Etapa 12: San Esteban de Leces - Sebrayo

We woke up from a cold and uncomfortable night´s sleep to a gorgeous morning. Our washed clothes were still very wet so we had to pin them onto our backpacks, underwear and all, a pilgrim often becomes a human clothesline. We sorely wished for coffee. Those rations came in handy when the first town we came to had only one cafe which was still closed. No caffiene, but a gorgeous trail along the Playa de Vega which connected several beaches and stayed close to the shoreline. Unfortunately the rain had played its tricks, creating deep mud pools on most of the path, it was sink or swim. The mud is never fun, but is definitely better traversed under a bright blue sky.

Our first chance to stop for rest and refreshment was at a cafe on the last of these beaches, a place we would have prefered to spend the whole day. Coffee hour had passed, it was Beer:30 for us and 3 other pilgrims who we had seen but not yet spoken with, a Portuguese and French pair traveling together, and a Spaniard who was ribbing them because they were only going to walk another 7K that day to the albergue in La Isla. He called them abuelos, but we later saw that the Portuguese guy, Christianu had the worst blisters we´ve ever seen, the soles of his feet were mutilated and the French guy was walking in sandals. We set out from the beach together, getting to know eachother, talking too much perhaps because the pair missed their turn toward the albergue and walked all the way to Colunga where they angrily felt they had been tricked by the Spaniard to walk farther than they had intended. They would walk farther still, as there is no albergue in Colunga.



We had a pleasant lunch with Manuel, the Spaniard in this town: paella, peas with ham, calamare in ink, and giant braised lamb falling off the bone. With red wine and dessert, it was 8€ per person. We walked together through stunning green valleys, sparkling in the sunlight and dew of several days´ rain. Since we spend so much time treading through thick brush and sharp plants, we asked Manuel if there are any plants in Spain like Poison Ivy, that should be avvoided. He pointed to the huge bush directly beside us, which spanned a the whole side of the road, and said, this one, Hortiga. We were shocked, as we had seen so much of this already in the forests, growing mostly along the Camino. It has tiny sharp hairs like fiberglass which break off in the skin and sting terribly, and only worsen if you try to rub them off.

At the top of a pretty hill was a small church with a shaded veranda where we could rest and remove our shoes for a spell. Christianu and Patrick were already here! Soon two old women in house dresses came to tend the flowers on the altar and a lively exchange ensued during which one woman warned that their husbands would be jealous if they saw them talking to so many men (and Kirsten). This was a lot of fun, and our short rest became a longer event. The women in such a rural village spoke in a discernable local accent, converting the o at the end of words to u: poco became pocu, todo was todu. Two friends from Güemes passed us here, Sergio and Ricardo. The headcount made everyone move a little faster to get a bed at the albergue, and a very steep climb separated us. We wanted to hurry, but the last 2K to the albergue was the worst mud yet, horrible and seemingly neverending, right up to the town. We were the last two to arrive and claimed the only two beds left.



There was a man at the top of the hill who sold fruit and other necessities including beers out of his van. We bought dinner here and went back to the picnic table at the albergue to eat and drink with other pilgrims. About this time Kirsten´s head was crushed by a massive migraine. She went into a fever and Benadryl coma for the rest of the evening. Carlos did all of the laundry and sat outside writing and chatting with the friendly group.