The Camino Primitivo continues to amaze me.

Today began with a 700-meter climb right out of Salas, something that looked daunting on paper. But out there, immersed in emerald forests and serenaded by birdsong and babbling brooks, the climb passed without struggle. My steps were guided more by awe than effort.

The first five kilometers I walked entirely alone. Fitting, really, for the summer solstice, a quiet path through nature offering the perfect space for gratitude and reflection.

Near the top of the climb, just before La Espina, I began to spot familiar faces. Pilgrims I had seen before offered nods, smiles, and the occasional “Buen Camino.” I stopped at a café, one of the first open ones on this sleepy Sunday and before long, it was full of old acquaintances. We shared coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and tortilla. That shared breakfast became a bonding moment, and we left Espina as a loose-knit group of new companions.

The walk from there to Tineo was a social one. I fluttered from person to person like a Camino butterfly. There was a brother-sister duo from California and Colorado, a father-daughter team from New Jersey, a father-son pair from Norway, a man from Taiwan, and many more.

The Norwegian father and I ended up walking in front, and we eventually stopped at the first bar in Tineo. It was the same bar I remembered stopping at back in 2016 with another band of Camino friends. We sat there for over an hour, talking, laughing, even singing. A WhatsApp group was created, and it has already taken on a life of its own.

Today stirred powerful memories. Almost exactly nine years ago, I was here. And now, once again, this route brings people together. The Primitivo is hard, rugged, technical, and remote but I remember so much of it. Maybe because I am not walking it alone?

Most pilgrims here are veterans. This is rarely someone’s first Camino. Everyone in our group has walked several before, some more than a dozen. They’re trail-savvy and socially vibrant, and each brings a different story to share. Two days ago I met an 83-year-old woman who, just seven years ago, could barely walk. She’s now walking the Primitivo, from France. And just yesterday, I chatted with a 22-year-old who had just graduated and wanted to start adulthood with something meaningful.

As I’ve been writing and reflecting more deeply for the book I’m compiling, I hit a wall with one of the major sections. But today, listening to others share how the Camino has transformed them, many using the exact words and feelings I’ve struggled to express, it clicked. Their honesty mirrored my own inner experience, and it helped me break through the block. My motivation has returned, and with it, a renewed confidence in my voice.

The Primitivo does that. It reveals what matters. It unites strangers. And it reminds me, once again why I love this Camino.

Here is the thing about the Camino: it does a number on your memory. Not in a bad way. More like someone shook up your brain like a snow globe and all the little towns, cafes, and steep hillsides tumble around in no particular order. I remember walking the Primitivo back in 2016. I remember that it was beautiful, I met people I still talk to, and it carved itself deep into my soul. But if you asked me to match names to places or tell you which hill had the donkey with the bell, I’d just smile and nod vaguely.

The tougher the day, the more likely my memories are to dissolve into sweaty fog. Trails where I kept my head down and muttered inspiring things like “just keep walking” and “this was a choice you made” are usually the ones where I wonder, years later, if I really walked them or just hallucinated the whole thing over a bad plate of calamari.

But the Primitivo? It feels different. Even in the fog and exhaustion, the memories are stronger. When I round a bend or pass an old fountain, it is like my mind says, “Ah yes, here we are again.” Faces come back to me too—friends I made and kept, names I still see pop up in WhatsApp chats, people I have visited in their home countries. That is the thing about this route: it builds more than muscle. It builds bonds.

Today was a solid 24 km with about 730 meters of ascent. Not brutal, but let’s just say it was enough to remind the legs they still have work to do. The fog was so thick in the morning it felt like we were walking inside a steamed-up fishbowl. Most of us pulled out our rain covers—not because it was raining, but because the mist was eager to soak our gear with the enthusiasm of a wet golden retriever.

The Primitivo shines in its balance. The people-to-solitude ratio is nearly perfect. I joked earlier that it was crowded, but that was just pre-coffee crankiness. Our little walking wave seems to have about fifty pilgrims. Spread across the stages, it means you recognize people throughout the day. At first it is just a shared “Buen Camino.” Then come the questions: where are you from? When did you start? Eventually names get exchanged. Life stories are shared in broken language and laughter over communal meals. Whether or not we say goodbye at the end, we will all have a space in each other’s Camino stories.

As I strolled into Salas, nothing looked familiar—until it did. One turn and suddenly there was the medieval archway, the stone walls, the sleepy square just as I had remembered. Like meeting an old friend after many years apart. You forget the details, but the heart of it is exactly the same.

My albergue was just around the corner. Easy enough. Spain is apparently trying to make the pilgrim check-in process more digital. Last night in Grado, the hospitalero told us about a shiny new QR code system for all participating albergues. So I marched in today ready to dazzle the host with my tech-savvy pilgrim credentials. Except this albergue uses a completely different QR code system. So now I have two QR codes that do the same thing, neither of which works universally. Modern efficiency at its finest.

Still, it was a good day. A foggy, footsore, friendship-filled kind of day that reminded me why the Primitivo has always held a special place in my heart—even if I cannot remember exactly why.

I did something wild: I did not walk for two days – well, more than 20km. After 18 straight days of putting one foot in front of the other like a wind-up toy with sore knees, I decided to skip the five-day mountain march from La Robla to Oviedo. I jumped into a rideshare, and just like that, I was whisked over what would have been 120km of grueling, knee-snapping elevation gains and descents in just two hours. Let me tell you, the views were stunning, but not nearly as stunning as the realization that I did not have to climb any of it.

I took two down days in Oviedo, well, one and a half. The first was a laundry-beer-cathedral kind of afternoon. After washing a small mountain of clothes, I wandered over for lunch, nursed a beer while watching life unfold in the plaza, and waited for the cathedral to open so I could get my sello. I do not know if it was the sun or the slow pace, but everything felt very Camino-zen.

The second day was more ambitious, in a tour-group kind of way. I booked an excursion to Covadonga and the lakes up in the northwest corner of the Picos de Europa. A funny moment of full-circle perspective: just days ago I was trudging through the other side of those very same mountains, wondering where my next water fountain was. Now I was gawking at the same peaks from a breezy van seat, thinking, “Dang, I really did walk through that.”

Oviedo surprised me. I knew I liked Bilbao, who would not, with its quirky blend of culture, history, and pintxos, but Oviedo is giving it a run for its money. Classy, clean, friendly, and the kind of city that makes you think, “Should I research real estate here?”

This morning, the Camino Primitivo began again. I remembered this trail fondly, and it turns out my memory was not rose-colored, it was accurate. Once you get out of the city, it is classic Primitivo: shady forests, rolling terrain, wide open countryside, and just the right amount of trail variation to keep your feet entertained.

The forecast had called for 87°F and sun, so I loaded up my hydration pack like I was a relation to a camel. But the Camino, in its infinite Camino-ness, gave me cool, refreshing fog until noon. Only the last hour was hot, and even then, I was shaded for most of it. Honestly, it felt like a small blessing.

What really threw me off was the crowd. I counted over 40 pilgrims on the trail today. That may be peanuts on the Camino Francés or Portuguese, but coming straight off the Lebaniego and Olvidado, where a busy day is seeing another human this felt like a parade. Not exactly Mardi Gras, but definitely “No Kings Day” levels of human presence, perspective in check.

Strangely, the albergue only had 10 pilgrims by 4 PM. There are 16 beds. That means a lot of folks are either pushing on another 10km or splurging on hotels. My guess is that the crowd will start to space itself out soon enough. Pilgrim physics, you know?

Anyway, today was a welcome return to the familiar. My legs were rested, the trail was gorgeous, and I am excited for what lies ahead.

Let me begin by saying that today was, without a doubt, the kind of day that takes your soul out behind the woodshed and gives it a good talking to.

First off, breakfast. That mythical thing. The café in Boñar was supposed to open at 0630. I arrived at 0630, full of hope and hunger. It opened at 0800. I set off hungry, mentally promising myself that 10km on an empty stomach is not so bad. A bit of walking meditation. A bit of quiet reflection. A bit of cow slurry.

Yes, cow slurry. The trail was generously carpeted with overgrown weeds, which in pilgrim terms means you are definitely about to step in something soft and squishy. Which I almost did. Thankfully my reflexes were still sharp, or at least sharper than the smell.

Then came the flies. The kind of flies that do not just buzz — no, these suckers commit war crimes. I waved my trekking poles like a kung fu master whose only disciples are bloodthirsty insects. When that failed, I resorted to beating my own shoulders with my hat in a desperate effort to convince the flies that I was either already dead or completely insane. Neither worked.

Just before reaching the café (sweet, beautiful caffeine within sight), I stepped into the road without looking both ways — a rookie mistake. A cyclist barreling down the hill took this personally and unleashed a full-throated, multi-lingual curse storm upon me. I would have responded, but my blood sugar was too low to form words. I just shrugged and moved on.

The next 20 kilometers were not so much walked as endured. The trail turned into fresh asphalt — the shiny, soul-sizzling kind that radiates heat like the floor of a pizza oven. My feet began to bake. At some point I was sure I could smell bacon. Turns out it was just my own misery sizzling in my socks.

Oh, and let us not forget the BMW incident. While dutifully walking on the left side of the road (as pilgrims are taught), I was nearly vaporized by a black BMW doing warp speed. Not only did he pass me by inches, but he managed to do it while also dodging a pedestrian 100 meters ahead. I think we both achieved spiritual enlightenment at the same moment — the kind that only near-death experiences can offer. The pedestrian ahead jumped three feet in the air and unleashed a poetic explosion of swearing so colorful it would make Shakespeare drop his quill.

By the time I limped into La Robla, I had completely lost the will to think pleasant thoughts. The flies, the asphalt, the anger-yelling athletes — all of it had stripped me down to my mental boxer shorts. I hit the shower and attempted a nap. My body refused. Instead, I booked a ride share to Oviedo and a hotel for two nights. I also booked a guided tour of some special sites, but I will leave that surprise for later.

The Camino Olvidado is behind me now. The Primitivo awaits. I do not remember much of the scenery from today, but I will remember the heat, the grit, and the sheer willpower it took to get here. And that, somehow, is enough.

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.

Today was a solitary 20km stroll, tracing the path of the Río Esla. I’ve been keeping company with this river for three days now, including its wide, quiet reservoir near Riaño. Much of the trail today, like parts of yesterday follows an old Roman trade route. That’s essentially what the Camino Vadiniense is: an ancient connector between the big Roman roads that became the Camino Francés and the Camino del Norte. Practical then. Peaceful now.

These Roman routes still wind past tiny hamlets. Some take pride in the Camino and keep the trails clear. Others… not so much. Yesterday, the weeds were shoulder-high, hiding all manner of prickles, stingers, and bloodsuckers. I was basically bushwhacking my way through blackberry brambles and nettle gauntlets, all while hoping no tick found my ankles attractive.

The first five kilometers today were more of the same green, itchy chaos. So when I stopped for breakfast, I asked the barkeep about the trail ahead. She smirked knowingly and warned me: “Muchas malas hierbas.” I joked about yesterday’s weed wall, and she reassured me that what lay ahead was “mucho mejor.”

And she was right.

The path opened up. For the next 15km, it was pure joy. I passed old iron mine shafts, sections of the Esla where they’ve built whitewater kayaking circuits, and green pastures where cows blocked the trail and gave me long, judgmental stares. It felt like I was trespassing on their property. I bowed politely and continued on.

Cistierna snuck up on me. I was sure I’d recognize it. After all, I stayed here three years ago while walking the Camino Olvidado. But nothing rang a bell. Turns out that year I had detoured here by train after striking out on beds in the previous towns. Different route, same way point.

I reread my blog from that trip and smiled. The next two days are long, both about 30km but fairly flat, or at least forgiving in their climbs. I am looking forward to them.

Tomorrow I walk to La Robla where, back in 2022, I met my friend Paco. I’m eager to return. Maybe the Camino has more old friends hiding just around the bend.

Last night was my idea of luxury: an Airbnb apartment right above all the bars and restaurants of Riaño. Which is to say, it was both a prime location and an acoustical nightmare. See, Spanish nightlife and pilgrim bedtime do not play on the same team. Just as my eyelids were getting heavy around 10:00 p.m., the streets below roared to life. Children were squealing, glasses were clinking, and someone, somewhere, was clearly arguing about ham.

But I had a secret weapon: earplugs. Industrial strength. The kind that block out everything from dance beats to existential dread. Once those were in, I was out like a light, and woke up at 6:30 feeling like I had borrowed someone else’s well-rested body.

Breakfast was at the hotel across the street at 8:00 sharp, and by 8:30, I was stepping onto the viaduct that spans the reservoir. It felt like walking into a postcard, mountains towering in the distance, the water below still and glassy, the morning air crisp and full of promise.

Soon came a fork in the trail: a new route over a 200-meter climb and 6.5 km of mountain pass, or the old Roman road that followed the highway with almost no gain and a longer distance. I chose the Roman road, because if you’re going to skip a climb, do it with the blessing of empire.

That old road snaked through rich farmlands and into the shadows of massive limestone cliffs. Eventually, it guided me through an 850-meter tunnel, dark and cool, and out onto the dam. The dam itself was an impressive work of engineering, probably not Roman, but it felt spiritually aligned. The trail veered left and dropped sharply to the river, picking up the Roman road again, this time wilder, weedier, and generously sprinkled with what I can only describe as bear-sized bear scat.

Crossing a rickety footbridge into Salas, I was immediately hailed by the town’s Council of Abuelas. They informed me, each with varying degrees of authority that the only bar in town was on vacation. I took the news bravely and retreated to the riverbank, where I produced a modest feast from my bag: venison sausage and smoked cheese, both purchased days ago in a moment of prophetic wisdom. I dined under a fig tree like some tick-covered Roman poet.

Yes, ticks. As I leaned back, basking in my smug riverside satisfaction, I noticed that my arms were speckled with dots. Tiny, moving dots. Upon closer inspection: ticks! Dozens of them. Not your run-of-the-mill forest freeloaders either. These were micro-ticks. So small they could have passed for dust mites with delusions of grandeur.

I brushed myself off with all the grace of a man trying not to panic, repacked, and,when the trail offered more overgrown Roman road I gave it a firm no gracias. The highway may be dull, but at least it doesn’t try to colonize your ankles.

Crémenes welcomed me like an old friend. I had a beer and a Kas Limón at the bar, found my room, showered off any lingering six-legged companions, took a well-earned nap, and made it back to the restaurant before the kitchen closed.

There, in a delightful twist, I ran into the three women I had met two nights earlier in Portilla, two German friends and their Aussie Camino companion. Stories flowed. Laughter returned. Pilgrimage reconnected.

By the end of the day, my feet were tired but solid. My body felt sturdy. My spirit, buoyed by conversation, scenery, and the good fortune of fig trees (minus ticks)—was in a very good place.

Portilla’s albergue had all the charm of your eccentric uncle’s living room, if your aunt happened to own the only bar in town and was also the cook, host, and DJ. It was a one-woman show, and when the local menfolk popped in for their early evening cañas, it turned into a jolly scene of clinking glasses, laughter, and the kind of animated storytelling that can only be understood if you’re fluent in Cantabrian mumbles.

Among the pilgrims sharing this cheerful chaos were the Spanish father-son speed demons, last seen somewhere between “Where’d they go?” and “I’ll never catch them.” They had vanished for three days on a loop back to Potes and reappeared just in time to head home via a scenic detour. The Camino has a funny way of crossing paths exactly when it wants to.

Also bunked in with us were three sprightly retired ladies, two with military-grade reservation strategies and one poor soul without a bed beyond tomorrow. When she asked for help, I was about to offer a contact I had… until the veteran trip commander briskly inserted herself with the precision of a border collie herding sheep. I slipped the info to our reservation-less friend like a spy in an old Cold War movie, phone number, name, and the hope of a pillow for the night.

This morning I woke up with a spring in my step and that rare pilgrim feeling that my legs might actually work as intended. The trail was solo, peaceful, and gloriously sloped downhill, hugging a river that sparkled with darting fish and the occasional poetic reflection. Gone were the deep greens of the Picos’ north side, replaced by broom, pine, and stubborn little shrubs with a thirst for socks.

The one café on the route was shuttered until 2:00 PM (of course), but I made the best of it: venison sausage and smoked cheese from Potes, enjoyed al fresco on their patio furniture like a trespassing hobbit having second breakfast.

Then came the surprise: the Camino marched confidently toward a lake, and then into it. No warning signs, no detours, just a gentle aquatic vanishing act. I stood there for a moment wondering if I was meant to swim, but decided instead to trudge through an overgrown field that launched a full-scale assault on my ankles. My sandals welcomed dozens of needle-like stickers that provided a complimentary acupuncture session courtesy of Mother Nature’s less cuddly side.

Raiño eventually revealed itself like a promised land. A restaurant appeared, and with it, an Ensalada Mixta—Luigi’s interpretation, heavy on surprise ingredients, light on lettuce. But it hit the spot.

This town, with its stunning backdrop and bittersweet story (seven villages drowned for progress), now plays host to adventurers, kayakers, and folks like me, wandering in from the edges of maps. It is a place built on loss but shaped by purpose. Looking at the waters below and the peaks beyond, I could not help but feel thankful—for stickerless socks, hearty salads, and the quiet miracles of finding your way when the path disappears.

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.

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.