Day 15. Week 3 begins

I left La Franca early this morning and took the E-9 trail as an alternative to the “official” Camino which runs along the country roads. Instead, the E-9 took me along the coast through farmland and cow pastures. Last night’s rain did not make the trail any worse for wear.

I walked for about 5 miles before I found a coffee shop. It is high on a bluff overlooking the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs. In fact, I became so mesmerized by the view that I sit here now, sipping on my second cup of coffee, writing this post. It reminds me of the time I went on my first Camino, or escapade, when I was eleven years old: I ran away from home with my reluctant buddy, Doug Varland, and we hiked along the beach for hours before the search parties sent out by frantic parents found us. And just in time because the wolves, unseen but lurking in the hillsides nearby, were starting to take note of us. I was not really running away from anything; I was traveling towards a magical place that existed in my imagination. It is an ever-changing place that I am still journeying towards.

The next highlight along the way were the Bufones, or blowholes. At high tide, they say water spouts can spray up to 20 meters high. I went by there at low-ish tide. There was only a faint spray of mist, but it sounded like a freight train as air blasted out of the rocky gullies. I stayed on the E-9 until just before Llanes when I lost the trail and ended up on a bicycle trail. Just as well because it was there I met Ziggy, a 73 year old German who told me he was doing his last Camino. Ten years earlier, a job that kept him desk-bound, along with smoking and drinking too much left him overweight and partially paralyzed in his legs. He started walking through the forests near his home and worked up enough strength and stamina that he tried the Camino Francés. He has since walked all the Caminos, including some more than once, including the Norte, on which he was making his farewell tour. “Everything has changed,” he told me. “The routes, the buildings, the people. Even our beliefs have changed.” I wished him well. I know he was hoping this final run would never end.

Llanes, and Po, the following village, were pretty hip places with chic bars and restaurants catering to well-heeled tourists. I was hoping Celorio, where I am spending the night at “The Old Seaman” inn, would be similar. It was not to be. But there is a bar next door and I am having beer and a mix of peanuts and corn nuts for dinner.