Day 2. Why did Rush?
From Grado to Salas
There is something strangely beautiful about a town just before it wakes up.
In the early morning, Grado seemed almost suspended between two worlds. The streets were quiet, the shutters of the small shops were still closed, and the first pale light of the day was beginning to creep across the façades of the buildings. Somewhere in the distance a car passed, a door opened, and gradually the town began to stir, but for a little while longer there was a sense that the whole place belonged to those of us who had chosen to get up early and walk.
We had spent the night in Grado, and after the first stage of the Camino Primitivo, our bodies were already beginning to understand what we had signed up for. The previous day had brought the first kilometres, the first tired muscles and the first small lessons about how to carry a backpack, how to look after your feet and, perhaps most importantly, how to stop trying to control everything.
Today we were heading from Grado to Salas, and although the official descriptions of the stage made it sound reasonably manageable, I was beginning to understand that numbers on a map have very little to do with how a day on the Camino actually feels.
We had also decided that we were going to modify the traditional stages slightly. There was no particular reason for us to follow someone else's schedule simply because it had been printed in a guidebook. We didn't want to walk thirty or more kilometres every day just so that we could say we had done it. The whole purpose of coming to the Camino was, at least for me, almost the opposite of that. I wanted to slow down. I wanted to walk.
And I wanted to have enough energy left at the end of the day to actually remember where I had been.
Grado had made a very good impression on us. It is not the kind of place that immediately overwhelms you with monumental sights, and perhaps that is exactly why I liked it. It is a practical, lived-in Asturian town where people actually live their ordinary lives, where you can find an ATM, a pharmacy, a supermarket or a place to eat without having to turn the search into an expedition.
The previous evening we had eaten in the centre, along the promenade, surrounded by locals, and it had been one of those simple meals that somehow becomes more memorable than a dinner in an expensive restaurant. After a day of walking, everything tastes better, conversations seem easier and even a plate of ordinary food can feel like a reward.
Our accommodation had also been excellent, which on the Camino is something you learn to appreciate very quickly. A good mattress suddenly becomes an important part of your life, fresh-smelling towels seem almost luxurious, and a decent breakfast can feel like the beginning of a very good relationship with the person who prepared it.
Outside, however, the morning was already waiting for us. The café behind us was open, but we already had ours coffee, the backpacks were ready, and Salas was somewhere ahead.
So we walked.
Leaving Grado, the character of the landscape changed gradually. The buildings became less frequent, the roads quieter, and the countryside began to surround us. The first light of the morning rested softly on the hills, while a thin layer of haze remained in the valleys below, making the landscape look almost unreal.
Then the road began to rise.
The first climb of the day was waiting for us, and according to the maps it would continue for several kilometres. At that point, five kilometres did not sound particularly frightening. Five kilometres is not much when you are driving somewhere. It sounds completely different when you know that every single one of those kilometres will be travelled on foot, with a backpack on your shoulders and the road pointing upwards.
Still, there was something wonderful about watching the valley slowly disappear behind us.
As we climbed higher, we began to encounter the countryside in a much more intimate way. Farmers were taking their cows out to pasture, continuing a routine that probably looked almost exactly the same as it had looked yesterday, last month and perhaps for generations before us. For them, this was simply another morning at work. For us, it was part of the adventure.
That is one of the things I like most about walking through rural areas: you don't simply pass through a landscape; you become part of it for a few hours.
Among the fields and farms stood some of the most recognisable structures of Asturias — the traditional hórreos, small granaries raised above the ground on stone pillars.
At first glance they can look almost decorative, as though somebody has placed little wooden or stone buildings randomly around the countryside, but their purpose was entirely practical. For centuries, farmers used them to store corn, grain and other food, keeping it safely above the damp ground and away from animals.
After seeing them repeatedly, you begin to understand that they are more than just picturesque objects for tourists to photograph. They are evidence of a way of life that was shaped by the climate, the land and the needs of the people who lived here.
The Camino is full of things like that.
You walk past something that initially looks ordinary, and then you discover that it has been standing there for generations. A building becomes a piece of history, a stone wall becomes part of an old farm, and a small bridge becomes a reminder that pilgrims were crossing the same landscape long before there were roads, cars or mobile phones.
The higher we climbed, the more noticeable the effort became. Breathing became heavier, sweat began to replace the freshness of the early morning, and the backpack seemed to gain weight with every metre.
Eventually, however, we reached a flatter section.
I remember thinking that perhaps the maps had been slightly dramatic. They had promised roughly five kilometres of climbing, but this didn't seem nearly as bad as expected. Perhaps the difficult part was already behind us.
That was an optimistic thought.
There are two Czech sayings that came to mind at that moment. One says that things are never as bad as they seem, while the other reminds us not to count our chickens before they hatch. The second one turned out to be considerably more useful. The climb was not finished. In fact, it was only taking a short break.
So, if you are planning this stage yourself, take the maps seriously. The first part of the route from Grado really does involve a substantial climb, and although the elevation figures are not enormous compared with some mountain routes, the combination of distance, heat and a backpack can make it feel much more demanding than the numbers suggest.
Fortunately, we found a small place to stop, drink some water and recover before continuing.
And sometimes that is all you need. Not a solution. Not a miracle.
Just ten quiet minutes, some water and enough time to breathe.
After climbing comes the descent, and this was another lesson that the Camino taught me surprisingly quickly: going downhill is not necessarily easier than going uphill. When you walk downhill for a long time, the muscles and joints are working in a completely different way, and the impact on your ankles, knees and shins can become surprisingly uncomfortable. One technique we discovered was to descend in a gentle zigzag rather than walking directly down the slope.
It adds a few extra metres to the journey, but those extra steps can save your legs. There is something almost symbolic about that technique. The most direct route is not always the best route. Sometimes the longer way is the easier way, and sometimes slowing down is actually the fastest way to make sure you can continue tomorrow. The Camino has a habit of turning simple physical lessons into slightly deeper ones.
Further along the route, we crossed a new highway, and the contrast was striking. On one side was the modern world, built around speed, efficiency and getting somewhere as quickly as possible. Cars passed along the road, infrastructure cut through the landscape and everything seemed designed to reduce the amount of time required to travel from one place to another.
And beside it was the Camino.
A path followed by people on foot, moving slowly through the same countryside, just as pilgrims had done for centuries. It was difficult not to see the irony. We live in a world obsessed with saving minutes. We drive faster, communicate instantly and become frustrated when a webpage takes a few seconds too long to load. Yet here we were deliberately walking for hours when we could have travelled the same distance by car in a fraction of the time. Perhaps that is one of the reasons the Camino attracts people. It gives you permission to move slowly.
Eventually, the countryside brought us to Cornellana, a small settlement positioned near the meeting of the Narcea and Nonaya rivers. Cornellana has been connected with the Camino for almost a thousand years, and its history is dominated by the Monastery of San Salvador, founded in 1024 by Infanta Cristina, daughter of King Bermudo II of León.
Later, in 1122, the monastery was given to the Abbey of Cluny in France, becoming part of a powerful European network of monasteries that played an important role in medieval religious life. Today the monastery forms part of the UNESCO World Heritage recognition associated with the Camino de Santiago.
Standing there, surrounded by old stone walls, it was impossible not to think about the people who had stood in approximately the same place centuries before us. They had arrived without smartphones, without GPS, without detailed weather forecasts and without the certainty that a comfortable bed was waiting for them at the end of the day. They carried their own reasons for walking.
Some were travelling because of faith, some because of necessity, some because they were searching for forgiveness, and others because the journey itself had become important.
We were walking for very different reasons, yet the road somehow connected us with all of them.
For a moment, the modern world felt very far away. The river continued to flow, the old stone remained where it had always been, and the noise of the present seemed to disappear.
IFor anyone planning this stage, Cornellanq is worth remembering. It is one of those practical little places that can make a significant difference to a long day on foot. There is a petrol station with a small bar, another café, an ATM, a pharmacy and even a bakery nearby, giving pilgrims an opportunity to replenish their supplies.
You can have a coffee, get something to eat, buy a drink and collect a Camino stamp before continuing towards Salas.
The availability of these small stops is something you quickly begin to appreciate. When you are travelling by car, a café is simply a café. When you have already walked ten or fifteen kilometres, carrying everything you need on your back, a café can suddenly feel like an oasis.
We stopped, refreshed ourselves and continued. There were still kilometres ahead.
Somewhere around kilometre 14.8 came one of the more memorable encounters of the day, and it had absolutely nothing to do with history or architecture.
It was a vending machine.
There was a small place where we could buy drinks, and although the coffee machine looked as though it had experienced better days, the drinks machine appeared considerably more trustworthy.
We bought a Fanta for €1.50. Then we tried to buy water for sixty cents. Instead, the machine gave us another Fanta. For a moment we just stood there wondering what had happened.
Apparently, on this particular Camino, water comes with a free Fanta. We weren't about to argue with the machine.
So if you ever find yourself walking this route and encounter the same vending machine, remember our experience: if you want a Fanta, order water. You may save yourself some money and come away with twice as many drinks.
The Camino provides.
Sometimes in unexpected ways.
As the afternoon progressed, the kilometres began to accumulate. By around 17.3 kilometres we came across another useful stopping point with water and what appeared to be an old washing area, perhaps once used as a public laundry. Other pilgrims were filling their bottles and using the water to cool themselves down. We still had enough, so we decided not to refill, instead taking some time to sit, eat something and rest.
At this point, I was beginning to notice a change. The backpack no longer felt quite as strange. My back was beginning to adapt, my feet were becoming accustomed to the distance, and I was starting to understand the rhythm of walking. That rhythm is difficult to explain to somebody who has never done a long-distance walking journey. At first, you think about every kilometre. Then you think about every hour. Eventually, you stop thinking about distance altogether.
You simply walk. And somewhere in that repetition, your mind becomes quieter.
The art of disconnectingThis was perhaps the most important realisation of the second day.
Before coming to Spain, I had wanted to escape from the constant noise of everyday life. I had become tired of the endless stream of news, opinions, messages and notifications that seems to follow us everywhere.
Everyone has an opinion.
Everyone believes they are right.
Everyone wants to tell you what is happening.
And because we carry the entire world around in our pockets, it has become almost impossible to escape from it. So I made a simple decision.
No constant stream of information demanding my attention.
I didn't even speak Spanish properly. I knew perhaps four words, and yet somehow communication always seemed possible. A gesture, a smile, a few words and a little patience were usually enough. And I found that strangely liberating. When you don't understand every conversation around you, you stop trying to participate in every conversation. You begin to observe instead, notice the landscape, people and your own thoughts. Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts of walking the Camino: for a few days, you can become unavailable to the world and, in doing so, become much more available to yourself.
With roughly five kilometres remaining, Salas was finally close enough to feel real. The route continued through green fields and pastures, with sheep grazing on the hills and the warmth of the afternoon still hanging over the landscape. We were tired, but it was the satisfying kind of tiredness that comes when you know you have almost completed something rather than the exhausted feeling of having pushed yourself too far.
Then came the old stone bridge at Casazorrina. The Puente de Casazorrina, sometimes referred to as the Puente de la Casa Zorina, dates from the eighteenth century, although the settlement around it is considerably older. Nearby are traditional hórreos and paneras, the larger Asturian granaries that form such a characteristic part of the rural landscape, as well as a small chapel dedicated to Saint Anne. For centuries, bridges like this were not simply pieces of infrastructure. They were transitions. They marked the point where one landscape ended and another began. For us, this was the final crossing before Salas.
And then, finally, we arrived. Salas is one of the best-preserved medieval towns in Asturias, and after spending most of the day walking through open countryside, entering its historic centre felt like stepping into another period of history.
Stone houses lined the narrow streets, old buildings seemed to lean towards one another, and the town had retained a sense of proportion and character that many modern places have lost.
The Collegiate Church of Santa María La Mayor dominates the centre, together with the Palace of Valdés Salas, a sixteenth-century building with the appearance of a small fortified residence that has since been transformed into a hotel.
The Valdés Salas family was one of the most influential noble families in Asturias, and Fernando Valdés Salas became an important figure in the region's history, including his connection with the founding of the University of Oviedo.
But perhaps even more interesting for pilgrims is Salas's connection with those who travelled this route before us. During the Middle Ages, the town had a hospital dedicated to Saint Roch, documented as early as the fifteenth century. It offered shelter and assistance to pilgrims making their way towards Santiago. After walking through the same landscape ourselves, that history suddenly felt much more tangible. It is one thing to read that pilgrims travelled through Asturias centuries ago.
It is another thing to arrive in the same town on foot, with tired legs, a dusty backpack and the knowledge that the person walking beside you is experiencing something surprisingly similar.
One of the great advantages of the modern Camino is that pilgrims have an extraordinary range of accommodation. You can sleep outdoors, stay in a municipal albergue, choose a private hostel or book a comfortable hotel. You can spend very little money or, if your budget allows, make the journey considerably more luxurious.
We decided to stay somewhere in the middle.
We had booked through Booking.com, which gave us the security of knowing where we would sleep, although there is a downside to planning everything in advance: once you have paid for your accommodation, you are effectively tied to your schedule. The Camino, however, doesn't always care about your schedule. Fortunately, this time it worked perfectly.
Our accommodation was a little outside the centre of Salas, surrounded by nature, and from the moment we arrived it looked exactly like the kind of place I had hoped to find. There was a restaurant and bar, a small kitchen, washing facilities, a dryer and a common sitting area. Dinner was available from six in the evening, while breakfast started at six in the morning, which was particularly useful for pilgrims planning an early departure.
After twenty-two kilometres, you don't become particularly demanding about beds.
You simply become grateful that one exists.
The second stage of the Camino Primitivo was not the longest or the most dramatic stage we would experience, but in many ways it was more important than the distance suggested.
We walked approximately 22 kilometres, although the full route between Grado and Salas can vary between roughly 25 and 28 kilometres depending on the starting point and route taken. The stage involves approximately 500–600 metres of elevation gain and around 650–700 metres of descent, with a highest point of approximately 250 metres.
The terrain changes constantly, moving between dirt tracks, rural paths and asphalt, with the landscape providing a mixture of forests, fields, villages and traditional farms. Technically, it is a moderate stage.
But the Camino isn't really measured in technical terms. The real challenge is learning how to manage yourself.
You have to understand when to stop, when to drink, when to eat and when to admit that your body needs ten minutes of rest. You have to accept that sometimes the map is right and you are wrong, that five kilometres uphill really can feel like ten, and that a ridiculous vending machine can become one of the highlights of your day. Most importantly, you have to stop trying to hurry.
Why rush?
That question stayed with me as we settled into the evening in Salas.
Why do we rush so much?
Why do we spend so much of our lives trying to arrive somewhere as quickly as possible, only to discover that once we arrive, we immediately start thinking about the next destination?
The Camino offers a very simple alternative.
Walk, look around, breathe. Stop when you need to. Talk to people. Get lost in your thoughts.
Watch the landscape change. Allow the day to take as long as it takes.
Perhaps the real luxury is not having more time, but finally feeling that you have enough.
After only two days, I was beginning to understand that the Camino was not simply taking me from Grado to Salas. It was slowly taking me away from something else — from the constant pressure to know everything, respond to everything, achieve everything and move as quickly as possible.
Out here, there was only the next step. And then the next one. And somehow, that was enough. The world could wait.
Tomorrow there would be another road, another hill, another village and another bed somewhere at the end of it. For tonight, Salas was enough.
And perhaps that is what the Camino teaches you before you even realise that you are learning it:
You don't always need to get there faster. Sometimes you simply need to be there.
Buen Camino.
See you next time.
Vashek
Stage 2 — Grado to Salas: Practical Information
Route: Grado → Salas
Typical distance: 25–28 km, depending on the starting point and route
Distance walked by us: approximately 22 km
Walking time: approximately 6–8 hours
Elevation gain: approximately 500–600 m
Elevation loss: approximately 650–700 m
Terrain: approximately 10 km of dirt paths and 18 km of asphalt on the longer route
Difficulty: Moderate
Important stops: Cornellana and several smaller refreshment points
Historical highlights: Monastery of San Salvador in Cornellana, Collegiate Church of Santa María La Mayor, Palace of Valdés Salas, Chapel of Santa Ana and Puente de Casazorrina
Accommodation: Municipal albergues, private albergues, hotels and guesthouses are available in and around Salas
PS: At the end of the series I will publish a guide book with all camino information :) Stay tune.
Ps: If you enjoy the reading and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee :)
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