CAMINO DE LA LANA – WHEN THE NIGHT ENDS AT 5 A.M. AND YOU SET OFF TO WALK 30 KILOMETRES AT 11:30

I arrive at the hostel in Alicante, where I meet Karolina, a 19-year-old from Vienna who is spending two months travelling around Spain on a holiday paid for by her grandfather. Ah, to be nineteen again! Two months in Spain, courtesy of Grandpa. My own grandfather would probably have given me a jar of homemade pickles and told me not to waste money.

We decide to go out for a drink. Meanwhile, I’m wide awake, sitting in the hostel and writing my blog, when a young Austrian guy approaches me with a question:

“Do you like beer?”

Now, that’s what I call an excellent opening line. Forget poetry, candlelit dinners and philosophical discussions about the meaning of life. Just get straight to the point.

We start chatting, and I realise that the guy looks and sounds remarkably like Woody Harrelson. Naturally, this is not something I’m going to ignore. Woody invites me to a Michelin-starred restaurant. There’s just one tiny detail: I’m wearing Nike leggings, while he’s apparently in Spain on a serious gourmet mission. He even owns a food truck and wants to add tapas to his menu. Clearly, we’re operating on slightly different culinary levels. He’s discussing Michelin stars; I’m dressed for a brisk walk to the nearest supermarket.

The waitress is hilarious, and the evening is shaping up nicely. However, I already have plans with Karolina, so I invite Woody to join us for a night out. He agrees, and off we go.

We try three different clubs because Spanish music isn’t quite our thing. We prefer electronic music, which apparently makes us difficult customers in a country where people seem perfectly happy dancing to rhythms that make my hips question their life choices. At one club, I’m even denied entry because my shoes are too sporty. Apparently, there’s a dress code, and my footwear has committed a serious fashion crime.

No matter. We move on.

The night stretches on until five in the morning. Karolina heads back earlier, while Woody and I continue hanging out with a group of young English people. I absolutely love English humour. The dry wit, the sarcasm, the ability to insult you so politely that you only realise what happened three minutes later. My kind of people.

At some point, Woody persuades me to extend my hostel stay by another day so I can enjoy the night without worrying about getting up early to walk. A sensible suggestion, really. He has an eight o’clock flight, while Karolina has a one o’clock train to Valencia. Woody heads straight to the airport, presumably fuelled by adrenaline, excellent food and whatever it is that keeps people functioning after a night like that.

I, on the other hand, fall asleep almost instantly.

At ten in the morning, I wake up with a head that feels as if someone has been using it as a drum. I get myself a coffee and consider my options. The beach is out of the question. It’s far too hot, and the idea of lying in the sun with a hangover sounds less like relaxation and more like a slow, public execution.

So I return to the hostel and make a decision.

I’m going to walk.

Because apparently, a night of partying until five in the morning is not enough punishment. I also need to walk nearly thirty kilometres in the Spanish heat, carrying a backpack.

I leave at 11:30 a.m.

Yes, half past eleven. Some people start their Camino at sunrise, full of determination, gratitude and carefully prepared porridge. I start at a time when sensible people are already looking for shade and ordering their second iced coffee.

I fill my bottles with two litres of water and set off on the stage from Alicante towards Monforte del Cid. The plan is to cover around thirty kilometres, depending on the route. My body, meanwhile, has submitted a formal complaint and is demanding an immediate meeting with management.

At first, the city provides some welcome shade, and walking isn’t too bad. The backpack feels heavier than it did yesterday, though I suspect that’s because my body is still trying to understand why I’m doing this to it. My head is pounding, my legs are less than enthusiastic, and my brain keeps asking the same question:

Why, exactly, am I doing this?

A perfectly reasonable question. Unfortunately, the Camino rarely provides immediate answers. Mostly, it gives you blisters, questionable life choices and a yellow arrow pointing somewhere you’re not entirely sure you want to go.

Once I leave the city behind, the scenery changes. The route becomes lonely, with long stretches of asphalt and very little around me. In the distance, I spot two hills. They look harmless from afar, like two sleepy bumps on the horizon. I carry on, assuming they’ll remain decorative features of the landscape.

They do not.

As I get closer, the hills grow larger, steeper and considerably less charming. The route takes me through remote terrain with steep climbs and descents, very little shade and no obvious source of water. There are no people, no cars, no cafés, no friendly soul offering me a cold drink. Just me, my backpack and two hills that seem to have taken my arrival personally.

I start thinking about what would happen if I twisted my ankle. Out here, that would be a rather inconvenient development. There’s nobody around, and I’d be in serious trouble.

My imagination, naturally, gets straight to work. It produces a full disaster movie, complete with dramatic music, a dehydrated heroine and a backpack full of things that would be absolutely useless in an emergency.

I look around. Nothing.

I keep walking.

The heat is relentless, the trail is quiet, and the kilometres seem to stretch into infinity. Every now and then, I wonder whether the Camino is testing my character or simply laughing at me. Either way, it’s doing an excellent job.

Then, eventually, the last ten kilometres arrive. And what a surprise: they’re on asphalt.

Normally, asphalt is not exactly a pilgrim’s dream. We’re supposed to appreciate scenic trails, ancient paths and picturesque countryside. But after the hills, the isolation and the constant fear of running out of water, asphalt feels like a luxury resort.

My legs seem to agree. They settle into a rhythm, and suddenly I’m moving faster. No rocks, no tricky descents, no wondering whether the next step will send me tumbling into the wilderness. Just a straightforward road beneath my feet.

I could almost kiss it.

Almost.

I stop at a bar and order an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Never underestimate the restorative powers of a cold drink when you’re hot, exhausted and regretting every decision you’ve made since midnight. The sugar kicks in, my spirits lift, and I suddenly feel as though I might actually survive the day.

I finish the stage having walked just under thirty kilometres.

And, despite everything, I’m glad I set off. Sometimes, the hardest part is simply getting yourself out the door. Especially when your head is pounding, your body is begging for mercy and your previous night’s activities have done absolutely nothing to prepare you for a long-distance hike.

I find a donativo accommodation, where I have an entire apartment to myself. A small miracle. No snoring roommates, no midnight rustling of plastic bags, no strangers shining phone screens into the darkness. Just peace, quiet and the glorious prospect of a shower.

I wash off the dust, unpack what I need, prepare my backpack for tomorrow and sit down to write my blog.

Laundry? Absolutely not.

I’ve reached my daily limit of personal development. The clothes can wait until tomorrow. They’re not going anywhere, and neither, apparently, is the smell.

Now I just need to get to bed by ten o’clock. Tomorrow is going to be another long day, and I have a feeling that the Camino will not be particularly interested in the fact that I spent last night partying until five in the morning.

The Camino has no sympathy for poor planning, questionable decisions or hangovers.

It simply keeps going.

And so do I.

Buen Camino! 🥾❤️

You can find all the images below the Slovenian text.