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I reach Unguera around nine where there's an abundance of bakeries and cafes and although breakfasting before breaking camp only a short time earlier, I couldn't resist an early coffee stop. Before long I'll be back home where a cappuccino costs upwards of three euros; here, at one euro to one-fifty, I can stop without thinking about overshooting my budget.

I come into a smart looking place with wicker-weave pavement seats and tables underneath neat awning. The glass display counter has iced cakes in one section and further along puff pastries. I order one of the later with vanilla cream filling along with coffee. I hand the man behind the counter two euros and he hands me back twenty cents, then turn and take a seat inside by the window, as it is a sharp bright morning out: a little chilly for alfresco.

It is a busy road out of town pass car showrooms and out-of-town stores with autopista A9 parallel on the left. But once pass a roundabout over the A9, the traffic dwindles and N634 onwards is a relatively peaceful road. I ride on a vehicle-wide shoulder up a long gradual incline with a valley developing down the slope to the right; wherein, is a large elongated area of verdant green pasture divided by fences into regular-size paddocks, serviced by a central brown track running uphill from a cluster of apex-roofed farm buildings; from which, the smell is pungent fermenting silage and chemical dairy detergent. The noise is a tractor labouring up behind me. And turning my gaze the other way just as the road begins cresting the hill, beyond pale green cliff-top, greyish green sea flat to the horizon comes into view. The tractor eventually catches me up and passes drawing a slurry tanker. The only other traffic are a few campervans and a small Seat car is stopped at a viewpoint, it's occupants two young women out taking a selfie on a phone with the view in the background.

I descend steeply to San Vicente with a busy centre, a boating marina and a long stone bridge across a tidal estuary on the way onwards, where I stop to take a photo. Today with almost cloudless blue sky there's a good view back at the mountains, white with snow. A few others are holding up phones doing likewise.

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The steep rise up from the bridge passes another viewpoint with benches to sit and take in the view over the estuary to the mountains beyond, but ahead all this splendour disappears from sight and the road becomes drab.

It is almost two o'clock when I close the netbook. I've been working on the journal and other things, sat in this café for an hour and three quarters. I've had lunch: potato tortia with a big chunk of baguette and two cappuccinos. I rise and approach the counter and pay: three euros eighty.

Torrelavega is a large town and I spend much time stuck behind buses riding through the main drag. A9 is the only road shown in the map on to Santander, which isn't much more than twenty kilometres. I continue out of town through a series of roundabouts, eventually one with slips onto A9, but also an exit for N634 onwards, signposted to a satellite town. The road rises up and over a hill coming down into a valley with wooded slopes to the side, then joins an autovia with a sign: Santander 24 km.

I reach the city centre around five and finding my bearings, having been here three years previously, arrive on the quayside. The sea breeze is bracing. At the Brittany Ferries desk in the ferry terminal building, the lady explains the next sailing to Portsmouth is Saturday. And tells me the price changes, while looking at the computer screen, then lets me know that there are only a few economy places left: presently one-hundred and eighty euros, and that figure can rise or fall until the time of sailing. I'm a little taken aback by the what appears pretty steep, but in retrospect with a strong pound, at the moment one euro costs eighty pence, the sterling equivalen is a hundred and forty-two for what is a long voyage.

I couldn't place the quest house above the café where I stayed last time. I remember it wasn't too far from the quay, but pushing the bike along the street I think it is on, fail to see it. I continue up through a plaza with a Christmas tree and Christmas eluminations suspended overhead, on the lookout for a café to use Wi-Fi. Most places are crowded and as its a shopping street, there isn't any place outside to lean the bike. I turn along a sidestreet and find an arty café with a few tall tables outside. The attractive blond woman patron is talking to aquaintence, a young beardy man, but breaks off to serve me. I order a beer and ask for the Wi-Fi code. The search brings up many guest houses and I download a map, but once I've left the café I find it hard co-ordinating the map with the actual streets.

I find my way back to the quayside square and although it is now seven, the tourist office is still open. Here I get a paper map and the lady behind the desk marks two of the closest guest houses. One happens to be the place I stayed in three years ago, but when I get there, find a note on the door saying they are shut for the Winter. The second place is a Camino hostel, which is in darkness with a telephone number on the door to contact.

With the map I locate Calle Madrid which has a namesake pension, one of the places I was looking at on the net; it is just round the corner. It is in a modern block with a lift, though only on the first floor. The man shows me the room which is cosy with a shared bathroom in the hallway and wants fifteen euros a night, so I say I need the room for three nights and pay forty-five: a good price especially as he allows me to carry the bike upstairs and into the room.