FROM ANTARCTICA TO AN ANGEL IN A WHITE CAR
Or how I went looking for a bed, found an entire village full of kind people, and nearly caught pneumonia.
Yesterday, I arrived in Campillo de Altobuey after another long day of walking. And apparently, the weather had decided that my life needed a little more variety.
Just a few hours earlier, I'd been walking in scorching heat, convinced I was going to die from the sun. But by the time I reached the village, someone up there had apparently pressed the wrong button on the air conditioning.
WE WENT FROM “I'M GOING TO DIE OF HEAT” TO “I'M GOING TO DIE OF COLD.”
Wonderful. Spain, I genuinely admire your ability to offer a person all four seasons in a single day. If this continues, I'll need skis tomorrow.
I arrived in the village absolutely starving. And when I say starving, I don't mean that pleasant kind of hunger where you wonder whether to have pasta or pizza for dinner.
No. I'm talking about the kind of hunger that makes you wonder whether the leather strap on your backpack might be edible if you boiled it long enough.
Only then did I realize that I HADN'T EATEN A SINGLE THING ALL DAY.
Well done, me. Truly outstanding planning.
You walk dozens of kilometres, look after your feet, plan your stops, check the weather and search for accommodation. And then you forget that insignificant little detail called food.
My stomach was apparently already preparing to file an official complaint.
But before I could go to a restaurant, there was one more urgent task to deal with.
A SHOWER.
Because when you can smell your own stink, you know things have become serious.
And I could.
If I already smelled suspicious to myself, I can only imagine what would have happened if I'd walked into a restaurant in that condition.
The customers would probably have started looking towards the kitchen, wondering whether someone's ferret had escaped. Or perhaps they would have called animal control.
“Excuse me, something smells absolutely terrible in here.”
“No, sir, that's just a pilgrim. She's just arrived.”
So I went to my accommodation first.
And when I opened the door to my room …
HEAVEN!
Actual heaven!
The room smelled wonderful. The bed looked so comfortable that I almost fell in love with it.
If I'd had the chance, I would have thrown myself onto it, closed my eyes and stayed there for the rest of my life.
They could have written on my gravestone:
“Here lies a woman who finally found a comfortable bed and refused to leave it.”
But my stomach had other plans.
It started protesting. And not discreetly.
The sounds coming from it resembled a symphony orchestra whose conductor had resigned, leaving every musician to play a completely different piece.
One was playing the drums. Another was on the trombone. A third was apparently trying to repair a tractor engine.
MY STOMACH WAS PUTTING ON A CONCERT.
And I was the only person in the audience.
So after my shower, I went out in search of food.
My first choice was a restaurant. But when I arrived, I realised I'd apparently missed the restaurant and walked straight into a Spanish music competition.
Loud Spanish music. Even louder Spaniards. Conversations that sounded like arguments, although everyone was probably just discussing the weather.
I honestly don't know how they do it. A Spaniard can ask a friend what time it is and sound as though he's demanding the release of a kidnapped family member.
And that kind of noise really isn't my idea of a pleasant meal.
After all those kilometres, flies and adventures, all I wanted was a little peace.
And food. Lots of food.
So I left the restaurant and found a tapas bar.
PEACE!
What a luxury!
Nobody was shouting. Nobody was putting on a concert. Nobody was trying to drown out the next table.
Finally, somewhere I could hear my own thoughts.
Although, to be fair, after that many kilometres, my thoughts weren't particularly interesting anymore.
Mostly, they just kept repeating:
“FOOD. FOOD. FOOD.”
So I ordered.
And then a little more.
And something else.
Because when you're starving, your eyes take charge of ordering, and your stomach loses its voting rights.
MISTAKE.
Apparently, my stomach had shrunk during the Camino. Which is rather rude.
You don't eat all day, and then the very organ that was staging a protest concert half an hour earlier suddenly informs you that there's no room left.
“Excuse me, madam, you've ordered too much.”
TOO MUCH?!
YOU WERE SCREAMING THAT YOU WERE DYING JUST A LITTLE WHILE AGO!
But that's how it goes. On the Camino, you learn that you can't always trust your own organs.
By the time I'd finished dinner, it had become quite cold outside. And windy.
The kind of wind that doesn't gently caress your face but makes it perfectly clear that you're not welcome.
So I hurried back to my accommodation.
My new best friend was waiting for me there.
THE BED.
And that night, she didn't disappoint.
She was comfortable. Warm. Kind.
She didn't snore. She didn't want to talk. She didn't ask where I came from or how many kilometres I'd walked.
She simply wrapped herself around me.
And I fell asleep.
Finally.
My body rested so well that I was already awake at six in the morning.
But this time, it wasn't my alarm that woke me. Or a dog. Or my internal pilgrim command centre.
IT WAS THE RAIN.
At first, I just listened. Raindrops. Rustling. Wind.
Then I looked towards the window.
“No, please. Not today.”
But the rain clearly had no intention of respecting my wishes.
It rained. And rained. And rained.
The bed was so comfortable that I immediately decided the smartest thing would be to stay another day.
I am on holiday, aren't I?
Well, on a rather strange kind of holiday where I voluntarily walk distances that normal people would cover by car.
But still.
A rest day. A warm bed. Rain outside the window. Perhaps a coffee.
THE PERFECT PLAN.
There was just one problem.
EVERYTHING WAS FULLY BOOKED.
My accommodation. Every other place in the village. Everything.
Not a single bed available.
Apparently, half of Spain had decided that this particular Sunday was the perfect time to spend the night in Campillo de Altobuey.
“Seriously, people, don't you have anywhere else to sleep?!”
And so my peaceful Sunday morning turned into a desperate search for accommodation.
In the rain. At six in the morning. On my phone.
Instead of enjoying my wonderful bed, I was scrolling through booking apps, searching for a solution.
Ten kilometres away? Nothing.
Twenty? Nothing.
Thirty? Nothing.
Forty? Nothing.
WITHIN A RADIUS OF APPROXIMATELY 60 KILOMETRES – EVERYTHING WAS FULL.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
You'd think there would be at least one available bed somewhere in Spain. Apparently not on the one day I desperately needed one.
Then I found something on an app that looked like a solution.
A MUNICIPAL PILGRIM HOSTEL.
Approximately 16 kilometres away.
Sixteen kilometres!
By my standards, practically a stroll to the supermarket.
“Excellent,” I thought. “I can manage that.”
Yes, it was raining. Yes, the wind was blowing. And yes, I had absolutely no idea whether the hostel was even open.
But what else could I do?
Stay in the village and ask someone to adopt me? Sleep on a bench? Attend Sunday Mass and hope the church had a spare bed?
No.
I decided to go.
SOMETIMES THE CAMINO SHOWS YOU ITS TEETH.
And today, it had apparently opened its mouth very wide.
Before leaving, I put on almost every piece of clothing I owned.
A T-shirt. Another layer. Long sleeves. Anything that might protect me from the cold.
If I'd had a blanket in my backpack, I'd probably have worn that too.
I was dressed for an expedition to Antarctica. The only difference was that instead of penguins, I was expecting yellow arrows.
And because I was wearing almost everything I owned, my backpack felt unusually light.
So light that I panicked.
“WAIT A MINUTE. WHAT HAVE I FORGOTTEN?!”
I checked everything. Phone. Wallet. Documents. The rest of my equipment.
It was all there.
My backpack was simply light because I was wearing most of its contents.
I'd practically turned myself into a walking wardrobe.
When I stepped outside, the rain was waiting for me.
And the wind.
Not some gentle breeze romantically messing up your hair.
No. The kind of wind that slaps you across the face and reminds you that you're trespassing on its territory.
THANK GOD I'D DRESSED FOR ANTARCTICA.
And off I went.
Without a guaranteed bed. Without a proper Plan B.
With just one goal.
Reach that village and hope there would be a roof waiting for me.
But then something unexpected happened.
THE WALK WAS ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL.
Really.
Despite the rain. Despite the wind. Despite the cold.
I walked along a winding paved road surrounded by pine trees. The road gently climbed and descended, its bends disappearing between the trees.
The air smelled of wet forest. Pine trees. Earth. Rain.
And for the first time in a while, I didn't feel as though I was walking through a landscape determined to kill me.
Well, at least not with flies.
Because today, there weren't any.
APPARENTLY, THE FLIES HAD TAKEN SUNDAY OFF.
THANK GOD!
Yesterday, they'd almost driven me into a psychiatric hospital. Today, they had apparently decided to stay home.
Perhaps they'd checked the weather forecast and decided that working in these conditions was simply unacceptable.
Smart little bastards.
I could learn something from them.
The route was so beautiful that I almost forgot about the rain.
Almost.
Because my equipment had one rather significant flaw.
MY TRAINERS ARE NOT WATERPROOF.
And after approximately ten minutes of walking, my feet were soaking wet.
Ten minutes!
They didn't even give me enough time to enjoy the illusion of a dry walk.
First, I felt a little dampness. Then a bit more. And finally came that wonderful moment when you realise you've got your very own private lake inside your shoes.
“Excellent,” I thought. “Apparently, today's programme includes hydrotherapy.”
Every step became a little wetter.
And while my upper body was dressed like a polar explorer, my feet were apparently enjoying a holiday at a swimming pool.
What a wonderful combination.
Antarctica upstairs. The Atlantic Ocean downstairs.
But I had no choice.
I could survive sixteen kilometres.
IF THERE REALLY WAS ACCOMMODATION WAITING FOR ME.
That was the tiny detail that wouldn't leave me alone.
If it was open. If it existed. If there was space. If they'd let me stay. If the app hadn't invented another fairy tale.
Because in my experience, Camino apps have extremely vivid imaginations.
Sometimes they send you down a path that ends at a cliff. Sometimes they show you a restaurant that doesn't exist. And sometimes they promise accommodation that may be nothing more than a local legend.
But I kept walking.
Eventually, I even got used to my wet feet.
Apparently, on the Camino, you get used to all sorts of things.
Pain. Heat. Hunger. Flies. And now the sensation of carrying two tiny aquariums inside your trainers.
Despite everything, this was one of my favourite stages so far.
Short. Beautiful. Peaceful.
With a few climbs, just enough to make me feel as though I'd actually walked somewhere.
Because if I don't climb at least one hill, my brain apparently thinks I've cheated.
“Only sixteen kilometres? And almost all on tarmac? That doesn't even count!”
Dear brain, my feet are soaking wet and the wind is throwing me around.
IT COUNTS.
It bloody well counts.
The closer I got to the village, the more uneasy I became.
According to the app, there was supposed to be a municipal pilgrim hostel there. And a bar. And a restaurant.
Practically a tourist paradise.
But that annoying little voice in my head started talking.
“What if there's nothing there?”
“What if the hostel is closed?”
“What if nobody's around?”
“What if you have to keep walking?”
And that kind of uncertainty can ruin even the most beautiful walk.
Because instead of admiring the pine trees, the winding road and the scenery, you start worrying about where you're going to sleep.
Whether you'll have a roof over your head. Whether you'll have to keep walking through the rain. Whether you'll end up sleeping outside.
And the closer I got, the more nervous I became.
Then I finally reached the village.
And …
NOTHING.
No bar. No restaurant. No accommodation.
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING THE APP HAD PROMISED.
Well, the village itself existed. I'll give the app that much.
At least it hadn't invented the entire village.
But everything else? Apparently science fiction.
Meanwhile, the rain was absolutely pouring down. The wind showed no signs of stopping. My feet were wet.
And I was getting seriously cold.
So cold that I started shaking.
Not the sort of shivering where you say, “Ooh, it's a bit chilly,” and zip up your jacket.
No. I was shaking so badly that I began to worry about how much longer I could stay outside.
AND THEN I SAW A CHURCH.
Of course.
Because if a Spanish village has no bar, shop, restaurant or accommodation, you can almost guarantee it has a church.
And today, that church was the most important building in the village.
Not because I was seeking spiritual enlightenment.
But because it had a roof.
“God, if you're home today, I'd really appreciate a little heating.”
I headed towards the church and stepped inside.
And …
WELL, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!
Apparently, the entire village was there.
At Mass.
EVERYONE.
Well, that's certainly how it looked to me.
And there I was.
Wet. Freezing. Wearing a backpack. Wrapped in practically every item of clothing I owned.
I looked like someone who had just returned from a failed expedition to the North Pole.
And naturally, I immediately became the centre of attention.
FANTASTIC.
Exactly what I wanted.
After sixteen kilometres in the rain, what I really needed was an entire village turning around to stare at me.
If there's one thing I hate, it's unnecessary attention.
I would have preferred to transform into a church pew and wait for the whole thing to be over.
But Mass was still in progress, and I didn't want to disturb anyone.
So I waited. Quietly.
Shivering. Trying to warm up. Wondering how on earth I was going to explain my situation.
Because I had one more small problem.
I DON'T SPEAK SPANISH.
Well, I know a few words.
Hola. Gracias. Cerveza. Buen Camino.
But that vocabulary isn't particularly useful when you need to explain that you've walked from another village, your app is a bloody liar, you've got nowhere to sleep and you're about to turn into an ice sculpture.
When Mass ended, I launched my rescue operation.
GOOGLE TRANSLATE, TO THE RESCUE!
I prepared approximately a thousand and one questions.
Where's the accommodation? Is it open? Is there a bar? Is there a taxi? Does a bus come here? Is there any transport to a bigger town? Can somebody point me in the right direction?
And most importantly:
HOW THE HELL DO I GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I FREEZE?
I'd also written on my phone that I didn't understand Spanish.
Which turned out to be a very important piece of information.
Just not to those people.
Because within approximately ten seconds, at least five locals had gathered around me.
Five people.
All of them wanted to help. All of them were talking. All at once. And all in Spanish.
FIVE SPANISH MOUTHS SURROUNDING MY HEAD.
Can you imagine?
If you think one loud Spaniard is lively, try five.
This was no longer a conversation. It was a conference.
Without a translator. Without microphones. Without a chairperson.
And with one freezing Slovenian woman in the middle who understood about as much as a rock beside the road.
I looked at them. They looked at me. They talked. I nodded.
Then I looked at Google Translate again. And back at them.
I UNDERSTOOD ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
But there was one thing I understood very quickly.
These people genuinely wanted to help.
They didn't dismiss me. They didn't wave me away. They didn't tell me it wasn't their problem.
They took the time. They tried to find a solution.
And eventually, I discovered the truth.
THERE WAS NOTHING IN THE VILLAGE.
No accommodation. No bar. No restaurant. No bus. No train. No taxi.
And definitely no municipal pilgrim hostel, despite what my app had so confidently advertised.
If that app had had a physical body, I would probably have grabbed it by the collar.
“LISTEN HERE, YOU DIGITAL LITTLE LIAR!”
“I'VE WALKED SIXTEEN KILOMETRES IN THE BLOODY RAIN!”
“NOW EXPLAIN TO ME WHERE MY BED IS!”
But the app remained silent.
As usual, whenever it was time to take responsibility.
The only thing the village apparently offered was coffee in a room where locals gathered after Mass.
And kind people.
VERY KIND PEOPLE.
An elderly woman noticed how badly I was shaking.
And she decided to take me somewhere warm. Somewhere I could have a coffee.
Because if you can't offer someone a bed, you can at least offer them something hot to drink.
I accepted. Obviously.
Because I was shaking like a woman's vibrator.
EXCEPT IN MY CASE, THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NO PLEASURE INVOLVED.
Quite the opposite.
If someone had plugged me into the electricity supply at that moment, I could probably have powered half the village.
The woman escorted me to the room where people gathered after Mass.
There, I finally had a chance to warm up a little.
And, more importantly, to stop thinking about whether I'd be sleeping outside that night.
Although my situation was still pretty terrible.
I had no accommodation. No transport. No idea what to do next.
And at that moment, I was dangerously close to tears.
Not because I was tired. Not because my shoes were wet.
But because I felt completely helpless.
Because you can walk fifty kilometres. You can survive scorching heat. You can laugh at flies and swear at Google.
But when you're standing in a strange village, freezing cold, unable to understand the language and with absolutely no idea where you're going to sleep, your sense of humour disappears for a while.
And in that moment, you need another human being.
Just one person who says:
“We'll help you.”
And then I saw her.
THE GIRL WITH PINK HAIR.
Among the people who had come for coffee was a young woman with pink hair.
And even more importantly …
SHE SPOKE A LITTLE ENGLISH!
HALLELUJAH!
If the heavens had opened and angels had started singing, I wouldn't have been surprised.
Finally, someone I could actually communicate with.
I went over and explained my situation.
That I'd arrived on foot. That I'd been looking for accommodation that didn't exist. That I was soaked and freezing. That I had nowhere to go.
And that I desperately needed transport back to civilisation.
I told her I was prepared to pay 70 euros if someone could drive me somewhere I could find a roof over my head.
Seventy euros.
For a lift.
Under normal circumstances, I'd probably have started negotiating at ten.
But today?
Today I'd have paid for a ride in a wheelbarrow, as long as it came with a roof.
She listened.
And then …
SHE SPRANG INTO ACTION.
No fuss. No endless discussions. No explanations about why it couldn't be done.
She started looking for a solution. Talking to people. Asking questions. Making calls.
And approximately fifteen minutes later, she came back to me.
SHE'D FOUND ME A RIDE!
Someone was willing to give up part of his Sunday to drive me to the town of Fuentes.
There, I'd found an available room. And the possibility of getting something to eat.
FUENTES!
I never imagined I'd be so happy to hear the name of a Spanish town.
If someone had told me there was a mattress waiting for me on the floor of a warehouse, I'd probably have replied:
“DOES IT HAVE A ROOF? PERFECT!”
Because between that village and Fuentes, I hadn't found anywhere I could stay.
No bar. No restaurant. No shop I could rely on.
If I'd continued walking, I risked being caught by darkness somewhere along the route.
In the rain. With soaking wet feet. Without a roof over my head.
And I really didn't want that.
When the girl told me she'd found transport, I was so happy I wanted to hug her and never let go.
A few minutes earlier, I'd been on the verge of tears from fear. Now I was on the verge of tears from relief.
WHAT A DIFFERENCE FIFTEEN MINUTES CAN MAKE.
She told me a man in a white car would come to collect me. Within two hours.
Two hours.
Under normal circumstances, that would have sounded like a long time.
But today?
Two hours somewhere warm, with coffee and a guaranteed lift?
LUXURY!
A hell of a lot better than spending the night under the open sky while the rain tested exactly how much water my backpack could absorb.
So I waited. And while I waited, I searched for and booked a hotel in Fuentes.
Finally, I had something concrete.
An address. A room. A bed. A roof.
Things we usually take completely for granted.
Today, they sounded like the greatest luxuries in the world.
And then …
THE CAR ARRIVED.
Not after two hours. Not after an hour and a half.
AFTER APPROXIMATELY THIRTY MINUTES!
Just as I'd finished booking my hotel.
The man had actually arrived a little early.
Which seemed almost unbelievable.
Because in the meantime, I'd already started wondering:
“What if he doesn't come?”
“What if he's changed his mind?”
“What if somebody misunderstood something?”
But no.
He came.
A white car. A real person. A real solution.
I'll admit I was a little nervous about getting into a car with a complete stranger.
Which is understandable.
But today, I decided to put that fear aside for a while.
Because I was freezing. Exhausted. And out of realistic alternatives.
And if the man had arrived on a tractor, I'd have accepted that too.
Even if the journey had taken twice as long.
JUST GET ME BACK TO CIVILISATION!
When he got out of the car, he looked so kind.
He smiled. He greeted me.
And me?
I was so happy I practically attacked him with a hug.
Actually, I did hug him.
And thanked him.
Because it was Sunday.
Sunday!
A day when someone could be resting. Spending time with family. Sitting on the sofa. Going out for lunch. Or simply doing absolutely nothing.
But this man had decided to spend part of his Sunday helping a Slovenian woman he'd never met, stranded in some little village.
A COMPLETE STRANGER.
Someone he owed absolutely nothing to. Someone he had nothing to gain from helping.
Just another human being who needed help.
And that genuinely moved me.
As soon as I got into the car, I offered him 70 euros.
Exactly what I'd promised.
But he refused.
“Too much,” he told me.
TOO MUCH?!
Dear sir, you clearly don't understand that you've just saved my Sunday, my sanity and probably several days of my life.
I insisted. He insisted.
And so the negotiations began.
HIM: 20 EUROS.
ME: 70 EUROS.
Quite an unusual situation.
Normally, people negotiate because they want to pay less.
Today, I was negotiating because I wanted to pay more.
If anyone had overheard us, they'd probably have thought we were both completely mad.
“No, sir, please, take more!”
“No, madam, that's too much!”
Eventually, we reached a compromise.
40 EUROS.
And we were both happy.
Although I'd happily have paid him extra simply for being such a lovely person.
Because he hadn't just saved my day.
HE'D ALSO SAVED ME FROM GETTING EVEN MORE DANGEROUSLY COLD.
The drive was lovely.
It was warm. I was sitting down. I didn't have to carry anything. I didn't have to search for anything. I didn't have to solve another bloody problem.
I just sat in the car and looked out of the window.
And for the first time that day, I could finally breathe.
But my feelings were mixed.
Because the road we were driving along was actually part of the route I was supposed to walk.
MY ROUTE.
And it was beautiful.
Truly beautiful.
The kind of landscape I'd have loved to explore on foot. Winding roads. Trees. Views.
That special kind of beauty that had brought me to the Camino in the first place.
And there I was, watching it through a car window.
That made me a little sad.
Because I hadn't wanted to skip part of the route. I hadn't wanted to cheat. I hadn't wanted to miss those kilometres.
But outside, the rain was coming down in buckets.
I was freezing.
I hadn't had guaranteed accommodation until I'd finally found that hotel in Fuentes.
And today, I'd had to make a decision that wasn't romantic, but was sensible.
SOMETIMES THE CAMINO ISN'T ABOUT KEEPING WALKING AT ANY COST.
Sometimes it's about knowing when to accept help.
Admitting that you can't do absolutely everything on your own.
And understanding that one car ride doesn't make you any less of a person.
Or any less of a pilgrim.
There will be plenty more kilometres.
My legs will have countless opportunities to hate me.
But today, what mattered was getting somewhere warm and safe.
When we finally arrived in Fuentes, I felt an enormous wave of relief.
CIVILISATION!
A town. People. Bars. The possibility of food.
And somewhere nearby, my booked room.
A bed. Warm. Dry. Wonderful.
But before we said goodbye, I had one last request.
I asked the man whether he could stop outside a bar and wait for me for two minutes.
He probably had no idea what I was planning.
Perhaps he thought I desperately needed the toilet. Or that I'd suddenly remembered I still hadn't had enough coffee that day.
But no.
I had another plan.
BEER.
I went into the bar and bought him a beer.
As a thank-you.
Because, after all, I'd taken roughly two hours out of his Sunday.
Two hours he could have spent doing absolutely anything else.
And although he'd helped me without expecting a big payment, I wanted to thank him in my own way.
Because I'm not exactly the sort of person who can deliver a magnificent speech of gratitude in moments like that.
It's much easier for me to hug someone and buy them a beer.
THAT'S MY KIND OF DIPLOMACY.
And when I think back on everything that happened today, it almost seems unbelievable.
This morning, I was lying in the most comfortable bed in the world, listening to the rain.
Then I discovered I had nowhere to sleep that night.
I set off on a sixteen-kilometre walk through rain and wind.
After ten minutes, my shoes were soaked.
I arrived in a village where absolutely nothing the app had promised actually existed.
I was shaking from the cold.
I was terrified I might have to sleep outside.
And then people appeared.
An elderly woman who took me somewhere warm.
Locals who tried to help, even though I couldn't understand a word they were saying.
A young woman with pink hair who found a solution.
And a man with a white car who came to collect me without hesitation.
FOUR DIFFERENT MOMENTS OF KINDNESS.
Actually, many more, because so many people helped.
And not one of them knew me.
Not one of them owed me anything.
Yet they helped anyway.
Today, I didn't walk fifty kilometres. I didn't conquer a huge mountain. I didn't reach some spectacular castle. And I didn't complete the stage the way I'd planned.
But today, I experienced something that will probably stay with me far longer than any kilometre I've ever walked.
THE KINDNESS OF COMPLETE STRANGERS.
On the Camino, sometimes you're searching for the path. Sometimes for a bed. Sometimes for coffee. And sometimes simply for another human being who will help when you have absolutely no idea what to do.
Today, I went looking for accommodation.
But I found something much more beautiful.
Proof that there are still people in this world who are willing to help simply because they can.
And when I finally found myself in Fuentes, dry and with a guaranteed roof over my head, I knew one thing.
TODAY, IT WASN'T A YELLOW ARROW THAT SAVED ME.
Not Google.
Not the app.
IT WAS PEOPLE.
And although today's stage was short, it's one I'll never forget.
Because sometimes the greatest distance isn't the one you cover with your feet.
It's the distance you travel from fear to relief.
From helplessness to gratitude.
From feeling completely alone to realising that you're not.
Buen Camino!
P.S. Dear app, next time you promise me accommodation, it would be lovely if that accommodation actually existed. Because today, I very nearly booked a room with Saint Peter.
P.P.S. And to everyone in that little village: if I spoke enough Spanish, I'd have told you so much more than just gracias. But I hope you understood. Because I understood almost none of your words, but I understood your kindness perfectly.