The day before, I told Santos I’d be leaving early in the morning and that I wouldn’t wake him, so we said our goodbyes the night before. I thanked him for the hospitality, the amazing lunch and dinner, and he wished me a nice rest of the hike. For the road, he handed me a bag with pasta, tomato sauce and a can of tuna, since the place I was headed to have a kitchen. I also said goodbye to Italy and Ireland, as they only planned to walk 25 km the next day, which is too little for me. I had 43 km ahead. We exchanged phone numbers in case we’d want to check in during the journey or meet again at the end.
Since I ate way too much the previous day, I could really feel it in the morning – walking was tough and I was tempted to stick my fingers down my throat to get it out, but the Gorenjka in me would never do such a thing. And honestly, the food was too good. That would’ve been a crime. I figured I'd just walk it off.
The Camino that day was as exciting as reading the Official Gazette. Nothing special – the beautiful coastal views had ended. It was my last day to decide whether to stick with the Camino del Norte or switch to the Camino Primitivo, which offers breathtaking sunrises in the misty hills – the kind that make your jaw drop. My favourite path, but sadly it has two major downsides: the whole thing smells like animal shit from start to finish, and there are cows everywhere. The second? It’s too short. So, I decided to keep sniffing the dead fish of the Atlantic.
The route was easy until the last 15 km – then it showed its teeth again. A brutal climb that just wouldn’t end. I was sweating buckets. And then came the usual mental negotiation with the Almighty in my head – who clearly had a hangover from overdoing it the day before. All I can say is he wasn’t gentle. Burnt out and pissed off – that’s how I’d describe him that day. Walking usually goes left, right, left, right. Mine went left, fuck, left, fuck, left, fuck you, left, fuck, left, fuck, left, go fuck yourself. The swear words poured out in Slovene, Italian, Spanish, German – and a couple of new ones in Norwegian. I always swear on the climbs. But this one was brutal – 2 km straight up. Felt like I was climbing into hell.
When I finally made it to the top, the wind and rain were waiting. The umbrella I bought in town didn’t survive more than 100 meters down the descent. The wind? Moderate to insane. Time for warm clothes if I didn’t want to get sick. The descent dragged on for 5 long kilometres. I told myself: okay, just get through this and you’re at the hostel. I already knew from the app that the hostel was a bit off the trail. But “a bit” for me means half a kilometre, maybe one at most. As I descended, I looked at the topography to locate the hostel and it looked way more than a kilometre. Not happy. And cold. In the village, I stopped at a bar for a Coke, but it was so loud in there I left almost immediately. I showed the bartender a photo of the hostel and asked for directions, just in case. He pointed right and said 2 km. Well – it turned out to be 4.
What I call “a little” is already questionable – like when I say I’ll be a little late and that means 7 minutes, but in reality, it’s more like an hour. Fuck you. As I walked those 4 km, I kept wondering if anyone else would be stupid enough to go 4 km off route to sleep somewhere, knowing it means doing an extra 4 the next day. And as you’ve probably realised by now, my imagination knows no limits. My brain came up with every worst-case scenario about this hostel in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Yeah, making a mountain out of a molehill – I’m great at that. Those 4 km dragged on forever. I was exhausted from the shitty weather and that monstrous climb. I just wanted a warm meal and a hot shower to thaw. When I finally got there, I was pleasantly surprised – a kid came up to me, hugged me around the waist and gave me a big smile. I thought, okay, I’ll survive the night. Where there’s a child, there’s life.
The hostel was run by a big family, and they were all incredibly kind. Well done, Tina, nice job adding an extra 4 km of “fun.” The place was huge, so I got to pick where to sleep. I chose a bed by the window – I wanted fresh air. Time to make a hot meal in the kitchen I saw in the photos. Except – no pans, no plates, no forks, no nothing. Not much use like that, right? So yeah, I wasn’t happy. I’d carried all that food in my backpack for nothing. Extra weight I really didn’t want on that climb. And I had no other food with me. That’s what you get when you try to please the Berliner with healthy eating – you end up screwing yourself. A sandwich would never have let me down.
So, I went to bed hungry, but clean. A hot shower and then straight to horizontal – the next day was going to be a long one.
Oh, and I finally managed to calculate what 550 km means in steps – 766,931. That’s how many steps my legs have walked in 16 days. They’re doing great, and I think I’ll even reach the finish a day ahead of schedule. Cheers.