September 28, 2022
- Route: Serdio to Llanes
- Distance: 23.6 kilometers (20.8 miles)
- Cumulative Distance: 398.1. km
I was up ridiculously early this morning thanks to an errant text from a friend in North America who had no idea that I was nine time zones ahead and currently trying to catch some zzzz’s. Despite my best efforts to fall back to sleep, it just didn’t happen.
I departed Serdio this morning while it was still dark and was treated to a lovely sunrise that filled the sky with coral-pink colors over the mountains to the south.
It was still dry, though the forecast predicted more rain today. This was the fifth day in a row that rain was expected, but for now, it was just cool and dry. And honestly, I wasn’t all that worried about today’s rain.
Tomorrow was another story, though. We’re supposed to get more than an inch of it tomorrow, with a potential for flooding. That’s why I’ve decided to take a ‘zero’ (a day hiking zero miles) tomorrow. It will be my first day off from walking in nearly two weeks, and I feel like I’ve earned it!
But first, I needed to get to Llanes, which was 33.5 kilometers (or 20+ miles) from where I was starting my day.
ASTURIAS
Walking west, I found myself staring at the mountain range to my left. These jagged peaks are known as the Picos de Europa (peaks of Europe), a 20-kilometer mountain range that parallels Spain’s northern coast.
It’s such a lofty title, especially when you consider how many other mountain ranges and prominent peaks there are on this continent. Europe lays claim to the Alps, the Dolomites, and the Pyrenees, to name a few. So, how did this range arrive at such a prestigious name, you might wonder?
It came down to primacy, not prominence. Their origin story is that these mountains were often the first thing spotted by ships arriving from the Americas during the 16th century. It’s how sailors knew they were actually reaching Europe and hadn’t been blown off course.
This leg of the Camino began with easy walking, but it was still quite muddy from the past several days of rain. Over the course of the morning, the path followed forest roads, then paralleled a river, and followed beside some railroad tracks before depositing me in the town of Unquera.
I made a brief mid-morning stop in town to gather provisions for the day and thought, “Why not try a tuna empanada for lunch?” I’d seen empanadas everywhere on this Camino through northern Spain, but I’ve yet to try one. So I quickly darted into a bakery to grab one and placed the small wax paper bag inside the top of my pack for later.
On my way out of town, the Camino crossed a wide scenic river, with a statue of a pilgrim at the far end of the bridge. I suspect the sculptor was probably a woman, because every other pilgrim depiction I’ve seen here in Spain – whether it’s a mural, statue, or other artwork – always seems to default to making the pilgrim a man. But this one was a woman hiker! Color me impressed!
Once I was across the river, it was time to climb again. A steep concrete and stone path led out of town, taking me higher and higher, until I was rising above the hillsides where cows grazed and their bells clanged a familiar melody.
There was no magic line on the ground here to delineate the spot. But I knew that somewhere in this landscape I was officially departing Cantabria and entering the Province of Asturias – my third Spanish province of this Camino.
Views of the Picos de Europa emerged once again at the top of the climb. The mountains looked close enough to reach out and touch, though I know they’re really much farther than they appear. Some of them must be made of granite or some other light colored rock, because it appeared as though they’re covered in snow – and I know that’s virtually impossible this time of year.
After cresting one last climb, the Camino headed out onto a wide dirt road that paralleled the A-8 (or the Autovía). Large blue road signs pointed motorists toward bigger towns like Llanes and Oviedo. It’s sobering to realize the cars that are driving those roads will be in those cities in mere minutes, but it will take me hours and days to walk there!
THE COASTAL ALTERNATE
Just beyond the small hamlet of La Franca, the sea came back into view again, and it was time for me to make a choice. The Camino forked again, with one path heading toward a coastal route and the other toward an interior route.
I didn’t know how long the rain would hold off today, but I didn’t think my choice of route would make a difference. The wind was strong enough today that I wouldn’t be using my umbrella on either route once the rain rolled in. So I picked the slightly longer coastal path — just because of the likelihood of better views.
Man, was this the right choice too!! Picking this coastal alternate paid off tenfold. I was literally on the edge of the high cliffs above the ocean with waves crashing into the rocks. It was one of the most visually stunning days of the Camino Del Norte yet.
I must have spent an extra 45 minutes just exploring and enjoying the coastline. I slowed my pace to take more photos than ever before. I wanted to remember this place and its beauty, even though I knew my photos wouldn’t come close to capturing the feelings these sights evoked.
At one point, the route passed over a wide rock bridge with a cave to my left and the ocean to my right. Waves crashed below me and into the cave, and I felt so small compared to their power. A handful of day hikers were out there with me exploring the massive rocks. I could have take hundred of photos out there, but eventually the song winds forced me to keep moving.
After the cave, I was back out on a grassy headland again, watching as the violent waves battered a solitary rock sitting in the middle of a bay. This rock island was the size of a large house, and the water sprayed dozens of feet into the air as it crashed up against the solid surface.
I wanted to stay out on those windswept cliffs watching the waves perform this show all day. THIS was why I’d chosen to walk the Camino del Norte. THIS landscape. It was just mesmerizing!
My cue to continue walking came once the dark clouds started to descend. I didn’t want to get caught out here on these exposed bluffs if the weather shifted quickly. I’d have nowhere to hide if lightning rolled in. But I had such a difficult time ripping myself away from the remarkable seascapes!
THE THREAT OF RAIN
It was noon by the time I arrived at a little speck of a town called Pebdueles. A dozen or more of my fellow pilgrims were already sitting outside an albergue and patronizing the adjoining store that was selling cold sandwiches.
This spot seemed like as good a place as any to stop and eat lunch, too. So I pulled out the tuna empanada I bought at the bakery this morning to see if this pastry was destined to be my new lunchtime favorite (spoiler alert: it was just so-so, IMHO).
The butter from the flaky crust had soaked entirely through the wax paper bag it was wrapped in. Moreover, I now had an oily dark stain on the fabric of my pack where the empanada had been packed all morning. Perhaps empanadas weren’t the best lunch to pack on the Camino after all.
Light rain sprinkles began to fall as I finished my last few bites of lunch, and I decided to go ahead and don my rain gear now, before the afternoon rain started in earnest. Then I headed up the stairs and back into the countryside.
Of course, taking this preventive measure of putting on all my wet weather gear only meant that the light rain immediately stopped once I got walking. The gray storm clouds that had loomed over me during lunch disappeared entirely. And the sky suddenly turned clear and blue, with the sun beating down on me.
I hiked for 15 minutes in my rain gear in these sunny, dry conditions before I finally gave up. I was drenched in sweat. My jacket and pants weren’t protecting me from anything right now. So, why was I walking in these ridiculous, unbreathable nylon layers?
I realize how silly this all this weather talk must sound to the average person reading my trail journal. It must seem as if I am completely obsessed.
Honestly, though, I don’t have a phobia of rain. I live in central Oregon. We get a lot of rain. But if the theme of my first week on Camino was the steepness of the Basque terrain, then my second week was all about the coastal rain. After all, when do you ever go on a backpacking trip and have 8 days of continuous rain forecasted? And not just a 30-40% chance of showers, but an 80-100% chance of rain. Every. Single. Day.
But here’s the wild thing. With the exception of Saturday (where it literally poured on me all day long without a single break), none of the days have been nearly as rainy as the forecast actually predicted. It’s only rained on and off. Sometime hard. Sometimes lightly. And often the afternoons were dry for hours at a time.
Of course, this unpredictability has me questioning tomorrow’s forecast too. Am I taking a “zero” in Llanes for no reason? Is there really going to be an inch or more of rainfall tomorrow? Or is this just some big hoax by the meteorological folks to scare us into watching the forecast so they can continue to stay relevant?
HOLY COW
As I pondered tomorrow’s weather warning, I was suddenly pulled out of my thoughts by a far more pressing problem.
All morning long I’d been walking beside electric fences strung up beside the trail to keep the cattle in their pastures. It seemed amazing to me that the farmers expected a single wire to be enough to keep these large beasts from roaming too far afield.
Was the electric current running through these lines substantial enough to truly keep the cows from pushing through the thin wire? Was it safe to walk along these pastures and expect that the cattle would remain contained with such a flimsy deterrent?
The answer to these mental queries seemed to be staring right at me now. No, not all the cows were deterred by the electric fences. Some of them were going to make a run for freedom. And I had a prime example directly in front of me – in the form of a loose cow.
A young calf was off to the cow’s right. But the calf was still inside the electric fence-enclosed pasture. The large bovine was not. It was standing directly in the middle of the trail where I needed to walk. There were electric fences enclosing the pastures on either side of the cow, too. So the ONLY place for it to go was up or down the trail.
I clicked my poles together hoping to get the cow to move along. Somewhere. Anywhere. But she just chewed her cud and stared at me without a care in the world. Crap! What was I supposed to do now?
With few choices to get past this rogue cow and continue on my way, I had to make a decision. There was zero chance I was going to squeeze by her without potentially startling her. She had horns, and I wasn’t planning to get gored on the Camino.
My only real choice was to carefully step over the electric fence and into the pasture to my left (i.e. the side that didn’t have the baby cow in it), just in case they were mother and calf. I didn’t want this loose Bessie getting territorial.
This was one of those days when I was exceptionally grateful to be 5‘9“ tall with a long inseam, because the electric wire beside the trail was as high as my mid-thigh. If I were any shorter, I might have found out exactly how much current was running through those electric fence wires! And it would have shocked me on the most sensitive part of my thighs.
The cow did nothing in response to my detour. She simply turned her head to watch me as I slowly passed by. And once I felt like I was far enough past her, I slowly and carefully stepped back over the electric fence a second time to rejoin the trail. Despite this relatively easy physical maneuver, I was sweating bullets when I swung each of my legs over that electrified wire. What a friggin day!
JESTERS
Just beyond the cow debacle, a narrow strip of dirt took me back out to the ocean again, toward more cliffs and grassy bluffs. I could hear waves crashing into another cave up ahead, too. I swear it sounded so much like thunder that I had to check the skies above me. But they were still blue and clear.
The noise I was hearing was actually coming from the Bufones de Arenillas (‘Jesters of Arenillas’). A nearby sign told me this natural habitat was declared a national monument in 2001 because it was the largest jester on Spain’s eastern coast.
If you’re wondering what a jester is, don’t worry – so was I. I thought a jester was those one of those fools or jokers that entertained kings and queens in their courts during the medieval period. But apparently, a jester is also a geological term too.
In this case, a jester is a marine chasm or chimney formed in limestone cliffs. The sea erodes the rocks from below, while the rainwater or a river erodes the rock from above. When the sea is calm, waves roll into the chasm, filling the hole with water. This causes the jester to expel air from the lower galleries through vents and chimneys.
However, when the waves are strong (as they were today) and the tide rises, they can cause a spray of seawater to erupt from the cavity, and the chasm often emits these characteristic booming and thunder-like sounds that I was hearing.
It was surreal to hear this noise over and over again coming from the ground beneath my feet. It felt like an angry mythical giant was roaring at me. And I can only imagine the fantastic tales ancient people used to tell each other about these sounds!
Today really turned into a fantastic day when it came to the natural scenery.
LLANES
Eventually, I tired of the jesters and followed the Camino path back inland. I still had 10 more kilometers until my destination in Llanes. Two more hours of walking.
The ocean cliffs disappeared and it felt as if I was walking into a forest. First, I was heading down a steep staircase and then over an arched bridge that warned hikers that only 20 people could be on it at a time.
Then I walked into the tiny town of Andrin and began a steep climb back up again. I was working up a decent sweat with my pace when I felt the first fat drops of rain hit my face. I barely had time to stop and open my umbrella before the sky opened up and a downpour of rain began to beat down around me. It was as if it came out of nowhere. The skies had been clear and blue, and now I was being pummeled with rainfall.
This rain and a steady wind kept up for the next hour as I climbed up a long climb, and I was towering hundreds of feet above the ocean.
Some sort of golf course seemed to be at the top of this major hill, so the Camino slowly wound around the long peak instead of cresting it. Down below me, the red roofs of Llanes sat in the gray distance while the rain continued to cascade around me.
I didn’t mind the heavy rain as much as I thought I would, either. It held off for most of the day, and I was grateful for that. Plus, the coastal views I’d experienced before and after lunch were 100% worth being outdoors in these elements!
Eventually, I crossed paths with an old ermita buried in the woods before the Camino dropped back down one final time to head into Llanes. The church was small and rustic, but it had a nice alcove to rest under, which is exactly what a half dozen of my fellow pilgrims were doing as I passed by. It seemed they planned to wait out the storm.
I gave a quick wave to them and then worked my way down the steep hills toward town. The rain was tapering off as I walked into town in search of the Hotel Montemar, where I planned to stay tonight and zero tomorrow.
My day was finally over, and I felt so happy. I’d been doubting earlier whether I’d made the right decision to take a zero for the weather. But honestly, I don’t care whether it rains tomorrow or not. I’m wildly glad I’m staying here in town an extra night. My hotel room features a fantastic rain shower, and the bed is incredibly comfortable. Plus, the Achilles’ tendons on both my heels are 100% ready for 36 hours of rest.
Yes, a zero in Llanes is precisely what I need right now.
