I'd walked 21 km so far, and it was another ten along the road to the albergue in Sebrayo, where I could probably find room in the albergue, but where there were no shops, but where there might be a chico who would sell you something to eat. I didn't fancy the roadwalking or the insecurity of perhaps not finding any food. The next town was Villaviciosa of the villainous, vicious sounding name. There was no albergue there, but lots of hotels and hostels and pensiones. That seemed like a better bet to me, so I decided to take the bus from Colunga. The bus I had hoped to take whizzed right by me as I sat with a group of German pilgrims in what looked like a bus stop, but was in fact, the taxi stand. On the way into town we watched a bicycle race. More whizzing. Man, those guys could fly! It turned out to be a huge deal; for the next two days every time I was in a bar, people would be glued to the TV watching that race, a three day neon thrash across the northern coast of Spain.
The next bus wasn't until five o'clock, so I had lots of time to kill. I had a snack and some coffee in a cafe near the ACTUAL bus stop and bought one for a fellow pilgrim. I can't remember her at all now. Funny how there are little blank spots. When the bus arrived, a half-hour late, it was because of the bicycle race which had closed the highway for a while.
The bus journey was the best way to see the sugar loaf hills decorated like Christmas trees with whitewashed villages, neatly terraced fields and plantations. Fat herds of cattle were pastured in the winding river valley. The whole panorama was Oz-ly green. One of my favourite moments of the trip occurred when an old man in a plain white shirt, but obviously his best, got on the bus carrying a bouquet of mock orange flowers. Was he going to visit his sweetheart? his wife in the old folks home? was his daughter expecting him for supper? Whatever it was, the way he carried himself suggested that it was a special day, and it was sweet.
The road on which the Camino went was the same as the bus route, with one notable difference.
I was treated to a ride along the so-called Jurassic Coast, including the famous "hanging" village of Llastres, which I'd read about but which is not on the Camino. Well, let me tell you, I was the one hanging!.
In order to negotiate a hairpin turn at the top of the village, the bus had not only to go into the wrong lane, but drop the left rear wheel into a stone stairwell. I think the driver did that every day. He wasn't fussed, but I was nonplussed! All I could see from my vantage point in the raised seat directly behind the driver was sky and sea. When we dipped, it seemed to me as if the bus was teetering over the void. The thing that worried the driver was the way an engine fan was squealing (like a pig under a gate, as my grandfather would say, or a goat stuck in a page wire fence, perhaps). It continued to do that all the way to the bus station, while the driver tapped and muttered.
As I was getting off my bus, I met Gisbert and Juan de Badajoz getting on. They'd just come back from a side trip to Oviedo, and were heading to the coast to go to Gijon and continue their Camino from there. Gisbert and I saluted each other hurriedly with a soldierly hug, and that was the last I saw of my reiki-master philosopher. We're still in touch sporadically, by email and the inevitable facebook. Nice to know I have a brother in arms out there somewhere.
The road on which the Camino went was the same as the bus route, with one notable difference.
I was treated to a ride along the so-called Jurassic Coast, including the famous "hanging" village of Llastres, which I'd read about but which is not on the Camino. Well, let me tell you, I was the one hanging!.
In order to negotiate a hairpin turn at the top of the village, the bus had not only to go into the wrong lane, but drop the left rear wheel into a stone stairwell. I think the driver did that every day. He wasn't fussed, but I was nonplussed! All I could see from my vantage point in the raised seat directly behind the driver was sky and sea. When we dipped, it seemed to me as if the bus was teetering over the void. The thing that worried the driver was the way an engine fan was squealing (like a pig under a gate, as my grandfather would say, or a goat stuck in a page wire fence, perhaps). It continued to do that all the way to the bus station, while the driver tapped and muttered.
As I was getting off my bus, I met Gisbert and Juan de Badajoz getting on. They'd just come back from a side trip to Oviedo, and were heading to the coast to go to Gijon and continue their Camino from there. Gisbert and I saluted each other hurriedly with a soldierly hug, and that was the last I saw of my reiki-master philosopher. We're still in touch sporadically, by email and the inevitable facebook. Nice to know I have a brother in arms out there somewhere.
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