Camino Primitivo: Asturias to Galicia

Having walked the 850 km Camino Francés from Saint‑Jean‑Pied‑de‑Port to Santiago in 2024, and the Camino Portugués the following year, a gentler route but still full of charm and long days on foot, I felt ready for something wilder. So, I committed to the Camino Primitivo, the oldest and most demanding of them all, this time with two willing friends.

We chose a March 20 start, firmly preseason, hoping to avoid the crowds and fully expecting colder weather, rain, and whatever else Asturias decided to throw at us. It felt like the right moment for a route that promised solitude, steep climbs, and a return to the raw spirit of pilgrimage.

We met in Madrid and boarded the Avlo train to Oviedo, a sleek purple arrow that whisked us north in just three and a half hours for a fare of $33.33. As the shiny Madrid skyscrapers slid away behind us, we picked up our conversation right where we had left it a year earlier.

Traveling through a patchwork of meadows, mountains, and quiet wooded forests, we finally rolled into Oviedo, a city that greets pilgrims with whimsical sculptures on its streets and the striking, almost futuristic cubical forms of the Calatrava complex. It felt like stepping from rural Asturias straight into an architectural exhibition.

As we wandered deeper into Oviedo’s old streets, the city kept offering up more of its quiet treasures, bronze figures, contemplative forms, and whole clusters of stylized silhouettes. It felt as if every plaza had its own public art statues representing everyday Asturian life and literary characters.

We walked to the Catedral de San Salvador, the spiritual gateway of the Primitivo, and picked up our pilgrim passports beneath its soaring Gothic arches. With the formalities done, we treated ourselves to a pre‑walk dinner at Casa Fermín, a Michelin‑recommended spot.

After a dinner of beautifully presented Asturian dishes, the one that makes you reconsider the wisdom of walking hundreds of kilometers starting the next day, we slipped back to our hotel. We let ourselves sink into a full night’s sleep, knowing the Primitivo would demand an early start and our freshest legs.

I’d learned from earlier Caminos that you don’t need to haul your entire life on your back. Good food appears with welcome regularity, water can be bought almost everywhere, and a small daypack is all you truly need. Mine held a sleeping‑bag liner, slippers, a change of clothes, toiletries, my laptop, and the usual tangle of chargers, everything together came to a very civilized 5 kg. The rest of my belongings went into a backpack that Correos, the Spanish postal service, agreed to deliver all the way to Santiago for about 22 euros

Our goal for the day was simple enough, walk the first stage of the Primitivo from Oviedo to Grado, roughly 23 kilometers of rolling countryside, quiet hamlets, meadows, green fields, tidy villages, old stone markers, and long, curving roads where fellow pilgrims appeared and disappeared. We passed through pockets of woodland, admired the bright Asturian houses scattered along the way, and paused at the occasional sculpture or park sign that reminded us we were following a path walked for centuries.

March 21 greeted us with the full confidence of spring, hills washed in fresh greens, orchards bursting with white blossoms, and magnolia trees throwing out pink petals. The air felt fragrant, the sky a bright blue, and every turn in the path revealed a splash of color waking up after winter.

As we admired the deep greens of the hills and the wildflowers scattered across the grass, the peaceful walk took an abrupt turn. A massive bull, muscles taut and sporting sharp horns, suddenly charged toward us with unmistakable intent. For a heartbeat, all three of us froze, then gratitude washed over us as we realized the only thing standing between us and the beast was the short stone wall separating the path from the field. We backed away quickly, hearts thumping, avoiding the bulls gaze.

I stepped back for a moment and let my friends walk on ahead, wanting to take in the whole scene without rushing it. The path curled gently through fields brushed with yellow flowers, the hills rose in soft layers around us, a scattering of houses and bushes completed the quiet rhythm of the countryside.

The trail dipped into a cool stretch of forest, the light filtering through branches, before opening out again beside a wide, steady river. It was a gentle sequence of contrasts, road and ruin, shadow and sunlight, water and woodland. A little later, the Camino pulled us past a cluster of road signs marking the split between highways and the pilgrim path.

We passed a quiet bronze figure honoring the hardworking women who once shaped the rhythm of this coastal region, and just around the next bend the path delivered us to the "donativo albergue".

Inside, a mother and her high‑school‑aged daughter from Tallinn welcomed us with the warmth of people who had chosen to give their time to pilgrims they’d never met. The walls were lined with maps, elevation charts, and hand‑pinned notes, the kind of Camino collage that tells you exactly where you are and how far you still have to go.

We settled into our bunkbeds after leaving a €10 donation, grateful for the simplicity of it all, and in the morning, they sent us off with a generous breakfast they’d prepared themselves. It felt like being cared for by strangers who understood the spirit of the road.

The morning was wrapped in fog as we left Grado around 6 a.m., beginning the long 22–24 km stretch toward Salas, with about 2,300 feet climb. The world hadn’t quite woken up yet. We walked through pockets of silence with giant cobwebs, the path softened by mist, and clouds pooled thickly over the valley below.

As the day progressed, the landscape kept shifting around us, rivers and steady streams below tall bridges, narrow wooded paths, and long stretches of quiet paved road that seemed to lead straight into the hills.

We saw only a handful of other pilgrims; early season meant the trail still belonged mostly to the birds, the trees, and the sound of our own footsteps. Small villages appeared in the distance, and every now and then an old stone church or a solitary tree reminded us how deeply history and nature intertwine along this route.

The bucolic path, with its grazing livestock and mountains rising gently behind them, slowly gave way to more signs of life, a scattering of houses in the valley, and the first hints of a semi‑urban edge. The forest trails opened into wider roads, before long, the red‑tiled roofs and stone church towers of Salas appeared ahead of us, marking the end of a long, beautiful stage and the welcome promise of rest.

Salas has a sense of deep history that runs through the Primitivo. This stretch of the Camino has been walked since the days of King Alfonso II, and much of the old route still survives in its stone paths, medieval bridges, and quiet village lanes. The town itself carries a proud legacy, with its towers, churches, and centuries‑old pilgrim traditions woven into the landscape.

We found a wonderful albergue with wide, green lawns that still sparkled in the lingering daylight. The place had an easy, open feel, people lounging outside, someone jotting notes at a barrel‑table. They even offered us a private room with three beds, a small luxury that meant no snorers, no curfews, and no whispered negotiations about lights and doors. After checking in and rinsing off the day’s miles, we wandered out for a relaxed dinner, knowing tomorrow would be a long hiking day and grateful for this soft landing at the edge of Salas.

Salas to Tineo was next, a 22 km stage with roughly 700 meters of climbing, a day that would warm up our legs long before the real mountains arrived. In the early morning half‑light, the forest was still waking up, and through the bare trees we caught sight of the highway far above us, its massive pillars disappearing into the mist. From below it looked almost unreal, like a giant UFO hovering over the valley while we followed the quiet trail beneath it.

The walk toward Tineo unfolded in a steady rhythm of climbs and quiet stretches. Forest paths wound through tall, bare trees, the ground soft with moss and scattered stones, and every so often a bright yellow trail marker reassured us we were still on the right track. The countryside opened up into rolling green fields dotted with stone fences and colorful houses.

I saw a few more pilgrims on the trail, scattered along the climbs and forest stretches. Two of them were from Colombia, and we fell into an easy conversation as we walked, a few minutes but somehow feels like you’ve known each other longer.

Near one of the viewpoints stood a metal pilgrim sculpture perched on a sundial, a reminder of how many centuries feet have passed this way. As we approached Tineo, the town appeared nestled in the folds of the hills red‑roofed houses, winding streets, and the familiar mix of old stone and modern life.

A large information board at the entrance laid out its churches, monuments, and walking routes, making it clear that Tineo is a place where history, nature, and the Camino all meet. It felt like a proper milestone on the Primitivo, a town with enough character to make you pause before moving on.

We stayed in Hotel Palacio de Merás, located in the heart of Tineo, a beautifully preserved 16th‑century palace that has been transformed into a modern hotel without losing its old‑world charm.

From Tineo, Collinas de Arriba, Pola de Allande and finally Grandas de Salime formed a long, demanding day, roughly 40 km with about 1,500 meters of climbing, a stage that tested both legs and spirit as we crossed some of the wildest terrain on the Primitivo.

From bubbling streams to cloud‑covered valleys, from mountain crests lined with slow‑turning wind turbines to roads that crisscrossed the rugged slopes, we walked diligently through the cold morning air.

Higher up, a stone marker dedicated to human rights stood alone against the sky, a quiet symbol of solidarity on a route shaped by centuries of footsteps. The climb carried us over ridges and the descent twisted through barren hillsides and long, sweeping bends of mountain road.

Hour after hour, the landscape shifted but the rhythm stayed steady, and eventually, after a long, demanding day, we reached Grandas de Salime, tired, grateful, and a little awed by the terrain we had crossed.

We checked in to Albergue Miguelín, grateful to find a room with three beds waiting for us, a small luxury after such a long, punishing day. A hot meal never tasted better. The long walk demanded an equally long rest, and we were more than ready to let the day go and sink into sleep.

Next early morning, through rain and drifting mist, we set out again, following a hilly path that hugged the Rio Navia. The trail wound past slopes covered in deep green shrubs, bursts of purple flowers, and patches of brown winter growth still clinging to the season. At times the path narrowed into rocky stretches that disappeared into the clouds, giving the sense of walking into nothingness.

Below us, the river curved quietly through the valley, its surface barely visible through the shifting veil of mist. It was a cold, contemplative morning.

From across the river we spotted a large yellow building perched on the hillside, and in our hunger‑fogged optimism we convinced ourselves it had to be a restaurant.

It looked close enough, just a short detour for a snack, we thought. But distances in these valleys play tricks on you. What seemed like a quick hop across the water turned into a slow, stubborn trudge along winding paths and steep bends.

More than an hour later, legs protesting and stomachs growling, we finally reached it, amused at how thoroughly the landscape had fooled us, and grateful to sit down at last.

This area had a hydroelectric dam, and the restaurant overlooked the wide, calm stretch of the Navia River, just before it narrowed again into the steep canyon below.

The shrimp and octopus snack was exactly what we needed, hot, garlicky, and comforting after the long walk. From the terrace we could see the wide sweep of the Navia below us, the same river that shaped the valley and gave Grandas de Salime its history.

The town has always been a crossroads on the Primitivo, a place where pilgrims paused before tackling the high mountains ahead, and where traces of older settlements still linger in the landscape.

With that small burst of energy and a last look at the water, we tightened our packs and started walking again, ready for whatever the trail decided to throw at us next.

The trail after our snack carried us a narrow dirt path lined with birch trees led us onward, quiet and still except for the crunch of our steps. Soon the way turned into an ancient, cobbled track, moss filling the gaps between the stones, a reminder of how many pilgrims had passed this way before us.

A small stream tumbled down beside the trail, it's clear water slipping over rocks as if guiding us forward.

Os Cachivaches, a michlein rated restaurant, in Lugo was our next fancy meal, a small reward for walking a long, cold, mist‑soaked day across valleys, ridges, and endless climbs. We settled in with good camaraderie and plates of fresh seafood.

Lugo is a UNESCO city draped in spring tulips, its ancient monuments rising proudly among the flowers. We spent the afternoon wandering its streets, circling past the old walls, slipping into cafés and refectories whenever something caught our eye. Beer, food, more beer, relaxed grazing that feels perfectly earned after days of walking.

We walked through Arzúa and Melide, the familiar names rolling past like old friends from earlier caminos. In Melide I couldn’t resist stopping at the same place where I’d eaten octopus on the Camino Francés two years ago, same aroma, same bustle, same satisfaction. Sharing that meal again felt like closing a small personal loop. With every village, every cluster of cafés and pilgrim chatter, it was clear we were closing in on Santiago now, the energy shifting from quiet endurance to a gentle, growing anticipation.

Two Peruvian sisters had set up a small table right on the trail, offering sellos made from heated lacquer. They had a whole tray of stamp faces to choose from, scallop shells, cathedrals, pilgrims, symbols of the Primitivo, each one pressed into the warm wax. It was a charming little stop, unexpected and full of personality, and they added a beautiful wax seal to my credential before sending us on our way. They expected some donation, that we were glad to give.

Bar Manuel was next on our path, the very same spot where I’d stopped two years ago on the Francés. It felt almost surreal to walk in again, like stepping into a memory that had been waiting for me.

We ordered beers and soon found ourselves chatting with two German ladies who were walking with three additional relatives, a full family excursion giving them a rare chance to reconnect. Their laughter and easy camaraderie were the kind of encounter the Camino gifts you when you least expect it.

We were now a mere 35 kilometers from Santiago, and the trail felt livelier, humming with the shared anticipation of the finish. More pilgrims appeared on the path, weaving through the woods and gathering around the little pop‑up stands offering snacks, drinks, and of course sellos for their credentials.

Every few kilometers there seemed to be another place to stamp a page, another chance to mark the journey. The countryside opened into small towns perched on hillsides, the yellow arrows guiding us steadily forward.

At a rest stop we came across a huge sign listing all the milestones between Oviedo and Santiago, each town and distance neatly stacked in order. It was strangely moving to stand there and trace the route, every place we had walked through, every climb, every valley, every night’s stop now captured on a single board. Seeing it all together made the journey feel both immense and coherent, a reminder of how far we had come and how close we were to the end.

Zamburiños, those irresistible little scallops, were never to be avoided, wherever they appeared on the menu. By this stage of the walk they felt like tiny celebrations on a plate, a reward we happily accepted whenever the trail brought us near a bar or café serving them.

Finally, we crossed the ornate gate into Santiago, the same one I had walked through on the Francés two years ago, but completely missed last year on the Portuguese. Stepping under it again felt like reconnecting with an old chapter, before the city opened up and the final steps carried us toward the cathedral.

Coincidentally, just like last year, we arrived in Santiago during Semana Santa, and were delighted to stumble upon the same solemn, red‑robed procession winding through the old streets. The drums, the slow rhythm of the pasos, the crowds pressed along the stone walls… it all felt both familiar and newly moving, a final unexpected gift at the end of our long walk.

Past two visits to Compostela, I’d intended to take the rooftop tour of the cathedral, and both times it slipped away. This time, though, we finally managed to get the tickets. The tour led us up onto the ancient stone roof, where the towers rose almost within reach and the city spread out in every direction, red tiles glowing under the afternoon sun.

From up there we could look down into the great courtyard where pilgrims first arrive, the very place where the long walk ends and the breathtaking façade of the cathedral fills your entire field of view.

Standing above it all gave the city a new dimension, a familiar, yet seen from a different vantage point.

We wrapped up the journey with one last fancy meal at a Michelin‑recognized restaurant, a quiet celebration of everything our legs had carried us through. Afterwards we wandered around Compostela for a few unhurried hours, admiring the millennium‑old stonework, the narrow lanes, the towers we had seen from the rooftop earlier in the day.

More than once we paused just to take it all in, the city, the journey, the simple fact that the three of us had managed the entire Primitivo without a single blister. It felt like a small miracle. The 319 km hike had over 9,000 meters climb, more than the height of Mount Everest, the fact why the Primitivo is considered the most physically demanding of all the Caminos.

We were grateful for the shared experience, for the laughter and the long days, and we promised ourselves we’d keep doing this for many years to come. Next year, it would be the Camino Inglés, a new chapter waiting just over the horizon.