It was siesta time in Onton, and nothing moved. What looked like a bar, with a couple of umbrellas advertising beer on the back deck might have just been someone’s house. It might as well have been, anyway. I asked the lone humans I met, a man and his little girl, for directions to the bus stop, which was across from the ancient church, set into the peculiar sugar loaf hill. The stop was in front of a group of bedraggled row houses, which looked pretty empty. I sat on a cement capped wall and hunkered down to wait. Pretty soon the sun came round and started beating on me. I watched the cars zoom by on the road, and on the main road above the village. There were lots of sporty motorcycles whizzing along, and I saw one car/bike encounter which surely would have resulted in a fatality, had it not been for the fast reflexes of the motorcyclist.
Only one group of pilgrims came along, a family group, which included the pilgrim I’d followed up the escalator in the morning. They wondered why I was sitting there, and I told them that I was afraid to walk on the road. They just shrugged, probably amazed at my timidity, and wished me a Buen Camino, as they headed up to the highway.
I knew the bus must be coming soon, as a couple of housewives emerged from one of the ( not so empty after all) houses, and made their fond goodbyes, with many tears and hugs. The chubbier of the two, with jet black old fashioned permed hair, and dressed in a printed house dress, a cardigan and slippers, hoisted herself onto the bus after me. I sat on the floor to stabilize my pack, and she sat in the seat above me. At first we were having a jolly old chat. She asked me lots of questions about where I was from. Did I have a family? How old were my children? Why did I come on a second camino? And then to my utter shock, she let fly ! I was on a DEMONIACAL way! SHE would NEVER leave her children. I must be a TERRIBLE woman to do do this. I tried to defend myself politely, saying what a ‘buen hombre’ my husband was to afford me this kind of freedom from the traditional wife’s role; trying to fit what I was doing into a framework that didn’t cause her to go into an eye-rolling, spittle-flinging frenzy of hate. And then I just gave up and watched the scenery go by. I suppose I should have understood that she might be disapproving, given her traditional appearance, but I certainly didn’t expect a haranguing. Never mind that at this particular point in the journey, I would have just as happily been at home making Kraft Dinner for Alex, I was OFFENDED! Cantabria was not off to a good start.
I asked the bus driver if the bus went anywhere near the albergue de peregrinos, and he assured me that it was quite close by; “detras (behind) de la plaza de toros”. As I watched the newer parts of Castro Urdiales slide by, my knees were glad that I hadn’t walked on all those sidewalks. The last 4km were in the town, which has got to be the worst seaside town I’ve ever seen: ranks and ranks of modern highrise holiday apartments, completely blotting out the view of the sea. I could kick myself now that I didn’t expend the energy to go back and see the old town, which had been one of the things I didn’t want to miss, but the rest of the evening was pretty chaotic, and I just didn’t get there. Another time, perhaps?
The bus driver wasn’t kidding. The albergue was directly on the bus route, since the plaza de toros was also the bus terminal. The place was less than inspiring. When I arrived, the door was wide open and there was no sign of the hospitalero. Inside, I found the Spanish family of earlier, who had obviously survived the highway, a Dutch woman with a bad sunburn, who was the doppelganger of my boss at work, right down to her mannerisms. In my mind, I dubbed her “Dutch Patti”. There was a young Spanish couple, dedicated to snogging, and a couple of American boys on a break from Deusto University in Bilbao. When I got there, they were napping, having walked some incredible distance, but soon they were up, playing cards.
Patti let me know that the food choices were limited to a shop down among the apartment buildings or a four km walk back to town. I chose the path of least resistance and bought myself some very expensive bread and cheese. When I got back there were a couple of weatherbeaten guys sitting outside the albergue, looking shifty. They asked a lot of questions about staying there which peregrinos ought to know the answers to. Both Patti and I felt very uncomfortable and couldn’t wait for the hospitalero to return to sort things out. One of the men was quite sick, with a persistent cough that seemed to come from the very depths of his being. I hoped it wasn’t TB or something horrid like that, since the hospitalero never did return, and those two guys just grabbed a couple of bunks. With nothing else to do but hang around in the dark, I took a paracetamol for my knees, wrapped my scarf around my face in an attempt to prevent whatever germs were going around from getting into me, and went to bed, to the sound of hacking. It was pretty grim.
In the morning, I stamped my own credencial! I was pretty glad to put the whole of the previous day behind me. Later, when talking with some other Spanish pilgrims about Castro Urdiales, they called it “un desastre”. I concur!
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