Today was supposed to be a low-key day. You know, a leisurely 15km stroll halfway up the Picos de Europa to ease into the harder climbs. A soft mountain hug. A gentle whisper of elevation. Instead, it became a 17km choose-your-own-adventure that featured disappearing Germans, Jesus’s lumber, and the kind of navigation that would make a squirrel roll its eyes.

Let me back up. I had initially planned to climb all the way to Fuente Dé in one go, but common sense, or maybe just the bruising fatigue of 10 days walking convinced me to split the stage. That, in turn, broke my lodging reservations and set off a logistical butterfly effect that would ripple all the way to my credit card.

The trail out of Potes took me to Santo Toribio de Liébana, an old monastery housing what’s claimed to be the largest remaining chunk of the True Cross. That’s right, actual splinter from the crucifixion. No big deal. Just history’s most famous 2×4. Even more amusing? This makes the site one of the five most important pilgrimages of the Christian world. I have now stumbled upon three of them without realizing it. Apparently, I’m spiritually efficient by accident.

After some obligatory relic reverence and valley selfies, I noticed my German walking companion had vanished. Poof. Gone. No note. No bratwurst trail. Just me, the wind, and the yellow arrows which, fun fact, sometimes lie.

I spotted a set of stairs going straight up a cliffside and figured, “Well, this looks unpleasant. It must be the Camino.” So I climbed. About 150 meters straight up like a caffeinated mountain goat. At the top, there was a tiny chapel and, you guessed it, still no German. Just more yellow arrows leading deeper into the unknown. Like a moth to a holy breadcrumb, I followed.

Eventually, the terrain shifted from “rustic spiritual path” to “are we still on Earth?” and my map confirmed I was… let’s say “geographically creative.” The trail continued, but much like my optimism, it did not circle back. So I downclimbed. Slowly. With grace. Like a toddler on roller skates.

Eventually, I reconnected with the main road. Relief! Salvation! A brief moment of joy before I missed the next turnoff and wound up hiking alongside traffic like a hitchhiking monk. My legs were toast. My brain was jam. My GPS was judging me silently.

Cosgaya eventually arrived, tucked in the arms of the mountain like a sleepy hamlet in a postcard. I checked into the hotel and was immediately briefed by the receptionist (a true angel among mortals) that tomorrow’s route should follow the river, shaded, simple, and slightly uphill.

In theory. But we all know how that tends to go.