The other hikers in the Albergue stirred us from slumber at 5:15 am. Our small room in Grado was a symphony of hushed whispers and the rustling of gear as we packed our backpacks, careful not to disturb the other peregrinos still wrapped in sleep. We pulled our gear to the hallway to minimize our impact on those still sleeping. In the common space, the familiar scents of a Camino breakfast welcomed us: toast, eggs, yogurt, an assortment of meats and cheeses, fresh fruits, and coffee. The walls were adorned with maps tracing the pilgrimage routes, peregrino posters bearing motivational quotes, and an old Hannah Montana guitar, its strings silent and untouched.
After breakfast, our host, with warmth that had made this albergue feel like home, embraced us and wished us "Buen Camino." We stepped out into the pre-dawn stillness, the sky just beginning to hint at light. The climb began almost immediately, a steady ascent of about 1000 feet. The paved path was smooth and uniform underfoot, each step a rhythmic cadence as we ascended toward the clouded pass, the rhythm only breaking when we paused to catch our breath. The air was cool and damp, carrying the earthy scent of morning dew and country farm.
Reaching the pass, the terrain shifted. The descent greeted us with a gravel road, uneven and shifting beneath our boots. Each step demanded a little more attention, the loose stones crunching and sliding, engaging muscles differently than the predictable pavement. Our feet adapted to the varied textures—pavement was a drumbeat, gravel a whispered rustle, stony trails a chorus of crunches, dirt roads a soft thud, and forested paths a muffled silence under a canopy of leaves. Our joints felt the change too, the impact absorbed differently with each surface, and our ears attuned to the varying sounds of our journey.
Walking beside the highway in the early hours felt like existing in a different realm. The world of the peregrino was slow, calm, and introspective, each step a meditation. Yet, about 50 meters away, cars sped by, their presence a constant hum. It was an odd juxtaposition—our tranquil pace against their hurried rush—yet somehow, the sound of fast cars became a comforting reminder of life’s ongoing hustle, even as we moved through a space in deliberate slowness.
As we descended, we passed through a small village, its charm highlighted by blooming magnolias and vibrant hydrangeas. Lemon trees dotted the landscape, their bright fruits contrasting against the greenery. In the center of the village, a weathered stone wheel stood, once used for sharpening blades, perhaps now a relic of the past, perhaps still used.
We began our hunt for a coffee break, but the small village offered no such respite. We pressed on, following the path until we reached a river. Crossing the bridge into Cornellana, we settled on a cafe and ordered drinks and some food. We rested with our shoes off for almost an hour before moving on.
As we left town, we passed the Monastery of the Savior, its structure standing as a testament to history. Built in 1024, the monastery had endured a millennium of wear and tear, its struggle for upkeep visible in the weathered stone.
The bells of the monastery tolled as we climbed past, the sound marking our departure from Cornellana. The trail continued alongside the highway, alternating between knobby, rocky dirt paths and gravel roads. Each surface change brought new challenges and sensations, but we welcomed them as part of the journey, or tried to. Sometimes it does not matter what you are walking on, the feet will hurt. A few kilometers outside Salas, we encountered a group of horses grazing peacefully. We paused to pet them, their soft noses and gentle eyes a delightful distraction.
Feeling the warmth of the day beginning to build, we made a brief detour to a gas station. Cold drinks in hand, we found a shady spot and laid on the ground, savoring the cool respite. For thirty minutes, we rested, the hard climbs of the day behind us.
Refreshed, we resumed our hike, the final stretch a gradual ascent into Salas. The town welcomed us with its quiet charm. Checking into the albergue at 1:30 pm, we quickly settled into our bunks, grateful for the chance to rest. Lunch was a leisurely affair, a chance to refuel and reflect on the day's journey.
As the afternoon waned, we ventured out to gather a few groceries. The simple act of shopping felt grounding, a touch of normalcy amidst the pilgrimage. Back at the albergue, we fought the growing desire for sleep, trying to stay awake just a little longer. Eventually, the pull of rest was irresistible, and we succumbed, the day’s exertions melting away as we drifted into a well-earned slumber.
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