This morning, I bid farewell to the Camino Vadiniense and officially set foot on the Camino Olvidado, the “Forgotten Way.” The name is not just poetic. It is a quiet path, barely trodden, like the abandoned side quest of a video game. I will only be on it for two days before veering northwest toward Oviedo, but for now, it is just me, the hills, and the ghosts of old pilgrims past.

The Wise Pilgrim app warned there would be no services between Cistierna and Boñar. That sent a slight shiver down my spine, not because I feared starvation, but because I distinctly remembered having a coffee along this trail three years ago. A recheck of my old blog confirmed my memory was not faulty, but I was not about to test my luck. I found a bar open in Cistierna, had my morning toast and coffee, and filled my water bottles with a doomsday-prepper’s enthusiasm.

Lunch was already packed several days ago, in a moment of carnivorous foresight, I picked up venison chorizo and smoked mountain cheese in Potes. Pilgrim pro tip: these things age like fine wine in your pack and taste even better when eaten in the wild while seated on a dusty rock, pretending to be a Roman centurion.

Around mid-morning, something strange happened. I saw a shadow ahead on the road. A pilgrim-shaped shadow. But this is the Olvidado… there should not be any other pilgrims here. Naturally, I did what any curious wanderer would do, sped up.

It was a Polish man in his 70s, out walking his “last” Camino. His knees are scheduled for replacement when he gets home, and his energy, he said, is gone. But when I asked how many Caminos he had done, he straightened like a proud tree and said, “Nineteen.”

He had skipped breakfast and brought no lunch, which made me question his Camino veteran status — until he started rattling off names of places on the different Caminos I barely remember. We sat in the shade and shared food and stories. I gave him some of the sacred venison chorizo. He gave me stories from all over the globe. Not a bad trade.

By the time I reached Boñar, the mercury had climbed to 32°C, and I melted my way to a bar for a beer and my beloved Kaz Limón. After that, I found the hostel, which had no desk, no bell, no apparent system of operation… only a dining room.

Inside, a matriarch ate lunch while a patriarch watched The Simpsons in Spanish. I offered a “Buen Provecho” and asked for help. She sighed, got up mid-lunch, and began flipping through a book with the kind of intensity normally reserved for solving cold cases. Five minutes later, she handed me a scrap of paper with a door code, room number, and lockbox combo. I snatched it like it was a Wonka golden ticket and walked out proudly.

At least, until I needed the paper again… and it was gone. Panic. Pocket-emptying. Frantic street-dancing. Turned out the humidity in my shorts had sweat-glued it to the back of my phone. I should bottle that as a new adhesive.

After a shower, I walked out for lunch and locked myself out of the room, leaving the magic paper inside. Future me would handle it. Present me needed food.

I wandered into a café without a name, only to discover that I had accidentally entered the Latin American embassy of Boñar. The music was Manu Chao, Ricardo Arjona, and Juan Luis Guerra. The radio DJ had a Guatemalan accent complete with typical heavy reverb of DJs. The owner? Guatemalan too. Sometimes, the universe tosses you a little slice of home when you least expect it.

Now with errands done and dinner waiting on the horizon, I’ll see if I can break back into my room or sweet-talk my way past the matriarch once more. Either way, today was rich in connection, surprise, and that strange magic the Camino always seems to deliver. Even the forgotten paths remember how to delight.