I tucked a sprig of wild mint behind my ear as we walked through menthol scented forests of eucalyptus, their delicate thin white tree trunks stretching to the sky. Hills taunted our stiff morning legs as my walking companion and I left San Vincente behind. 48 years old and a Highschool math teacher, my tall wiry French companion enjoyed a familiarity with his surroundings that astounded me. I scurried to collect as he used his walking stick to knock ruby red cherries from a farmers tree, and we howled with laughter when a passing Irishman (also a math teacher..) informed us that we were likely poisoning ourselves. The world was fresh and contained our breakfast. I watched amused as my companion touched, tasted, smelled.... Everything. And should we have paused when wiping cow poop off of the fruit we were about to consume...? Perhaps.
"Every thing is a surprise," my companion said as we stood on a cliffs edge, the sea crashing spectacularly a hundred feet below. The guide books said nothing of this spot, but 5km outside of Colombres we took a tiny path next to the ocean, and for those moments, the churning violent waters and jagged rocks belonged only to us.
Saint James observed us close to the waters edge. "Do you see now why my boat crashed up in Finistere? These waters are wild!" I took a breathe of salt air, prepared to run from the approaching cows and smiled into the wind.
We were four, walking into the silent town of Peduales, following rumors of an albergue with a communal dinner. Lucy and Manuela, both therapists working with children in France, had one week to wander before returning to work and their good humor spread as we walked through a tiny town exemplifying urban sprawl.
"He washes and dries our clothes too?! We have arrived at Heaven's gate!!" I cringed as I handed foul smelling socks that could likely walk on their own to the proprietor of Albergue Aves de Paso. As I ate my delicious soup and pasta salad, I contemplated leaving my husband for this paragon of a man who washed my underwear and cooked me dinner. Our group of twenty pilgrims gathered gratefully around the table in a room with dark wooden ceiling beams and stone walls and we ate our flavorful soup while talking in five languages around full mouths.
I creakily walked up the stairs to my bed after a long chat with an Australian family touring the world. Before tucking myself in to bed, Saint James whispered in my ear, "Jen, you really need to know the name of the man with whom you spent your entire day... Geez!"
"I know, I know! I'll sneak a peak at the registry before leaving tomorrow.. It would be too awkward to ask now!"
*****
"Tomorrow we walk through a town called Playa de Poo." We all snickered.
"Well, I won't be swimming there!"
Lizards darted erratically across the path as a cool wind brushed my face. Cowbells echoed and the scent of carob flavored manure wafted by. Wildflowers and dragon flies danced dainty duets, and my ass hurt!
Caroline and I had said goodbye shortly outside of Santillana del Mar in the morning when our shadows stretched long. I was impatient, ready to test myself against the terrain. I walked through the morning, chatting with cows and horses, and even a llama at one point. The pain in my hip nagged slightly but was manageable. I wandered through cobrèces, taking pictures of the lovely pink church and stopping to eat a cream pastry that should have send me running for tall grass and toilet paper, and I walked on, smiling at any person or creature to come within my orbit. I strolled into the seaside village of Comillas, excited to be finished walking for the day by 130pm and ready to tour the architectural Gaudi creations. However, I arrived at the alburgue to discover that it was completo and a line had formed outside.
"Where is the next town?"
"12 kilometers"
"Son of a B@&$%!!!"
And after a much needed Fanta, I strapped the backpack back on and headed into the unknown.
Perhaps I could have taken the short route and followed the highway, but where the little yellow arrows go, I must follow. Two hours later, I stood atop a very large hill in the very lonely village of Santa Ana, the world dropping off to the side, the ocean winking from the horizon and the wind stealing tears from the corners of my eyes. My hip aching, my feet sore, my skin dried out, my lips chapped, but my step was light. James was with me.
My day ended in San Vincente de la Barquera, 36 km after it began. I shared tomatoes and cucumbers with a lovely Frenchman (aren't they all) as a little girl plucked at my ukulele, her infectious giggle filling the room. All around us, pilgrims laughed, ate and chatted into the setting sun as in the distance, colorful boats came home for the night.
Saint James said "hi," in a tiny church in Santillana del Mar. About 20 km outside of Santander, Santillana del Mar is a gorgeous little preserved medieval village with a 12th century Collegiate church at it's center. The interior scent of musty moss lingers, reminding visitors of it's age, it's lack of adornment accentuating the value of that which Is there. Candelabras from another time hold florescent light bulbs, used for function rather that appeal. Bare grey stone walls are occasionally tinted green due to the cool humidity sitting heavy in the air. But the most stark feature; the stations of the cross, are small simple wooden crosses with the Roman numeral of the station carved into the center. No paintings of agony or symbols of wealth for this little church. Only austere mini crosses, displayed with the simplicity that the Christ for whom they represent, lived.
"You are on camino and yet we haven't had our chats," St James said from his seat in the pew next to me, while a priest went through the motions of the mass.
"I have no rhythm yet, I haven't even felt you near!!" I responded in frustration.
"Perhaps you need to set aside distractions? Vale, tomorrow happens either way. Wake up and choose."
I tucked a sprig of wild mint behind my ear as we walked through menthol scented forests of eucalyptus, their delicate thin white tree trunks stretching to the sky. Hills taunted our stiff morning legs as my walking companion and I left San Vincente behind. 48 years old and a Highschool math teacher, my tall wiry French companion enjoyed a familiarity with his surroundings that astounded me. I scurried to collect as he used his walking stick to knock ruby red cherries from a farmers tree, and we howled with laughter when a passing Irishman (also a math teacher..) informed us that we were likely poisoning ourselves. The world was fresh and contained our breakfast. I watched amused as my companion touched, tasted, smelled.... Everything. And should we have paused when wiping cow poop off of the fruit we were about to consume...? Perhaps.
"He washes and dries our clothes too?! We have arrived at Heaven's gate!!" I cringed as I handed foul smelling socks that could likely walk on their own to the proprietor of Albergue Aves de Paso. As I ate my delicious soup and pasta salad, I contemplated leaving my husband for this paragon of a man who washed my underwear and cooked me dinner. Our group of twenty pilgrims gathered gratefully around the table in a room with dark wooden ceiling beams and stone walls and we ate our flavorful soup while talking in five languages around full mouths. 
