Winging It

I mentioned last post that, following my wonderful two weeks in the Pilgrim Office in Santiago, I was feeling a little restless and itching to stretch my legs again. But what to do with 8 free days, and all of Spain to explore? Too many options! 

Last year’s post-Camino transition was rough. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit that I was actually homesick for the Camino after I left last year, but I was, and it seemed to get worse, not better, as the months went by. It went deeper than just being sad about having a really nice, long vacation come to a close. The Camino can be kind of a silent earthquake in your soul, shaking things up, rather like a house with hidden cracks in the foundation — it may look fine on the outside, but things haven’t settled back into place quite the same way. 

So I wanted to do things differently this year and ease the transition somehow. Volunteering for two weeks was an awesome way to give back, and I loved every minute. Now it was time for the last phase before heading back to San Francisco. 

All during my Camino and the volunteer gig, I knew I had this free week in Spain at the end of my journey, but I hadn’t given much thought to what I might do, other than visit the Gaudí landmarks in Barcelona just before my flight home. I needed to do some research. But there was no wifi at the Pilgrim Office or at the convent which housed our volunteer apartment. (The nuns who lived at the convent were of the Order of Poor Clares; modern conveniences like internet — kinda not their thing. In fact, though our very plain and modest apartment was clean and had a fully functioning bathroom and kitchen, I noticed that the nightstand next to my bed contained... a chamber pot. I can only speculate why, since my room was right next to the bathroom.)

Anyway, the lack of wifi both at “work” and at “home” meant my internet research was limited to short stretches at cafés during dinner or breakfast — IF that café had wifi.

I kept meaning to do my trip research homework, but homework is boring, and besides, I kept running into old Camino pals, and making new ones from my work in the Pilgrim Office. I’d be walking down the street after work, and I’d see a pilgrim whose compostela I had completed. So of course I had to high-five and congratulate them again, and this would result in a conversation that would turn into tapas or dinner. There went my research time. (This is one of those double-edged sword things about Camino life — it can be very social.) 

And so I managed to make it all the way to the end of my two-week volunteer gig with absolutely no coherent plan for where to go next for my final week in Spain. I wasn’t worried — I always figure something out. But for starters, I needed to a place to sleep that night. And with the clock running out on my time in Spain, it was definitely time for my plans to get specific.   

So that Monday morning, Bernd and I reluctantly made our way to the Pilgrim Office, dropped off our apartment keys and said a quick, tearful goodbye. I hoisted on my backpack, suddenly anxious to put Santiago into my rear-view mirror (BIG change from last year, when I’d cried like a baby for hours on the train leaving Santiago).

I made my way up the steep, cobbled streets to the center of town one last time, enjoying the familiar, comfortable weight of my backpack, quickly re-acclimating to the change in my center of gravity. It felt so normal to wear my fully loaded pack after a two-week break, I couldn’t help but smile. It was like sliding into a favorite pair of well-worn jeans. I am so intimately familiar with every zipper, buckle, strap, loop, and compartment of this backpack, it's practically an extension of my body, and I had missed it. 

Also, a backpack on my back means a new horizon awaits, and few things make my restless spirit happier than a change of scenery. It’s not even so much where I go... I just like to keep moving. 

So I headed to Café Paradiso, a place that had both good wifi and good food, and ordered a favorite Spanish snack — chocolate con churros, which, not to put too fine a point on it, is a slice of heaven. The fresh, delicious hot chocolate is so thick it’s practically a fondue, which is the whole idea, because it’s served alongside a plate of piping hot, sugar-encrusted, crisp-on-the-outside but melty-tender-on-the-inside mini-churros made fresh to order. Taking care not to burn yourself, you hold off as long as possible to let the churros cool at least a tiny bit, then you dip a fresh churro into the thick and creamy (but somehow still liquid-y) hot chocolate, and, assuming sweets are your thing, time stops ever so briefly and you experience a moment of nirvana. The older I get, the less sweets are my thing, but I make an exception for Spanish chocolate con churros... 

Where was I? Oh yes, making a travel plan for my last week in Spain. Now fully pumped on sugar, I proceeded, at last, to consider my options. 

I had 8 days before my flight out of Barcelona on 5 June. First priority was to walk more of the Camino, second priority was to get myself closer to Barcelona, all the way on the opposite (east) side of Spain from Santiago, although the thought of spending several days in busy Barcelona sounded both exhausting and expensive. 

So after consulting several Camino maps on my little iPhone screen, and doing some quick calculations, I decided to walk a few stages of the Camino del Norte, along the northern coast of Spain, starting in San Sebastián and heading west to Bilbao. I’d heard that the ocean views on the Camino del Norte were spectacular. The fact that the del Norte goes right through Bilbao (with its spectacular Frank Gehry-designed Guggenheim Museum) made this decision easy. And because Bilbao is one of Spain’s bigger cities, it would be easy to get a direct train from there to Barcelona. 

So — a mini-Camino, plus a little culture/sightseeing. Perfect. 

San Sebastián to Bilbao is 125km — definitely a challenge to do in four days — but hey, I had just done 100km from Santiago to Finisterre in three days... I'm in the best shape of my life, and I'd recently proven I can walk 45km in one day if necessary. So I figured if I doubled up a couple of stages on the del Norte, no problemo! 

My proposed 125km mini-Camino along the Camino del Norte (green line) from San Sebastián to Bilbao is in the red bracket:


Turns out this was wildly optimistic, given the altitude gains on the Camino del Norte. Also, the Camino gods, who apparently know my lifelong preference for clouds and rain, decided to, um, continue blessing me with a few more rainy days, so the trails were super muddy, and I was forced to go much more slowly than I would have liked. To stay on schedule, I ended up having to take a bus part of the way to Bilbao, but I still had a fantastic, final three days of Camino walking. 

Here are some highlights:

San Sebastián

Monday, 28 May: At 6pm, after unexpectedly seeing Bernd one last time and joining him for a mid-afternoon lunch (and a second tearful farewell), I boarded a bus in Santiago which carried me across northern Spain to arrive in San Sebastián about 13 hours later. The long bus ride was comfortable, if a little noisy at times due to a few passengers yapping or playing music on their cell phones all night (NOT using their headphones!!), but I managed to doze a bit en route.

San Sebastián is my new favorite city in all of Spain. It is located on the Bay of Biscay, just 10 miles from the French border, not far from where the north-facing coast of Spain intersects with the west-facing coast of France. It is an absolutely beautiful, vibrant seaside city (pop. 187,000), with a gorgeous beach and bay. A popular vacation destination for Spaniards, it is famous for hosting an annual international film festival, and also for its award-winning cuisine. 

The sun was not yet up when I got off the bus. The plan was to spend this day enjoying San Sebastián, get a good night’s sleep (which I had not had on the bus), and start my mini-Camino the next morning. I decided to head to the beach and watch the sun rise over the bay. 

I walked through the beautiful old town in the predawn light, and made my way down to the sea, walking along the promenade above beautiful La Concha Beach for a couple of miles, all the way out to the point on the far side of the bay. I stopped at a little café for breakfast (café con leche and a croissant) while watching the sky lighten and the tide slowly roll out. 

I was fascinated by this perpendicular geography just above the beach:

I was very curious to know more about the tectonic events that caused this vertical formation. Like the rings of a tree, each layer of the earth’s crust made so visible here represented X number of years in the earth’s history. But what was X? I was dying to know, and wished, not for the first time, that I had studied some geology in college.

I found out later that these abruptly vertical folds in the earth’s crust are very common all along the northern coast of Spain — here are more examples that I saw later along the Camino del Norte. They are evidence of the Iberian Plate’s collision with Europe 40 million years ago (give or take). 

As the sun rose higher over the beach, I decided to take a nice long walk in the gentle wavewash. Because San Sebastián is a protected bay, the waves are tiny — the bay looks more like a lake. I took off my shoes and socks, reveling in the feel of the warm salt water and fine, hard-packed sand on my Camino-callused feet.

Very, very slowly, as if walking in a dream (thanks to sleep deprivation from the overnight bus ride), I made my way along the luxuriously long beach, all the way to the opposite end of the bay, pausing to collect, admire, then toss unusual rocks and shells. I took a brief nap on the sand, and lazily watched people, dogs, and seabirds drifting by. It felt fantastic to give myself a day of complete and total relaxation and leisure — no work, no Camino destination, other than the pillow waiting for me at that night's hostel. 

Later, at the other end of the beach, as I dried off my feet, I was surprised to see that the past few hours of immersion in sand and salt water had given me a natural pedicure, softening and scrubbing away most of my Camino calluses. A lovely gift from Mother Nature for my hard-working feet.

I strolled through the picturesque old town, then made my way to the hostel, where I took another nap. Later, I strolled back to the old town in the gentle rain to treat myself to a nice dinner of chuletillas de cordero — small lamb chops — delicious! (yes indeed: Mary had a little lamb...) (groannn) On the way back, it was still raining, but the horizon was clear enough to show the setting sun over the bay. Beautiful!

To Zumaia

Wednesday, 30 May: After an excellent night’s sleep, I got up early, found the Camino trail and bid a reluctant adiós to beautiful San Sebastián. 

It felt great to be walking the Camino again at last, after a break of 2.5 weeks. But it was also a little odd, knowing that any pilgrims I met here would be on the very first day or two of their Camino. I would not be meeting any familiar faces this time.

Despite clouds and some light rain all morning, the coastal trail was just as gorgeous as I’d heard it would be. 

And there were the familiar unattended Camino angel rest stops — this one had a sign specifically asking us NOT to leave any money. 

Approaching the town of Zarautz from the east...


An hour or so later...looking back at Zarautz from the west end of the beach.

The Camino then followed a wide, fenced promenade along the water’s edge for several miles between the beach towns of Zarautz and Getaria.

After Getaria, the trail wound up and down through forests and hillside pastures. I encountered cows, sheep, horses, goats, and lots of by-now-familiar Camino mud. Unfortunately, I wasn’t as well prepared to deal with mud as I had been earlier on my Camino. I had ditched my trusty but worn-out Keens back in Santiago, and I had only my lightweight, super-spongy Hoka trainers, whose fine mesh uppers are exactly the wrong type of footgear for trekking in mud. I tried to navigate carefully to keep my feet and socks dry, but it wasn’t easy. 

  

Naturally, the best approach to navigating Camino mud is to look for the most stable footing possible. That means either rock-hopping or trying to stay on whatever narrow strips of vegetation you can find along the sides of the trail, or going off the trail entirely if that's an option. Failing that, I tried to step in pre-existing footprints, rather than virgin mud squish. In all cases, my walking poles absolutely saved my butt and kept me from falling many, many times. 

A word about walking poles: If anyone tells you that walking poles are unnecessary or too much of a hassle to pack/carry on the Camino, I implore you: do not listen to them. Walking poles not only provide stability and leverage on uneven, slippery, and/or steep terrain, they also: (1) help reduce strain on your knees and back from the added weight of your pack — up to 25% by some estimates; (2) provide a gentle upper-body workout and keep your hands from swelling (a common problem with all-day backpacking); and (3) can serve as defensive weapons in case of unwanted attention from unfriendly dogs or wildlife. I was skeptical about bringing them last year, didn’t want the extra weight and hassle —  but my adventurous nephew Rob, a very experienced outdoorsman who is currently hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, talked me into it. 

So anyway, on this particular stretch, which seemed to go on for a quarter of a mile but was probably much less, the squishy, slippery trail was bordered by barbed wire on one side and a dense thicket of thorn bushes on the other. No vegetation to walk on, and no rocks. I had no choice but to slog directly through endless ankle-deep mud in my very porous trainers. Yuck! It was very slow going.

Mud-whomping aside, it was lovely to stroll through the wet farmland and forests,where the only sound was the rain on the leaves, the occasional ringing of a cowbell on an animal’s neck, and the flapping of my rain poncho in the wind. 

As I passed through hilly pastures and wooded forests, I had to open and close a number of livestock gates. It seems a lot of the Camino del Norte passes through private property. I had already seen several docile cows, horses, goats, and sheep grazing peacefully alongside the Camino -- thrilling stuff for a city girl. 

I’d noted that most animals seemed to seek shelter under trees when it was raining, but not this guy. He seemed unfazed by the rain, so I rewarded him with one of my apples. 

Later, I saw more delightful cows. I don’t know what it is about cows, but they just fascinate me. Something about their large calm eyes, big snouts, goofy perpendicular Shrek-like ears, adorable forehead mops, cowlicks, square boxy bone structure, and general slow-mo, peaceful demeanor as they make that lazy circular chewing motion with their jaw... I can’t help but grin every time I see one. It never gets old.

Cows from all over Spain....

I had no unpleasant encounters with animals on this Camino. It helped that almost all of them were on the other side of some kind of fence. The few times I encountered farm animals directly on the trail, they were calm and non-threatening, fairly oblivious to the many pilgrims on the trail, and usually accompanied by a farmer who was herding them to or fro.

But on this wet muddy day outside of Zumaia, shortly after passing through a livestock gate, I spotted a donkey about 20 feet away. Directly on the trail in front of me. When we made eye contact, we both just ... stopped. 

I scanned my memory for any information about donkeys. Hm... they're stubborn, right? I pictured a cartoon donkey kicking up its hind legs and hee-hawing. Uh-oh. But what about real donkeys? I drew a total blank. And of course, there was no wifi out here in the woods. I thought for the hundredth time how ignorant, citified, and Wikipedia-reliant I've become. I was on my own. 

This guy had a harness on his snout, so clearly he must be tame — and surely his owner had set him loose here knowing full well that many pilgrims pass by every day. Or was it just wishful thinking on my part to assume it had to be safe? Nervously, I noticed a second donkey just off the trail, also not moving, but seemingly less interested in me than the first one. They were kind of cute, actually. But shit... I was on their turf, and none of us was budging. 

So I just stood there looking at them for several minutes, waiting for them to make a move, and vice versa. 

No one moved. (It occurred to me that I was playing chicken with a couple of donkeys.)

Knowing that animals are probably way more attuned to vibrations than I am, I figured they were picking up on my fear. So I tried to focus on staying calm and sending them love. (Mixed results there.) 

They didn’t seem to mind when I slowly pulled out my phone and snapped a couple of pictures. But still, none of us moved.

The wind picked up, and I heard a cowbell in the distance. Otherwise, all was silent except for my (fairly calm) breathing. I felt a little frustrated -- I was supposed to be making good time, and it looked like I wasn’t going to make 40km that day anyway because the mud had slowed me down considerably. And now these damn donkeys!

Finally I decided someone needed to be the proverbial adult in the room, and it might as well be me. (It’s really not hubris to recall I'm at the top of the food chain, it’s just fact.) Reluctantly, I took one step forward. 

The lead donkey blinked, as if considering, but stayed still. 

I took a few more slow steps forward, then stopped. 

The donkey took a few slow steps forward, then stopped. 

OK, so now we’re playing Simon Says. What the hell, maybe it’ll work. I began walking very slowly and very carefully towards them. And they did the same! 

We slowly closed the gap, and then passed each other uneventfully — though we were definitely giving each other hard side-eye (which I guess is the only way it works for them, given the position of their eye sockets on the sides of their long skulls...)

Afterwards I kind of felt like an idiot. Of course it was safe. I think they were just shy, and I was maybe blocking the way to their favorite blackberry bush or something. Still... no denying I was relieved to see their rear-ends moving away from me in my rear-view mirror. (I'm sure they felt the same.) 

That night I slept in a rare private room in a modest convent hostel (5€) in Zumaia. The elderly Spanish hospitalero, Juanjo, told me he had walked 12 caminos all over Spain, pointing out each of the routes on a large map of Spain tacked above his desk. I asked if he had a favorite route. He shrugged and said that would be like choosing your favorite child — all were different, and special in their own way. 

In this exchange with Juanjo, I realized that after almost 10 weeks in northern Spain, I was finally getting better at both understanding and pronouncing the fluid, slippery tones of the local dialects (Castilian and Galician Spanish), which sound very different from the Latin American Spanish I learned in the US. 

Ermita Calvario and Deba

Thursday, 31 May: I left the Zumaia hostel around 7am and made my way up, up, uphill in a light rain on gravel side roads and hard-packed trails (no mud!), enjoying the beautiful views of farmland, animals, and ocean. Breakfast on the go consisted of two absolutely amazing, nectar-of-the-gods-perfect apricots. 

I saw almost no sun on the Camino del Norte, but even with the clouds and rain, the views along these coastal mountains were gorgeous.

My plan was to push all the way to Markina this day, a distance of 36km — with a lot of up & down, including a very challenging section with a 1000-foot ascent in 1.5 miles, slated for late afternoon. It would be pretty tough going, especially in the mud and rain. Also, the guidebook warned that there would be no cafés, markets, or hostels during the last 20km, so it was do or die (so to speak).

If I made it to Markina today, then I'd have two days to complete the 54km push to Bilbao before catching a 5-hour train to Barcelona on Sunday morning. A tight itinerary for sure, but doable.

Or so I thought. A classic rookie hiker mistake is to assume that all kilometers are more or less created equal — which they most definitely are not. Although most of the Camino trail is in good shape, rain and mud can change the picture quite dramatically. The Camino taught me to pay much closer attention both to weather forecasts and to guidebooks, particularly altitude maps. I'd gotten pretty good at mentally converting kilometers to miles, but less so converting meters to feet — math, sadly, has just never been my thing — so the altitude maps were a bit fuzzier in my brain. Sometimes, in reviewing maps, it didn't really register how much altitude I'd be gaining (probably a good thing, in retrospect).

So on this Thursday, I made it 12km to the sweet coastal town of Deba by lunchtime, after descending a very steep old Roman road into the town center, where I enjoyed a glorious tortilla (Spanish omelette) at an outdoor table on the main square. Tortillas are so much tastier in this northeast/central part of Spain than they were in Galicia. 

My guidebook said Deba was the last town with a hostel between here and Markina (20km away), but some Spanish pilgrims told me that the next town had a hostel — 5km away, the little hilltop village of Ermita Calvario — and that’s where they were planning to spend the night.

The trail out of Deba was steep, very muddy, and very slow going. The rain had stopped, but the trail was a mucky mess. 

I saw a baby donkey right by the side of the Camino. He looked like an oversized stuffed animal. 

I sloppily made it up the steep hill to Ermita Calvario by around 3pm, feeling pretty tired. At a snail’s pace, picking my way delicately through the mud, and with the most challenging part of the day still ahead of me, I probably wouldn't make it to Markina before 8 or even 9pm, and meanwhile there would be nowhere to stop en route. Not a good plan, given that I was already feeling pretty much done for the day. 

I knew tomorrow's forecast also called for rain, and the thought of making a very steep ascent in the mud & rain suddenly just didn't sound like that much fun.

I decided then & there to scrap my plan to walk all the way to Bilbao. I'd spend the night in Ermita Calvario, then backtrack downhill to Deba in the morning and get a bus to Bilbao. Although I recognized the wisdom of this plan, I still I felt the familiar twinge of pilgrim guilt about taking the bus (it totally feels like cheating).

Ermita Calvario consists of 3 or 4 farmhouses, the hostel, an Italian restaurant, and the abandoned monastery that had given the area its name (ermita = hermitage) — all situated on a beautiful hilltop with commanding views of the coastline and rolling green hills as far as the eye can see — reminding me of the area around Hearst Castle in central California.

The communal hostel dinner that evening wonderful — the food was grown and sourced locally, and cooked by the hostel owners, a young husband and wife. Succulent roast chicken, served with a fresh and uncharacteristically (for Spain) veggie-laden green salad, and garlicky roasted potatoes, followed by a delicious custard made with sheep’s milk and honey.

My Last Day On The Camino

In the morning I made my way down the muddy hill to Deba in a fraction of the time it had taken me to walk uphill the previous afternoon. I greeted several puzzled pilgrims along the way (the Camino goes west, and I was going the "wrong" direction — east). 

Arriving back in Deba, it was only 11am. I went to the beach and watched the seagulls for awhile to pass the time before my train to Bilbao. Finally I telescoped my walking sticks for the last time, and put them in my pack — there would be no further need for them. 

This time, my Camino was truly, officially over.

But I still had a few more days to explore urban Spain (Bilbao and Barcelona) before reluctantly bidding adios to this beautiful country...

[To be continued]