The nuns did not kick me out. That’s the headline. Despite my track record with mischief, I made it through a night in a convent without triggering divine intervention or stern looks. A small miracle, really.

This morning had no urgency, thanks to the 0900 ferry crossing from Laredo to Santoña. Getting there, though, felt like I had stumbled into a deleted scene from Indiana Jones and the Ticked-Off Anchovy Fleet. The “trail” was more suggestion than path—mostly overgrown brush that spit me out onto a wide beach. The ferry, bless its little metal heart, docked directly on the sand, gangplank clanging down like a medieval drawbridge.

The crossing was short—barely 100 meters—but absolutely made up for it in entertainment value. Our boat, which I shall henceforth call The USS Minnow, bravely navigated the chaos of returning anchovy boats. Each passing vessel sent out waves that collided with others, multiplying in strength and sloshing us around like olives in a martini shaker. I held onto my pack and dignity with equal desperation.

Once on solid ground again, I meandered through a string of sleepy beach towns before climbing into the rolling green hills of Cantabria. The eucalyptus groves whispered, the cows stared, and the paths I took were so quiet I began to wonder if I had slipped into a parallel Camino where I was the only pilgrim. Just me and the occasional “moo.”

By the time I reached Güemes, I was ready to rest—and apparently so were the cats. The albergue is ruled by at least four of them. These are not skittish farm cats. These are confident, table-top-strolling, bench-hogging landlords with whiskers. One stared me down until I shifted, then claimed the remaining sliver of bench I had left like a true aristocrat.

Today gave me a rare gift on the Camino: cloud cover without rain. My feet are grateful, my spirit is full, and my bench is shared. Not bad at all.