68: Crossing a provincial boundary

We got to the other end of the beach and crossed a bridge over a river into Pobeña. After walking for a few minutes we noticed that we weren't seeing any yellow arrows. This is a common occurrence, because even though the trail is generally well-marked, there are some important stretches that are hardly marked at all. Or you lose the trail by missing a single marking because it is hidden, or because you aren't looking, or because it isn't there.

"Yes", the next man we asked said to us, "I think the path goes along the shore back there. You missed it."

I hate backtracking. "And the carretera?" I ask.

"Yes, that will bring you to the same spot. You need to get to Covarón, and then continue from there."

Anabel and I looked at each other and decided that we would keep walking. We had not gone very far, however, when we noticed that this was a bad idea. It is very stressful to walk along narrow country roads where there is traffic. We found a side road which led steeply uphill. It looked like it could bring us to a point further along the trail, so we wouldn't have to backtrack. To be safe, we asked a man who was working in his garden.

"Yes, you can get to the trail along here. You'll come to two stone pillars at the top of the hill. Walk through them, and you'll meet up with the trail."

The going was steep uphill, but the road was good. We found two decrepit wall fragments that could pass for pillars, but when we walked between them we ended up in cow pasture. There was no trail here. We heard the breakers of the sea up ahead, but a heavy fog was rolling in and we couldn't see very far. We picked our way along the grassy hillside on which the grass was a little too high and the hillside a little too steep for the walking to be comfortable. The fog rolled over us and we couldn't see more than a few steps ahead. We came to a fence. Eventually we reached a place where we could see the trail practically right underneath us. It was a difficult descent, though -- a steep cliff at some points, but even the easier bits were a difficult scramble. Anabel made it down with no major problems, but I took a while to descend, trying to be as tender as possible to my knee, but still making some whimpering sounds as it took a few jolts.

But the trail was very easy and attractive from here, more of a promenade. We met plenty of other people, but most appeared to be taking a walk along the beach and not a pilgrimage. For the third time since we had met up yesterday in the late afternoon, Anabel started getting into a conversation with a man who was walking roughly alongside us. He had done the Camino himself, and hearing him speak, I felt like a loser. He said that you are easily able to cover 35-40 Kilometers a day. On some days he had done up to 50. Me, I was having difficulty making an even 20 Km per day.

I had to keep reminding myself that it isn't a race, but apparently I did not fully believe that. Why did I feel this tinge of jealousy?

Eventually the conversation flagged between Anabel and this man, and he resumed his pace and left us behind. The fog came and went. We crossed from Basque Country into Cantabria, and had an overweight shirtless Spaniard take a picture of us at the border marker. We reached the end of the promenade, and somehow got off the trail and ended up on the carretera again. We went up and down some switchbacks and eventually got to Ontón. It was one in the afternoon, and the only bread store we could find had just closed for the siesta time. We were sort of stuck on the carretera, roughly parallel to the autovia (freeway), but with steeper slopes and more switchbacks. Sometimes we would cut corners on the switchbacks, saving us some distance but putting an extra strain on The Knee. My feet, too, were burning by now. We had lost track of where the trail should be.

We reached Mioño and there was a bus stop bench beside the road. We sat down for a break, but Anabel wanted to keep going. I told her that she should go ahead, I'd stay here and rest a while.

There was an construction work going on nearby. The whole northern coast of Spain seems to be a construction area. There was an information booth which was closed, and a building which looked like town hall, appropriately modest for a modest little town.

I lay down on the bench and reflected on what a bad place this was to try to take a nap. There was traffic and construction noise all around. I decided to try following the advice I had gotten from my German roommate in Bilbao, and listened intently to the noise.