After leaving San Sebastián, the Camino del Norte began to unfold with quiet power. As I walked toward Deba, the beauty of the Basque Country opened up — rugged cliffs, green hills, and the scent of the sea.

Walking brought a kind of presence that cycling doesn’t. On foot, I noticed more — the curve of a shoreline, a child's laughter in Orio, the shimmer of early light over the sea. I passed through Zarautz, Getaria, Zumaia, and finally Deba, often alongside fellow pilgrims or sometimes completely alone. One day, with a man from Madrid, we got separated from the two guys from Valencia and followed the coastal trail. The view stunned us. We didn’t want to walk — we wanted to stay in the moment. Then, we got reunited in Deba.

Sleeping at a Bus Stop

At the height of the Camino season, finding a bed can become a daily uncertainty. But I didn’t worry much. I slept where I could. Once, completely exhausted, I laid down at a bus stop. That night, with stars above and the quiet hum of a distant town, I was content. Rest is not always comfort — sometimes it’s surrender.

Hospitality and Celebration

I joined a group heading to Güemes, arriving just in time for lunch. It was one of the biggest and warmest albergues I’d encountered. Long tables seated dozens of pilgrims. We ate well, laughed, shared stories, and later took a siesta under the shade of trees. That night, the town held a fiesta — fireworks lit the sky, and I danced with strangers who felt like kin

A City in Heat and Light

One summer day, I arrived in Bilbao with a father and son on bicycles. The heat was fierce — triple digits. We had to stop for hours before entering the city. It felt like walking into an oven. But when evening came, Bilbao came alive. We wandered through the old town, going from one tapas bar to another, savoring anchovies, olives, and cool glasses of wine. I was there for Fiesta Mayor — music, lights, life.

The stage from Güemes to Santander was another unforgettable passage. We began as a group, but like many days on the Camino, we naturally spread out as we walked. To enter the city, you must cross the bay by boat. One evening, I rode with a group of young cyclists. The sunset on the water was golden and still. That crossing felt symbolic — like moving from one chapter to another.

Santander itself is vibrant and delicious — the kind of place that invites you to stay longer than planned.

Quiet Company

In one of the smallest albergues I stayed at — just four beds — I met Marini, an Italian pilgrim. We walked together the next day. The early hours led us to Santillana del Mar, a medieval village still asleep. We passed a bottle of fresh milk at a boutique hotel doorstep and poured ourselves a glass. Later, we arrived in Comillas, where we swam in the sea and struggled to find a place to sleep. The first albergue was full, so we ended up in a private one — another lesson in surrender and spontaneity.

Where Ocean Meets Soul

Crossing into Asturias, I was struck by its wild beaches — unspoiled and deeply grounding. I followed the coast until Villaviciosa, then veered inland toward Oviedo, choosing to continue along the Camino Primitivo instead of heading to Gijón.

It felt right. That’s the gift of walking — the freedom to follow your own rhythm, to listen deeply, and to trust your next step.

The Camino del Norte is more than a path. It's a teacher — of presence, resilience, surrender, and joy. The sea walks beside you. The road hums beneath your feet. And somewhere along the way, you begin to hear your own voice more clearly.