This one falls squarely into the category of “Pilgrims vs. Tourists: The Ongoing Summer Saga.”

The plan was a tidy 24-kilometer stroll to the coastal town of Comillas. I had visions of breezy seaside cafés and maybe even drying my socks in the sun while pretending to be deep in spiritual thought. But somewhere around the halfway point, I caught up with a few folks I had dinner with the night before. They looked at me with the same expression you might reserve for telling someone their dog ran away: “There are no beds in Comillas.”

Just like that, my peaceful seaside plan crumbled like a day-old tortilla.

I pulled out my phone and began the classic Camino accommodation scramble—dialing places while walking, checking apps, trying to convince myself that €125 was a “spiritual investment.” I did find one bed. It came wrapped in a private room, plush sheets, and a price tag that made my backpack spontaneously gain weight. I stared at the listing, sighed like an old monk, and then did what any committed pilgrim would do: I kept walking.

The next logical stop was San Vicente de la Barquera, another 13 kilometers down the coast. No big deal… unless you already had 24 km in your legs and a body that had very clearly voted against an ultra-marathon day.

Still, something shifted. Once I made peace with the extended walk (or at least the possibility of one), the day settled into a kind of grace. Rolling farmland gave way to green forests, and the coast reappeared in the distance like a reward for not stressing. I had lunch with some pilgrims I met along the trail, and though we did not walk together, there was that unspoken kinship of people choosing the same path, for their own reasons.

After lunch, I made a decision that every pilgrim faces eventually: I called a cab. No shame in it. My feet were doing a great impersonation of roasted peppers, and a 37-kilometer day was not going to make me a better person.

San Vicente greeted me with salty air and a sense of transition. This is more than a geographic waypoint—it is the point where I leave the Camino del Norte and veer south toward the Camino Vadiniense and eventually the Olvidado to a place called Cistierna. I have been here before, in 2022, when I walked the Olvidado and stayed in Cistierna. There is something comforting about returning to a place you know from years prior.

Ahead lie the Picos de Europa, those unruly mountains born from tectonic drama and time itself. I will walk among them soon enough. I will walk, or wander through, up, and over them for the next seven days.

But tonight? Tonight I rest, grateful to have found a bed that did not require a loan application.