The way out of the city is notoriously dangerous on the very busy highway so we opted for a short train ride to Bezana, about 4K. We arrived early to have cafe con leche in the station cafe and then hopped our train. In Bezana we found the church, always the landmark for finding the Camino route, to stretch and prepare our feet. This was when we realized that we had left our camera on the bar of the cafe. Holy crap! We nervously trecked back to the train, and had to ask the station agent to PLEASE help us. He called the Santander station cafe and confirmed that they still had our camera. Big PHEW! Back we went, to Santander, and then had to wait for the next train. This put us way behind schedule, so we had to travel a little farther, to Boò, about 8K. We were relieved, but the mood was a bit heavier all day, we were on edge. until we reached Mogro at lunchtime for our first rabas. We ordered them not knowing that they are fried fingers of calamare, meaty and delicious.
We put our heads down and grinded out more kilometers to a bar noted in our guide that gave sellos, pilgrim stamps. The friendly owner told us that we were the first Americans she had ever seen, confirming our suspicions that most Americans opt for the Camino Frances. We were close to the albergue, but she convinced us that it would be better to walk to the next one, adding 10K to our day, which as usual, turned out to be more like 13.
This part is notable only in that it was the ugliest stretch of Camino yet, along a pipeling for 4K, behind factories, and along a giant chemical works with a tall smokestack spewing suspiciously colored smoke. Also, we were passed by a procession of nearly 30 Ferraris: red, yellow, shiny, but slowed by traffic on the small road. Who knew, a little slice of Beverly Hills in Spain.
Soon we were back in the countryside, struggling up hills that led to more green fields, but no town in sight in which to sleep and we were exhausted, our feet throbbing like they had been slammed with a giant cartoon hammer. Ahead we spotted a low wall on which to rest, an lo, there was a sign for the albergue Arco Iris. We hoofed it another 400 meters are were there, greeted warmly by Jose, his father Pedro and mother Charo who generously run the place in their home. Jose offered us cold Fanta while we removed our shoes, and told us we could wash our clothes in their machine, our first washing machine! He actually loaded our clothes while we showered and immediately began to prepare dinner. We relaxed on the terrace, where he served us jamon iberico and perfect croquettes with a glass of wine, and then returned from the garden with a giant head of perfectly green lettuce, larger than a soccer ball, and said, "Do you like salad?" We feasted with his parents, as we were the only two pilgrims to arrive that day. Pasta soup with meat, a gorgeous salad with anchovies from Santoña (the best we´ve been told several times), and lomo with jamon wrapped around juicy melon. While we ate, he hung our clothes to dry on the line. We felt utterly pampered. We stayed up talking with Jose and Charo, and he opened a "special" bottle of 1999 Riserva from Valdepeñas, which he proudly told us he had bought for 2€...now called 2-buck Carlos. A terrific end to a difficult 30K day.
Our room at the Arco Iris had fresh flowers.
Magnificent hostaleros Jose and Charo
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