On the ferry to Santander the Picos wrote their message in the sky. Snow clad all year, the tops can be seen for miles, appearing to float like smoke signals or some vast flock migrating. What is that? pilgrims asked. A few shrugs. No one wanted to commit.
The ferryman sold us a jar of anchovies that just fitted neatly into the pocket of Sunny Boy’s rucksack. Look forward to making pissaladiere back home.
The hostal in Santillana, arriving hot and sticky and waiting for it to open, is old and welcoming. We have the last two beds.
We begrudge the 5 E charge for the cloister but must concede we are glad to have seen it. The remains of Santa Juliana have been here since the sixth century. Camino friends are here too and the evening is jolly.