AN ADVENTURE WITH SANDRINA

The train station in Requejada was unmanned. If you had questions, you could speak into a box on the wall of the station, and find out the schedule, how to pay, and where the train ran. Unfortunately for me, the train did not run to Santillana, but the helpful disembodied voice told me that I could take the train to Torrelavega, some miles out of the way, and catch a bus there. I didn't want to stay in industrial Requejada, though I do wish I'd taken a picture of the amazing set up there.

As I sat and waited for the train, an incredibly fit and stylish couple appeared. They seemed to be having some kind of a tiff. Eventually, the man walked on and the woman sat down. She was gorgeous, curvy, and expensively attired; and very nice! She was Sandrina from Marseilles, and in her opinion, 25 km was quite enough to walk. Her husband was going to do that whole 44km. He looked as if that would be no problem, I thought. Sitting next to her polished yet casual elegance, I found it hard to believe we were the same species, let alone the same gender. For all that, she was very natural and fun to talk to.

I explained to Sandrina that we had to go to Torrelavega and then take a bus. There was no place on the train to pay for a ticket. This had happened to me before with no problem. I got on, I got off, and no-one cared. But Torrelavega was some kind of terminus where all debts must be paid, so we had duck under the cordons once we got to the station, go to the ticket window, and buy a ticket from Requejada to Torrelavega. Then, we had to duck back under the cordon and fire our tickets into the automated turnstile to leave the station. Sandrina had no change, so I bought her ticket to freedom. When we finally determined what bus we had to take; an adventure in itself, involving three bus lines, a hardware store, two Argentinian cosmetics saleswomen, the local police, a dank, dark waiting room, unnecessary hills, and rain, Sandrina returned the favour. Soon we were travelling through lovely hills (much nicer from a bus than on the tarmac) on our way to what has been called the loveliest village in all of Spain.

MISSTEPS AND (MIS)ADVENTURES

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.

MOST AMAZING DECOR

Considering where I ended up, I can't say that THIS was the MOST amazing thing I saw all day, but it's pretty darned amazing all the same!

TOO MANY ROADS, MOZART!

Frokken Carreterra!

At supper the night before, Richard had inspired me to continue. I forget just how he did that now, something about taking the good with the bad. I didn't want to be a wuss, either. So on I trudged.

I think that on this day, I spent less than six hundred yards on an unpaved surface. I may be able to consider myself lectured now, but at the time, I was furious. I could handle the exit to Santander, built up areas, and poorly signed. It was to be expected. I got lost twice, and in the end, I created my own camino that morning, ending up on a parallel course to the signed route, and meeting several nice people along the way as I asked for help in finding my way. Keep the sea at your right shoulder and the mountains on the left, and you can't go wrong really. I ended up quite satisfied with my alternate route, especially when I saw the Way along the highway once again. I got back on the official route at Peñacastillo.

Here are some of the vistas from the day.







And my personal favourite....

SANTANDER

By the time I returned from my short tour of the Cathedral and adjacent streets, the albergue was filling up. It was just one large room of bunks, two semi-broken computers, and a small kitchen, where one could do laundry. I had a bunk near the window, which opened into the rear of the building forming a sort of courtyard, but really just a space for the mechanical systems for the buildings round it, and a way for light to enter. It was black with dust and grease, and apart from harbouring a few pigeons, and laundry, it was a wasteland. Not exactly an inspiring hangout.

Richard, the Canadian, and I went to the cafe near the albergue for an early supper and then into the evening streets, where, it being Semana Santa, Holy Week,
we encountered a religious procession, complete with solemn, hooded penitents, young and old, in rich regalia. The huge, ornate silver litter was lit by lanterns at the corners, and surmounted by a statue of the Virgin, in her dolorous persona. This, and the crowds, were all far outside my experience of Easter. I tried to capture the event on film, but try as I would, I couldn't get a shot in focus.





This was a metaphor for my state of mind at the time. I felt I was losing my focus entirely. I have a friend from my first Camino who described perfectly the trajectory of the pilgrim experience by describing four stages of the pilgrim's state of mind while on the Camino. The first is, Oh, Isn't This Interesting! The second is, What the Hell am I Doing Here? I had most definitely entered Stage Two. I wasn't a religious pilgrim, per se, and so the hardships of reaching the goal of Santiago de Compostela were not part of a sacrifice that I could dedicate to God. I wasn't an endurance athlete, so "no pain, no gain", "no guts, no glory" didn't really pertain either. But, I wasn't really just a tourist either; I didn't just want to head off to something else. I wanted to walk this walk, but I wasn't enjoying this part of it at all. I felt that, in revivifying the ancient route, whoever was in charge in Cantabria had missed the point. Maybe the ancient Camino route WAS the same as that of the current highway, and maybe tradition had its place, but maybe, I thought, there ought to be some leeway to ensure pilgrim safety and the health of our legs. So much traffic and pavement meant a less than pleasant sojourn, for me, at least. I had been warned, by the guidebooks, by the internet, and by Ernesto. I'd been sure I would be able to handle it, but so far, I hadn't got used to it, and I liked it less every day. The wonderful experiences of the coastal sections weren't quite enough to make putting up with the rest of it something I was happy to do. Sure, it was instructive to see how modern times were changing the face of the world, and almost never for the better, but I knew that already. If I'd wanted to go for a walk by the side of a secondary highway, I could have stayed home. I see that even now, a year later, I'm ranting a bit. If the Camino is a metaphor for the Walk of Life, I guess there are bound to be rough patches here and there. Pilgrims, even second timers, even waffly agnostics, expect the Camino to be unremittingly uplifting. I remember a conversation I had with a Danish woman on my first Camino. "When do we get to have insight?" she asked "I'm travelling with my three sisters, and its all about planning where to eat and where to sleep!" "First World Problem", my kids would say. To myself I say, "Suck it Up, Princess!" There, I consider myself lectured.

BY CLIFFS AND BEACHES TO SANTANDER

Breakfast the next morning was every bit as convivial as supper the night before, but eventually, it was time to go. My diary tells me that I was feeling glum, and didn't want to continue, but that the rising sun was a tonic to my spirit. From the albergue, I walked through the rest of the neighbourhood to a minor road. As I reached the junction of the main road to Somo, my Guemes experience was bookended, as Ernesto and Katia zoomed by in the little white van, beeping and waving!



The trail led through the streets of Galizano, a small town with an imposing church. Here I ran across the couple from Bilbao, who had decided to take a taxi to Santander as the rash on the girl's legs was much worse now. They'd been walking with Ramiro, so he and I now set off together to walk along the cliffs to Somo.

The weather was fine and we walked at the same pace. We both had bad knees, and it was nice to be able to say "Hey, let's stop for ten minutes" without feeling like we were holding the other one back. We talked about the usual things; our lives, our situations. We stopped to take pictures at the beauty spots, we photographed one another, trading cameras for "self" portraits.



We climbed bluffs, waded through tall grass, rested above sheer cliffs, and walked barefoot along fantastic beaches. We met holidaymakers, retirees mostly, and came across a encampment of travellers, who made Ramiro look positively staid by comparison. Ramiro talked about working in IT in Barcelona, and wanting to travel the Middle East, but also wanting to head home to Argentina to meet his new neice, who was nearly one year old already. He spoke with sadness about how the unrest in Egypt and other countries in the region would make travel there next to impossible for the next few years, even though he could probably escape notice because of his dark hair and eyes. He called himself a "moustache traveller". I had to look that up in case it meant something rude, but I think he only meant that he could blend with the appearance of the men of the region.




We got to the boat dock at Somo just in time to miss the boat, so had a half hour waiting in a shelter. The tide was going out by the time we boarded, along with a surprising number of other people, and the pilot had to manoeuvre his way carefully among the sandbars.



Soon we were in Santander, and easily found the albergue, which was not yet open. Time for lunch! I can't remember which of us treated the other, but it started a tradition. At each opportunity for the next few days, whenever we were together for a meal or a drink, we took turns to pay.



Santander had that same fin de siecle elegance which characterized all the seaside towns, but there was something hollow about the place, something grey, and grubby, and uninspired; and it smelled faintly of drains.

TO BE A PILGRIM

The afternoon unfolded lazily. As soon as I arrived, I was introduced to some of the many volunteers who were also at the albergue that evening. They came from all over the place, Spain, Germany, South America, the next town. Some cooked, some built, some played and sang for us. All of them were in love with the work that was going on under Ernesto's guidance. I was shown to my room, where I found my lovely Barcelonan family from Castro, a German woman named Silke, and lo, and behold, another Canadian, Richard from Montreal. We were informed that later on, we'd have a talk by Ernesto, and then supper. There was lots of time for shower and laundry, and lounging around on the patio, chatting, comparing blisters and guidebooks, and patting the exceptionally large dog. Everything was clean and relaxing. Incredibly, I felt pampered!







By the time we headed upstairs to a lounge for our "conversation" I counted 11 peregrinos. Only Richard had no Spanish to speak of, so I was delegated to be his interpreter. After a lovely song about the Camino by one of the regular volunteers, Ernesto spoke in Spanish; about the meaning of the Camino, its history, and most importantly what it might mean to each of us. He hoped that we would take it home with us, and discover how it might make our lives more meaningful. He spoke of how heartened he was to see that it was possible for young female peregrinas to make these kind of journeys. He also told us about some of the outreach projects with which he has been involved, but never once did he ask for money. We were amazed by his office, in which every wall space was filled, even to the open rafters, with probably millions of slides, carefully labelled, from all over the world.

The Camino, in Cantabria, he told us, was challenging! The key to success would be creativity and imagination! The distances were long, and often the way was not very pleasant. (Tell me about it!), but for those willing to accept the challenge, he suggested, there were treasures of experience to be had. He gave the example of the route of the following day. There were three ways to go; one was short but on pavement, one was on a bike path, and one was longer but travelled by the cliffs. He challenged us, asking what kind of Camino we wanted to have. He also had lots of really useful hints about how to manage the later stages through Cantabria. It made me feel a bit weak, but I knew that I'd continue to avoid highway stages; so that challenge gave me pause for thought.




Dinner was lovely, simple soup and bread, with wine; and fruit for dessert. We had chance to meet some of the other peregrinos. My little tramp was called Ramiro, from Argentina. He had a lovely smile and laughed a lot. There was a quite adorable young couple from Bilbao on a sort of honeymoon, somewhat spoiled by a creeping rash on the young lady's legs. They had been to a doctor, but were thinking about taking the bus for a while, rather than make the condition worse by the stress of hiking. They were very keen on the next province, Asturias, and made me promise to have three things while there. Fabada, a bean stew; sidra; and a meat dish made with a special Asturian cheese, the name of which I didn't catch. They said the name was hard to say, but I could remember it as "ze cheez zat smells like fite" Hard to forget.

Because I was late arriving I'd ended up with the top bunk. But it was lovely and comfortable. As I drifted off, I heard Silke barking, and felt a bit of a tickle in my own throat. I had a feeling those chickens of Castro Urdiales might be coming home to roost.