Day 6. October 5, 2016. Unquera to Andrin. 20 kms

In bogs and dunnies, lavs and loos,

Crappers, cans, johns and jakes,

A man's got to do what a man's got to do,

Wherever, whenever, whatever it takes.

But in nooks and crannies and narrow places

You're almost certain to come to grief.

There's not enough room to cover your bases,

For proper comfort and relief.

 

I could write a book about the toilets I have visited. One thing the Americans do better than Europeans is design toilets. Bigger bowls in bigger spaces! European toilets are often an afterthought, crammed into forgotten places in old buildings. I have sat in toilets with my knees squashed up against the wall. Today, in the toilet at the back of the bar at Pendules, the room was large enough but the toilet was squashed into a corner, flush against the wall, and the huge paper dispenser was pushing into my side, leaving me no room to manoeuvre, if you know what I mean.

The day was overcast, rain always threatening, but holding off until the end of the day, when it started to drizzle, enough to put on my pack cover, but not enough to get out my infernal green poncho, my cape which billows in the wanton wind and refuses to lie down peacefully over my pack.

I left the hotel, crossed the bridge, and walked up a steep concrete path.

At the top of the hill a wizened old man was waiting at a little shrine. He invited me to light a candle, but I declined. He lit one for me, and then insisted on payment. Again I declined, thinking that the money would probably go to Pedro, and not San Pedro.

Continuing, I soon came upon the first of the examples of Indianos architecture for which the town of Colombres is famous; in fact the albergue is housed in one of these buildings.

Then it was down a rural lane with brambles on either side, and stinging nettles perilously close to the path. What I thought was a pile of horse manure, yellow and brown and stringy, was in fact a heap of chestnuts, their outer spiny shell split open, and the brown kernels taken by squirrels.

And the sounds, Grandpa, what about the sounds?

Well, there wasn't the profusion of songbirds I I would hear in the spring, but the occasional trill, and the chattering of sparrows in the hedge, and the cawing of a crow, and the high-pitched, scissor-like sound of a bird (was it a magpie?) fluttering across the field. And the clicking of crickets, and always the sound of bells, not the musical cowbells of yesterday, but the clatter-clatter-clatter of sheep bells, cracked shells with no ring left in them, like many a church bell I hear.

Back on the road, over the autoroute, and along the railway to the station at Colombres, this one occupied, judging by the wood smoke floating up from the chimney. It was a long way out of town, this station, unless I had been wandering around in circles. Chooks were scratching out the back.

 In the field, a huge white mare with sweeping mane, Shadowfax, I believe, was galloping up down a field while three cows looked on ruminantly.

It must be Bikers' Day in Spain, for on the highway, in the town of La Franka, at least a couple of hundred motor bikes roared by. Harleys and Triumphs and Yamahas, I suppose, but no BSA Bantoms or Honda 90s.

Back along the railway line again, down a long sandy path, under a huge viaduct carrying the autoroute, up into a woody lane, out around the side of a hill, the sea to my right, waves breaking on offshore reefs, then along the highway to Buelna, and a minor road to the bar at Pendueles where I had stayed last year. Preben was waiting for me.

As we ate our tortillas and drank our beer, the resident dog, a lab cross, came out from the bar and joined us, offering his paw and hoping for a treat. Three little kittens played affectionately, embracing one another, and running up and bumping noses.

  

Then it was along the coastal path, the GR variant, which led down to the sea, and then up and down over limestone hills, inland from the sea, until we reached the Buffones de Arenillas, blowholes we would call them, with spouts as high as 60 feet when the sea is rough, but today there was only the sound of rushing water caught in the crevices, and a little foam, but no gushers.

A long, sinuous trek along the same path led us eventually into Andrin, where, surprisingly knackered after only 20 kms, we have booked into a cheap hotel. And for supper I had pulpo. If you want to know what the octopus thinks about this delightful dish, you can read the post for June 3 of this year.