Andalucian Songs and Privacy

Leaving Castro Urdiales behind. the sea is silver in a fine mist into which we disappear.  It could be wales but for a four lane motorway thundering through.  A bar apears after 7.5 k and we celebrate with two breakfasts.  The tele is on. There has been a murder and the charred remains of two children have been found but perhaps the evidence has been tampered with.  Others in the bar talk over the tele discussing their own problems.  The noise rises.  The mist lifts and we must set off along the N643 for a few kilometers. but  it s not as busy as the motorway.

The surrounding hills are covered in thick grey mist, incongruous as a toupé. It is where we are heading.

A menu del día. Alubias rojas to start: a soup of beans , chorizo and huge lumps of pig fat that I ate mistaking them for turnips.  On the whole though, very meaty and rich in the way that cow heel will make a stew unctuous.

We have reached Loredo in Cantabria, a seaside resort full of  Spaniards.   A singer from Andalucia is playing at the bar where we have found wifi and makes a very pleasant back drop to writing with a glass of wine and a few salty nuts.  The sun is withdrawing and people wander home.  It is time for their evening meal and a pilgrim’s bed time.  It is almost nine pm.  Just two days walk from Santander now and, after eight days with our eleven kilo loads, sun, wind, rain, no blisters and no complications ( save sending the wrong waterproofs on to Santiago in an attempt to lighten the load) there is a feeling of well being.   We have the closest to a private room tonight that pilgrims have the right to expect.  A young polish lad called Jacob shares with us.  He might feel it more than we do.

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