LOGISTICS AND FREE WILL

No two ways about it,  the Camino del Norte is a logistical nightmare unless you are wickedly fit with good knees and you don't mind a few 40 km days.  I was coming to the realization that although I was fit enough, I was still hampered by my knees, which were getting worse rather than better, and what's more, I liked a bit of time each day to enjoy wherever I ended up.  One of the thoughts which had rolled through my mind as I listened to that toddler clumping around over head  in the hostel was the realization that I didn't need to be at the mercy of the path, that I could MAKE this trip how I wanted it to be.  I was happy to follow the yellow arrows; but as in Santander, I was equally happy to make my own way when the Way did not appear or appeared not to my liking.  Increasingly, I was also coming to terms with the idea that it was all right to take a bus now and again.  As Gisbert was wont to say; "It's cheaper than knee surgery!"

If I had walked the whole 37 km from Ribadesella, I would still have been walking at the time that I was savouring the evening sunshine on the Calle del Sol, taking endless photos of the beautiful nineteenth century bronzes on the fountain and the carvings on the  ancient church on the plaza.  I might have made it in time for the fantastic dinner that I ate in a sidreria, but there might have been no rooms left in the pension where I stayed. On my first Camino, I would have worried about what people thought about my choices; spiritual journey or no, there is plenty of judgmental opinion along the Way; I've even been guilty of it myself.  But not anymore.  I'd entered a new state of mind.

About that fantastic dinner...  There was enough for three people, for a start.  I had ensalata mixta with a balsamic dressing, for a change, followed by an entire dorada, fried crisply, with a piri-piri type green sauce.  Dessert was a mythical arroz con leche, so dense and creamy that it was almost like nougat, with a caramelized sugar and cinnamon topping.  Good thing I had stopped being judgmental, because that was one sinful dish.  I watched the barman pour an after-work sidra or two for some local businessmen.  The bottle went as high above his head as he could reach.  In his left hand, he held the wide-mouthed glass, cocked at about a forty five degree angle.  Slowly, he tipped the bottle until a thin stream of liquid started over the lip and with the left hand he swooped in to catch it, so that it ran smoothly down the inside of the lower wall of the glass.  The servings were small, less than a quarter of the volume of the glass, but they were repeated frequently.  In true sidreria style, the dregs were dashed to the floor.  My boots, sticking to the sweet stuff, made little cracking noises as I walked to my table.

Here's a video of the technique:

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=HsR9XBuikaU

Thus fortified, I went back to my little pension, and slept like a baby, awakened only by a hellish charliehorse in my right thigh that I thought would never end, a coughing fit, and the streetsweeping machine first thing in the morning.   But I was in high spirits after two great days of walking, and I couldn't wait to see more, so waking up early suited me just fine.