Today was supposed to be a modest 15km jaunt with a “gentle” 700m climb. You know, one of those refreshing uphill strolls where you contemplate nature, your breath, and your will to live. But after dragging my legs up to Cosgaya the day before, I was bracing for a death march. Thankfully, my bed in Cosgaya was so comfortable it could have healed minor wounds. I slept like a saint and ate like a Roman senator. Morale: surprisingly high.

The morning began innocently enough. One click-clack kilometer along the road, and then I spotted the path that whispered promises: a river walk through the forest. I took it. And for once, the Camino delivered exactly what it promised, a soft incline beneath a cathedral of trees so green and lush they made Ireland look like a beige smudge.

But forest paths are tricky. The first obstacle? Shoulder-high weeds, deceptively cheerful, hiding blackberry brambles and stinging nettles like medieval booby traps. One minute you are admiring the dappled light, the next you are hopping around slapping your calves and whimpering like a goat caught in a briar patch.

Then came the river crossings. Several, in fact, but only one had real comedic potential. Locals had heroically placed stones to hop across, but the flattest-looking one in the middle turned out to have the moral integrity of a banana peel. I stepped onto it with confidence, and promptly performed a perfect sideways splash that would’ve scored a 9.4 from the Eastern European judges. My socks still squish.

The valley led to Fuente Dé, which translates roughly to “The Fountain Of” and then trails off like an unfinished sentence. But it marks the headwaters of the Río Deva, so let us pretend it means “Fountain of Epic Views,” because it absolutely is. Every turn in the trail revealed another fairy-tale village tucked under the skirts of the Picos de Europa each one apparently competing in a pageant titled Most Adorably Timeless Hamlet.

Fuente Dé sits in a dramatic glacial cirque at 1,000 meters, and the Picos loom above like mythic sentinels. And just when I thought I was done climbing, someone mentioned a cable car. A four-minute funicular shot me straight up another 800 meters with views that required seatbelts for your soul. At the top, I met back up with my German friend, and we celebrated with beers, dangling our feet over the edge, not of the cliff, but of the chairs inside the bar. We may be adventurous, but we are not insane.

Then came the logistical chaos.

I needed to get to Portilla de la Reina 26km away, with a beastly 1,300m climb, and it was already 5:00pm. No problem! I had Ottomar’s number, the man, the myth, the 4×4 taxi service. I texted him. His response: “Wasn’t that for tomorrow?” Panic set in. The receptionist overheard and casually informed me that Ottomar was unavailable due to a death in the family. Cue guilt. But Ottomar rallied. “I’ll send someone else.”

And send he did, his friend showed up on the dot. Not in a 4×4, but in a regular ol’ sedan that looked like it moonlighted as a grocery getter. So instead of the mountain pass, I got the 80km grand scenic tour around it, complete with commentary: “That’s where I grew up. That’s where I went to school. That river? That’s where I fished when I played hooky from school.”

Sometimes you do not need a mountaintop view to feel like you are exactly where you are meant to be. I got dropped off on schedule, checked in, and am now contemplating dinner at the criminally late hour of 8:00pm while my legs whisper mutiny and my bed whispers lullabies.

Spain, you beautiful, absurd, glorious land, you are wearing me out in the best way.