September 18, 2022
- Route: Getaria to Ibiri
- Distance: 22.9 kilometers (14.2 miles)
- Cumulative Distance: 76.4 km
After exploring Getaria last night, I returned to the pensión and logged on to the internet to plan my itinerary for the next few days. Flying by the seat of my pants, and just hiking as if I’m in the backcountry (i.e., with a tent) isn’t going to fly out here on the Camino del Norte.
The number of albergues on the northern coast is way smaller than I expected. I can’t simply assume that an albergue (or other lodging) in a small, off-the-beaten-path village will be somewhere I can actually lay my head. So, unless I’m willing to cowboy camp in the streets of Spain — or more likely, in some farmer’s field — I needed some ideas ASAP.
It’s a good thing I devised a plan too, because the distance where I’d initially wanted to stop today was a non-starter. My guidebook listed an albergue in that town, but upon further investigation, neither of the apps I’m using (WisePilgrim and FarOut) indicates that one exists there now. Perhaps it’s another Covid casualty! So many albergues closed their doors in the spring of 2020 and never reopened.
I was, however, able to make a reservation at a small albergue in the town of Ibiri for this evening. It’s a shorter distance than I would have liked to walk, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to stay in an albergue that was once part of a Basque dairy farm. Other pilgrims who stayed there are raving about it, and so today will be a short day at just 23 kilometers.
While I was at it, I decided to make a reservation for tomorrow night as well. My new strategy is to make a reservation for one or two nights in advance, and then repeat the process at the end of each day. This way, I have a sense of how far I can realistically walk, but I still have some flexibility if I develop an injury that slows me down or if I need to take a day off.
One day of planning isn’t like I’m committing to all my lodging for this entire 840-kilometer hike. It just gives me a little peace of mind and a safety net so I’m not paying €175 for a room again!
Back to the hills
I left Getaria much later than I normally started my days on the Camino Frances. It was after 8:30 when I walked over to a small cafe for breakfast, but having a shorter distance day (and a reservation) meant there was no rush this morning.
When I finally did begin walking, I barely made it a kilometer before I observed two overdressed hikers stopping to strip off their warm upper layers of clothing on the first steep hill out of Getaria. I’m glad I learned to dress as if it’s 10 degrees warmer than it actually is, because you tend to overheat when hiking these hills. It’s better to start a bit cold and keep a jacket handy for breaks, rather than sweating through every layer you own in the first hour of walking.
The walk back out to Askizu (yesterday’s failed destination) brought me a sense of deja vu on a journey where everything should feel new. But as I re-walked these kilometers, I was on fresh legs, though, and filled with a sense of confidence.
I strolled past vineyards and livestock grazing, and back into the lovely green hillsides of the Basque Country where a small memorial with a cross and flowers sat beside the trail. Beside it, a plaque read:
Antonio Irujo Calvillo – Murio en acto de service ayudando a sus semejantes – El dia 18 de Mayo de 1958.
(Antonio Irujo Caldillo – He died in the act of serving his fellow man – May 18, 1958)
This inscription gave me pause. What selfless act had Antonio done here? It occurred more than half a century ago, so I’d never actually know the details. But clearly someone still cared. There were flowers on the memorial. And could you ask for a better epitaph? We should all be so lucky to be remembered with such fondness.
My eyes returned to the ground around me, and I spent the next 30 minutes in quiet contemplation and meditation as I walked through the hills and took in the beauty of my surroundings.
So many People
Eventually, the Camino brought me to a grand hill overlooking the sea. A large herd of pygmy goats was fenced in on top of the mountain. As they lay there enjoying the warmth of the morning sun, they seemed completely oblivious to the fantastic views. But I was mesmerized.
From here, the Camino took a sharp dip downward toward the town of Zumaia. I began the steep descent a bit slower than normal because my knees were still complaining about the hills I’d forced them to hike over the past few days. I’ve never really had knee problems in the past, but these hills are something else!
As I continued down the path, I encountered numerous people in their 50s and 60s, powering up the hills toward me on this clear weekend morning. These folks were seriously fit! They were exactly who I aspire to be when I grow up!
The culture of fitness seemed to be so much more natural here in Europe. People don’t hop on a machine at a gym for 30 minutes; they just go for a walk in the hills. What a lovely way to retain their vitality and vigor. I wish we had the same mindset back in the US!
As I continued down the winding dirt road toward town, I could see the asphalt down below me heading into Zumaia. Then a group of about 50 Sunday morning cyclists went whizzing by on it. A few minutes later another peloton of cyclists came down Zumaia’s streets.
By the time I made it down to the city streets to the pedestrian path that bisected the town, even more cyclists were riding by – though this time mainly in groups of threes and fours.
It seemed everyone here wanted to be the next Miguel Indurain. Or maybe, cycling was just an uber popular sport here in Zumaia, and Sunday mornings were the ideal time to get together with your friends and ride.
On the far end of town, the Camino began a steep ascent back into the hills again. That’s where I spotted the largest number of pilgrims I’d seen yet – perhaps 15 cyclists and walkers ahead of me.
Most of these pilgrims were traveling in pairs and small groups. And I wondered to myself whether they started in these groups, or whether they just naturally paired up with companions during the last 60 kilometers because those pilgrims spoke the same language as them.
As a (mostly) solo hiker, I know how the solitude can wear on people. Walking with nothing but your own thoughts and observations day after day can be difficult in a modern world where we’re used to constant stimulation.
Most of these new pilgrims ahead of me are carrying real packs too (or full bike panniers) rather than the typical daypacks I’ve been seeing lately. As a result, their pace was slower, and I ended up passing most of them with relative ease on the ascent.
When the terrain leveled out a bit, I stumbled upon a group of 18 to 20 older folks resting in the shade of some large trees. All of them were wearing daypacks, and most had hiking poles. Are they pilgrims too? Or, perhaps on some organized a walking tour? Either way, I can see why all the lodging in Zumaia was completely booked last night. That’s a ton of people to descend on a small town at once.
Of course, the collateral problem with having so many people around is that you can never find a good spot to stop and use the restroom. There were relatively few trees or bushes to block me from the vast 360-degree views, and when I eventually did find somewhere discreet, it was either blocked off by a barbed wire fence or there were too many people around to make use of it.
Luckily, I was saved by a large picnic area with two public toilets about 10 kilometers into the morning. The mounting pressure on my bladder was ready to explode, and I thought I might wet my pants if those bathrooms hadn’t been there to save the day.
A small food truck also sat up in the parking lots selling drinks and snacks. I bypassed the food truck, having briefly stopped to purchase some fruit at a small grocery in Zumaia. But I did decide to sit and rest for a spell at a picnic table, taking in the sound of so many other languages – Spanish, Basque, French, German, Italian, and English (spoken in a variety of accents).
This isn’t right…
The Camino split again from this mountain rest area, with the main route staying inland a bit, while a more scenic alternate (the Flysch Route) hugged the coast into the next town of Deba. I’d typically take the prettier coastal option, but that’s where the majority of pilgrims and day hikers were heading this Sunday morning. And if I’m being honest, I could really use a respite from the weekend crowds around me today. So I chose the hillier, but quieter, inland path instead.
This route was pleasant at first. But it eventually became filled with some hills, with a trail so steeply cut that it left my calves on fire and lactic acid burning in my muscles.
At the top of one particularly hellaciously steep climb, my stomach was grumbling with the approaching lunch hour, and I had to stop to sit to eat the last of the bread stored in my pack from San Sebastián. I’m sure the people walking by me thought I looked like a barbarian sitting there on the ground eating my bread, but I don’t quite have a robust enough Spanish vocabulary to explain the concept of “hikertrash.”
With my appetite temporarily sated, I needed to cross a traffic circle and wander through the inclined cobblestone roads of Itziar. However, I somehow missed the yellow arrow directing me to walk through the town. Instead, I ended up on a paved road beside it.
After several minutes of walking (uphill, of course), the vibe didn’t feel right. I hadn’t seen a yellow arrow for a while, so I decided to double-check my location. Sure enough, I was off course. The walking route and bicycle route split just before the town (about a kilometer back), and I was currently on the bicycle route.
With a sigh of resignation, I reversed course. I didn’t have to backtrack the entire way back to the junction I missed. About half way back, I was able to created a convoluted route through Itziar’s winding streets with the assistance of my GPS until I rejoined the Camino again. But it’s still frustrating to know I wasted 20 minutes due to a simple missed arrow.
Deba
After the climb through the town of Iztiar, the Camino was all descent down to the ancient walled city of Deba. I was grateful to no longer struggle with breathing during any more climbs, but it wasn’t exactly easy street. The route down was just as sharp.
Rarely in my life have I ever walked down such a steep descent while on pavement or cobblestones. My knees ached, and my toes repeatedly bounced up against the front of my shoes the entire way! The only positive aspect I could find in the situation was that the surface was dry. I doubt I would have been able to remain upright if the roadway had been raining or wet. It was really THAT steep!
This was all by design, though. The village of Deba was intentionally built below this insane slope to protect it from invaders. Deba sits at sea level, with a port on the Bay of Biscay. This 15th-century village once sat inside a walled fortress, with the massive hill protecting one flank, while the Deba river secured its opposite side.
By the time I made it back to flat ground again, it was 2 pm. I was sweaty from the fatigue of the day, and I was famished. This was my last food option before tonight’s albergue, so I quickly toured Deba’s central commercial area in search of a decent meal.
I found an affordable restaurant offering a menu del dia with several dishes I recognized (without the help of Google Translate). This menu seemed promising enough to boost it to the top of my list, and I quickly asked for an open table outside.
Another single pilgrim sat next to me, and at first I assumed he was Spanish because he seemed fluent when the waiter came to take our respective orders. But then I heard him speak French to a table beside him, and I adjusted my assessment. Maybe he was French, but fluent in Spanish?
We ate in silence next to each other, through the first course and then onto the second. That is, until I noticed his e-reader was open to a book that was clearly in English.
I took a risk and asked him what he was reading. He responded to me in English, and from there, I learned that his name was Michael and that he was originally from Ireland. He now lives in Marseille (hence his fluency in French) and works as a translator. What’s more, it turns out he’s fluent in four languages: English, Spanish, French, and German. What a gift!
And so, although I only expected to spend an hour or less eating lunch in Deba, 90 minutes soon disappeared as Michael and I compared notes about our Camino experiences.
He’d missed out on the first scenic stage from Irun because he hadn’t started his Camino until San Sebastián. But then, he’d taken the more scenic coastal alternate today that I’d bypassed. He was staying at the municipal albergue in Deba, which he described as “very spartan.” Meanwhile, I planned to press on to a private albergue at the Basque dairy farm, another five kilometers ahead.
Despite my desire to avoid the crowds while I was walking, I must have been starved for conversation because I was shocked to see how long we’d been sitting there. Dessert came and went, and it was now 3:45 pm! It was time for me to get walking if I wanted to arrive at my albergue at a decent hour.
The Dairy Farm
Of course, I knew what lay ahead for me on the Camino this afternoon. If Deba sat at sea level, then there was nowhere to go but uphill. And my instincts weren’t wrong. I was back to the familiar feeling of the muscles in my calves burning once again, but this time with the slightest lunchtime wine buzz to dull the pain.
Leaving Deba meant saying goodbye to the coast for the next 80 kilometers. But first, I needed to climb back up into the hills where I could see it one last time.
The sun (and wine) slowed my pace, and it took me much longer than expected to walk that final five kilometers to the Izarbide Albergue where I’d spend the night.
When I arrived, there were already at least a dozen pilgrims at the former dairy farm. The milk barn had been converted to a modern, comfortable bunkhouse with concrete floors, lockers for our bags, and wonderfully warm showers.
The other pilgrims were already relaxing in their bunks or sitting outside in some chairs, and I recognized several faces I’d seen over the past few days. Then someone called out to me and started speaking in rapid and animated French.
I don’t speak more than a few words in French, so didn’t understand a thing he said. This must have shown on my face, because he quickly switched to English. The man introduced himself as Charles and he was from Luxembourg. I didn’t recognize him, but he clearly remembered me.
Upon listening to his story, I soon figured out that he was one of the two men I’d see yesterday afternoon outside the albergue/bar in Askizu. He and his current walking companion, an Italian man named Renaldo, were refilling their water bottles and then heading into Zumaia last night.
He then told me something I already knew. There were no free rooms or beds available in the entire town of Zumaia. He and Renaldo had nowhere to stay when they arrived. After spending over an hour calling every place in town, they’d eventually had to take a bus to a city 20 minutes away to find a place for the night.
I commiserated with his bad luck. I’d had to backtrack to Getaria that afternoon, I told him. And then I had to pay an arm and a leg for a room at a pensión there.
We shook our heads in disgust. Both of us had walked the Camino before (I on the Camino Frances, and he across the entire length of France and Spain over a decade ago). Still, neither of us expected the 2022 lodging situation to be so chaotic. It just wasn’t something we’d encountered during our prior Camino journeys. And certainly not before the Camino’s final 100 kilometers when the trail swelled with new people looking to walk the minimum distance to earn their compostela.
It must be the effects of Covid, we agreed. There just weren’t enough functioning albergues left for this route anymore. I couldn’t imagine how much worse it had been for the pilgrims who’d attempted to walk this route during the peak months of July and August this year! He shuddered in agreement. That must have been pure chaos.
I bid Charles goodbye and set off to do my nightly chores. Dinner was at 7:30, so I still had two hours to clean up, wash and hang my laundry, and take care of my feet.
During this interlude, I met two ladies from Canada, an Englishman, and a woman from New Hampshire. Then I spotted Simon (the Brit who’d been at the cult coffee stand with me yesterday). There were so many English speakers present that I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the conversational opportunities.
I also felt as if my Spanish skills were coming back, too. They’re like my hiker legs. They’re a bit weak now, but the muscles are developing quickly through necessity.
Once dinnertime rolled around, we all sat down to eat a wonderful communal dinner together. This evening was when I finally began to feel the Camino community that I’d missed so much up until now. This fraternal feeling of walking and enduring the same hardships and joys was the most compelling aspect of the Camino that drew me to return to Spain.
