Always the sound of the pounding of the surf.
And out to sea, the lads on boards, await the birth
Of the promised wave, which, if Fortune smiles, they ride on home.
But not today. Alas, they tumble, arms akimbo, in the briny foam.
A mist on the headland, the dawn clouds tinged with pink, mountains looming alarmingly on the left, for soon we have to cross them, and always the sea on our right, the sound of the pounding surf pierced by the occasional trill of a song bird. Black dots out to sea are surfboarders, serious indeed to be out so early in the morning.
And then another strange call awoke me from my reverie, a cross between the caw of a crow and the plaintive cry of the curlew. I heard it again, and then realized it was a cyclist coming up behind me. What's wrong with an old-fashioned bell? We walked for eleven kilometres along the coast to the little seaside village of La Isla, where we had our first real coffee of the day.
Breakfast at the apartment had been a heavy, store-bought tortilla, never again, and instant coffee. The local restaurant had at least one Michelin star, and the plats principaux were €40 a pop, so we gave them a miss, and brought food at the little store. And on the way we passed a park, bathed in the evening light.
Leaving La Isla, we walked briskly along the highway into the bigger town of Colunga, and then it was up and up, leaving the coast behind, serious climbing this, a foretaste of the Primitivo, up to the little village of Priesca to visit the Pre- Romanesque church of San Salvador built in 921. You can see remnants of original paintings on the walls and ceilng.
And then on to Sebrayo. But we didn't stop at the albergue. I remember it well from last year, not only because of the Snoring Spaniard, whose volume was so extraordinary that even his mates sought bunks in the far corner of the room, but because the albergue itself was a little squalid. Besides, carrying on further to Villaviciosa took a little piece out of a long day tomorrow.
But today was a long day as well, with a steep climb. My hardest day. And it's going to get harder. Tomorrow, the way forks. Although, strictly, the Primitivo doesn't begin until Oviedo, those walking the mountain route leave the Camino del Norte just a few kilometres on. If my posts get shorter, it's because the walking days get longer.
It was a riotous time in the restaurant tonight. I have caught up with the tall Frenchmen and met an Australian who was born in the same hospital as I in East Malvern, though some years later, of course.
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