We passed through a beautifully ramshackle hamlet, a handful of busted wrecks (still holding their own amongst a smattering of straight edged, kempt newer builds), some that behind their frosting of ivy gave hints of an elegant reimagining, others…well, their time is done, to time and gravity they submit.

As we left, a line of painted stones, like a preschool project, seemed to indicate that a Rubicon was being crossed. Every guide and map offers different numbers, for sections, for days, for routes, but we took this in good faith – a few photos, a few stray thoughts (what? but that means…) – and on we went.

Not long after, I became aware of some inner recallibration; days had become 20-25 km chunks, each one a ticking of a clock, our destination a recognisable distance in walking time. How far has become how many days walk. We pass under and over the motorway; I watch or listen as distance is shrunk by the whizzing, roaring, humming traffic. Together we are like threads weaving together different dimensions of time and travel. I prefer the cthonic underpasses, or listening to the distant thunk, thunk as we wend along some muddy track between thirty metre concrete columns. In the silence I am among the gigantic and mysterious ruins of a lost civilization. Cthunk, cthunk.

Soon we would turn away from the coast and head towards Oviedo, an ancient capital, and the beginning of the Primitivo route.