Embarking on the Camino:A Journey of Discovery
Day 3. Cizur Menor to Cirauqui
Day 8. Grañón toVillafranca Montes de Oca
Day 9. Villafranca Montes de Oca to Burgos
Day 10. Burgos toArroyo de San Bol
Day 11. Arroyo de San Bol toBoadilla del Camino
Day 12. Boadilla del Camino toCarrión de los Condes
Day 13. Carrión de los Condes to Sahagún
Day 14. Sahagún toMansilla de las Mulas
Day 15. Mansilla de las Mulas to León
Day 16. León toHospital de Orbigo
Day 17. Astorga toRabanal del Camino
Day 18. Rabanal del Camino to Molinaseca
Day 19. Molinaseca toVillafranca del Bierzo
Day 20. Villafranca del Bierzo toO Cebreiro
Day 22. Sarria toHospital de la Cruz
Day 23. Hospital de la Cruz to Ribadiso
Day 24. Ribadiso toSantiago de Compostela
The Final Step:Santiago de Compostela
Step into the heart of the legendary El Camino Francés with me! As I journey through Spain, I'll uncover stunning landscapes, share hidden treasures, and reflect on the meaningful moments that make this pilgrimage unforgettable. From snapshots of serene beauty to stories of resilience and mindful self-care, come along for a daily glimpse into this transformative adventure.
The heat in my room is stifling, yet my excitement is palpable as I sit on my bed, staring at my well-worn boots and trusty backpack. These boots aren’t just shoes—they’re partners in adventure, bought after a rather amusing cow-chasing incident and tested on countless treks up our local hill. Now, they’re about to carry me on a path I’ve dreamed of for over a year: El Camino de Santiago.
It all began last spring when I read Shirley MacLaine’s The Camino, a mesmerizing account of spiritual discovery along the way. Soon after, I devoured a Hungarian traveler’s reflections, detailing their own journey from Pamplona to Santiago. Their stories painted vivid pictures in my mind: pilgrims standing before the towering cathedral, joy radiating from their faces after walking nearly 800 kilometers. Each tale stirred something deep within me.
Every time I saw images of Santiago de Compostela, I envisioned myself standing there, feeling the weight—and wonder—of the journey in my legs. Back then, it felt like an unattainable dream. But today, that dream is within reach. I hold the booking confirmation for my flight, and the realization sends shivers through me: it’s happening.
My boots and I are setting out together. “Will you take care of me on this path?” I ask silently, knowing the answer lies in every step we’ll take together.
Why am I doing this? It’s not just about reaching the cathedral after 800 kilometers. I’m curious about the journey itself: the lessons the road will teach, the people I’ll meet along the way. What drives them to undertake this pilgrimage? What stories do they carry in their hearts?
As I sit here, my mind races with anticipation. I feel as though I’m at a crossroads in life—a significant chapter about to unfold. The path ahead is unknown, yet thrilling in its uncertainty. What will the Way of St. James reveal to me? What lies beyond Santiago?
I’m not sure, but I’ve decided to embrace the unknown. This will be a journey without expectations, a leap into the familiar unfamiliar. After all, without expectations, there can be no disappointments.
With every passing moment, the thrill of waiting grows. Waiting for the flight. Waiting for the first step on the Camino. Waiting to discover how this journey will change me.
And so, with my loyal boots at my side, I’ll walk toward the unknown, ready to let the road write its own story. The Camino awaits.
An expectation-free journey? It sounds like a lofty goal, but how often do we truly escape the web of our own desires and demands? Even before I began, I realized how tightly bound I was to my own expectations.
Take yesterday, for instance. Our flight from Budapest to Bergamo was scheduled to depart at 7 PM. Naturally, I expected it to be on time—but of course, it wasn’t. The delay was a mere hour, but it felt like a betrayal of my imagined timeline. Once we arrived at Bergamo Orio al Serio Airport, our adventure took an unexpected turn. We scouted out a quiet bench to settle on, shared a modest dinner, and chatted softly. Exhaustion soon took over, and I attempted to sleep sitting up before eventually spreading out my sleeping mat on the floor.
Cold seeped through me as I dozed, only to be woken at 2 AM and shuffled out of the terminal into a drafty holding area. This, too, was unexpected. Yet what could I do? I resumed my half-sleep on the floor, shivering as the minutes dragged by. At 4 AM, we were allowed back into the terminal, and by 6:30 AM, our flight to Zaragoza was finally airborne. Ironically, we arrived 15 minutes early, a rare instance where reality surpassed expectations.
The Zaragoza Airport was a world of contrasts—a vast empty space punctuated by a small, boxy building. We disembarked, collected our bags, and hopped on a local bus to the city center. By now, motion itself felt like a relief. Soon, we found ourselves at the central bus station, where we secured tickets for the next leg of our journey: Pamplona.
Excitement buzzed between us as the reality of the Camino grew closer. In Pamplona, we purchased tickets to Roncesvalles and waited at the bus stop, surrounded by fellow pilgrims. Spotting them was effortless. Walking sticks—one or two in hand—backpacks adorned with scallop shells, the unmistakable symbol of the Camino, and often a gourd or two hung from their packs. Some shells were real, others plastic, but all carried a sense of purpose and tradition.
Watching the crowd gather, I couldn’t help but think: Is this a circus, or am I one of these performers? I chuckled inwardly at my own doubts. Was I just an observer of this "monkey parade," or was I one of the performers, unwilling to admit it?
At 4 PM, the buses began to roll out, packed to the brim with pilgrims. Locals and foreigners alike, each marked by the scallop shell, gourds, hiking poles, and backpacks of all sizes. There were weathered travelers with patched gear and well-worn clothes, alongside polished trekkers with brand-new, top-of-the-line equipment. Despite our outward differences, we crammed into the buses like sardines, bound by the shared purpose of the Camino.
As I settled into the crowded bus, I realized that this journey—delays, discomforts, and all—had already begun to teach me its lessons. Expectations may be inevitable, but it’s in letting go of them that the true beauty of the path reveals itself.
Roncesvalles was teeming with people, each one buzzing with anticipation, storming the starting point of the Camino de Santiago. The sheer energy was palpable as pilgrims from all walks of life arrived, their faces a blend of excitement and nerves. For us, the decision was clear: it was too late in the day to venture across the Pyrenees to St. Jean Pied de Port. Rest would serve us better than pushing forward. After all, the success of the journey wouldn’t hinge on this one segment.
We soon found the main building where the transformation into official pilgrims began. The process was orderly, yet impersonal—pilgrims allowed entry in groups of twenty, each completing the essential paperwork to receive their pilgrim passport. It was here that I experienced the first jolt of separation from my travel companion. She was whisked through the heavy oak doors ahead of me, while I remained outside, waiting my turn.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged, explaining that the passport cost one euro, and the accommodation fee was five. She promised to wait for me, though her voice barely registered as I was swept inside by the next wave of eager pilgrims.
Once inside, I encountered a slight hiccup. Unlike my companion, I was asked to pay eight euros for lodging. Irritated, I voiced my complaint, only to be curtly informed that the five-euro spaces were gone. There was no room for negotiation. Frustration bubbled up—why couldn’t we stay in the same place? This wasn’t how I imagined the Camino beginning. It felt mechanical, stripped of its romanticism, as if the sacred pilgrimage had been reduced to an assembly line.
My companion showed me her assigned sleeping quarters: a cavernous room, likely a former stable, now lined with bunk beds for sixty or seventy people, all sharing the same open space. By contrast, my lodging was far less crowded—just seven others shared the room, and there were no bunk beds. It was cozy, even charming. I invited her to see it, but she declined, preferring to text her loved ones back home.
The afternoon passed quietly. We sat in the sunshine, watching the sheep in a neighboring field—precision lawnmowers in fluffy white coats—and shared the sandwiches we’d packed. By the day’s end, we said our goodbyes with a plan to meet at 8 AM and begin the trek together.
As I held my pilgrim passport, complete with its first stamp, a sense of peace washed over me. The day hadn’t gone as expected—separation, confusion, and frustration had threatened to derail my enthusiasm. But in surrendering to the unpredictable flow of the Camino, I found a strange comfort.
The journey had begun, and with it came a lesson: expectations are inevitable, but they’re also mine to manage. If I could let go of them, even just a little, the path ahead might surprise me in ways I could never predict. For now, I’ll simply walk, knowing that somehow, everything will work out.
Ahead lies a journey of self-discovery, winding trails, breathtaking landscapes, and the companionship of fellow pilgrims, all leading to Santiago de Compostela. Each step will carry the whispers of centuries of travelers, and I can’t wait to add my own story to this ancient path.
Here’s to the start of something unforgettable.
Buen Camino!
A Late Start on the Camino:
Lessons in Pace and Perspective
The night before, we had no idea that waking up at 8 AM on the Camino was practically heresy. In my shared room, the early risers stirred at 5 AM, and by 5:30, they were already on their way, rustling bags and clicking flashlight switches. Meanwhile, I cocooned myself under the covers and drifted back into a blissful sleep. When my phone alarm finally chimed at 7 AM, I awoke to an eerie silence—the building was completely deserted.
The hallways were empty, echoing with absence, and the only soul I encountered was the cleaning lady in the bathroom. Refreshed and well-rested, I packed my things and headed down to meet my travel companion.
What greeted me wasn’t exactly heartwarming. She was sitting alone on the curb outside the main entrance, her face pale and lips downturned, staring fixedly at the door. She’d been up since 4 AM, unable to fall back asleep due to the endless shuffling and zipping of her fellow pilgrims. By 7, she’d already been waiting an hour for me.
"Why didn’t you come and wake me?" I asked.
"I didn’t know where you were," she replied, regret creeping into her voice. "I wish I’d checked your room yesterday. I just sat here hoping you’d come sooner."
Despite the rough start, we set off together, leaving behind the frustrations of the morning. The day stretched before us like a promise, our spirits buoyed as we searched for the familiar markers of the Camino—the stone scallop shells and yellow arrows. The path took us through idyllic countryside, past quaint villages and rolling landscapes that seemed plucked from a dream. Our steps felt light, and so did our packs, as if the weight of yesterday’s struggles had evaporated.
For a while, we even entertained the thought of making it to Pamplona that day. But by noon, the heat was oppressive, and my companion’s feet began to protest. Her new boots had betrayed her, causing swelling and blisters. The scorching sun made every step feel heavier, and we both agreed it was time to stop at the next town with an albergue. Pamplona would have to wait.
We arrived in Zubiri, only to find that all the beds were taken. The only option left was the sports hall, where pilgrims slept on foam mats. "Perfect!" we said in unison, laughing at our own lowered expectations.
By 1:30 PM, we were settled. The airy space of the sports hall felt like a blessing compared to the cramped dormitories we’d imagined. Without the stifling closeness of packed rooms, the noise was muted, and we didn’t feel like sardines in a tin.
That day taught us an invaluable Camino lesson: the race for beds belongs to the early birds, but there’s a quiet joy in going at your own pace. We may not have secured private rooms or the best beds, but we found solace in simplicity—and sometimes, that’s the real reward.
A Day of Contrasts on the Camino
Some days on the Camino are defined by the weather, the terrain, or the moments of camaraderie. This day, however, was defined by contrasts—one traveler’s ease versus another’s struggle, charm versus frustration, and fiesta energy versus quiet retreat.
The weather was overcast, and the walk wasn’t particularly challenging—for me, at least. For my companion, however, it was the opposite. Her boots, already proving treacherous, pressed against her blistered feet with such ferocity that every step was a battle. She winced with pain, her face betraying the stars she claimed to see.
We paused for a café con leche in Arre, but even this brief respite carried its own frustration. The coffee, served in a standard bar, cost twice as much as it had in Galicia. To top it off, the server's attitude was as bitter as the coffee itself, sprinkled with disdain instead of cinnamon.
Reaching Pamplona was a bright spot in the day. The city was alive with the spirit of San Fermín, its streets teeming with tourists from around the world. Flags and flowers adorned the buildings, though they mingled with the litter of the previous night’s revelry. The fiesta atmosphere was infectious, even for weary pilgrims passing through.
Unfortunately, my companion’s feet couldn’t carry her much farther. We made it to Cizur Menor, where we found shelter at the Maltese Charity House. The cold wind whistled through the evening, discouraging any ambitious plans to explore. Instead, we stayed in, exchanging simple, unremarkable conversations with fellow pilgrims.
Our dinner was as humble as the day itself: bread and chocolate, a combination chosen more for practicality than indulgence. Yet it served its purpose, fueling us for the challenges of tomorrow.
Some Camino days are filled with triumphs and revelations; others, like this one, are quieter, defined by perseverance and small comforts. Not every step is easy, but every step counts.
The morning started with chaos—early risers frantically packing, headlamps flashing, and Conchi’s laughter echoing through the room. By 5 a.m., the dorm was alive with activity, leaving me no choice but to start the day earlier than planned. Sleep was clearly not on the itinerary!
By the time I reached Puente de la Reina, familiar faces were already gathered, waiting for the albergue to open. This town, a popular stopping point, hummed with pilgrim energy. We decided to pause for something sweet—a café con leche and a pastry—and stock up on provisions. Feeling refreshed, We chose to continue walking, letting the Camino guide me seven kilometers further to Cirauqui.
From a distance, the village seemed almost mythical, its silhouette shimmering in the heat—was it an oasis or a mirage? Nestled atop a hill with steep, winding streets, the climb was a challenge, but the reward was sweet. An elderly man on a bench kindly pointed us toward a charming parish albergue, where the cool rooms and welcoming aromas of home-cooked food awaited. Our host, a cheerful volunteer from Vigo, made us feel at home instantly.
The evening was peaceful—washing, resting, attending mass, and sharing a simple communal meal. Later, as I wandered the village, I learned that Cirauqui’s name means “nest of snakes.” Sitting by the church, I found myself deep in thought, recalculating budgets and answering endless questions from my companion about daily expenses. Suddenly, they stopped me mid-thought: “The more you cling to money, the less it flows. Let it move freely, and it’ll always come back to you.”
Their words hit me like a revelation. Why was I carrying the weight of someone else’s worries? I decided then and there to let go—of the numbers, the overplanning, and the stress. Money will come and go, but the Camino teaches you that what you truly need always finds its way to you.
Our day ended on a beautiful note when an elderly gentleman gifted us flowers from his bouquet. We later offered them to Maria at the parish, a small gesture that carried the essence of the Camino: giving and receiving in perfect harmony.
The morning greeted us at a sensible hour—7 a.m.—with Maria sending us off from the sunlit charm of the little village, fueled by her thoughtful breakfast. The Camino stretched out ahead, guiding us over dusty roads and Roman bridges. But as the miles wore on, so did our energy and patience. Step by step, my thoughts spiraled: Why did I come here? What am I even searching for? Should I just hop on the next bus and fly home?
By the time we reached Estella, the albergues were abuzz with pilgrims. Many had already claimed their beds, grinning as if they'd won some kind of race. Watching the hustle, it struck me as absurd—a competition of who could wake up earlier or arrive first, only to wait hours for the doors to open. I shrugged it off and moved on.
A little further along, we stumbled upon a unique stop—a fountain (La Fuente de Irache) dispensing wine instead of water. While I passed on the drink, we met a fascinating cyclist, whose effortless charisma made him seem like a hidden legend. Encounters like these kept the spirit of the Camino alive. Who knows? Perhaps destiny has its own plans—even a chance meeting with a prince on a white horse isn’t out of the question!
Then came the stretch that tested every ounce of resolve. A misstep in navigation led us to a nearly endless path—20 kilometers without shade, water, or a single soul in sight. The sun blazed mercilessly, and my hope began to wither. A lone tavern offered brief refuge, though even its keeper confirmed our fears: the next village, with any promise of rest, was still 10 kilometers away.
The final hours were a battle of willpower. Step after step through vast wheat fields and vineyards, counting the distance to Los Arcos. When a sign finally announced it was just five kilometers away, I laughed and cried at once, fueled by a mix of relief and disbelief.
We reached Los Arcos as the evening descended. After a few frustrating rejections at full albergues, we stumbled upon a miracle—a room just for us, shared with two towering young ladies and a spirited Spanish woman. Exhaustion took over, but I couldn't help noticing the girls’ peculiar dining ritual—barely tasting their yogurt and donuts before tossing the rest into the trash. A snapshot of our consumer culture, laid bare.
As the day ended, a profound lesson lingered: trust the Camino. While the road may seem relentless and uncertain, there’s always a way forward. Shelter, sustenance, and solace appear when you need them most—so long as you’re willing to trust the journey.
La Fuente has a webcam and you can see the pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago who visit it in real time.
We set out a little late today—those early alarms just don’t seem to stick! Following the yellow arrows, I fell into the rhythm of the line of pilgrims, passing Sansol and Torres del Rio, peaceful villages where the albergues seemed less chaotic than those we’d seen before. I thought, perhaps yesterday’s trek was too much to even dream of making it this far. Beyond them? Miles of vineyards and rolling hills as we edged closer to the famous Rioja wine region.
Viana greeted us with the now-familiar sight of long lines outside the albergues. I wondered if these early risers saw the Camino as a race, each one competing for a coveted bed. The thought irritated me. It wasn’t why I came. Instead of waiting, I decided to keep walking. Logroño was still far ahead, its silhouette teasing us on the horizon, and the winding, sun-baked path felt like a trial designed to test our resolve.
When we finally arrived, weary and drained, the albergues were full, but we found shelter in a small pension. It wasn’t what I’d planned, but the quiet room with clean sheets and a private bathroom felt like a blessing. After a quick snack, I collapsed into the bed, the day's aches melting into the softness beneath me.
Later, as the city’s evening lights glowed, I wandered Logroño’s bustling streets. People laughed and lingered over wine, reveling in the kind of joy that felt both foreign and familiar. Watching them, I realized I wasn’t envious; I was content. The Camino strips away excess—comforts, plans, even expectations. But it gives back in unexpected ways.
That night, as I savored an ice cream cone under the warm Spanish sky, I thought: Today wasn’t perfect. But it was enough. And maybe that’s the magic of this journey—learning to let go of what you can’t control and finding gratitude in what you have
This morning began with a jolt—an early call from home woke me, groggy but grateful for the nudge to start the day. The city of Logroño took nearly an hour to leave behind, its sprawling streets stretching longer than expected. Passing a small newsstand, a sign caught my eye: "600 kilometers to Santiago." I shook my head with a mix of disbelief and determination. The road ahead still seemed endless.
Along the way, we came across an elderly man with a long beard offering fruit, cookies, and keepsakes. His table held small treasures—a pebble painted with the yellow arrow, a walking stick, and even a stamp for our pilgrim passports. His kindness felt like a gift, and while I declined the walking stick, the pebble became a talisman for the journey.
By the time we reached Navarrete, hunger had set in. Our solution? A "chocolate sandwich" crafted from half a loaf of bread and a bar of chocolate tucked inside. Odd, perhaps, but it kept us going for miles. The vineyards stretched endlessly beyond, their winding paths playing tricks on our weary legs. Some pilgrims chose shortcuts along the road, but we stuck to the Camino’s yellow arrows, even as it added extra distance.
Nájera loomed ahead, feeling further away with every step. By the time we arrived, the town’s dusty streets and crowded albergues were anything but inviting. Lines of pilgrims jockeyed for a spot, their competitive energy palpable. A man urged us to place our bags in line quickly, but something inside me resisted. I didn’t want to spend the night in a frenzy of competition. Instead, we chose to move on, and the decision brought an unexpected sense of peace.
With each step away from the chaos, our spirits lifted. By the time we reached Azofra, fatigue had given way to joy. A modern albergue welcomed us with clean, private cubicles, warm showers, and even a washer and dryer—a small slice of paradise for two weary travelers. We shared stories with a Russian pilgrim, explored the quiet village, and enjoyed a well-earned meal. That night, as we rested in comfort, the struggles of the day felt far away.
The Camino challenges you, but it also rewards those who listen to their hearts. And today, I learned that sometimes, peace lies in walking away from the crowd
I woke up feeling strangely rested, as if the world around me had shifted, or maybe it was just me. Passing a newly constructed village, we saw rows of half-finished homes—empty shells with no life yet inside. And there, amidst the silence, someone practiced their golf swing on a pristine course nearby. It was such a bizarre, almost surreal scene.
In Santo Domingo de la Calzada, we wandered into a lively tapas bar where the air buzzed with 60s Spanish music. The patrons were mostly local men, enjoying plates of fried rabbit ears, pig snouts, and lamb chops while puffing on pipes and cigars. We joined the feast, ordering liver prepared in the local style from a gruff but secretly kind waiter. New faces drifted in, board games were laid out, conversations grew louder, and for a moment, I wanted to stay and soak in the joy of it all.
But the road was calling. After mailing a few postcards and marveling at the storks perched on rooftops, we arrived in the next village and asked the first person we saw for directions to the albergue. By luck, it turned out to be the parish priest himself. He welcomed us warmly, showing us around his humble refuge. A wooden donation box at the entrance allowed pilgrims to give or take as they needed. Food, drink, and simple sleeping mats upstairs—everything spoke of generosity and trust.
That evening, the parish filled with an eclectic mix of people—some quietly kind, others bold and brimming with stories. We helped set the tables for dinner and soon found ourselves in a swirl of cultures: Brazilian boys recounting their adventures, Tamara, a Swiss nuclear physicist, and a petite yet strong Frenchman who was the spitting image of Asterix (and possibly just as strong, having already walked through France). As newcomers to this journey, their tales felt inspiring and humbling all at once.
After a shared prayer and a hearty meal, the playful priest delivered one last instruction: snorers were to move their mattresses to the church balcony near the organ, so the rest could sleep in peace. He reminded the early risers to tread lightly, for the road demands strength of both body and soul.
It’s the seventh day, and we rest—grateful, connected, and ready for whatever comes next.
What a night! Sleep? Not a chance. The woman next to me spent the entire night snoring like a freight train, and as if that weren’t enough, the early risers decided to start rustling plastic bags at 5 a.m. The cherry on top was the pilgrim beside me, who casually tossed her belongings onto my mat as she packed. Just as I thought the chaos was over, she stormed back up the stairs with a flashlight, scanning the room for forgotten items. Between the stomping feet and piercing light, I was wide awake—furious enough to consider divine intervention might not save her from my wrath!
With that mood, the morning started… rough. On the way out, I caught sight of a well-dressed pilgrim helping himself from the donation box, proving once again that the Camino is full of surprises.
By 6 a.m., we were on the road. Step by step, the frustration began to melt away, replaced by the rhythmic peace of walking through villages and fields. The morning brightened when we ran into the Brazilian boys again, sharing stories and laughs as we walked together to Belorado. There, we couldn’t resist stopping at the town square for steaming café con leche and marlenka cake—a perfect pick-me-up for the gray, windy day.
Curious about the path ahead, we popped into the pilgrim information center, where they assured us sunny weather was on the way. And they were right—the landscape grew quieter, the clouds scattered, and the sun blazed down with determination. By the time we reached Villafranca Montes de Oca, I was ready to rest.
Our lodging for the night was an old school building, a poignant reminder of the village’s challenges: dwindling populations, no work, and few children. Across the street, we discovered a small bar that became our afternoon haven. We lingered over tea for hours, eventually giving in to hunger and ordering the pilgrim menu. With each glass of wine that accompanied the meal, our conversations grew deeper, and our plans for solving the world’s problems became increasingly ambitious.
As the day faded into evening, we strolled back to the albergue. Armed with bright orange earplugs, zipped snugly into my sleeping bag, and still grinning from the wine, I prepared for a good night’s sleep—braces flashing under the fluorescent lights as I drifted off with hope for tomorrow’s journey.
Lesson of the day: good wine = no snoring. Or maybe just enough wine and sheer exhaustion can knock anyone out!
The morning greeted us with brilliant sunshine, not a cloud in sight. The path led uphill through oak and pine forests, with dew glistening on thick spiderwebs. Tiny villages with barely half a dozen houses dotted the way, where we stopped for a simple breakfast of café con leche and chocolate biscuits. Along the trail, we even passed a lone man meditating by the roadside, his intense gaze sizing up every pilgrim who walked by.
After cresting a steep hill, Burgos finally came into view. But, having learned from past experience, we knew the city was still far off—deceptively far. The sun showed no mercy, and neither did the unyielding asphalt. At 40°C, the heat pushed my limits, burning my calves and leaving me drenched in sweat.
Getting into Burgos was a saga of its own. Detours around highways, train tracks, and rows of new houses made the city seem unreachable. Finally, we stumbled into a bar for a cold drink and some advice. The bartender offered us a tempting shortcut—a bus leaving right from the bar in 30 minutes. Oh, the Camino guilt kicked in immediately. We debated, but the sight of the bus pulling up settled it—we ran for it!
Skipping a bleak stretch of industrial park and endless roads felt like a mercy. We got off where the city truly began and walked the rest of the way. But the challenges weren’t over. The first albergue was full, and we were told to head to the opposite end of town. Exhausted, we trudged on, completing the routine: check-in, stamp, showers, laundry, and hanging our clothes out to dry.
To salvage the evening, we hopped on a little train heading back into the city. At last, we could explore Burgos! The majestic cathedral, a leisurely stroll, and a quick stop at the market gave us a taste of culture and relaxation—a much-needed break from the relentless march.
Dinner was a humble affair at a rustic wooden table, but it ended on a sour note. My thoughts spiraled, and the crowded dorm only heightened my discomfort. All I wanted was for morning to come and bring clarity with it.
By morning, my mind had settled, and a sense of calm had returned. Reaching Rabé de las Calzadas, we were greeted on the main street by a nun dressed in white. She handed out tiny Virgin Mary medallions to each pilgrim. I tied mine to my backpack—a small yet powerful blessing to carry forward. A few steps further, we came across a house offering a pilgrim breakfast. The hostess, a kind-hearted mother, welcomed us with open arms. For a small donation, we enjoyed a meal that nourished not just our bodies but our spirits too.
The day’s walk turned into a steady, almost meditative rhythm. Golden wheat fields stretched endlessly to the horizon under a blazing blue sky. The heat was relentless, making the trek feel even longer. But then, nestled in a valley, we spotted a little house surrounded by trees. Could there be shade? Maybe even water? As we got closer, we discovered it was a rustic pilgrim refuge—a "hippie albergue." Without hesitation, we decided to stop for the night.
The place was unlike any other. A handful of mismatched beds scattered in small rooms, a run-down kitchen, and a large outdoor table under a wooden terrace. The "toilet" was a makeshift outhouse labeled “shitting house” with canvas walls tucked beside the wheat fields. For bathing, there was an outdoor concrete pool filled with ice-cold water. The caretaker, an eccentric free spirit, lived off herbal cigarettes and a laid-back philosophy. It was unconventional but perfect—a sanctuary for weary pilgrims.
We spent the afternoon stretched out on foam mats beneath the trees, lost in thought and the slow rhythm of time. Evening brought a shared meal, soft guitar melodies, and a chance to connect with fellow travelers. A German couple shared their story of stepping away from modern life—detaching from property, banks, and money to live independently of global systems. Their ideals left me pondering the choices we make and the freedom we seek.
Sometimes, the simplest places bring the deepest peace.
We set off as a group of three: my travel companion, a Russian guy, and me—though I usually found myself walking half a kilometer ahead with my trusty boots. At that distance, I could at least avoid the incessant click-click of his walking stick, which would have driven me mad otherwise.
The scenery felt like a fairytale. Rolling hills, golden wheat fields, and even a castle-like silhouette in the distance. It wouldn’t have surprised me if a prince on a white horse had appeared! Instead, a car pulled up beside me, and the driver handed me a flyer for a pilgrim hostel with a pool. Tempting, right?
I waited for my companions by a roadside chapel in the middle of nowhere, and we took a short break. Later, in Itero de la Vega, we met an eccentric 88-year-old man proudly showing off his garage-turned-Camino shrine, complete with posters and postcards from pilgrims around the world. He urged us to send him one, and I made a mental note to do just that. The rest of the walk seemed endless—nothing but the promise of that pool kept me going.
When we finally arrived, the hostel was just as described, and thankfully, they had room for us! But there was a catch: no food, no store nearby, and dinner wasn’t until the set menu later in the evening. At least the pool made up for it. Floating in the cool water washed away the exhaustion and the miles. Among the pilgrims, we noticed a Spanish guy who looked strikingly like a classic depiction of Jesus. We joked, solved the world’s problems, and waited with growling stomachs for dinner.
In the large dining hall, tables were pushed together, and pilgrims from all over sat shoulder to shoulder. It was a chaotic but warm atmosphere—a true Camino moment. I spent half an hour begging for wine, and when it finally arrived, my neighbor promptly knocked the glass over. To my dismay, there was no sign they planned to replace it.
That night was anything but restful. Someone nearby snored so loudly it felt like the walls were vibrating. If only I’d had that glass of wine, maybe I could’ve slept!
The morning began painfully slow. My travel companion did what he always does: sat at the edge of her bed, fully dressed and ready to go within a minute of waking up, waiting for me to catch up. Every. Single. Morning. Meanwhile, my first minute of wakefulness is just opening my eyes and trying to figure out what I’m even looking at. By the time I realize she’s ready, five minutes have passed, and I still need another ten just to feel human. It’s maddening.
The day itself was a slow crawl. The sun blazed relentlessly, and every bush became an excuse to stop. Wheat fields stretched endlessly, a golden sea under a cloudless sky. To distract myself, I started composing a melody in my mind, complete with a brass section. Hours passed as it developed, becoming something truly beautiful. It’s strange—nothing like this has ever happened to me before.
Finally, we reached Carrión de los Condes. Thank God! It was a much-needed pause for both body and soul. A slice of cake and a coffee, a peaceful walk by the river, a heartfelt chat with the local priest, stretching in the park, and dinner in the fresh air—it was the kind of day that feels like it stitches you back together.
By nightfall, the emotions overwhelmed me, and I cried. I couldn’t even pinpoint why. Maybe I was mourning all the relationships I’ve fumbled or grieving the tender feelings I’ve buried deep inside before they even had a chance to bloom.
When will my prince come?
And yet, as the night stretched on, sleep eluded me once again.
Nearly 20 kilometers without a single village in sight—just us and our shadows, or so they said. Thankfully, we’ve learned not to believe everything we hear. There were moments of shade and, more importantly, moments of rest. In Calzadilla de la Cueza, we stopped for food and a breather, preparing ourselves for the grueling stretch ahead.
The day pushed us to our limits. My shoulders ached under the weight of my pack, my legs felt heavy, and I’d switched to long pants to keep the relentless sun from scorching my skin further. It was a test of endurance, both physical and mental.
When we finally arrived in Sahagún, the streets were draped in flags, as if welcoming us personally. But the albergue? Less than charming—crowded, smelly, and far from clean. The usual routine followed: laundry, drying clothes, shopping, eating, trying to piece ourselves back together.
Once refreshed, we ventured into the heart of the city, where a historical festival was in full swing. The main square buzzed with costumed characters and a stage surrounded by spectators. We found a bench and simply watched the world go by—people dining on restaurant terraces, waiters darting between tables, and a kaleidoscope of sounds and colors filling the air.
Then, out of nowhere, a rider on a white horse galloped into the square, stopping right in front of us. A prince in elaborate attire! He spoke briefly with his companions while his horse left a very unroyal gift in its wake. The terrace diners roared with laughter as a waiter rushed out with a broom and pan to clean up the mess. We couldn’t help but laugh, too.
I couldn’t believe it. After all our joking about a prince on a white horse, here he was! It was a reminder that sometimes, the universe listens—so be clear about what you wish for.
Now, if only I could wish for a night of proper sleep...
The morning was rough—groggy and slow, starting before the sun had fully woken. She waited patiently, as always, watching while I struggled to gather myself. My body ached everywhere. I stuffed the bananas for breakfast into my pack, and off we went.
Not even twenty minutes in, just as I was finding my rhythm, she asked for breakfast. My patience snapped. Why hadn’t she asked while I was packing? My bag is heavy enough without having to dig through it again! Frustrated, I barked something at her, from then on, I walked alone. Sometimes I can't even stand myself. Sorry.
The path was long and straight, dotted with only a few small villages. It left plenty of room for my thoughts to wander—past, present, and future. Work crept into my mind. I had come to Spain determined to say goodbye to my time here and find my footing back home. People had warned me: There’s no work waiting for you; even with a degree, young people can’t find jobs. But step by step, as the sound of my boots echoed in my ears, a new certainty grew in my heart: whatever happens, I will always find a way. It was one of those rare, inspired moments where clarity feels almost divine.
When we arrived in Mansilla de las Mulas, the albergue was buzzing with pilgrims, and we were told there was no space left. We didn’t believe it for a second and waited for the host. Sure enough, within half an hour, we had a double mattress by a window.
The usual routine followed—shower, laundry, and a walk around town. Mansilla charmed me with its stork nests perched high above, locals chatting by their gates, and sheep weaving their way through cars within the old city walls.
I craved creamy mushroom pasta, so I whipped some up in the albergue kitchen and shared it with a few fellow pilgrims. Later, we spotted the “Jesus lookalike” pilgrim again—his small group of followers had grown. By the time we cleaned up and were ready to settle in, the host approached us. Impressed by something he saw in us, he offered us the only private room in the albergue—a cozy, two-bed space.
Once again, the Camino whispered its lesson: never believe everything you’re told. Miracles—big or small—are always just around the corner.
A Day of Mixed Blessings
We started early, with a morning that felt fresh and full of promise. Along the way, we met a Hungarian family—a Santa-like father, his wife, and their two daughters. The girls had taken a vow of silence for the day, leaving only the parents to chat. Over breakfast, we shared a brief but warm conversation before continuing on the relatively short 20-kilometer stretch to León.
When we reached the albergue, the doors were still locked. To my surprise, we did what we’d once sworn we’d never do: staked out our place in line with our backpacks, ensuring we’d get a spot. The hypocrisy stung a little, but it worked. Once inside, we quickly went through the usual routine—shower, laundry, drying clothes—and finally felt human again. We put on our "nice clothes" for a change. Jeans and a clean T-shirt felt almost revolutionary after days of hiking gear. One pilgrim we ran into didn’t even recognize us and marveled aloud, “You look like completely different people!” Maybe clothes really do make the person.
For lunch, we sought out a local spot—one of those cozy restaurants where the regulars go. Two elderly women sat next to us and regaled us with stories of their adventures in Budapest. Afterward, we strolled around León, soaking in the sights, playing tourists in the cathedral, and snapping photos like it was our first time in the city.
The only thing pulling me out of the moment was my phone, which wouldn’t stop ringing. I wished I’d left it at home. Here’s the thing about the Camino: wishes have a funny way of coming true. That evening, as I climbed into my bunk bed, I accidentally knocked my phone to the ground. The screen shattered. While everything else still worked, it was now practically unusable. “Be careful what you wish for,” they say. At least now, I’d have peace from constant calls—though only the most urgent ones could still reach me.
But peace didn’t last. A woman in the bunk next to mine started snoring with such ferocity that it shook me to my core—no exaggeration. My ear drums trembled with every growl-like inhale. To make matters worse, my batteries had run out, so there was no music to drown out the noise. Another sleepless night on the Camino.
This journey has a way of balancing the scales—every sweet moment comes with a little bitterness. And still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
A Rollercoaster of the Soul
Today was a blur of endless roadside kilometers, the kind that test your patience and your mind. Somewhere along the way, I snapped—not in anger, but in sheer monotony. I couldn’t stop talking, words spilling out like a broken faucet. To make matters worse, I found myself belting out “Oh, do you know the muffin man?” at the top of my lungs, not once, but over and over again. Before that, it was “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” also on repeat. I was unbearable, even to myself.
What is it about this journey that forces everything out of you? Sometimes it feels like my body and soul are crammed with “junk” that needs to be cleared away. The Camino doesn’t just cleanse you—it wrings you out, revealing all the weird, messy parts in the process. As I wrestled with this thought, we finally arrived at Hospital de Orbigo. Crossing the long, elegant bridge into town felt like stepping into another world, a quiet refuge after a loud and chaotic day.
We found a cozy albergue with just a few beds, cooked a creamy mushroom and shrimp rice dish, and settled in for some much-needed rest. All I wanted was silence and the hope that my singing frenzy was behind me.
Later, I met a Swiss man sitting on a bench in the courtyard, his feet covered in blisters unlike anything I’d ever seen. By now, I’d become something of a blister expert, treating my companion’s small ones daily with needle and thread. I offered to help him, and he accepted gratefully. For the first time that day, I felt useful—like my hands were capable of something good after all the chaos my mind had created.
As we drifted into evening, we made plans for tomorrow—a promising day that would take us through the picturesque town of Astorga. I went to bed with a little more hope and a lot less noise.
Lessons in Patience and Letting Go
Today’s motto? The tale of the rabbit and the vacuum cleaner. You know the one: Rabbit heads to Bear’s house, at first hopeful, then doubtful, then downright furious before Bear even opens the door. By the time Rabbit gets there, he’s ready to explode, and poor Bear never even had a chance. Well, today, I was Rabbit.
We started the day early, joined by a Russian pilgrim, warming up with a few brisk kilometers. As the morning unfolded, I found myself ahead of the group, lost in my thoughts while they chatted away behind me. By mid-morning, we reached Astorga—a stunning, ancient city bursting with life and charm. My vision for the stop? A peaceful stroll through the streets, a long coffee break on a sunlit terrace, and perhaps a quick visit to an internet café to check flights home.
But when I suggested it, my companion’s indifferent “Sure, whatever” response set something off inside me. The plans we’d discussed yesterday seemed forgotten. Instead of soaking up the city’s beauty, we were back on the road, leaving Astorga behind far too quickly. My frustration bubbled over, and I couldn’t help but throw a sarcastic comment into the air: “Well, that was a whirlwind tour of the city!” Naturally, it didn’t go unnoticed, and tensions grew.
By the time we reached a chapel along the route, we knew we had to clear the air. We talked it out—no lingering grudges, no unspoken resentments. I realized that, yes, I can be insufferable at times. The Camino has a way of teaching lessons you didn’t ask for, and today’s was all about patience and letting go.
We ended the day in Rabanal del Camino, a quaint little village with a charming albergue. It was run by a towering man from the north, who shared stories about Hungarian horsemen in traditional dress passing through just days before us.
It’s funny how the Camino can throw you into emotional chaos one moment and then wrap you in its quiet magic the next. I’m learning to embrace both—one step at a time.
From Dust to Refreshing Waters
After endless plains, today brought a welcome change—climbing into the hills. Before long, we stood at the foot of the Cruz de Ferro. At first glance, it’s underwhelming: a simple iron cross perched atop a mound of stones and scattered offerings. Yet, it’s a powerful symbol for pilgrims. This is where you leave behind the burdens you’ve carried, both physical and emotional. Like everyone else, we left a stone and took a photo—it felt like a rite of passage.
The descent was long and dusty, the kind of trail that clings to your skin and leaves you coated in a fine, red layer. By the time we reached the valley, sweat and dirt had dried into a crust on our arms and legs. But then, there it was—Molinaseca, a picturesque village nestled beside a river. Before the bridge, the water widened into a natural pool, sparkling and alive with people swimming and laughing.
We didn’t think twice about staying. A charming albergue at the end of the main street offered us a tent and free internet—just what we needed to book our return flights. After freshening up and doing some laundry, we made our way straight to the river.
The icy water was shocking—my entire body went numb within seconds—but it was the most invigorating swim I’ve ever had. Later, we sat by the little canal running alongside the square, cooling our feet in the crystal-clear stream. For a weary pilgrim, it was pure bliss.
The Camino offers small but profound joys, and today’s was a moment of renewal—dust washed away, spirits lifted, and bodies refreshed.
Snails, Sparks, and Surprises
The day began with a heavenly breakfast in Ponferrada—crispy, golden churros dipped in rich chocolate. A true pilgrim’s delight! Along the way, I spotted a snail racing down a tiny stream. I bent down and rescued it, feeling a surge of pride for saving its life. But then a nagging thought struck me: what if I had ruined its journey instead? A mystery I’ll never solve.
Two hikers were ahead of us, one visibly limping more than the other. As we passed them, I couldn’t help but notice their competitive streak kick in. There was no way they’d let two women outpace them! Suddenly, their aches disappeared, and they zoomed past us, determined to reclaim their lead.
The road itself was uninspiring—endless stretches under buzzing power lines, every hill hiding yet another. A village promised just four kilometers away felt like ten, always just out of reach. Surely, it’s behind this hill? Nope, one more. And another.
Finally, we arrived in Villafranca del Bierzo and collapsed into the first albergue we saw. That evening, a familiar pilgrim joined us for pizza in town. Conversation started light, but before I knew it, my walking companion and our new friend were locked in a heated argument. Tension escalated until, with a fiery glare, he stabbed his fork into the wooden table so hard it stuck. The room went silent.
The Camino has a way of revealing people’s true selves—or perhaps creating new ones. It’s unpredictable, intense, and never boring. Each day brings a story to tell, even if it’s one you never expected.
The Climb That Took My Breath Away
We started in the darkness again, the world around us still asleep. As the sun rose, the scenery transformed—dry plains gave way to lush green hills, charming villages, and albergues dotting the path. It felt like stepping into another chapter of the Camino, one painted with life and color.
Then the climb began. I found myself gasping for air, the incline endless and unforgiving. My legs burned, my backpack felt like it was on fire, and every step was a battle. Strangely, the tables had turned—my walking partner, who I’d worried might not make it this far, was thriving. Meanwhile, I was the one struggling, drained like a tired dog.
When the albergue finally came into view, relief washed over me. Pilgrims were already gathered, sipping cold beers and urging us to hurry—beds were running out. Luck was on our side; we snagged the last spots.
The afternoon was pure magic. O Cebreiro had an enchanting charm, its beauty a balm for every ache and pain. The views stretched forever, coffee never tasted better, ice cream was heavenly, and the company warm and welcoming. What more could anyone want?
As the day wound down, I stepped into a simple chapel. Quiet enveloped me, a sacred stillness. I prayed, feeling gratitude flood my heart.
To be here, to experience this, is a gift I’ll never forget.
Walking Above the Clouds
We woke up before dawn, fumbling with flashlights to avoid tripping on unseen stones. As we climbed, the valleys below disappeared under a sea of clouds, while we walked above them, eagerly awaiting the sunrise. The world felt otherworldly, suspended between night and day.
Breakfast was a pilgrim's delight—donativo pancakes. No set price, just a donation to the kind soul who made them. This way of life, simple and grounded, is growing on me. Each step feels like a quiet celebration of nearing our goal.
We passed countless nameless Galician villages, where cow patties and their unmistakable aroma marked our path. Strangely, I felt a sense of belonging. The smell, the rhythm of village life—it all brought back warm memories of my volunteer work in Ourense.
By the time we reached Sarria, exhaustion had fully set in. The "gratis" albergue was already packed, but luck smiled on us again. The next one had exactly three spots, enough for me, my walking partner, and the pilgrim boy who has a knack for following us everywhere.
The evening passed quietly—showering, washing clothes, then sinking into the stillness of a rooftop terrace hammock. The Camino has a way of quieting the noise in my mind. Fewer words now, just the calm of the journey.
Finding Solitude and Strides
The day started with a line for the bathroom—long enough to feel impossible at such an early hour. But this is the Camino; I’m learning to adapt. We hurried off, and the sight of the first bushes brought unexpected relief.
Our ever-present companion, the pilgrim boy, was back, tapping his walking stick with his usual fervor—sometimes hitting my side when he wasn’t paying attention. I’d long since lost my patience for his company, so I found myself alternating between walking ahead of them or hanging back for some peace. But then, a miracle! After days of silence, my travel partner gave him a firm talking-to. Without a word, he stormed ahead, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
The path took us through more of Galicia’s nameless villages, each one quiet and unremarkable except for the ever-present Xacobeo signs staring down from every corner. But the landscape was stunning—lush and green after so many dry plains. A light drizzle began to fall, refreshing and welcome.
We crossed through Portomarín, suspecting that our lone pilgrim boy would stop there for the night. We pressed on, crossing a rickety bridge that seemed to wobble under every step. Ahead of us, a heavily bandaged woman limped along. We overtook her eventually, her face etched with pain. Yet, when we reached a potential stop, she dashed past us with surprising speed. Her determination was almost inspiring—until she discovered there were no beds left.
We continued, finding rest in the tiny village of Hospital de la Cruz, which consists of little more than three houses and a pilgrim hostel. Somehow, word of the "Hungarian riders" had reached even here, adding a surprising twist to the day.
We ended the evening with a pilgrim menu and collapsed into a deep, well-earned sleep.
A Day of Kindness and Connection
The day held a beautiful surprise just ten kilometers in. My coordinator from the Friends of the Earth organization in Ourense walked toward us in Palas de Rei, greeting us with a smile. He had come specifically to meet us, inviting us for breakfast and then joining our journey for a while. This was true Galician warmth in action. For once, I was the one chatting away while my travel partner walked quietly beside us.
The landscape was serene, the temperature comfortable, and our pace unhurried. Along the way, we stopped at a fascinating church, home to a unique depiction of Christ. Unlike the usual crucifixion imagery, one of His arms hung freely by His side. It was striking, thought-provoking—a reminder of how diverse interpretations of faith can be.
My coordinator’s kindness didn’t stop at breakfast; he also treated us to lunch and walked with us all the way to Ribadiso before heading back to Ourense. He had devoted the entire day to us and to the spirit of the Camino—a gesture I will always treasure.
When we finally reached the albergue, there were no beds left, just space on the floor. No matter—we had sleeping mats, and at this point in the journey, I was at peace with the idea of sleeping on the ground. It felt like another part of the Camino experience to embrace.
The cold-water shower was invigorating, and I felt immense gratitude for even that simple blessing. After all these miles, every drop of water felt like a gift.
Later in the evening, a woman approached us with an unexpected offer: we could sleep in a small room reserved for people with limited mobility. If no one arrived by curfew, the room would be ours. Luck smiled on us yet again, and we found ourselves sharing the cozy space with a French boy and his father. No floor sleeping tonight after all!
And now, the thought of tomorrow is almost overwhelming. Santiago awaits, just one day away. Is this really the end of the road? It hardly feels real.
The Final Push
The last stretch felt endless—a relentless march toward the finish line. We started before dawn, the early wake-ups no longer fazing me. I’ve grown used to the rhythm of the Camino. Along the way, I nearly stepped on a salamander but quickly rescued it, guiding it safely into the grassy ditch.
In Arzúa, we stopped for breakfast. My walking companion craved empanada, and as if by Camino magic, it was the daily special at a small café. Wishes do seem to come true out here.
We pressed on, yet it felt as if we were standing still. Pilgrims swarmed every stop, and finding a place to rest was a challenge. We bought a can of food at a tiny shop and had a humble lunch on a eucalyptus log in the forest. Later, we rewarded ourselves with ice cream in the next village. But still, the miles dragged on.
As we neared the Santiago airport, fatigue began to show. My companion grew frustrated with detours, while I simply put one foot in front of the other, lost in the monotony of our steps. Finally, at Monte do Gozo, the city came into view. We met more Hungarian pilgrims there, but the urge to socialize had faded—we just wanted to finish.
The rain began to fall lightly as we entered the outskirts of Santiago around six in the evening. By half past six, we reached the Pilgrim Office. Exhausted but grinning, we checked in. Dirty and disheveled, we proudly declared, “We walked it all.”
The staff seemed surprised that we completed the journey in 24 days, double-checking every stamp in our pilgrim passports. Their skepticism stung a little, but at last, we held our compostelas in hand.
And then, we stepped into the main square. There it was—the cathedral. A magnificent reward for every blister, aching shoulder, and grumpy dawn start. The journey had ended, but as I looked up at the towering spires, I knew another one was just beginning.
One journey, countless memories...
After over 700 kilometers, the El Camino Francés has brought me to the magnificent Santiago de Compostela, a city where every corner tells a story of resilience and connection. From the awe-inspiring Cathedral of St. James to the bustling streets alive with music, laughter, and the scent of Galician cuisine, this place is pure magic.
Ever tried Pimientos de Padrón? These little green peppers—sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy—are the perfect local treat alongside a cold Estrella de Galicia. Every bite is a little adventure, just like the Camino itself!
Santiago isn’t just a destination; it’s a feeling—a soulful finale that’s also a new beginning.
Exploring the Magic of
Santiago de Compostela
Sitting in the shadow of the awe-inspiring Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, I couldn’t help but reflect on its incredible history and significance. Built over the supposed burial site of Saint James the Elder, it stands as one of the most important pilgrimage sites in the world. Outside the cathedral, among the bustling crowds, pilgrims radiate a joy that can only come from the accomplishment of walking—or cycling—the over 700 kilometers of the Camino. Each radiant face tells a story of perseverance, pain, and ultimately, triumph. After reading countless accounts of this journey, I knew I had to see it one day through the eyes of a pilgrim.
Santiago is a city of contrasts, teeming with energy and life. Alongside the pilgrims are tourists, locals, students, and passersby, creating a kaleidoscope of faces and stories. On the square in front of the cathedral, a long line forms at the wrought iron gate, as visitors wait to touch the revered statue of Saint James inside. Some seem like seasoned pilgrims; others, perhaps less so—clad in pressed white shorts and oversized gold chains, with a staff adorned with a gaudy plaster shell bought from a nearby stall. The scene has its amusing moments too—like the day I watched tourists chase a bewildered rat across the square, snapping photos as though it were the city’s most famous resident.
When night falls, Santiago transforms into something magical. Narrow cobblestone streets come alive with music, bustling bars, and cozy restaurants. Summer evenings bring live concerts, vibrant crowds, and an infectious joy. One unique local tradition involves a bar-hopping street that starts at Paris Bar and ends at Dakar. University students challenge themselves to sample a signature drink at each bar, a playful “Paris-Dakar Rally” that only the hardiest complete.
The city’s culinary scene is equally captivating. From hearty Galician empanadas filled with tuna, mushrooms, or octopus, to the classic tortilla de Galicia—a savory cake of eggs, potatoes, and onions—every bite tells a story. My favorite, though, was the Pimientos de Padrón, small green peppers fried to perfection, with an element of surprise: most are sweet, but a few pack a fiery punch! Pair these with a cold Estrella de Galicia beer or the locally adored licor café, and you’ll experience the soul of Santiago’s gastronomy.
Santiago de Compostela isn’t just a destination; it’s a feeling. The energy, the flavors, the stories—all come together to create a city that resonates deeply with those who visit. Whether you come as a pilgrim or a wanderer, this city leaves its mark, beckoning you to return.
If there’s one bite-sized treasure that captures the heart and soul of Galician cuisine, it’s Pimientos de Padrón. These small, green peppers are not just a snack; they’re an experience. With their unpredictable nature—most are mild, but every now and then, one surprises you with a fiery kick—they bring a playful thrill to any table. Whether you’re enjoying them as a tapa at a bustling bar or recreating the magic at home, they pair perfectly with a cold glass of Estrella de Galicia beer, embodying the vibrant flavors of the region.
Recipe for Pimientos de Padrón
Ingredients:
Instructions:
Heat a skillet over medium-high heat until it’s hot.
Add the Padrón peppers to the pan and drizzle generously with olive oil.
Cook the peppers, tossing occasionally, until their skin starts to blister and wrinkle.
Remove them from the skillet and place them in a serving dish.
Sprinkle with coarse salt to taste.
Serve immediately alongside an icy cold Estrella de Galicia beer for the ultimate Spanish tapas experience.
This simple yet irresistible dish brings a slice of Spain to your table, transporting you straight to the cobblestone streets and lively tapas bars of Santiago de Compostela. Give it a try, and let the flavors take you on your own Camino-inspired culinary adventure!
Armed with Just a Simple Map and
an Open Heart
When I set out to walk the Camino de Santiago, this humble two-page route map was all I had in my hands. It wasn’t fancy, but it held everything I needed: the route, the elevation changes I’d face, the towns I’d pass through, and those precious “A”-marked spots indicating the presence of an albergue (hostel).
There were no complicated navigation apps or extensive guidebooks. All I had to do was follow the yellow arrows painted along the path. They guided me through cities, villages, and open landscapes, becoming a symbol of trust and simplicity.
Walking the Camino didn’t require much in terms of tools or preparation—just a lot of perseverance and an open heart. The journey reminded me that sometimes, the less we carry, the freer we feel, and the more we open ourselves to the unexpected beauty of the road ahead.
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HEY, I’M EDINA…
I was born with a wanderlust. For as long as I can remember, my world has been in motion. Whether it’s a small trip or a big adventure, the important thing is that something’s moving beneath me—be it puffing, rolling, chugging, flying, or floating. It could be a bike, a motorbike, a car, a bus, a train, a canoe, a boat, a ferry, or even a plane. And if none of those are an option, at least my legs keep me going. Every journey is a gift for my soul, even if it’s just a stroll through the fields or a visit to the next village.
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