The official stage today was supposed to be a modest 18 km stroll. Reasonable. Sensible. But I am a Coati, not a sensible person.

Instead of heading straight for Santander like any rational biped might, I decided to make a day of it—mixing a pinch of nostalgia with a generous helping of sand-in-your-shoes wandering. You see, Santander holds a special place in my heart. About nine years ago, my oldest flew in from Oxford for Father’s Day, and we spent three glorious days drenched in both rain and joy. It was one of those slow, soggy, beautiful memories that stick with you like wet socks.

Today, though, the skies stayed clear as I wound my way through the rolling green hills and coastal paths, catching glimpses of the Cantabrian Sea doing its best impression of a postcard. The last stretch was a five-kilometer wander along the beach, where the surfers were just starting to thaw out after winter and the scent of summer was beginning to bake into the sand. The beach had that “before the chaos” calm—sunbathers scarce, surfboards plentiful, and just enough salt in the air to season the soul.

I hopped the ferry into Santander, shared lunch with some newly-minted pilgrim friends I met mid-crossing, and we immediately launched into that sacred Camino ritual: comparing sleeping arrangements. It was like playing musical chairs with backpacks, except half the chairs had already been reserved by tourists who booked in March.

With Santander overrun and albergue beds as scarce as dry socks in a Galician storm, I turned to my stages spreadsheet and squinted. I had a choice: walk 36 km today or walk 36 km tomorrow. Which is to say, I had no choice at all. My knees unionized and staged a protest.

So I made a perfectly legal Camino maneuver: I took the train.

A quick hop and skip later, I was back on my feet and walking the last 7 km into Santillana del Mar, which is neither Santa, nor Llana, nor del Mar. What it is, though, is a living diorama of medieval charm. Cobbled lanes, stone façades with flower boxes, and enough atmosphere to star in a dozen period dramas. Which, it turns out, it has.

Better yet, Santillana had open beds and open hearts. Dinner was a lively affair with new friends and fellow hobble-legged pilgrims, and by 10:30 p.m., we all collapsed into our bunks like felled timber. Lights out, smiles on.

And yes—this wandering path, this unexpected detour, this combination of ferry, feet, and train tickets? It was just right.