It was going to be a footrace to win any of the eight beds at the albergue in Cadavedo. We decided not to rush, to walk the Camino at our own pace and in our own time, which allowed us a leisurely breakfast at the restaurant where we had eaten the night before. They served incredible toast made from thick slices of sweet local bread with green plum jam. Our friend the bartender/hospitalero/mayor was now running the restaurant. The lazy cyclist had alerted us to the fact that it was the first day of the Fiesta de San Fermin, which most people know as the running of the bulls in Pamplona. The event takes place at 7:30 each morning for one week and is televised live, watched avidly over coffee or brandy in bars across Spain. We watched the toros and throngs of costumed men surge through the streets to the bull ring, then left town on the abandoned 632 road.
The guidebook warned that this section of the Camino was poorly maintained. It directed us, if possible, into thick woods at the first monolith we came across. Sure enough, this monolith was draped with black plastic indicating that the path was impassible. It was completely overgrown. We continued on the asphalt road until Castanieras where we turned toward the Playa de Silencio to find the path. We encountered a Polish woman, whom we had met the night before, coming toward us. She said she had been up and down the road and could not find the path, which our guide described as the 'less obvious track'. At the bottom of the hill was a rocky beach that she said was too risky. (We later met friends who tried to go around the rocks on the beach, carrying their packs above their heads in waist-deep water. Very risky.) We decided to see for ourselves, and continued downhill toward the beach on a road lined with more fences made from bedframes. When we found no track, we too turned back to the main road, but wonder of wonders, saw a truly 'less obvious' track off to the right into farmland and took it.
This terribly overgrown stretch was some of the toughest going so far. Our guide said to cross a stream, but for most of the way we could only walk directly in the narrow streambed in a trickle of water. There was so much prickly matter, we really had to fight our way through it, holding back thorn branches and nettles with our hands to protect our arms, legs and faces. We prayed for a machete. Kirsten was near demoralized tears when, finally, the thorns gave way and there was a clear footpath through a surprising bamboo forest.
We crossed wider sections of the stream, as well as some muddy bits, but were now enjoying being on the real Camino as opposed to the highway our fellow pilgrims had traveled. We were the only ones to find the real path, and venture through the overgrown unknown. We emerged from the jungle in Santa Marina, a sleepy village whose sign boasted that it had received an award for Spain's most beautiful village in 1962. The next forty six years had, apparently, not been kind to Santa Marina. We stopped to rest and refresh at the only bar in service, where the Polish woman was having coffee. We eyed her lycra shorts and knew she would have fared miserably in the jungle.
We continued on the main road out of town until Ballota, where we dipped back into the woodlands, descending steeply on a wide path. We reached the bottom of the valley, looking out for the famous Puente que Tiembla, the bridge that trembles. We walked right over it without even noticing that we were on a bridge! There was as much plant life growing on the sturdy bridge as there was on the riverbank, but after crossing we could see the stones and arch of this beautiful ancient bridge through gnarled tree branches and roots. Hundreds of years ago the stone bridge had replaced its flimsier wood predecessor, which had inspired much fear due to its shakiness, particularly during storms or high tide. The French even sang a song about it which recommended having a Welsh or German pilgrim cross the bridge first to test its strength.
El Puente que Tiembla
We reached the bar in Cadavedo where we could be directed to the albegue. We were anxious to get to the albergue to confirm our suspicions that it was already at full capacity with pilgrims who had stayed on the easier and faster main road. Carlos went up the stairs into the depressing building, splattered with graffiti, to have a look. It was jam-packed, the two small rooms filled, dirty sleep mats laid out on the floor of the kitchen which did not deter the lazy cyclist from preparing his meal. Rather than sleep miserably on the floor, and endure the cyclist, we answered an advertisement on the bulletin board for a room in the next village.
The woman who answered offered to pick us up, but we opted to walk the short distance to Villademoros where the very cute red house, Casa Carin, was waiting for our tired feet. The immaculate garden, private bathroom, and queen bed with crisp white linens for 15 euro each was like an alternate universe. We thought we might have the whole house, with marble kitchen and living room with a television to ourselves but were soon joined by two sweet German girls, giant volleyball players newly graduated from high school in Essen. Kirsten's grandfather was from Essen! We were happy to share the house with Jessica and Alexa, and all washed our laundry together in buckets in the garden. There was plenty of sun left to dry our clothes, true luxury.
Casa Carin
The friendly lady who owned the house drove us all to the grocery market in town. We were entertaining the idea of cooking together at home in our deluxe kitchen. Shopping didn't render much inspiration, especially for Kirsten who had an insane allergic sneezing fit as soon as she entered the store. Shopping for ingredients was out, but we did find excellent rations for our packs, including a nice Manchego. We waited at the Casino Restaurant in Cadavedo until the kitchen opened at 9:00 for a mediocre menu del dia, although the cured pork chops that tasted like hamsteak weren't bad, and the lomo ordon bleu was unique. We enjoyed a pleasant two-kilometer sunset walk back to our casita.
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