Today’s walk was a short one, only 16 kilometers which on paper looks like a gentle stroll through the Cantabrian countryside. But the last 5 kilometers had other plans. A cheeky 500-meter ascent reminded my calves that they are, in fact, attached to an aging body with a deep fondness for café con leche and not nearly enough respect for elevation profiles.

The path followed the whisper of a river, one of the smaller tributaries of the one I’d walked beside yesterday. I could not see it, but it was always there, humming through the trees like a background song stuck in your head. The kind that reminds you of something old and important, though you cannot say exactly what.

My first stop came at the halfway mark, where I plopped down on a bench outside a tidy stone house. An older woman appeared, as if summoned by the gravitational pull of pilgrims needing a chat. We talked for twenty minutes. I have no idea what about. I think at one point she asked if I preferred cows or goats. I said both, which seemed to satisfy her. She reminded me of all the abuelas I’ve ever known, gentle eyes, practical shoes, and the ability to hold court from a bench like it was a throne.

Break number two happened halfway up the hill, where I discovered a little fountain and another bench. This one, however, doubled as a nap trap. I sat down, let out a sigh, and promptly dozed off. The kind of sleep that comes when your body decides your opinion no longer matters. I startled myself awake snoring, just in time for two pilgrims to walk by. I fell in beside them and we laughed our way up the remaining climb together, bonded by my public display of nasal enthusiasm.

From the summit, the view back was worth every uphill grunt and groan. Behind me, the valley I had just walked through unrolled in layers of green. Ahead, the Picos de Europa rose like a myth, snow-dusted peaks looking down on red-roofed farms tucked into the folds of the hills. This is the kind of place that makes you forget your Wi-Fi password and remember your grandparents’ voices.

The albergue sat right at the entrance to town. Door locked, sure, but bags already inside like a reassuring wink from the Camino gods. Not wanting to wait around for it to open, I followed rumors of the local watering hole: La Taberna de Otto. The only bar in a village with maybe 100 residents, and run by a young Argentinian couple who apparently woke up one day and said, “You know what? Let’s run a pub at the edge of the known world.”

Now to waiting game. At a more respectable hour, I’ll head back uphill back to the albergue and get situated. And since Otto’s is the only food in town, I’ll be headed back down for dinner later.

Tonight, the mountains feel close. The stars feel old. And I feel lucky.