We left early again, despite the day’s short distance. We ate breakfast outside our albergue at the “Cowboy Bar,” a Camino original, and made quick time to Foncebaddon for lunch.
The town, not too long ago an abandoned and decrepit heap of ruins and wild dogs attacking pilgrims, was booming. It felt a little like a Wild West border town, with construction everywhere, ruins still interrupting the flow of albergue next to albergue next to bar, but this was clearly one of the financial success stories of the Way.
Outside a vegan albergue we met Alyssa, Rainer, and the Swiss who were resting to cross over into Molinaseca to stay at “the best hostel on the Way” that day, and a group of Irish women drinking “since two days ago,” one slurred. “There is a couple on the Camino,” another whispered conspiratorially, “they can heal your feet like nothing ever happened. You can walk and not get blisters. One of them is a gruff older man they call Doc, if you see them, ask them to heal your friend’s limp.”
Our hotel was part of a hostel, but we’d have our own room (“do you need two rooms?” the owner inquired, clearly uncomfortable with our arrangement) and shower, as well as a small market downstairs to obtain food and drink for the afternoon and next morning’s early breakfast at the Cruz.
We spend an hour relaxing outside, during which time Inga had to pet every cat in town, and Inga had a conversation with the Rabé Couple about the best way to cook spaghetti, then retreated. I went downstairs to drop our laundry into the washer and returned to both being showered and doing their best to get sweaty again. “Coming to bed?” Eva asked, and until I had to swap clothes to the dryer I did.
After retrieving a dry and folded bundle I curled onto the room’s couch and fell asleep, Eva and Inga apparently planning to celebrate into Eva’s birthday.