On the Camino del Norte

I must apologize in advance for the lesser quality of the photos in this blog entry. Bruno and I opted not to take our professional camera with us, and opted for the light-weight point-and-shoot. If the photo quality is lacking in my Camino narrative, hopefully the story will make up for it.

To learn more about the Camino de Santiago and why we decided to become pilgrims, click here.

We’ve been walking less than an hour before my backpack begins digging painfully into my upper shoulders. We’re not even officially on the Camino yet – we’re still making the walk from Jasmine and Javi’s place to the town of Ramales de la Victoria, where we will board a bus that will take us to the coastal town of Laredo and the formal start of our Camino del Norte. If my back is hurting already, I wonder as I shift the weight of my pack from my shoulders to my waist, what type of Camino does this suggest I’m going to have?

Thankfully I don’t dwell on my back too long. By the time the bus deposits us near Laredo’s gorgeous 5km-long stretch of beach, I’m positively giddy with excitement. Around us are locals strolling their dogs along the walking path, young people picnicking in the sand dunes, surfers hitting the waves, and tourists taking selfies at the water’s edge.

But Bruno and I are walking with a mission, a kick in our step that sets us apart from everyone around us. We’ve followed our first Camino signs, heard our first “Buen camino,” (the phrase frequently uttered to pilgrims to wish them a good walk) and taken our first official steps are pilgrims. I feel as though I’ve stepped into an alternate but parallel reality, as though Bruno and I are part of some special club. We’re no longer Bruno and Brittany, overland travelers; we’re Bruno and Brittany, pilgrims on the Camino.

I’m so pumped that I’m already talking to Bruno about walking the entire Camino, all 600+km left between here and Santiago. We’ve only walked 13km today (plus a bus and a quick boat ride to the other side of the peninsula). But I am filled with energy and have no desire to stop walking. When Bruno insists we check into an albergue (pilgrim hostel) and start the real walking the next day – a wise plan since we know of no other albergue for another 20km or so – I only acquiesce when I see the private room with balcony overlooking Santoña’s central square.

The real walk does indeed begin the following day. We manage 26km, the most I’ve ever knowingly walked in one go. It’s wonderful. We walk up a trail around a peninsula that gives us breathtaking views of gorgeous sand beaches. We walk through seaside towns with old alleys and churches and then head inland. Though less aesthetically stunning, the pastoral hillside scenery is quaint, interesting, and provides a glimpse into the everyday life of the people of northern Spain. I’m anything but bored.

When my mind wanders from the varied landscapes, it contemplates the adventure before us. I have very little experience with long-distance walking, and I’m taking the journey seriously. I’m not delusional – I know this adventure will include hardship. I consider the challenges before me and rate them mentally.

The biggest challenge, I expect, will be not sleeping in my own bed. Already the first night, I barely slept. The mattress was mushy, the sheets weren’t clean, the pillow was lumpy, and the walls were paper-thin. The biggest reason I haven’t done long-distance walking (or backpacking) in years is the bed issue. I like my own bed.

After the bed issue comes the peeing. It seems almost impossible to find a good hiding place to pee while walking. Then comes my body. I can already feel my toes bunching up at the top of one pair of shoes, my heels rubbing strangely against the other pair, and my shoulders and neck tight and sore because of my backpack. Last comes the weather. So far so good, but rain is on the horizon, and Bruno and I are ill-equipped to walk in any heavy storms.

If I’d had the headspace to consider the same issue two days later, I’d definitely have rated the challenges differently.

We arrive in Guëmes, our day’s final destination, and I’m happy to sit down. I find that I thoroughly appreciate my evening’s relaxation after a day’s walk. The simplicity of only needing to take care of one’s body in the evening is wonderful. A shower, a meal, a chore or two (like cutting my toenails or sewing my walking pants) – that’s basically all I have to do when I arrive to the albergue. There are few distractions. Time passes slowly, and I’m grateful for it. I savor my evening hours of relaxation.

In Guëmes’ infamous Albergue del Abuelo Peuto, Bruno and I pick up our credencial del pelegrino. The credencial is a document that identifies the pilgrim along his route, allowing him access to certain discounted rates and albergues. Indeed, some albergues only allow you to stay if you have the credencial. All of them give you a dated stamp upon your arrival, proving you’ve walked the Camino.   In Santiago, you can only obtain the certificate of completion of the Camino if you’ve walked at least the final 100km. I just want the credencial for a souvenir.

Because we are sleeping in a dormitory room and sharing a communal dinner, our evening at Abuelo Peuto offers me a proper introduction to the fascinating individuals who are part of the Camino sub-community. We meet a Polish girl who’s self-admittedly obsessed with the Camino and plans to walk the entire thing in very slow two-week chunks (pausing at whim to swim in the ocean, pick up a surf board, or hang out with nuns). She prefers to sleep outside in park benches and in bird-watching towers than in albergues. (If you’re reading this, Polish-girl, send us a message as we really enjoyed meeting you!) We meet a Russian man who gestures wildly instead of speaking English or Spanish, and who has reportedly walked several different Camino routes. And we meet a Portuguese couple who’ve been walking back and forth across Europe for seven years on all the different Camino routes (all the way to Turkey and up to Poland!). They travel with their two dogs and homemade fridge pushcarts. All seem to be walking because of a mixture of obsession and religious fervor.

That night would be the only time we shared a room with others, though we sometimes saw pilgrims during the day’s walk. This was one of the reasons we chose to walk the Camino del Norte rather than the more popular Camino Frances. We preferred the idea of doing this journey alone, and especially of sleeping alone. By late October, there are very few pilgrims on the Norte route. The only downside to this is that many albergues close for the season, and you sometimes only learn this upon arrival in the late afternoon.

In retrospect, though, I actually really enjoyed meeting other pilgrims, and would have liked to meet more. It colored the journey and gave me insight into the spirit of the Camino. It also motivated me to walk and made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself. The following morning, all of us pilgrims inadvertently leave the albergue at the same time and find ourselves passing and re-passing one another. Through the spitting rain of the morning, we pause at the same viewpoints, utter buen caminos to one another when we pass, and marvel at our fortune as they grey sky slowly clears.

By late morning, it’s warm and sunny out, and we’re walking on the edge of Spain’s rugged coastline, gaping at cliffs and beaches and bays. The surfers are out in droves. Bruno and I head into a village to grab some food – bread, cheese, grapes, tomato, dates, and biscuits – and have ourselves a makeshift picnic on a park bench overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.   The day before, we’d planned ahead and brought food along from the get-go, but quickly realized that, on the Camino, there are villages everywhere and it’s not necessary to plan lunches ahead. It’s a bit more complicated if you’re a vegetarian who wants to get her daily dose of fruit and veggies, but every day we managed to find at least a basic supermarket to buy a picnic lunch and snacks for the day (we ate two or three times during the walk). If we hadn’t found a supermarket, we’d have certainly managed to find a meal at a restaurant or bar. We’d never have starved.

After another quick boat ride to Santander (yep, two boats and a train are part of the official Camino del Norte), the provincial capital, and another few hours walk out of the city, we arrive in Santa Cruz de Bézana, where an albergue de donativo was recommended to us by the people in Guëmes. Abuelo Peuto, run by the kind-faced Father Ernesto, may be the most popular of the donations-only albergues (they welcome over 8,000 pilgrims a year!), but it’s not the only one.

At La Santa Cruz, I learn more about the albergues de donativo from Marie-neige, its French-speaking Spanish owner. “The essence behind these types of albergues is that money doesn’t come first – faith in the goodness of humanity does. We who are part of the loose association of albergues de donativo offer hostels with a family feel with communal meals and a bed, and pilgrims are free to donate what they want. Because you place your money in a box, your donation is anonymous. There is no pressure to give a certain sum – rich and poor alike can walk the Camino. This is the spirit of the Camino, present since the Middle Ages, and we are trying to keep alive.”

My first few nights, I admit to thinking that the Camino was a great cheap holiday. And it is. But, when it comes to albergues de donativo, that type of thinking is faulty. “Some people take advantage of our anonymous donation system. But if people don’t pay what they believe, deep down, that the experience deserves, these types of albergues will have to close. Then it will just be business-oriented albergues along the Camino, and the spirit of the Camino will be gone.”

After sharing a lovely family meal with Marieneige and her extended family, I can only conclude that my experience warrants more than a few measly euros. My donation will help keep the Camino a place where one can find refuge in the home of a stranger.

Unfortunately for me, the next morning I find that my refuge has been flawed. I have my first blister – on the baby toe of my left foot. For the first time in my life, I take a needle, thread it with string, and run it through the blister, emptying it of its liquid. It’s an unusually brave action from a notoriously squeamish girl, and it denotes how serious I am about my pilgrimage.

My courage doesn’t help much. Within a few minutes, I am limping in pain, and within an hour, I must stop on the side of the road to empty the blister again. It is then that I notice a second blister, on the same toe of my other foot (by the end of the day, I will have a third). Bruno and I take on the roles of doctor and nurse, and together we perform surgery on the side of the road. I change out of my heavy-duty Goretex Merrels and into my Keens hiking sandals and set out again.

Slowly and awkwardly, I advance. With an unnatural, stop-start stride, I walk the Camino. Each footstep sends waves of pain up my entire body. I can think of nothing but my feet. I mentally fast-forward the day to our arrival in the reputedly lovely Santillana del Mar.

I had expected hardship on the Camino. I had anticipated blisters at some point. I had mentally prepared for this type of a moment. I will remain positive. I will make it Santillana, one painful step at a time.

And when I get to Santillana, I will reward myself with a day’s rest (with a bit of sight-seeing, of course). One day off will be enough to heal my blisters, right?