightheaded and not quite connected to my body.  It was all I could do to wring out a few clothes in the sink., before collapsing again with another slug of medicine.  In my journal for that day I reflected that "the only good thing about feeling this bad is that you are too tired and without any kind of spark to feel hard done by.  Its all you can do to exist"

On the next day, I puttered around.  I found a post office and mailed some cards, wrote some emails, browsed around the shops looking for food.  I couldn't even look at cheese, for some reason, and the local bread was dry.  I was too tired to even walk out to the end of the pier and look at the sculptured breakwater which was one of the town's claims to fame.  But you can look at them here if you like.

It didn't help that the weather was uncompromisingly gloomy.  On my way back to my bed of pain, I spotted the two vagrants from Castro Urdiales.  I shook a figurative fist at them for infecting me with this horrible pestiferous virus, and headed back to bed.

By the third day, I was starting to feel more human.  I sat up in the dining hall, still wrapped up in everything I owned, but more like my old self.  And its true that if you sit in one place the world will come to you.  Silke appeared and shared her mint tea with me. Philip also made an appearance.   Gisbert, whom I hadn't seen since Bilbao, arrived with a very tall long haired wild looking man from Badajoz.  I soon fell into my old role of interpreter, since Juan (I've forgotten his real name) had very little English.  It was rather strange for me to be telling a perfect stranger what a "buen hombre" he was.  There was to be a gathering in the local sidreria  that evening with some other gentlemen with whom they'd been walking.  Gisbert winked at me and told me that they would be solving the problems of the world.

They certainly took their time doing it.  About three in the morning I was wakened from a deep sleep by the sound of my doorknob turning (I hadn't locked my door for three days, since I wasn't sure I might not need medical help--that's how sick I felt).   I heard a befuddled voice,  unmistakeably Gisbert's, say  emphatically, "No, zat is ze vrong one" Then the sound of the door shutting.  Then the sound of someone fumbling his way to another room.  I figured that the solving of the world's problems must have been done in English, and he just hadn't switched back to German in his mind.  I found myself smiling in the dark..