If you think I remember the name of the place I slept last night – you're wrong. You know how many kilometres you’ll walk, but you pass a million little villages with weird-ass names no one can remember. Only the big towns stick in your mind. The forecast for today’s stage wasn’t exactly great. Rain – supposedly starting at 2 p.m. Well, clearly in Spain only the weather is fast, because it started pouring at 10. And we were only 20 km in. We were aiming to walk 40.
It started pissing down just as we hit an 8 km uphill climb to 1400 metres above sea level. I smashed through the first 4 km and thought my uphill game had seriously levelled up – no lungs to collect off the ground. Yeah... that didn’t last long – enter the “fuck you” moment. Climbing like that gets you sweating like mad, plus you've got the backpack glued to your back, making it worse. Your body’s overheating, but your clothes are soaked through. At the top: rain, fog, wind. The holy trinity of “fuck this” – a perfect moment to call your mum and cry. After the climb came the descent – and that’s when the cold kicked in. You've got limited clothes, so you don't change; otherwise, you’ll reach your hostel with everything wet and nothing warm left. So, you march on in your soggy gear. To warm up, I tried running – but the trail was muddy and slippery, and one wrong move could mean a nasty fall. Since 2016 they’ve clearly changed the route, because it wasn't just downhill – it was like a rollercoaster through Karst[1] country. Up and down, pure knee and soul destruction. The punishment didn’t let up until kilometre 39. Brutal, really.
We passed through villages hoping some bar would be open so we could defrost a bit. No such luck. My hands were completely numb, fingers wouldn’t even bend. Finally, I found a bar – still 3.5 km from my hostel – and dived in to thaw out. Just so you get how cold it was: there was a proper wood fire burning in the fireplace. I genuinely didn’t want to go back outside. But I told myself – just 30 more minutes downhill, then a hot shower. Pulled myself together and went into what felt like Siberia.
I quickly turned into a frozen brick, and there was no chance of walking fast. Total suffering, right to the last metre. Visibility was so shit, even the birds took a day off. But now I know – I’m never doing the Camino in any season other than summer. I’d rather melt from heat than freeze to death. When I finally got to the hostel, I was properly knackered for the first time on this Camino. I didn’t want food, nothing – just a hot shower. The place had 80 beds, so I was bracing for a cold shower… but miracle – hot water didn’t run out. Flowed for a full 20 minutes while I sat there in the stall like I’d found religion. Could’ve slept in that damn shower, it felt that good. I even washed my clothes right there and tossed them into the dryer afterwards. I always carry at least two long cotton shirts, an undershirt, and some joggers – nothing beats the feeling of putting on dry clothes that warm you right up again. Tiny victories. Andrea and Tanguy were all up for partying, but for the first time I said nope – I’m done, I’m wrecked, and all I see is bed. The weather fucked me. They were in shock – didn’t expect that from me, the usual party starter. My rest lasted about 30 minutes because I heard guitar and singing from the room next door. My soul dragged me out of bed – I wasn’t about to miss that. Sleep can wait. The hostel was all wood, with a big cosy lounge and soft couches. There were two guitars, a keyboard, and a bunch of lively young Italians. One played guitar, another hit the keys – and that was it, party on. Italians may be loud, but they know how to have fun. And they’re proper gentlemen – respectful, kind, and they make sure a woman feels good. Also, if I spent a week in Italy, I’d gain at least 5 kilos.
We started with guitar and synth but finished with a JBL speaker. Within minutes, the lounge was packed – 20 pilgrims dancing like mad, even on tables. The energy was unreal. The hostel boss – a woman who’s walked the Camino herself and has it in her blood – joined us. She’s about 60 and knows exactly what hikers need after a rough day. People like her restore my faith in humanity. That night was hands down the best of all my Caminos. Music, laughter, dancing, freedom. The wooden building gave the perfect acoustic. And if Andrea had been taking the piss out of me before for having all my music downloaded on my phone (because apparently, it’s 2022 and SoundCloud, YouTube, etc.), he shut up fast – my tracks were 320 bpm quality. Everything neatly organised into playlists. No need to search. DJ-ing with impatient dancers teaches you speed. Anyway, the closer we get to the end of the trail, the more we want to party – but also, weirdly, we don’t want to reach the end. It’s too good here. You want to cry from happiness. You don’t want it to stop. The freedom, the joy, the peace – you don’t get that anywhere else. Out here, things fall apart in the best possible way. And that’s exactly how it should be.
Oh yeah... we walked more than 40 km. But I stopped counting extra kilometres about six days ago. Whether it’s 2, 4, 7 or 10 – it’s all the bloody same.
[1] Karst is a geographical term to describe the rocky limestone plateau that occupies the area of Slovenia just inland from the Adriatic between Nova Gorica and Trieste.
