Day 12: Santoña – Guemes (26,4k)
- Frida Stavenow
- Sep 19, 2022
- 4 min read
Day 12 starts out HARD. I leave the hostel in the charming anchovy factory neighbourhood of Santoña with Gertrude, then head towards the epic sandy beach of Berria on my own. I’ve got to cover 25k today so I walk fast. After the beach the trail goes up into the mountain, and it’s easily the most difficult terrain on the Norte so far. It’s basically mountain climbing, except with sand covering half the rock. The trail is narrow and contorted, with occasional sudden drops and hidden holes along the sides. I try to grab a bush for support, but quickly regret this; they’ve all got thorns. I worry for the many 70+ pilgrims I’ve seen tap-tapping their way along the road with their poles. No way would my mum (fit, but 71) be okay on this trail.
The trail finally crests, revealing yet another, yet more epic sandy beach: that of Noja. It’s windy and bleak and wonderful, but after what feels like 4k of barefoot walking on the hard-packed sand, my legs are beat, and my brain feels like it’s been blown away by the wind. I find a cafe and just about manage to get the words out for what I want more than anything in the world: a tortilla with bread, and a cup of chocolate espeso, that is to say, thickkkk. The kind where you put a spoon in it and it stands straight up. They have it! €3,60 total. Bar Los Peñones. This is how Spanish breakfast should be.
Noja is really nice and for a while afterwards the path winds through cute little houses with modest vegetable gardens, grandmothers selling peppers, corn, green beans. But soon this turns into a weird sort of Stepford Wives version of cattle land – lots of big yards with cows and scary dogs, yet everything looks kind of the same. Manicured lawns, model houses.
It goes on forever. And all of it is paved. My legs ache, ache, ache.
But finally, around four, I arrive at Albergue La Cabaña del Abuelo Peuto, which Athletic Pixie has said is “something else” and which, according to the Buen Camino app, is “probably the most extraordinary hotel in all the Northern route.” AP, me and GIB have agreed to meet here, but I see neither of them when I arrive. There is no reception, really. Just people walking around with beatific expressions on their faces, and posters with inspirational quotes.
I am so tired. Finally, me and a German pilgrim I’ve never seen before find someone somewhat in charge in one of the kitchens, and soon we are invited to write down our names, emails, nationalities, jobs, ages and passport numbers in a large logbook. Yes, that’s a lot of info. No, not Camino standard. After this, we’re shown to our rooms by an English-speaking woman a few years older than me. “The father’s talk is at six today,” she tells me solemnly, as if I am fully initiated into what this means. Am I in a cult? If so it seems like a pretty nice cult. Still, I’m glad to spot two pilgrims I know on my way to the dorm. At least if we’re getting brainwashed, we’re getting brainwashed together.
Well, if it is indeed a sect, it turns out to be a cool one. The albergue is the house where Father Ernesto was born, 85 years ago, before he went on to have one cool life. Working as a shepherd, priest and miner, he then travelled all over the world in a Landrover that’s now got 700,000 miles on it. Here are some pics of his life:
As he knows he will soon die, he’s made the volunteers promise to keep the place running, and if they can’t, to sell it and donate the money to “a social project that needs it.”
We learn all this during a meeting in a big hall. I feel like I’m at camp. The owners are funny and charming. They say normally this is all much later but today the local church is visited by Cantabria’s finest choir so everything is a bit different. Concert at 20:15. Let’s eat.
We dine on pumpkin soup and rice with meat and vegetables. I sit next to a hyper polite Argentinian who speaks four different languages perfectly, while at the table. I ask him how many he speaks in life. “None,” he replies with a cheeky smile. “Properly.”
After dinner, it’s time for church. People put on down jackets and gloves and buffs. I pop the other half of the edible and jump into the back of a van with a bunch of strangers. We are taken to church, where a choir of very dignified-looking elders sing dramatic choral and opera versions of songs about big things. Feelings are felt.
I walk back in the moonlight with a girl from Spain and a girl from Italy. Stars are out. Life is good.
According to some numerology from Gertrude’s shamanic sect / totally reasonable community (haven’t decided yet), the number thirteen is important. It’s the death of something. An ending. Which is good, because I thought I’d do a review after the first week of the Camino, but I didn’t have time, so now I’ll do it tomorrow instead, at the end of the Camino’s first Austro-shamanic chunk. Apparently you’re meant to give away what no longer serves you. I’m giving away that not-welcome nonsense (experiment yielded very good results), and my tiny ridiculous cycling shorts.
Farewell, bum-huggers
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