Day 10: Ontón to Islares (30,9k)
- Frida Stavenow
- Sep 18, 2022
- 5 min read
The next day is a doozy. Ralph and I set off after a breakfast of creamy coffee and pre-sliced toast with the two jams. Today we talk about string theory (him), Taoism (me), and relevant childhood trauma (both). It’s an “alternative route” kind of day, so after about an hour of walking along pretty scary motorway, we turn off towards the coast. We’re the only ones there and the path gets pretty hairy – we pass a collapsed tunnel, crumbly hills and at disused railway bridge jutting out dramatically from a cliff over the sea.
In Castro, we find another few pilgrims and have a swim in some unbelievably clear water. A Spanish silver fox in blue Speedo’s and white AirPods lends me his goggles, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many fish. There’s too many fish! My plan on befriending the deep I fear goes all awry as I come out more scared of the creatures beneath the surface, but the swim is very nice. We eat some leftover hummus and tabbouleh that tastes incredible considering I’ve brought it from Bilbao. After this, Ralph still wants a hot meal but I’m satisfied so he goes with a German girl and I walk on.
I’m meant to go straight to Islares so I can surf if there’s waves, but on the way I pass a beach that’s way to pretty not to make love to. So I stop to wade in the clear waters once more, staring dreamily at rocks and shells, when a man in full diving gear carrying THREE HARPOONS rocks up. He splashes around by the cliff edge for a long time, and when he finally comes over to the beach, my eyes are like saucers.
“Are you fishing?” I ask.
He nods, grimly.
“Did you catch any?”
“Por el culo,” he replies, which translates as “up the ass,” as in, more often than not, “why don’t you go take it up the ass and stop bothering me, you stupid Swede.”
And then he sashays away, leaving the water to display, sure enough tied to what I guess could rightly be described as the “ass” area of his wetsuit, a string of brightly coloured, fat, spiky fish. Whattttt.
Encouraged by his obvious enthusiasm for my interest, I asked for a photo. Here’s the one where he looks the least uncomfortable:
After this wonderful interlude, the trouble begins. See, today is the day I finally give in and download every pilgrim’s favourite app Mapy. Mapy, which allows you to download offline maps, tells me there’s an alternative trail from Castro to Islares running along the coast. Off we go.
It starts great, wide blue views, all that jazz. Then, the route heads into the woods. Into a field. To a field. A private one. The route simply stops, although I can see it continuing on the other side. I look around. Any angry farmers? Nope. So I cross the field, which looks to be in fallow anyway, then walk out a gate on the other side.
The trail, significantly smaller now, continues into another wood. I come to a walled garden. Rather beautiful. There’s a stone well! Like in the fairy tales! I double check Mapy, but yes, I am right on the trail it suggests, so open a gate, walk through the garden, out another gate.
I come to a clearing full of allotments. The plants are almost all dead, but then I remember the hospitalero in Merkina-Xemein said there’s a hose pipe ban due to drought. So I guess a whole allotment of dying plants isn’t really a surprise. Weird how it’s all overgrown though. And why are all the rakes, wheelbarrows, shovels so rusty?
The trail narrows yet more and continues into another wood. The overhead foliage is very low now, and I have to bend down to pass certain parts. In bits the trail is not really a trail, but I can still make my way through the tall grass. Although the constant rustling around me does make me a little worried about snakes. Lucia and I saw a big one on the trail the other day. Thankfully, we had time to stop and let it slither away.
Here, I cannot see my feet.
Eventually, even walking on blindly through underbrush becomes impossible, as a huge metal gate blocks my path. Again, there are no signs saying private property. But should I really be here? My phone is starting to run out of battery so I don’t really want to use it, but I have to check – am I really meant to be here?
Mapy says yes.
So I push open the heavy iron gate. It’s rusty and broken, so getting it off the stone wall that supports it is hard. It creaks ominously.
I am in yet another walled garden, but these walls are higher. And while the other garden did have gates, it also had a pretty obvious trail through it. This one, no. In front of me is a field of dead tomatoes, and next to it, swathes of blackened ground. Something has been burnt.
I start walking along the black grass, when suddenly, behind a tree, I see a dog. Shit. Am I about to get mauled by a rabid, private property-defending guard dog? Still, I walk on, and when the dog sees me it starts wagging it’s tail. Phew. But then it whimpers, and scurries around a corner. Only then do I see that it’s bound by a heavy chain around its neck, to a concrete building with dark, iron-barred windows.
Okay. Weird. Something tells me I shouldn’t go say hi to the dog. I keep walking towards the other end of the garden, feeling like I’m now being observed by the killer in a Scandinavian noir. I finally get there, and there’s no gate. Nowhere along the whole wall. Which, I realise now, has barbed wire above the stone. Fuck, again.
I decide to turn back. The dog is nowhere to be seen. Why is it tied up out here? Why has no one come out of the house? Am I being watched? By who? Do they have a gun? Am I about to become the inspiration for another season of True Detective?
Though that was a great series, I have only just started to think maybe this life won’t be so bad after all so walk as fast as I can back to the gate, out the gate, and all but run back the way I came. Past the allotments, through the walled creepy well garden, across the eerie disused fields. When I finally reach the motorway, I’ve never been so happy to see asphalt. I walk all the way to Islares without stopping, barely noticing how bad my legs ache until I get there.
New choice. Fuggedaboutit.
Islares, however, is stunning. I have the best beer of my life, check into our private cabin and head to the beach to do some yoga, but for the third time today, am unable to resist Cantabria’s crystal-clear water. So I get in wearing my hiking shorts and bra, and in the water make the acquaintance of a well-groomed Spanish gentleman of about fifty.
Gentleman is from here, and agrees, Cantabria’s water is “una pasada.” I have no idea what a pasada is, but nod. We start talking Camino. He’s done it three times. Alone, with wife, with his kids. That was una pasada. Oh I’m here to surf? I should’ve seen the beach two days ago! Three hundred people, at least. Una pasada!
After a while, I go back to shower at the camping, where the water pressure is out of this world. “Que pasada,” I hear myself say. Ralph shows up, we get changed, and head back to the beach, where Pasada is STILL swimming. “Every day!” He shouts at us from the water. Then, to Ralph. “Get in! Hombre, es una pasada!”
We sit down and have a smoke. I write this. Now we’re about to have burgers at a surf shack. The camping gives philosophical advice. Life is good.
“Life is like riding a bike. To stay balanced, you’ve got to keep moving forward.”
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