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WHITE RABBITS 

ON THE 

CAMINO

DISCOVER THE MAGIC OF THE CAMINO

Willem Gerritsen

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First edition: 2026
© 2026 Willem Gerritsen
Cover: ©Willem Gerritsen in cooperation with AnneMarleen 
Portrait: AnneMarleen Cornelissen











No part of this publication may be reproduced and/or made public by means of printing, photocopying, microfilm, internet or by any means whatsoever, without the written permission of the author.

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For Ellen

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Tabel of contents

PART 1 – THE MAGIC OF THE CAMINO 

Prologue 

A personal introduction 

What it's not about 

Preparing for the Road 

Recommendations

PART 2 – THE ROAD

Hope and Miracles - Esperanza y Miracle

PART 3 – APPENDIX 

My Camino Résumé

Information and the web

Weight backpack 

Donativo 

Books

Accountability 

Word of thanks 

Contact

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PART  1

THE MAGIC OF THE CAMINO

PREPARATION FOR THE CAMINO

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Prologue

April 2022. On the way to Santiago, day nine.

Along the river Scheldt I quietly follow the towpath, flanked by a row of old trees standing like sentinels. Suddenly I stop in my tracks: in front of one of those trees sits a snow-white rabbit, upright and completely still. It looks like a plush toy, but it’s a real rabbit. As I approach, it darts into its burrow beneath the tree. For eight days I haven’t seen a single rabbit, and now this white one appears — as if it has been waiting just for me. In that moment I feel that there is more than what my eyes can see. A question rises within me: what does this mean? The internet gives the answer instantly:

“The white rabbit is a sign of the possibility of spiritual enlightenment and an encounter with the Divine. The white rabbit symbolizes an invitation to step out of ordinary life and embark on an extraordinary journey.”

I am astonished. It is as if the road itself is speaking to me. Something — a presence, a force, a guide — accompanies me. The magic of the Camino revealed by a white rabbit!

A Personal Introduction

Along the Camino lies an invisible magical world with a protective guardian who will guide you and who waits for you to bring you joy…

- Santiagus

“The Camino provides,” the saying goes. During my thousands of kilometers on the Camino, coincidences kept piling up — so precisely timed that it became hard to believe that “the Universe,” as I usually call it, had nothing to do with them. Gradually, my trust grew in an unseen presence, a companion who waits for you and gives you exactly what you need.

At the same time, something else grew: my concern about the increasing commercialization catering to ever larger numbers of pilgrims, tourists, luxury walkers, and e-bikers. That trend can put pressure on the authentic character of the Camino. But worrying doesn’t make you any wiser, nor does it make the Camino any better.

As a counterbalance, I wrote this book — a guide to the invisible magical world of the Camino. It is an invitation to step out of ordinary life and embark on an extraordinary, and sometimes miraculous, journey

What This Book Is Not About — 

and What It Is About

As an information volunteer for the Dutch Saint James Society, I’m often asked questions by people considering their first steps toward Santiago: When is the best time to leave? How does public transportation work? Where should I start?

For all those practical matters, there are excellent guidebooks, websites, and forums. I have nothing to add to them. So this book is not a travel guide in the usual sense. You won’t find lists of restaurants, accommodations, sights, or historical facts. Nor is it about who does or does not “belong” on the Camino. Everyone chooses their own way, as long as there is respect — for each other and for nature. Want to bike the Camino or set a speed record? Go for it. Prefer to walk in a group, with a tour company, on horseback, or even dressed as a medieval monk? Also fine. With a dog, a donkey, or just your backpack? The path turns no one away. The Camino belongs to everyone.

There are no prescriptions here about how you should move along the way. Sometimes physical or mental limitations — or simply circumstances — determine what form of travel is possible. One thing is certain: no choice of transportation or pace can prevent the magic of the Camino from revealing itself along the journey. The same holds true for the motivation that brings someone onto the path. Ultimately, the Camino is a public road open to all — pilgrim or not — but the question remains: which use best honors the original character of this centuries-old pilgrimage route?

If you want to experience the Camino as more than just a long walk, leave the stack of travel brochures at home and set out with trust, curiosity, and an open heart. That is what this book is about. 

Who This Book Is For

You’ve heard about the Camino to Santiago and about the magic that pilgrims sometimes experience along the way — the paths that, after hundreds or even thousands of kilometers, lead to the great square in front of the cathedral. You dream about it and want to know what it would be like to walk there yourself. For you, this book arrives at exactly the right moment. It helps you move from longing to departure: what you truly need to know, what you can let go of, and how the Camino can surprise you with what the road offers you.

Maybe you’re not that far yet. Maybe you’ve thought about “doing” a Camino, but something always got in the way: other priorities, overloaded schedules, a body that protests. Maybe you’ve even pushed the idea aside because you feel you’re too old, not strong enough, or too clumsy with maps or whatever else. Maybe you’re afraid of dogs, wolves, wild boars, or of certain people you might meet on the way, and the thought of dormitories filled with snoring strangers turns you off. And yet — despite all doubts and objections — the Camino keeps whispering that you can come.

This book aims to help you step over these thresholds while also opening the door just a crack to something greater. Because the Camino is more than an ordinary walk or a pleasant vacation. It is a path that gives you exactly what you need at precisely the right moment: a knowing glance, the shade of a tree, an insight, a friend, a turning point in your life.

If you, too, would like to experience the Camino as a pilgrim — and discover the deeper, spiritual dimension along the way — then this book can be a valuable guide, from the first thought to the first step. You’ll learn to walk and think more lightly, and to trust sooner in the kindness of fate. In this way, walking grows into pilgrimage: a spiritual journey of discovery on a road that makes no demands and invites you to come just as you are.

But what do I mean exactly by the words Camino, pilgrim, and pilgrimage? I’ll tell you in the next chapter. 

Pilgrimage — More Than Walking

Camino is the Spanish word for way. The Camino de Santiago — often simply called “the Camino” — is literally the Way of Saint James. But it is not just any path. It is an ancient pilgrimage route leading to the relics of Saint James in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. Over the centuries, people set out for many different reasons: as punishment or penance, to seek forgiveness for sins, to experience spiritual relief, or to obtain indulgences. Unlike an ordinary long-distance trail, you do not walk the Camino merely for the pleasure of walking. You follow in the footsteps of a centuries-old pilgrimage tradition that places a deeper layer of meaning beneath every step.

A visible proof of completing the journey is the compostela, the official pilgrimage certificate issued by the Church. The document solemnly confirms that the pilgrim has walked the final hundred kilometers, cycled two hundred, or traveled part of the route on horseback, and has visited the cathedral of Santiago. By itself, it promises nothing: no guaranteed indulgence or forgiveness. Yet many regard it as a meaningful symbol, a ritual that seals the journey. Today, many pilgrims walk for personal or spiritual reasons, seeking meaningful encounters, healing insights, and inner growth. The focus lies less on the relics and more on the path itself, with Santiago serving as the physical endpoint of an inner journey of discovery.

When I took my first steps toward Santiago, I thought that a “real” pilgrim had to be a devout Catholic traveling to the relics of Saint James. I did intend to experience the journey with a spiritual mindset — meditative walking, I called it — but I hesitated to call myself a pilgrim. I wasn’t a practicing believer and remained skeptical about the authenticity of the relics. To be honest, I still am. But gradually I began to understand that the true goal is not the tomb, but the path itself: the Camino and its transformative potential. Because of that, I increasingly recognized myself in the role of pilgrim — someone learning, step by step, to listen to what the road reveals.

Centuries ago, a pilgrim was someone who traveled to a sacred place. Now, the path itself is often experienced as sacred. Time and again, pilgrims share stories — in books and online — of experiences that can hardly be dismissed as mere coincidence. The reward lies not only at the finish line, but in the experience of each day. As a result, the meaning of pilgrim has expanded: from religious devotee to spiritual explorer.

You do not walk to prove anything, but to place your trust in the Camino. And those who open themselves in that way receive the gifts the path quietly offers along the way. 

Preparing for the Way

D = D × B × C × T × W. In words: the difficulty of walking is determined by the factors distance, baggage, condition, terrain, and weather.

- Jeroen Gooskens, Ver onderweg (Far away)

People often ask me: What is the most beautiful route? The answer is simple: all routes are beautiful. The beauty doesn’t depend on the mountains, the sea, or the churches you encounter, but on a decision to be happy on the Camino, no matter what happens. That happiness requires preparation. Not only physical preparation, but also preparation of the heart — so you can set out with confidence and fully benefit from the unique gifts of the Camino. Then you will see how wonderfully beautiful walking the Way can be, even when it leads across an industrial zone.

In the following chapters, I’ll tell you how I prepare for a pilgrimage. A complete yet simple set of gear, and solid physical and mental training, are essential if you want to walk without worry. Because worrying about everything that could go wrong only gets in the way of happiness. 

Backpack and Clothing: 

Light and Simple

There is an endless amount of information online about backpacks and clothing. That doesn’t make it easy to make a choice. Even about something as simple as backpack weight and what to bring, you’ll find the most divergent opinions. I also notice, time and again, that people can hardly believe it’s possible for a backpack with all essential items to weigh no more than 5-6 kg. Often, there’s little understanding of how to keep the weight of a full kit under control. That’s why I give this topic plenty of attention here. It’s important to get this right so that your gear doesn’t become a burden — literally or figuratively — but instead supports your sense of freedom along the way.

The Backpack

There’s a rule of thumb going around that your backpack should ideally be 10% of your body weight. That rule only really works if you weigh no more than about 70 kg. There is no logical relationship between your body weight and what you can comfortably carry. My advice: always go as light as possible. Keep your base gear to a maximum of 5 kg. — or 7 if you’re bringing a small tent and accessories. Leave at home anything you plan to take “just in case…” Trust that the Camino will provide if you truly need something. The more you trust that, the lighter your backpack will be — but not at any cost. Use common sense and … a scale.

On flat terrain, an extra kilo more or less won’t matter much; in the mountains, you’ll notice it immediately. I’ve met walkers carrying 15 kg. or even more — sometimes even with both a backpack and a front pack. I can’t even imagine it! On my first Caminos I walked with a backpack of about 8 kg, not counting water and food. In the years that followed, I shaved off more than 2 kg. without giving up comfort. The weight of a 5 kg. pack disappears after a few days and is manageable for almost everyone. It also makes you independent: you don’t need luggage transport, so you can stop wherever you like. That freedom is priceless.

Of course, your backpack should be good quality and properly fitted at a specialized store, but pay special attention to the weight of the pack itself. Before you know it, you might end up carrying one that weighs 2 kg. or more, while models under 1 kg. also exist. A capacity of about 35 l. is enough for me. I hide a small tracking tag inside so I can quickly locate it with my phone if I ever misplace it.

What Goes Into the Backpack?

A useful principle is that some items can serve more than one purpose. My rain jacket, for example, also functions as a windbreaker and as a rain cover for my backpack. That easily saves a kilo.

For clothing, I bring everything I need for all weather conditions: warm, cold, or wet. In summer, you can get by with a bit less than in winter, but keep in mind that evenings can be chilly — especially in the mountains.

Pants: one lightweight pair of shorts. It’s my spare pair, which I wear when my long hiking pants are in the wash. 

Shirts and underwear: one merino T-shirt. Merino isn’t cheap, but it dries quickly and hardly absorbs odors, unlike synthetic sportswear or cotton. One pair of underwear. I put it on after showering in the evening and alternate it daily with the pair I washed the previous night. If needed, you can even use it as swimwear.

Warm clothing: a fleece jacket, and sometimes a light wool sweater and a padded jacket. As long as it’s not freezing, this is enough for me. You can combine the layers in different ways depending on the temperature. If I expect colder conditions, I also bring gloves, a hat, and thermal clothing. Don’t worry too much about being cold on the trail. If temperatures drop unexpectedly, you can always buy something warm. And if your sleeping bag isn’t quite warm enough at night, you can keep your jacket on. Usually it won’t come to that.

Socks: one or two pairs. No more. They’re available in any larger supermarket along the way. Some swear by merino, others by cotton, wool, or specialized hiking socks. Others prefer toe socks. I often start with toe socks to prevent blisters. After a few hundred kilometers, enough calluses have formed that I can switch to regular socks.

Rain gear: as with socks and footwear, everyone has their own preferences. I see everything: rain jackets with rain pants, with or without full-length zippers along the legs, plastic (disposable) ponchos, umbrellas. I haven’t found the ideal outfit for heavy rain yet. I use a long lightweight rain jacket with a front zipper and an extra bulge in the back that fits over the backpack. When the shower passes, I unzip it and slip my arms out of the sleeves, letting it hang like a loose cape over my shoulders to dry. Nice and airy, because unless it’s really cold, you’re guaranteed to sweat in a rain jacket — even the so-called breathable ones.

Footwear: one pair of lightweight slippers.

What Else?

A spork: spoon and fork in one.

A simple metal S-hook: useful for hanging things on your bed.

Toiletries, especially a fast-drying lightweight towel.

A small sit pad.

Optionally, a headlamp — especially helpful when the days are short.

A phone charger with cable.

A small pouch containing disinfectant, a tick remover, nail scissors, any medications, sports tape, and a few sterile gauze pads and bandages. Even if you don’t end up needing them yourself, it’s nice to be able to help another walker.

Bring earplugs if you don’t want to stay awake listening to snoring pilgrims.

Also a beltbag or document pouch with a cord — large enough to hold your papers and small enough to wear around your neck whenever you have to leave your backpack somewhere.

I always bring either a sleeping bag or a lighter fleece blanket, depending on the season.

At home I put everything on a scale. If I have to choose between two similar sweaters, the lighter one comes along. Then I record everything in an Excel sheet so I can see exactly how my weighing of options adds up.

To keep things organized, I pack my items into ‘drybags’ of different colors. That way everything stays dry, compact, and easy to find in the backpack.

At the back of this book, you’ll find a list of what I take with me. It also includes items that can be added for those who want to camp.

Clothing and Footwear

A pair of long merino (or merino-blend) pants. They’re lightweight, don’t cling, and dry quickly after rain or a wash. If it’s cold at night, I use them as pajama bottoms as well. On the inside, I’ve sewn two tiny pockets with snap closures that hold an ID card and a bank card. If all my belongings were stolen, I could still continue — unless they also pull off my pants. When walking through tall grass, I tuck the pant legs into my socks to keep ticks out.

I also wear a merino T-shirt, supplemented with layers from my backpack: a fleece jacket, a wool sweater, a padded jacket, and, if needed, a rain jacket or poncho. A cap or hat is essential; a hat protects the neck and ears better when the sun is strong.

Footwear is something everyone has a different opinion about. For me: the lighter, the better, because weight on your feet feels at least twice as heavy as the same weight in your backpack. Some prefer ankle-high boots; I personally like low-cut trail runners — light and quick-drying. Because your feet swell on long hikes, they should be at least one size larger than usual. The soles should have good traction. Special insoles can help, for example for extra arch support. Rain is its own story. In prolonged wet weather, most shoes eventually stop being waterproof. Bring an extra pair of insoles for when the original ones get soaked. I’ve heard enthusiastic stories about waterproof socks, but I don’t have experience with them.

Walking Poles

There’s endless debate about walking poles. Some swear by them; others want nothing to do with them. They range from a simple stick or branch to expensive, foldable, lightweight carbon poles. I myself walk with poles almost all the time but not in cities. Just see in practice what works best for you. One thing is certain: with poles, your hands don’t swell while walking, and you can keep bothersome dogs at a distance. Often they’re not allowed in airplane cabins, which means you’ll have to pay extra for checked luggage.

What I Leave at Home

The Camino does not require gear that allows you to live self-sufficiently in the wilderness for days on end. Feel free to leave cooking stoves, pots, plates, cups, extensive emergency supplies, and extra sets of clothing at home. I once met someone with a 16 kg. backpack. He wanted to be able to make a cup of coffee wherever he happened to be. His fear of a coffeeless day became a heavy burden — literally and figuratively. “No coffee? That would be miserable,” you might think. And yes, if that’s what you expect, it will be miserable. In the hundreds of days I’ve spent on the Camino, I’ve probably gone without coffee only ten days. And as it turned out: it was perfectly survivable.

Give the Universe a chance to surprise you and provide what you need. Leave at home anything that keeps you from being present in the here and now, and that you can easily live without on the Camino: e-readers, books, and so on. Make not only your backpack as light as possible, but also your thoughts and judgments. 

Physical Preparation

The Gentle Art of Tramping is the title of a small book written around 1925 by Stephen Graham. Graham was a passionate walker who crossed half the world on foot and preferred to spend his nights outdoors. His gear lacked the technical sophistication we know today, yet he offers interesting advice that remains surprisingly relevant, and he reflects on the usefulness and intrinsic wisdom of walking. Apart from outdated notions such as his praise of tobacco — this book beautifully highlights the essence of walking as a healthy and insight-giving art of living. Here, I hope to show the same values, starting with something very concrete: a description of the physical measures necessary for a successful Camino. 

Training in Advance

It may be obvious that before your long walk you should walk as much as possible, but I’ve seen too many people set out unprepared — and it often leads to problems. Get your body used to rhythm and distance. Walk to your work and back or leave the car somewhere along the way and walk the last two miles. Do your shopping on foot. Once or twice a week, take a long walk and gradually work up to 10 miles or more. Break in your hiking shoes and socks as much as possible. Take the stairs instead of the elevator, even if you live on the fourteenth floor. Every bit of movement helps you walk lighter and stronger later.

If you manage to keep your backpack under 6 kg, you don’t need much training with a fully packed load. Still, it’s wise to try walking with your backpack a few times. If keeping it light isn’t working, then train more often with full gear. But it’s better to see what else you can leave out before you depart.

The first days and weeks on the Camino act as intensive training. At the start of your journey, don’t walk more than 10 miles per day. This reduces the risk of injury. You’ll see that your fitness improves rapidly and soon you’ll be walking 15 miles a day with ease.

Blisters

A whole chapter about blisters? Absolutely. Anyone who has walked the Camino knows that blisters are one of the most common discomforts. So it’s worth spending a little time on them. If you’re certain you never get blisters, feel free to skip this section — although you might still want to read it, because it will help you care for other walkers who do. I’ve learned the hard way what does and does not work when it comes to blisters, and how to prevent them as much as possible. I’m happy to share that experience.

Because you walk a considerable distance every day on the Camino, the skin on your feet — especially at the beginning of your journey — becomes more vulnerable than you’re used to, and you may develop blisters more quickly. Some people use special foot creams. I’m not convinced they help much, and I’ve never used them myself. But if you think they help, go ahead — just make sure you also do the things that definitely help prevent blisters: wearing suitable, well-fitting shoes and socks. What is “suitable” differs for everyone. Figure that out well before you start your walk.

If you are on the trail and feel a burning sensation on your foot, stop immediately and cover the spot with porous sports tape. With a bit of luck, you’ll prevent a blister from forming. Blisters themselves aren’t pleasant, but an infected blister can be so painful that you’ll hardly want to take another step. So make sure you work as sterile as possible when treating one. Don’t thread a piece of string through it — that only drags bacteria inside and can cause an infection. Always disinfect both your skin and the scissors or needle before opening a blister. I prefer a small, sharp pair of nail scissors and iodine ointment (or an alternative if you’re allergic to iodine).

If a blister causes little or no pain, leave it intact so no bacteria can enter, but keep an eye on it to be sure it doesn’t grow. Cover it with sports tape. If it must be opened to release the fluid, first apply iodine ointment (Betadine) to the skin and to the scissors. Then snip the blister open just a little. You can also use a needle, but the hole is so tiny that it may close almost immediately. Empty the blister and then cover it with porous sports tape so the moisture can escape. The tape forms a protective layer over the skin and stays on for days, even when showering. If you want to do it perfectly, spread a little iodine ointment on the tape as well. With this approach, you can usually walk almost pain-free the next day, with the lowest chance of infection.

For information on treating and preventing all kinds of other physical issues along the way, the internet will serve you well.

Mental Preparation

Begin by being still. Quiet the outer world so your inner world can bring you insight.

- Neale Donald Walsch

Anyone who wants the Camino to become more than an athletic achievement or a sightseeing trip discovers that mental preparation is just as important as physical preparation. The key word is trust. From now on, direct your attention as much as possible toward positive thoughts about your upcoming Camino. Look forward to what is coming, and let worst-case scenarios or worries be what they are: nothing more than thoughts. The following pages reflect my own experiences. Let them inspire you, but above all, do what suits you: it is your path.

The Camino as a Spiritual Journey

The voice calling me is one I feel much deeper within myself

- line from a poem by “E.G.B.”

It is often said that countless generations of pilgrims have charged the Camino with a special energy — a force that can reveal itself in events that feel almost miraculous. Some believe that the route’s position along ancient ley lines also plays a role, much like churches built on spiritual crossroads, which seem to carry a quiet energy infused by the sincere devotion of their many visitors. Yet once such places lose their religious function and become purely commercial, that power fades. In the same way, there is a growing concern that the spiritual essence of the Camino is weakening under increasing tourism — luggage transport, luxury hotels, and fully arranged tours included. That is why I walk with a spiritual intention, not as a tourist. Focus first on spirituality, and you’ll find it brings far more than a beautiful walk — and it helps keep the soul of the Camino alive, just as sincere devotion nourishes the quiet power of a church.

Letting Go and Trusting

Begin your mental preparation at home, starting with carefully assembling your gear: everything you truly need, and nothing more. Make sure you’re well informed, so you don’t waste energy on doubts once you’re on the way.

Are you someone who likes to keep everything under control? Try letting go of that control. Walk in freedom and trust that the Camino, the Universe, God — whatever name you give it— will take care of you. Don’t worry about accommodations along the route, don’t worry about wild animals or people, don’t worry about getting lost, accidents, illness, bad weather, or any other calamity you can imagine. Tell yourself that you can do this, and give no attention to doubts or irritations. Instead, look forward to your pilgrimage. The more you trust, the more peace you’ll find in your mind, the more your intuition will be nourished by the Universe, and the more good fortune will meet you along the way. Practice walking in silence and let thoughts be what they are. Don’t feed them. The rhythm of walking helps to clear your mind and free you from judgments, worries, and other fleeting thoughts. Keep your attention outward — especially on whatever brings you joy. Speak less and listen more.

To Reserve or Not to Reserve?

“Both poor and rich pilgrims, regardless of their origin, who depart from or arrive in Santiago, must be received with hospitality and care.”

- Codex Calixtinus, Book Five: The Pilgrim’s Guide

It may seem strange to talk about reservations here, but the topic goes straight to the heart of mental preparation: trust. Many times, I’ve experienced that the Universe “arranged” a place for me to sleep. I never had a problem finding a bed. Most of the time, I was welcomed at the first albergue I came across, without a reservation. Sometimes I made a reservation in the morning for the coming night, or for the next two. And sometimes a bed appeared before I even realized there might be a problem. Once, somewhere in France, a driver suddenly stopped his car in front of me. He offered me a ride to one of the two accommodation options in the nearby village. Both turned out to be closed. My benefactor then arranged an alternative place ften miles away, drove me there, and treated me to a beer on a pleasant terrace. Sometimes things simply “arranged themselves,” like the time I was overtaken by a runner who struck up a conversation with me. I asked if she knew a place where I could pitch my tent. She called the director of a care home and arranged for me to sleep in the beautiful garden of an empty residence. Sometimes my request to the Universe was more explicit, like the time I was looking for a place to sleep in a small Belgian village and said quietly to myself: “Father James, do something about this!” Within a minute, a car pulled up. The driver stopped, and I asked if he knew a place where I could set up my tent. “Follow me,” he said. A hundred steps farther, he stopped at his modest house and offered me a sheltered spot in his garden overlooking the fields. I could go on and on with stories of these “coincidental” encounters. It may sound unreal, but I learned more and more that problems simply do not exist.

Does that mean you should never reserve? Of course not. Use common sense. Reserve on routes with few accommodation options, and don’t walk blindly into peak local holiday seasons or if you’re traveling in a group. But don’t let fear guide your search — fear only stands in the way of happiness.

Alone, Together, or in a Group?

A friendship is tested by nothing so much as by a long trek.

- Stephen Graham

Exactly so — and the Camino is no different. Graham wrote this a century ago, and it still holds true. People often say that on the Camino you gain friends and lose friendships. Walking together can drain a lot of energy. It means aligning your pace and plans all day long, talking constantly, which can make it harder to open yourself to the inner journey.

I prefer to walk alone — not to avoid contact (that arises naturally along the way, during the day or in the albergue at night), but because walking alone creates space to tune in to the path, to yourself, and to the Universe. It’s up to you to decide: walk alone or with others. But if you are seeking the magic of the Camino, you may be better off walking alone.

Recommendations 

It is a noble art; know how to walk and you know how to live.

- Stephen Graham

The Camino is more than a random long-distance hike or a pleasant tourist outing. In the travel stories I share with you in this book, you’ll notice that countless small miracles appear — often hidden in everyday encounters, just as miracles appear in daily life. Miracles are always present, everywhere. The longer you are on the Camino, the more open you become to them. That is the beauty of the Camino. This book points you toward that magic. And by walking as a pilgrim, you help preserve the spiritual essence and original character of the Camino. A few recommendations that have helped me along the way:

• happiness is a decision;

• go with trust in yourself and in the Universe;

• preferably walk alone and direct your attention outward, especially toward what brings you joy;

• leave at home whatever distracts you from the here and now: worries, e-readers, books, and so on;

• talk less, listen more;

• take only what you truly need — make your backpack as light as possible, and your thoughts as well;

• carry your own luggage so you can stop and continue whenever you wish;

• take your time — walk longer Caminos;

• move under your own power.

In one sentence:

Give the Universe the space to reach you and to provide for your needs. 

PART 2 – THE WAY

Do it too!

Walk, walk.

Defy your pride, your comfort.

Walk until blisters form on your feet.

Sleep in creaking bunk beds.

Sleep surrounded by animal-like snoring.

Sleep in stuffy little rooms.

Haul yourself, breathless, up mountains.

Eat from pots of one-pot pilgrim stew.

Walk and drink in the love

of the Universe,

of nature and of one another,

and draw nearer to yourself -

preferably to something even deeper.

Walk, walk the Camino de Santiago. 

Hope and Miracles 

Esperanza y Miracle

With the physical and mental preparation behind you, the moment comes when you stop reading about the Camino or making plans — and actually set out. It is the step from theory to practice, from preparation to trust. As an aside: walking in trust means walking with openness, not with naïveté. Don’t start your day totally unprepared, and above all, adjust your trip to the weather and make sure you carry enough food and water, especially when you’re not certain you can get it along the way.

Perhaps you wonder whether you are capable of such a long journey. My answer: without a doubt — and why not? As long as your health allows it and you truly want it, you will succeed, because you are not the passive subject of your circumstances, but the creator of them.

In Part 2, I’ll tell you how I do it. I’ll take you along on two of my Caminos, which I’ve called Calle de la Esperanza and Carrer del Miracle. I encountered both names on street signs along the way, and each captured the essence of my experience. The first journey carries the force of esperanza — the hopeful expectation that the Universe will provide what I need. The second journey is filled with miracles — remarkable events that touched me deeply. At times in my stories I refer to these miracles as a white rabbit. Often they hide in the text just as rabbits hide in their burrows. Miracles are always present, everywhere. On the Camino, you learn to see them — sometimes only in hindsight, but over and over again. That is the magic of the Way. 

Calle de la Esperanza 

Calle de la Esperanza

- Street sign in Mañeru

The Camino Francés is the classic pilgrimage route from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela. Pilgrim paths from all corners of Europe converge in St. Jean, a town at the foot of the Pyrenees in southwest France. Countless pilgrims set out from here toward Santiago, often with the hopeful expectation of encounters and experiences that will enrich their lives. I call this journey, rightly, a Calle de la Esperanza — the Way of Hope.

For this book in particular, I chose to walk this Camino without making a single reservation. The heart of this book is simply that the expression “the Camino provides” is not an empty slogan, and that the Universe — whatever name you give it — provides for you at exactly the right moment and place.

Nothing was arranged in advance, no guarantees beforehand. And I did this on the busiest of all the Caminos, in September— almost the busiest month of the year. I wanted to confirm that it is truly possible to entrust yourself completely to this extraordinary path, where a bed, a solution, or an unexpected turn always awaits you. And often far more than that. Thus began my Calle de la Esperanza. 

On the Way to Bayonne 

-Traveling Unreserved

“Willem, it was nice to meet you today. Thank you for talking with me and helping me to not feel anxious. I wish you joy on your journey and good luck with your book.”

Aubrey sent me this nice message later that day. At Rotterdam Central Station she had been sitting next to me on a bench, waiting for the train to Brussels — the same train that would take me toward Paris. The eight o’clock train we had both booked was cancelled. Aubrey wasn’t sure she had understood the situation correctly.

The next train was packed; we were allowed on, but without reserved seats. We ended up in the aisle, where we passed the time talking and joking. Aubrey wanted a selfie with me. I didn’t mind, nor did I mind the hug she offered when she got off in Brussels. A beautiful soul — just appearing on my path.

On a hard little seat in the dining car, I reflect on the first hours of my pilgrimage. Up to Paris Gare du Nord I stood in an overcrowded train. Time flew thanks to good conversations and my brief friendship with Aubrey. I forgot to buy a metro ticket on the train, which would have been useful, because Gare du Nord always has long lines at the ticket machines — unfortunate when you have little time to make your connection to Gare Montparnasse. Calmly I waited my turn and bought a ticket with help from a railway employee. My reserved train at Gare Montparnasse had long since departed when I arrived. Fortunately, I was allowed to board the next one without a reservation, but I had no desire to spend another four hours standing in the aisle. So I asked Father James to place me favorably on the platform — and he did: the dining car, full of empty seats, stopped right in front of me.

The seat may be hard, but at least I am sitting — thanks to the Universe. Meanwhile, the French countryside rushes past at more than three hundred kilometers per hour, with a great deal of noise. Forests, sunflower fields, quiet villages — too beautiful for this pace. I want to walk there.

My luck ends when I discover I’m sitting in the wrong section of the train. Jacob missed that, the conductor too, and only after an hour do I realize we’re going in the wrong direction. I get off at the next station. After a soaking rainstorm in Pau, I catch a train back to Bayonne. Another hour on the train. Or is it still luck, since my train arrives after just twenty minutes? In any case, it fits perfectly with my plan to travel without reservations — it leads to surprises.

Even more surprises await in Bayonne: the train to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port isn’t running. Buses have been arranged instead, taking twice as long. I wouldn’t arrive until ten o’clock — far too late. So I walk through the evening sun of this beautiful French city to an albergue where I’ve stayed before. The small hostel is full, but the friendly elderly hospitalero improvises an extra bed. I get a cup of tea, and a fellow pilgrim from the Far East offers me a nectarine and a cup of yogurt. What a warm welcome.

Despite the appearance of setbacks, the journey has begun well for me. Nothing reserved. No train, no bed — and yet here I am, comfortable in this hostel in Bayonne. Tomorrow morning, the train to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port will surely be running. 

Camino Francés 

“The Camino is an inner journey that you walk alone, and in which silence is essential.”

- Hospitalero of Casa Paroquial Hospital de Peregrino, Tosantos

Roncesvalles

After a short night — thanks to the coughing of two fellow pilgrims and the wobbling of the man in the bunk below me — I begin breakfast. Two small pieces of toasted baguette and a mug of coffee. Not enough. It needs to be supplemented with rolls from a bakery.

On the slow train to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, I’m surrounded by a group of five hikers with large, fully packed backpacks and a daypack that looks big enough for half a world trip. Giggle-filled chaos erupts as they search through a tangle of pouches for their train tickets.

Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is quiet. Most walkers left well before seven. I decide to continue immediately and buy bread rolls for today’s long stage. It’s already 9:30, so I’ll arrive late in Roncesvalles. Still, I trust that a bed will be waiting for me there and that the early birds haven’t taken everything.

The Camino isn’t busy. Nearly the entire day goes uphill, and it’s tougher than expected. The most exciting moment is a herd of at least twenty-five horses galloping straight toward me — far too fast for a photo. The day is bright and sunny. The mountains are beautiful. An occasional eagle circles overhead.

In the long final descent, my left knee begins to ache. Eating and drinking well along the way is essential for a successful walk. Today I learn that the hard way. I brought too little food, had too little energy, and I pay the price: I reach Roncesvalles exhausted.

In the winter section of the refugio, a kind of emergency bed is available. It couldn’t be simpler — there isn’t even an electrical outlet — but there is an abundance of mothballs. I head quickly to the pilgrims’ blessing. The service is almost over, but I catch the blessing just in time, under the watchful gaze of a silver statue of Mary.

In the adjoining hotel I join the ‘pilgrim’s dinner’, and fortunately so, because I’m starving and there’s nothing else available in this former monastery complex. Good food is not guaranteed. Here, good simply means a lot. A lot of macaroni, a lot of vague soup, a lot of chicken that I suspect was once an old rooster — and whose dubious color leads me to leave most of it untouched. Ice cream for dessert. Much for little money.

It’s ten o’clock. Bedtime. The Dutch hospitalero turns off the lights with merciless precision. Mine went off much earlier.

Urdaniz

Fate has decided that I must learn to maintain a positive attitude — and sleep — among four extraordinarily obese and loudly snoring men. The four showers here are too cramped for people of their size, and you can smell it. That, plus a guest who packs up and leaves at four in the morning, makes the night a valuable lesson — an exercise in tolerance. My bunkmate above me flees to the kitchen and sleeps on a pile of loose cushions. I seize the moment to switch my head and foot ends, moving my face away from the snoring, fragrant neighbor below. It doesn’t help: someone equally fragrant is snoring at the other end as well.

At six o’clock the lights come on. Most people are already busy packing. The cramped showers offer wonderfully warm water. Thanks to the little S-hook I brought and the luxury of a handheld shower, I manage to hang my clothes in a corner of the stall and keep them dry.

Everyone rushes to leave this place as soon as possible — understandably. Dawn is breaking, and the air outside is chilly. My knee, which suddenly started hurting on yesterday’s descent, feels much better today. Walk carefully, especially downhill. The landscape is varied: many forest paths and kilometers of almost impassable trail. Progress is slow. A few villages offer coffee. Jean-Marc wants a picture with me. A nice guy — he sat at my table last night. A Spanish couple does the same, because of the Basque beret on my head.

Without any clear reason, I give a tiny white plastic rabbit — symbol of an extraordinary journey — to a woman from Taiwan. I brought a handful to hand out along the way. For her, this is a reason to give me a pin with the Taiwanese flag. For courtesy’s sake, I attach it to my beret, but I intend to pass it on to another Taiwanese pilgrim.

I remain faithful to my intention not to reserve any beds until Santiago, and to knock each day at the first albergue I reach after roughly twenty-five kilometers. An old bridge leads into a lovely village, Zubiri, where not a single bed is free. The place is crawling with backpackers. A couple of kilometers further on, I find a quiet albergue with a bed, a swimming pool, a washing machine, Shannon from Utah, Nuria from Madrid, and a friendly hospitalero who cooks for the ten guests — and does it very well. The atmosphere at the table is cheerful. There is lots of laughter. The albergue is completo with me included. My bed was the only one that hadn’t been reserved. San Tiago kept it open for me.

Cizur

Slept well, but unfortunately I woke up with a cold. I suspect the coughing people in Bayonne as the cause. The guests in this albergue don’t provide any exciting stories now.

On my way. After a kilometer I return for my beret, which I left behind in the hostel. Beautiful paths along a fast-flowing river. The roar of rapids drowns out the traffic noise from the main road on the opposite bank. Autumn is approaching: shrubs and trees full of colorful berries.

Pamplona is lovely, but not lovely enough to stay. And there are plenty of completo signs. At the hostel run by the Order of Malta, a few kilometers outside Pamplona, there’s plenty of room. Not many kilometers today, but with a runny nose it feels like more than enough. There I meet a young woman from Taiwan, twenty-five years old. Sweet face with bangs. Her name is Yo. I had already seen some Taiwanese pilgrims earlier today, but only now do I decide to give away the Taiwanese flag pin I happened to receive yesterday. She beams and tells me she had been searching for such a pin and couldn’t find one. I think I received it yesterday just so I could give it to her. That’s how things work on the Camino. Yo has large blisters on both feet. She had read that you should thread a piece of string through them. That is a persistent misconception — and the worst thing you can do. I treat her blisters properly and give her a tiny rabbit as comfort. She then wants a picture with me.

Sophie, who sat next to me at the table yesterday, walks in. She brings another Camino friend, Beth from the U.S. We decide to go to a small restaurant together. Joe from Belgium joins us, as do Yo and a young woman, Tal, from Israel. A colorful group of solo walkers, all without reservations. There is warmth, laughter, good food, and a friendly waitress. We have to hurry back before 9:30, because that’s when the hospitalero locks the door. As a pilgrim you have complete freedom — but the hospitalero has the final say.

Puente la Reina

Slept little, snuffled a lot. I feel miserable, but paracetamol saves the day. Yo is happy — her feet no longer hurt. My left knee is pain-free as well, which is a relief.

Beautiful rolling landscape and a steep, muddy path leading to an impressive viewpoint where a steel procession of pilgrims is displayed. There are strikingly many young women from Taiwan. I chat with four of them.

Puente la Reina is a lovely little town with several albergues. I choose one in the quiet area outside the town. It’s large and cheerless, like a 1970s campground. I’ll make do. So far it hasn’t taken much effort to find a bed, despite dire predictions and well-meant advice from seasoned walkers, such as: “You’d better take an air mattress for sleeping on the floor of a fire station,” or “At least reserve in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and Roncesvalles,” or “September is full of big festivals in Spain — every major city will be booked solid.” The more I hear these warnings, the stronger my conviction becomes that reserving is almost a collective compulsion. Many people say “the Camino provides,” but why wouldn’t that apply in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, Roncesvalles, or the big cities in September?

Azqueta

Today I walk through a lush landscape of hills, harvested fields, and ripe fruit — rose hips, elderberries, acorns, grapes, and figs. Along the way I receive greetings from Yo, delivered by another Taiwanese pilgrim who recognizes me by my beret.

This day, day five, turns out to be Hug Day. It begins early in the morning with a young woman from Hungary, a soldier trained to evacuate war casualties — whole or not — from the battlefield. Last night she showed me her valuables, including a white plush rabbit she received when she was adopted at the age of two. For her it symbolizes home and comfort. She always carries it with her. Naturally, she receives one of my tiny rabbits, along with the story that belongs to it. She politely asks for a hug. The second embrace comes from a woman from the U.S., who, like me, wears a Basque beret — but hers is red. I give her the address of the finest hat and beret shop in Santiago. She cannot continue without a hug, and she, too, asks nicely. The third is from Beth, when she says goodbye and goes to her reserved “pilgrim sleep factory.” Later she regrets it and decides to walk on to my albergue, which is far more pleasant. The fourth is Helene, the hospitalera of the Perla Negra hostel in Azqueta. We are happy to see each other again. Two years ago, she overheard bits of my rabbit story while I was telling it to another pilgrim. The next morning she asked if I would tell the whole story to her. It turned into a moving conversation, and I set off much later than planned. We never forgot each other. She gives me the same bed as two years ago: in the attic, in my own little room with an open window. I feel like a special guest.

What a quiet village this is! I sit outside on a bench. At last the sun appears today. I sip a quarter liter of wine, drawn earlier at a bodega with two taps set into the wall — one for water, one for red wine — good for a hundred liters a day. Free and for pilgrims only. I doubt every local wine lover respects that restriction. Last time I passed by at six in the evening — too late, no wine left. It’s a simple wine, but what could be more delightful than drawing wine like water, and drinking it. I cannot share it, unless someone wants to inherit my virus along with every sip. Meanwhile I do a bit of recruiting for the hostel and talk a solitary walker into coming inside.

In the evening we eat together. Conversations arise about the magic of the Camino, which eventually run aground on the preachy monologue of a pilgrim who has seen the ‘Camino light’. Once the broadcast is over and the preacher has left, the table can breathe again.

Helene is clearly happy with this group. She tells us — in Spanish, sprinkled with English — that as a child she would sometimes see a lone pilgrim pass by. She would shout to her mother, “A pilgrim!” Her mother would bring every pilgrim inside for food and drink and even offer them a bed. That is how she felt called to start this hostel. She sighs about the new generation of travelers, more focused on comfort than on experiencing an echo of ancient pilgrimage traditions — let alone spirituality. Finally she asks me if I will tell the original rabbit story once more. Nothing gives me more pleasure. A tiny rabbit is, of course, her reward.

I leave the wine alone now. Enough slurping for one day.

Torres del Río

I forget to take a dose of paracetamol before going to sleep. That costs me an hour of sniffling, sleepless misery in the middle of the night. Fortunately, I do manage to sleep for several more hours afterward. A long breakfast follows, chatting with a few other guests who also aren’t early risers. Helene tells us she is now in a relationship with a Dutchman, René. He passed through as a pilgrim and never left. He took over a bar in the village. I stop by, but he is too busy with the stream of walkers to talk much. He used to be an accountant and an economics teacher. This suits him far better. Such a sudden turn in life — it’s a classic Camino story.

I don’t set out until ten. Again, it’s a delightful walk through a lovely hilly landscape with the most beautiful little towns — quite manageable. I’m certainly not the only walker. On the way, I talk to someone who is walking in memory of his grandmother. She raised him after his mother gave him up. His mother had arranged for the funeral of his grandma to take place before he arrived from Canada, as if he didn’t matter. A reason for him to break with her and walk the Camino in honor of the only person who truly loved him: grandmother.

After two o’clock it becomes quieter. Most 'pilgrims' are already drinking beer. That includes Sophie, the farmer from France who can never be away for more than a week. I meet her on a terrace. Her husband told her over the phone that a huge pile of work is waiting for her at home. I can’t understand a man who pressures his wife to return early.

In Torres del Río, Beth appears again, sitting behind a glass of beer. Through tears she tells me how hard it is that her husband doesn’t understand her pilgrimage, and that she cannot share her happiness on the Camino with him. I listen and think: what a contrast with Ellen, who understands my happiness here and grants it without hesitation. We agree to have dinner together. Today has felt like an old-fashioned consultation hour — except now complete with hugs and dinner plans.

The albergue in Torres del Río is in a beautiful old building. Ten bunk beds in a small space. Once again, I get a bed without a reservation. The top bunk above me remains empty. This means I can turn over as often as I like without waking anyone by shaking the bed. The meal at a nearby restaurant is advertised as paella and consists mostly of mushy rice with chicken bones and lots of red wine. Sitting with fifteen Camino friends at a long table, we cheer and applaud when it’s served. Even the mayor stops by.

For those who’d like an update on my medical file: my left knee is fully recovered; the cold has evolved into a purulent tracheitis with coughing fits and rattles that even Sophie’s husband would be ashamed of; and I have sore muscles from the crossing over the Pyrenees. Three times a day a gram of paracetamol and you won’t hear me complain.

Looking back, it was inconsistent — and mostly impractical — to book a return ticket in advance. You never know what might happen along the way. Because I haven’t been feeling well, I’ve walked less than expected. This means I’ll need to increase my daily distance from twenty-seven to thirty kilometers to catch my flight home. The other options are “cheating” with public transportation or buying a new ticket. Neither option feels right.

Ventosa

An early bird lets his alarm go off at six. I suppress the urge to shout, “No alarms in a dormitory!” So by seven I’m already outside, with a coffee and a fried-egg sandwich in my stomach. Today I need to make up the kilometers I missed because of my cold. I have my eye on an albergue forty kilometers ahead, slightly off the route. Surely there will still be a bed if I get there around four.

The landscape description is becoming repetitive — see yesterday — although I still can’t get enough of it. The old villages and towns don’t get old either, with their narrow streets, richly sculpted churches, and romantic squares with terraces. Logroño is the same, only larger. A vulture on a post sits calmly as I pass. Nearly ripe grapes. A 25-year-old Italian aspiring actress is startled when an old Spaniard suddenly plants a kiss on her cheek. She no longer has grandparents. I adopt her as my granddaughter. She loves the idea, but we lose each other again before anything at all can be written down.

Forty kilometers is a lot, but I manage. Only three hundred meters before my goal, a car stops. The driver advises me not to continue: “Completo.” In Ventosa, I’m told, there is space — and indeed, there is. It costs me another three extra kilometers. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn as to leave the route; the hostel where I ended up is, of course, right along the Camino.

I eat with three Swedes and an Italian. Polite people, but a somewhat quiet combination. I throw a few stories into the mix. That helps a bit. The waitress pretends to be confused when I clearly signal that she shouldn’t pour the wine so stingily if she wants to appear refined. Go back to school for a bit, I think — then you can learn to clear the plates before bringing dessert, if you truly want to be chic.

The albergue, and this too is getting repetitive, is a beautiful old building with countless rooms and even more bunk beds. I am assigned a top bunk. If two reservations hadn’t been no-shows, my arrival would have made the place completo.

The hospitalero warns me that I must leave early tomorrow if I don’t want to miss out on a bed down the line. By 9:15 my roommates are already fast asleep. Tomorrow will no doubt be another early start — and the hospitalero will get his way after all.

Cirueña

Not too bad: only after 6:30 does the dorm begin to stir. Packing is getting more efficient each day. Within twenty-five minutes I’m outside. The bar around the corner provides a quick bite and coffee.

I walk almost the entire day through the vineyards of Rioja, and even for hours completely alone. Along the way, I strike up a conversation with Brenda, a stout woman from the U.S. She looks old and tired. I dare to ask her age — perhaps she’s older than I am; that would be nice. I don’t always want to be the oldest one. Fourteen years younger. Later I see her on a terrace, delighted by our renewed encounter, calling out that she’ll never forget me. With a declaration like that, the diagnosis is already clear. “Brenda, please do forget me,” I think — but such replies always occur to me hours too late. At the same terrace sits Shana. She has a plush bear, Peggy Bear, hanging from her backpack. He looks like Bumo, my bear when I was little, who disappeared mysteriously from my life. Shana tells me she once gave Peggy to her grandmother, and received him back after her grandmother passed away. Now he travels everywhere with her. She lets him experience all sorts of adventures and makes small books about them. Brenda, I never forgot Bumo.

A mistake in my map causes me to take a four-kilometer detour, arriving an hour later at a bright blue-painted albergue where — despite the gloomy predictions of yesterday’s hospitalero — there is, once again, a bed for me. A real bed, not a bunk. The hospitalero runs the place with a firm hand at the expense of warmth, partially compensated — just barely — by a very filling meal which, although preceded by a three-second prayer and served in wooden bowls, causes notable unrest in my intestines. He sits there yawning, clearly exhausted after a season of six to ten guests every day, always new ones. In the hallway lie the luggage labels for ‘turigrinos’. Very clearly not his favorite clientele. His albergue is for sale. After the meal I hear stories about all kinds of difficulties encountered when you don’t reserve a bed. I can’t relate. Someone suggests that my optimism and energy ensure that a bed is always available for me. Could be true. My Italian roommate — despite being Italian — is a quiet man. He politely asks if it suits me to have his alarm go off at 6:30. Fine with me.

Tosantos

After waking, little is said. When I walk out the door, dawn is just beginning to break. The path is beautiful, running straight over the hills. The vineyards have given way to harvested wheat fields and stands of faded sunflowers that no longer follow the sun. But the joy of the early hour is short-lived: for the rest of the day, the route follows a busy main road. Again, the most beautiful towns and churches, that’s true. The cathedral of Santo Domingo de la Calzada has a tower like Brussels lace. A smaller church has an impressive altar — so beautiful that I light a candle for twenty cents, even though it’s electric. I don’t talk much along the way.

I head for a donativo albergue, Casa Paroquial Hospital de Peregrino — an old building inside and out. I’m welcomed warmly. You can’t reserve here. The hospitalero carries my backpack and poles up to my room. The beds are taken, but a mattress on the floor is fine, and once again I have a roof over my head without a reservation. If you want even a millimeter of luxury, this is not the place for you, but there is a communal meal in the evening, prepared by some of the guests — and that is exactly the kind of atmosphere I love. The host gives a speech. The message is that the Camino is a journey inward, one you walk alone, and in which silence is essential. I could have said it myself.

After dinner we go up to a little attic chapel, where we sing and where prayer slips — pleas written by pilgrims — are read aloud.

San Juan de Ortega

After nine hours of sleep I set out, for the first time in days without paracetamol — the last of it ran out yesterday. A signpost tells me it’s only five hundred and fifty kilometers to Santiago. I see frost on the ground, but it feels less cold than yesterday. Separatists scratch off y León from every Castilla y León sign. Someone has changed y León into y corazón. I can laugh at that — vandalism with heart.

On a long ascent, the man with the hammer hits me. If only I still had paracetamol! Sniffling, I struggle my way uphill. A woman from South Korea wants a picture with me. That is the high point of the day so far. The low point comes later when I take a hard fall. I sit for half an hour recovering, noticing bruises forming on my knee and ribs, and feeling completely drained.

In the next village, two kilometers further, there’s a restaurant where I get a good plate of food, but it doesn’t bring my energy back. The albergue next door, housed in a former monastery with a beautiful old courtyard, has plenty of space. So: no thirty kilometers today. In front of me, an American woman checks in, even though her luggage had been transported to a different hostel. The manager’s wife drives her there. A Canadian nurse gives me paracetamol. In my lower bunk I immediately fall into a deep sleep for a few hours. When I wake, I see two lovebirds cuddled up together on the top bunk. They’re quite taken with each other. The Camino provides in every possible way…

The hamlet I’m staying in is little more than a former monastic complex, historically intended for sick pilgrims. Today, with my sniffles and bruises, I fit right in.

Tardajos

The day begins well with Michael from Texas, who is baffled by the superficiality of many Camino walkers — people who don’t know the difference between a hike and a Camino. He hopes for divine inspiration and hangs a small red plastic cross on my backpack. I naturally give this kindred spirit a tiny rabbit, along with its story. Symbols changing hands. I then talk briefly with two cheerful Argentinians and later with an American woman in a bar. All pilgrims.

Crossing Burgos means walking eleven kilometers of sprawling industry and only one kilometer of beautiful old town. My albergue is six kilometers beyond Burgos, which makes today’s walk forty kilometers, but I can manage it again. In Tardajos I ignore the huge albergues advertising themselves with massive signs and choose the municipal hostel instead. The welcome from hospitalera Teresa is warm and personal. No reservations possible. Several beds remain empty. Later, in a restaurant, I recognize a few faces — especially Yo. We’re delighted to see each other again. She becomes completely unsettled when someone faints. I reassure her.

Evening falls, and my eyes fall shut from sleep.

Hontanas

Rural villages with pious murals and inscriptions pass by, along with a hilly landscape, the occasional bird of prey, and then ever-flatter land with shorn grain fields glowing in gentle sunlight. I wonder if this is the Meseta. Not too hot. Ideal walking weather. Here and there a bar for coffee and food. Yo is here again, as well as a German woman carrying only one and a half kilos of gear — it seems that’s possible too.

The absurdly large signs along the road seem to beg for graffiti, but slogans appear everywhere — on walls, posts, anything you can attack with a marker. The texts are, in the best case, moralizing life advice like “Be yourself,” but usually the messages are more aggressive — quite out of place on a Camino.

After twenty kilometers I call it a day. Whether it’s yesterday’s forty or the rhinovirus that has been nagging me for over a week, I feel unwell all day, so twenty is enough. I walk into the first albergue I see and have no trouble at all getting a lower bunk — once again without a reservation. Most beds remain empty. In the evening I share a table with Eleanore and Judy from the U.S. They come to Spain for a week or two at a time because this country offers something they lack at home: a path that carries you.

Itero del Castillo

It is misty and chilly early in the morning. A gently rolling landscape, a narrow path softly lit by the full moon. Slowly the sun takes over the illumination. Most walkers go in pairs. I pass the ruins of a church, now split in two by a strip of asphalt — symbol of changing times. Farther on, the same thing: a church turned into a museum. Ruined as well, though not by asphalt. Admission one euro. Not worth it to me.

Castrojeriz is a beautiful town with plenty of cafés and restaurants for the pampered walker. You can sleep in style here, but I continue on. Then I meet Anne, a Frenchwoman. We walk together for a while, sometimes talking, sometimes silent. We have a pleasant conversation — finally one that isn’t about backpack weight. After climbing a long incline together, we stop to enjoy the view. Anne decides to stay there a bit longer, while I move on. As we part, I give her a tiny rabbit — a reminder of this one-hour Camino friendship. A little later there is another spectacular view over a vast plain. The path drops steeply and then winds through the valley.

On impulse I stop after twenty kilometers at a donativo albergue in a former chapel. It looks interesting. Only a nearby outbuilding has electricity and a shower. Unfortunately, three women take up a lot of space with nonstop chatter. A siesta becomes impossible. In the evening there is a communal pilgrims’ meal, preceded by a ritual foot washing — one foot per pilgrim; let’s not overdo it. It does nothing to quiet a loud Italian group. The meal — 95% pasta with a whisper of cheese — is served only at 7:30. I am tired and want to sleep, but some Italians keep talking and singing. Finally at ten it becomes quiet and I can go to sleep.

Villalcázar de Sirga

Soft Gregorian chant drifts through the air. No beeping alarms, no clattering from pilgrims rushing out the door. What a wonderful way to wake up. It’s already seven, but even in late September it’s still dark. We eat breakfast by candlelight. Then I set off, full of energy. I haven’t felt this good in days. Perhaps the virus is finally retreating.

The path runs through fields dotted with irrigation systems. They’re turned off — there was heavy rain last night. After ten kilometers I find a bar where the simple chapel breakfast is upgraded with two coffees, cake, and a large piece of baguette with fried egg. That will keep me going. The land is flat. It allows a canal running arrow-straight beside the path. Later, parallel to a quiet main road, the Camino stretches on, kilometer after kilometer. Not very exciting, but ideal for steady walking.

In a modest village I buy some supplies. Bread, however, is not among them. The villages are too small for a bakery. Bakers drive around honking in their vans — but never when I am nearby. After thirty kilometers I give in to my aching feet and choose the hostel run by the Order of Malta, a secular religious order of the Catholic Church whose “mission is to serve vulnerable people and the sick.” I fit the target group perfectly: bruised ribs, especially when coughing. I’m welcome even if I weren’t limping. The hospitalero insists on carrying my backpack upstairs. For ten euros I get a lower bunk with disposable sheets, and for one euro more, ten minutes of hot water.

Slowly the hostel fills up completely, especially after a cheerful group of Italians appears around seven. Villalcázar de Sirga looks simple. Most houses are made of mud bricks, but the absurdly large church — far too grand for such a tiny village — is built of stone. I’m allowed in for the reduced peregrino rate of one euro. The woman at the desk doesn’t check whether I’m a pilgrim. Apparently, I look the part. Opposite the church is a bar where I order plato combinado no. 4. A random McDonald’s would be cozier — but there you’d get only a fraction of the food for the same money.

Ledigos

Woken early by the clattering of a few fellow guests, I set off in the dark through a moonlit landscape along a path that runs for kilometers beside a main road. Few cars pass — pleasantly quiet. Only after breakfast in a fussy hotel-restaurant, twelve kilometers later, does the path finally turn away from the road. I walk with a whole crowd through a completely flat landscape. Most people walk incredibly fast; they’re impossible to keep up with. With Kees, the first Dutchman I meet, I don’t have much in common. The conversation fizzles. Mounted police ride toward me. We exchange greetings.

After a long walk all the noisy walkers settle down in the first village they reach — an encouragement for me to continue another seven kilometers to Ledigos. It poured here last night. Mud lines the access road. I choose the most luxurious albergue and, within it, the most luxurious lodging: a “family room” for three people. A chandelier and gold-colored rails at the head of the beds, topped with towels and a chocolate. No bunk bed for once, no pilgrim romanticism. I share the room with a woman from the U.S., originally from the Philippines, and a quiet man I don’t recognize in the dark. 

In the garden I chat with Jim and his wife from the U.S. over red wine. Lovely people, even though they insist they are not pilgrims. It shows that labels don’t matter. Alies, an idealistic and cheerful woman from Utrecht, joins us. At dinner I sit with Victoria, Sandy, and Stefany. The Australian sisters, Victoria and Stefany, pour out their hearts and thank my listening ear with a fitting hug. They’re traveling as tourists, but I suspect they will return home as pilgrims.

And always the same gentle lesson: whoever walks the Camino is carried. Not by reservations, but by trust. The Camino keeps a bed, a meal, a conversation, a hug open for me — exactly on time.

El Burgo Ranero

It was a wonderfully long night: I don’t get up until a quarter to seven. On the Camino that’s late — most albergues are already buzzing by six. A quick breakfast and a chat with Jim and his wife, and then I head out for today’s thirty kilometers. I walk fourteen kilometers along the N120, a quiet provincial road. There’s a footpath beside it, but I prefer the road. Give me asphalt — fast walking, minimal attention needed for foot placement, and easier to slip into a meditative mode. For a few kilometers the path cuts through the fields, but then the choice returns: asphalt or gravel. I know my answer: asphalt. Unfortunately, due to an error in my map, today’s already long walk receives a bonus: a three-kilometer detour. The first two hostels are completo, but the third — a donativo — has seven empty beds. They don’t take reservations, so space remains. A hospitalera from Canada, a retired physician, welcomes me warmly. The place is buzzing with stories of overcrowding and full albergues. Inside I meet Rob and Vivian. We share stories in Dutch. Rob has walked from Antwerp. Vivian set out from the Netherlands after receiving a sudden intuition last year that she had to walk the Camino — she barely knew what it was. They rarely reserve, but now they hesitate. They worry about finding a place to sleep as things become increasingly crowded. I refuse to be swept up in this anxiety. Tomorrow: simply walk again. Trust is also a path.

León

Again the path follows an asphalt road. At first it’s peaceful, but as León approaches it becomes busier. When I see a large group of schoolchildren, even I briefly wonder whether there will be space in an albergue — but I don’t allow that uncertainty to linger. It will be fine. Occasionally I pass loud talkers, a few boys blasting music. Old bridges span rushing rivers and irrigation canals.

The entrance to León is anything but elegant. The path is squeezed between a tangle of highways. Jacotrans vans race by carrying the suitcases and backpacks of luxury walkers. The busier it gets, the more neglect appears — industries, car dealers, vacant lots. Several albergues sit in the outskirts, but I head firmly toward the center. Less than a kilometer from the cathedral I find a modern hostel behind an antique façade — Palacio Real. A neat four-bed room is available, and two beds remain empty. See? Plenty of space — right in the Royal Palace, though only the façade survives. My roommate Henny, an accountant, is a friendly Dutchman. We sit on a terrace and enjoy a good conversation. He’s interested in the book I intend to write and recognizes what I’m saying: trust is a key — on the Camino and beyond — that makes life much easier.

Hospital de Órbigo

After twelve kilometers of the city at its worst, twenty more kilometers follow along a busy main road before the calm of the countryside returns. Along the way I share a brief friendship with Carla from Brazil — formerly an architect, now an art therapist — and with Val from somewhere in the U.S. She explains in great detail exactly where in America she comes from, without considering whether that information has any meaning for me whatsoever. She began the Camino with a friend, but it didn’t work out. Now she walks alone. She likes it better that way. Once she’s finished talking, I’m allowed to offer her a little schooling in how to walk a Camino.

A light drizzle now and then has no effect on my mood but It takes all my wisdom not to get irritated by the barrage of graffiti, scrawled slogans, and other varieties of nonsense. I forbid myself from paying attention to any of it. 

I arrive in Hospital de Órbigo tired. The albergue run by the Order of Malta — specialists in simplicity — has a bed for me. The entrance opens onto a beautiful old courtyard decorated with flowers and plants. Because I am deemed to be of advanced age, I am assigned a lower bunk. After a short rest I head into the village in search of food. On a bench, elderly villagers chat. Walkers from the Far East receive stamps in their pilgrim passports from volunteers in the church. I’m perfectly satisfied with the stamp from my albergue. The local restaurant isn’t bad. The trout soup is particularly good. But now I want nothing more than to crawl under the covers, as I feel cold and tired. I hope my seven roommates won’t cut the night too short.

El Ganso

A wonderfully quiet, long night. Only around seven does the dormitory begin to stir. Time to get moving quickly: thirty-one kilometers means at least eight hours on the road. I can choose the shorter route along the highway or the longer one through nature. Naturally, I choose the latter. Finally, there are hills again — a prelude to the mountains on the horizon. After a few kilometers I pass the albergue where I stayed two years ago and have a short chat with the hospitalera, a sweet, delightful woman. Business is going well, she says, even though half the beds are usually empty. She’s already getting reservations for next year. “It’s getting ridiculous,” she adds.

Jean from Taiwan, sixty-four years old, asks my age. I see admiration — and disappointment — in her eyes: so old and still active, but now she’s no longer the oldest in the group. I adopt the role of Camino elder and offer her unsolicited advice to ditch half her belongings. She’s lugging around a huge backpack and also carrying one in front — a “chest-pack,” so to speak. First get rid of the junk in your pockets, then the junk in your head, or ideally all of it at once. She has no intention of doing so. “I’ll get stronger from carrying more weight,” she says. Sure, sure. Later, at a donativo open-air café, she wants a photo with me and presses herself against me so closely that I wonder whether she’ll even be able to show that picture back in Taiwan. Then I have a thirty-second conversation with Carl from England — long enough for him to tell me he walks forty-five to fifty kilometers a day “for the athletic challenge,” and whoosh, off he goes again. Finally, I meet Janneke from Limburg, down with a heavy cold. She asks how long mine lasted. I tell her an old joke I heard roughly sixty years ago in college: fourteen days without treatment and only two weeks with treatment. On the Plaza Mayor of the magnificent city of Astorga, we have our daily caffeine shot together. A little farther on, outside an albergue, a sign reads: “I know that you’re scared… But you can handle this.”

In El Ganso I think I’m entering the albergue where I stayed two years ago, but the owner charges twenty-four euros for half board — and then he even carries my backpack upstairs and gives me a standalone bed. Not bad that Saint James reserved this place for me instead of the one from last time. Many beds remain empty. Where have all the walkers gone who crowd the Camino? Later in the afternoon Henny messages me. He has walked past El Ganso and is five kilometers farther on. He must have followed my advice to tackle the thirty-kilometer stretch after León by public transport. Perhaps we’ll meet tomorrow when I head toward Molinaseca.

Rough weather is forecast for the night. I wouldn’t mind if it warmed up a bit — I’ve had cold hands all day. If only I had gloves. Dinner consists of a full plate of spaghetti, another plate with fries and chicken, a bowl of rice pudding, and a small carafe of wine. There are multiple options, but with this menu I figure I’ll get the calories a walker desperately needs. As I said before: it’s unbelievable what you get here in Spain for just a few euros. For the price of bed and half board here, you’d get little more than a starter in the Netherlands. Still, it remains surprising how they compose a three-course meal here.

Molinaseca

I don’t sleep well. A mutant strain of my earlier cold virus is draining every bit of energy I have. It’s pouring — truly pouring — but with asphalt under my feet, a perfect rain jacket, and something extra over my shoes, it’s manageable. The romantic villages along the Camino offer coffee and cake, and gradually the weather eases. But not at the Cruz de Ferro — there the rain comes down in sheets. Fortunately, there are shelters, and in one of them I meet Bob from the U.S. I confess to him that the iron cross doesn’t mean all that much to me. To him it means everything. Jesus, who once shed his blood on the cross, turned out to be there for him as well, he says. Forty years ago, destitute and homeless, he woke up one morning and found himself face to face with Jesus. Life improved from that moment on: work, a home, a wife, children. I tell him my rabbit story, and just like that, we’re lifelong friends — for thirty minutes. He’s not quite ready yet, though, to leave his reservations in the hands of the Lord.

The rest of the walk is hard work with low energy, a runny nose, and a demanding path — but with magnificent views. Late in the afternoon I reach the same albergue as two years ago. Plenty of beds left. Regular beds, along with a sign that you must not treat your blisters on them. No idea why. 

Several people arrive without reservations as well. Bob could learn something from that.

Villafranca del Bierzo

I continue to be amazed by people who leave two hours before sunrise. They try to be quiet — but they aren’t.

The first seventeen kilometers of the route are uninspiring: houses, buildings, businesses, and lots of traffic. Then comes peace. Rain, sunshine, wind. Warm, then cold again. Rain jacket on and off. After that, vineyards — and here and there yet another stretch along a busy road. I don’t speak to anyone.

Along the way I see a sign for an albergue. Instinctively I know that’s where I need to be. It turns out to be a beautifully restored old building tucked into one of the narrow streets of Villafranca del Bierzo. The hospitalera welcomes me warmly, as warm as the woodstoves burning inside. The albergue is completo. I tell her I’d really like to stay here — that surely she has a solution for an old man who has walked more than thirty kilometers just to sleep in this very place. If I wish, she says, I may sleep in the attic. I’m delighted. An entire attic all to myself. “Are you sure?” she asks. Yes, I am very sure. 

My laundry is washed for me and neatly folded when I return from an excellent meal. Someone tells me it’s getting busier now that we’re closer to Santiago, and that it would be wise to make reservations. I don’t want to be wise. I want to trust. Saint James reserves for me.

I warm myself by the open hearth and then head to my bed on the enormous old attic, with its thick beams and dusty antique wardrobes, completely content.

Vega de Valcarce

I slept wonderfully on my private attic — far away from the other guests, so no one had to endure my coughing fits. When I leave in the morning there’s no one around to whom I can pay for this precious night. I send an email instead; the kind people of this beautiful albergue have certainly earned it. I head out in the half-light and cold, but with warm hands thanks to the gloves I found yesterday in a Chinese discount shop. The Chinese shop provides…

The path winds through a gorge beside a river that rushes with cheerful insistence. On both sides mountains rise into the mist. A highway cuts through it all — impressive in its tunnels and soaring viaducts. The villages along the way are gorgeous: crumbling houses with their own melancholy, romantic façades full of stories, stately Spanish homes. As yesterday, I barely interact with anyone. Most walkers move in pairs or groups and are absorbed in their own company. And my physical condition is limited. I can still manage twenty-five kilometers, but not much more. Conversations cost energy I need for walking. A pharmacy refuses to sell me codeine — Spain requires a prescription — so I must make do with ivy-extract syrup. An elderly man wearing a handsome Panama hat sells tiny Camino trinkets. I can’t walk past without buying a bracelet with a little shell.

The route is lined with albergues, hostels, hotels, B&Bs. I even saw a “boutique hostel” once. From pilgrim to luxury traveler— there’s something for everyone. At a roadside motel, buses unload tidy, well-dressed people who are also “on their way.”

Around two o’clock I reach my albergue, run by a German church and set in a quiet spot surrounded by trees. Here I hear nonstop French, Italian, and German. The guests carry an astonishing amount of gear. Elderly gray-haired men pore over guidebooks and distance charts, making calculations and notes, and discussing them with great enthusiasm. The shower is warm and — rarely — free of defects. The sun is out and the afternoon warms pleasantly. A can of white beans with sausage and a piece of baguette becomes my evening meal. Concerned fellow pilgrims point out that there’s a microwave in the kitchen, but cold beans are just fine with me. I’m too tired to cook or to venture into the village for something warm.

The chapel of the albergue is open and still. You can light real candles there — an opportunity I won’t pass up. Through a narrow window a beam of sunlight falls directly onto a crucifix.

This albergue cannot be reserved. That’s why there are no Americans, Australians, or other far-flung wanderers here. Only very rarely — perhaps once a year, I’m told — are all fifty beds completo. Around seven a few more people trickle in. Still, the bunk above mine remains empty. I can go to sleep undisturbed, with paracetamol and ivy extract for company.

Triacastela

I sleep fitfully, jolted awake by huge coughing fits that, I fear, the other guests will be talking about for years. I’m sweating, hearing alarming sounds in my chest, diagnosing myself with conditions incompatible with pilgrimage, and already envisioning my Camino ending prematurely. In these parts there is only one remedy: get up and walk. Grumpily, I submit to this disciplinary measure and begin the day with an appropriate dose of ivy extract and paracetamol.

Dawn breaks, and the stunning mountain scenery does its best to cheer me up. The route climbs higher and higher. A wind rises, the temperature drops. Sweating and shivering. Jacket on, jacket off, jacket on again. In the tourist village of O Cebreiro — little more than albergues, cafés, and souvenir shops — I find hot chocolate and orange juice in a room warmed by a wood-burning stove. After another round of coffee, orange juice, cake, and paracetamol, I feel much better by afternoon and find myself chatting with a Canadian couple, with Janneke — whom I met a few days ago — and with Gloria and Honza, a charming Camino couple I’ve encountered several times before. There aren’t many walkers around, which makes the silence of this region all the more palpable.

In Triacastela there is a modern municipal albergue: clean, but without a trace of warmth. I find that warmth farther on, in an old building with a surprisingly stylish interior. Rough stone walls, ancient beams, and a hospitalero who truly knows his craft and has clearly invested in creating something beautiful. It’s worth stating, because many albergues excel in cheap austerity — showers that almost always have something wrong with them and rickety beds with no outlets to charge your phone.

I eat outside and once again marvel at what you can get here for just a few euros. I have a view of the other tables. Three gray-bearded men in shorts struggle to keep their conversation alive and eventually retreat into their phones. At another table, a loud talker keeps everyone occupied. They console me unintentionally in my solo dinner: I’d rather eat alone under a beautiful evening sky than with awkward company.

Sarria

My personal physician scolds me for not having arranged antibiotics yet, but this isn’t a big city where a family doctor is available day and night. Still, at eight in the morning I’m sitting in a Centro de Saúde, where the nursing staff responds kindly and makes a real effort to understand me. Not so the doctor. Around fifty-five, brisk to the point of rudeness, and speaking only Spanish. I nearly fall off my chair in disbelief. How did she ever make it through medical school? The treatment — exotic in my eyes — is launched with great determination: a mask delivering Ventolin and Pulmicort, followed by an intramuscular shot of corticosteroids as a bonus. She tells me that only after this treatment will she give me the coveted antibiotics. So if I want them, I must surrender to her regime. Eventually I get my wish-and far more than that: four prescriptions, of which I fill only the antibiotic at a pharmacy.

I recover over a desayuno on a terrace. By the time I’ve finished breakfast, I discover that the only bus to Sarria has already left. I refuse to behave like a first-class tourist and take a taxi, so I simply start walking. The injection and paracetamol act like a booster. It becomes one of the most beautiful walks so far: a gentle landscape of forests and meadows, rushing streams, tree-tunneled paths, farm villages smelling unmistakably of cow dung, slate-roofed houses and barns, low stone walls tufted with ferns. It fills me with quiet joy.

Today many people are walking alone, which makes conversation easy. At a donativo terrace I take a long break and strike up a one-hour friendship with Angela. She is intelligent, beautiful, and a pilgrim in body and soul. We tell each other stories as if we’ve known one another for years.

At last I arrive in Sarria, the starting point for many, since from here begins the minimum distance required to earn a compostela — without walking a kilometer more than necessary. From this point on the Camino becomes even busier, and so you constantly hear that reservations are absolutely necessary to secure a bed. In my case, of course, they are not. I run into Yo again after days apart. It’s a warm reunion, and she leads me straight to her albergue, where more than enough beds are still available. We go out to eat and drink together, and gradually a handful of Camino friends join us, along with one fellow who seems to claim the patent on Camino etiquette and recites the rules like scripture — momentarily freezing the good mood of the group. In the end, it becomes an old-fashioned good Camino day.

Portomarín

Technically, I should rest — my personal physician insisted on it — but I can’t. I want to keep going. I walk very slowly and take long breaks. Hundreds of walkers stream past, many of them on their very first Camino day. Mostly to reassure the people back home, I stop in a bar and ask them to call a taxi for the last ten kilometers, but none are available. Cynically, I suspect they’re far too busy catering to luxury walkers and compostela-chasers.

I take another shot of antibiotics and paracetamol and continue cheerfully, chatting with Shana from Australia. Ten years ago she announced to her husband that she wanted a divorce, then immediately went on vacation with him, never mentioned it again — yet she won’t let him join her on the Camino. Charming stories like that make the miles lighter.

A bit of rain sets in. The crowd pulls out their brand-new ponchos and instantly transforms into a parade of colorful, hump-backed kobolds. The scenery is beautiful, though not quite as spectacular as yesterday — but the first-day pilgrims fortunately don’t know that.

In Portomarín I strike gold at the very first hostel, a modern take on the albergue. I sleep a few hours and then go out to explore the town. This town once disappeared under a reservoir and was later rebuilt on a nearby hill. A fortress-like church was dismantled stone by stone and reassembled here. Long colonnades were added. It all feels artificial, as if the town’s soul remained at the bottom of the reservoir.

I have dinner with Rien and Martha, a brother and sister, and with Luna from Korea — kind, intellectual people. I prepare to tell Martha about the Camino Teresiano, which triggers in her a full lecture on Saint Teresa of Ávila and her contemporaries. My story about the Camino and a white rabbit doesn’t stand a chance.

I can’t finish my pizza, have it boxed, and then forget to take it with me. A clear sign it’s bedtime.

Palas de Rei

When it’s raining, it’s a bad idea to start out in the dark with only a phone for light. To keep my phone dry I have to walk behind pilgrims with headlamps for nearly an hour. They walk far too fast for me. After almost ten kilometers I stop at a bar overflowing with the first wave of walkers coming from Portomarín. I have to stand in line for fifteen minutes for a cheese sandwich, coffee, and orange juice — but walking three kilometers to the next bar is not an option: I’m hungry, and that never ends well. If only I hadn’t forgotten that slice of pizza yesterday.

The rest of the day can be described quickly: rain, rain, and more rain — and such crowds that in some places police are directing traffic.

I don’t want to sleep in the town of Palas. The city doesn’t appeal to me, the albergues look big and crude, and I want to add extra kilometers to make the final day easier. I’m walking like a horse again and can’t be stopped. The first albergue is completo, the next is closed. I don’t mind. Five kilometers beyond town I recognize the albergue where I stayed two years ago. It has character and isn’t so massive. There’s space — even a private room — and a communal meal. It couldn’t be better. It’s good that the first two places didn’t work out. My room is in a watermill and romantically furnished — far too beautiful for a pilgrim, but wonderfully so. Unfortunately, the power goes out just when I want to wash and dry my wet clothes and sneakers. 

A Spanish guest plays guitar and sings. A pelegrina joins with a clear, delicate voice. The communal meal is generous and excellent. Next to me sits Karin from England, proudly wearing a T-shirt full of references to Jesus. She’s devoted to Him entirely. I can’t manage to walk alongside her, because Jesus is always in between. The power doesn’t return… 

In the middle of the night the lights suddenly flick on. It wakes me, and I decide on the spot to finish writing yesterday’s account before I fall back asleep.

Arzúa

All my wet clothing is still damp in the morning. Dry spare socks and insoles come in handy now. Outside, everything is moist with drizzle. Wrapped in my poncho, I join the procession of kobolds. Because the Camino Primitivo merges with the Francés here, it’s suddenly so crowded that police officers are stationed along the way — proof that even I begin to wonder whether every albergue will be completo.

Near an old stone bridge I see a beautifully restored albergue. On impulse I step inside and am warmly welcomed by two older American hospitaleras. My clothes go straight into the washer and dryer. The place radiates a soothing calm. But not for long. A loud group settles in, compensating for their lack of subtlety with sheer decibels. This is my final exam as a pilgrim. If I can remain calm here, I’m certain to receive my diploma in Santiago. It might get exciting.

Sabugueira

I managed to stay calm, and even the loud gentlemen restrained themselves. I slept long and well despite the unrest in my stomach caused by last night’s pulpo — proudly promoted here as the jewel of local cuisine. Never again, I assure you. Too salty, too rubbery, too heavy. But I wake with an energy I haven’t felt in weeks, helped by the miraculous absence of any coughing fits.

In the early morning a procession of walkers heads out equipped with blinking lights on their backpacks — so cars won’t run them over — and headlamps to light their path. I remember my father praying before meals: “Thou art a lamp unto our feet and a light upon our path.” But “Thou” is no longer needed. We have LEDs.

For last night’s loud gentlemen, a stone picnic table appears along the way-set with a complete buffet including a whole ham in a metal stand. The Camino provides? No — this is a tour operator.

Pleasant conversations follow, especially with three women from the U.S., to whom I recount the curriculum vitae of my Camino. For their genuine interest I reward them with the authentic rabbit story and a white mini-rabbit. They’re delighted and insist on paying for my drink. At another terrace I meet two Dutch men — also nice. Jacob, a young Israeli, walks with me for a while, but I have to end our companionship because his English is impossible to follow. It takes too much energy. Maaike, walking with two friends, is heading to the same albergue as I am — hers reserved, mine not. 

Ultimately, we all end up in Sabugueira, in the same room of an appealing albergue. I am given a regular bed because I’m still an old man, and you don’t put an old man in a bunk bed. As I’ve said before: I enjoy being old when it benefits me. A Frenchman, Jean François, also appears in our room. He more or less lives on the Camino. He hunches under an enormous backpack from which he produces a tiny watercolor palette. He paints a little landscape with a pilgrim and places it as a “stamp” in my credencial.

Across the street I visit a supermercado, pick up dinner and a bottle of wine, and share glasses with guests sitting in the garden. Most drink modestly. The bottle refuses to empty. Then I’ll just have another glass — and another. After all, I’m nearing the end of my mission, and that deserves to be celebrated.

A guitarist plays beautiful Spanish songs, others join in, and the day ends cheerfully and in perfect style.

Santiago de Compostela

The weather forecast calls for rain, and more rain. My rain jacket can’t keep it all out, yet I walk cheerfully toward Santiago with shoes and feet soaked through.

Arriving in Santiago, I see a sign pointing to the Seminario Menor, a hostel recommended to me by Jean François, the stamp-painter. A large classical building, part of an enormous monastic complex on the edge of the city center. “Completo” signs hang everywhere, and yet I’m given a bed without difficulty. I wait in my wet clothes in a big hall with long tables until two o’clock, when I’m allowed to enter my dormitory. There’s even an ATM and a small supermarket.

Then on to the Compostela Office. They discover that stamps from two days are missing, but after consulting with the supervisor, they give me my compostela anyway. Rightly so, in my opinion — though I keep that thought to myself.

Next stop: the “living room” for Dutch and Flemish pilgrims. It’s quiet and the atmosphere is good. I share my rabbit story there and leave one of my mini-rabbits behind.

High time to get something to eat. The terraces are abandoned due to the rain, and inside, every place is packed. In a little restaurant I find exactly one free spot at the bar, next to two elderly American ladies, Ann and Karin. It becomes another good conversation, and — as so often happens — they insist on taking a picture with me. They certainly qualify for a mini-rabbit, and I for a farewell hug. I don’t know what it is about me, but I end up in these situations time and again. Rarely with men. They’re more interested in performance.

In the same establishment I chat briefly with three women from Texas. Friendly people, but passionate supporters of President Fibber. Time to leave. No rabbit.

A final wander through the city, then back to my albergue. My bed is in a dormitory that could be placed directly into a museum as an example of a nineteenth-century hospital ward. I fit right in. The beast hasn’t entirely left my lungs yet. Two beds opposite mine remain empty. Even in Santiago, reservations aren’t necessary. 

Camino de la Esperanza: Epilogue

Blessed is the person who is content with what comes their way.

- Marsilio Ficino

I walked the Camino Francés from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela. The white rabbit walked with me. Now and then I gave one away to a kindred spirit: a small white mini-rabbit, symbol of an extraordinary journey. Eight hundred kilometers of toil, sweat, and soaring moments along the most traveled Camino, in a month of heavy crowds. Nowhere — absolutely nowhere — did I reserve a bed. After all, the Camino provides, doesn’t it? Some insisted I should reserve at least in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, in Roncesvalles, and certainly in Santiago. Others advised me to bring an inflatable mattress in case I ended up sleeping on the floor of a fire station.

But everywhere I found a bed, without ever having to walk a single kilometer more than I wished. I was never worried. To me it felt as though Saint James had already reserved everything on my behalf.

“You were lucky,” some people said. But I was not lucky. Luck is not something you can possess. You can own a dog or a diploma, a car or — even in a stretch — a partner, but you cannot own luck. Luck is a decision.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise: there is always a bed. Let go of control, walk in freedom, and call it the Magic of the Camino, call it the Universe, or — why not — call it a White Rabbit, and trust that the Camino will take care of you. And it works. At least, it did for me. Not only for a bed at the right moment or a plate of food, but also for unexpected encounters with other pilgrims — true friendships for five minutes or more.

The rain has stopped. I head to the early pilgrim Mass in the cathedral of Santiago. At the end of the service, the church fills with the white incense of the botafumeiro, swinging exuberantly through the nave. I descend into the crypt, pass the silver reliquary of Saint James, embrace his bust, and light a candle. That is the tradition. 

A woman approaches me. A warm greeting. I don’t recognize her immediately. She opens her hand. In the palm of her hand lies a white mini-rabbit. 

Carrer del Miracle 

Carrer del Miracle

- Street sign in Valencia

The Carrer del Miracle — a quiet route from Valencia to Santiago de Compostela — cuts straight across Spain and Portugal, from the southeast to the northwest, over roughly thirteen hundred kilometers. Up to Ávila, the path is known as the Camino de Levante. From there to Salamanca, it follows the Camino Teresiano. The final stretch toward Santiago becomes the Camino Torres, which partially overlaps with the Camino Portugués. Over the first twelve hundred kilometers you will encounter few, if any, walkers or pilgrims. Temperatures can be scorching hot, but also bitterly cold. Keep a close eye on the weather forecast — especially the heat can be dangerous.

This Camino does not descend into a commercial circus. Nowhere will you see a sign saying completo. Hospitality along the way is genuine and often heartfelt.

On this Camino, the magic reveals itself with ease. That is why I call this road the Carrer del Miracle — the Street of Miracles. 

Santiago de Compostela

I don’t feel the pain in my well-worn feet. I don’t feel the fatigue. I don’t feel the weight of my pack. What I do feel is a bubbling, joyful excitement.

Ellen and I make our way through the narrow, crowded streets of Santiago. We weave past strolling tourists, a beggar, a man handing out flyers, and countless fellow pilgrims — some bent under heavy backpacks, others carrying only a small daypack. Just a few more steps and we’ll reach the cathedral at the Plaza do Obradoiro. This is where our pilgrimage ends.

Energized, and almost solemn at the same time, we step onto the square — moved, delighted, and yes, a little proud. Around us unfolds the familiar scene: pilgrims posing triumphantly in front of the cathedral, trekking poles raised high; luxury walkers with tiny daypacks; bicycle tourists; and other visitors, often clustered together like schoolchildren around a tour guide. In the corner of the square, the little white tourist train waits for its passengers. From that same corner comes the droning wail of a bagpipe. So much motion and noise — and none of it disturbs our happiness.

The hotel, however, threatens to do so. A scorching-hot attic room with only a skylight above eye level. No air-conditioning. Ellen is furious. She boldly confronts both the hotel and Booking, manages to cancel the room free of charge, and books us a new one at the Parador Hotel on the same square as the cathedral. Three times the price, a hundred times better. We savor the cool air, the comfort, and the kind staff. We’ve earned it, we decide — after all, we walked four hundred kilometers along the Camino Portugués, from Porto to Muxía.

I want a real Panama. I buy one at my favorite hat shop, Sombrerería Iglesias, tucked away on the picturesque Rúa do Vilar near Santiago’s old center. A small, antique store with a window display full of irresistible hats and caps. From floor to ceiling, the walls are lined with stacks of round burgundy hatboxes. Patiently, the owner, Tino Fernández Iglesias, opens one box after another. Despite our limited shared vocabulary, he understands exactly what I’m looking for. I choose an elegant model with a gently creased crown, a black band, and a wide brim that dips slightly downward in front. It will accompany me for the weeks to come and shield me from the fiercest sun.

Valencia

Early in the morning I leave the five-star world behind, carrying a cotton bag from the Parador Hotel filled with a desayuno that will last me three days. With a hug and a “Buen Camino,” Ellen waves me off. She’s traveling back to Rotterdam today. Four hundred kilometers was enough for her. For me, it’s only the beginning.

All those ten-kilometer loops around the ‘Kralingse Plas’ (the Lake of Kralingen) and the Camino Portugués we walked together to Muxía were a fine training for what lies ahead. Tomorrow I start a thirteen-hundred-kilometer walk from Valencia to Santiago with calluses on my feet, legs trained, energy high.

The train leaves Santiago for Valencia just before eight. Check-in includes a baggage scan. In Madrid I have an hour to transfer to the next train. Somewhere along the way the train stops uncomfortably long, threatening my connection. The ventilation shuts off. Suddenly I can smell people. The peaceful silence dissolves into anxious chatter, but after fifteen minutes we roll on and calm returns — also within me.

Long tunnels and viaducts follow, one of which I recognize by its shape. I walked beneath it last year on the Vía de la Plata. On foot the path wasn’t as straight as the rails — and much steeper. Two hours later the Meseta appears: endless plains, bare and vast. I don’t quite understand why I want to walk through that for weeks on end. But I do. Some call pilgrimage an addiction; I say it’s an obsession — at least for me.

During the long train ride I mull over the route I’ll begin tomorrow. Over the past three years I walked from home via the Camino Francés to Santiago; I walked the Norte, the Portugués, the Primitivo, and the Plata. Always a new Camino whenever possible — walking the same route twice doesn’t appeal to me. Perhaps unfairly, I feel repetition dulls my openness and sense of wonder. I love the surprise of the unknown, and the routes ahead will certainly provide plenty of that. A site like Gronze, which describes countless Caminos, barely manages to get a grip on the Levante and says nothing at all about the Torres or the Teresiano. I’ve lost sleep over it, imagining central Spain as a half-desert where hardly any human life is possible: dry, hot, desolate. It still feels a bit daunting. Oddly enough, I never felt that fear back in 2021, when I planned to walk solo from Rotterdam to Santiago — a first for me. Why invent doomsday scenarios only to be troubled by them? Why not unshakable trust? Still, I know from experience that all doubts and tension will fall away the moment I take my first steps. With that assurance, I gaze for a long time out the window at the land flying past below me at 295 kilometers per hour.

After seven hours I step into a summery warm Valencia. Starting tomorrow: thirteen hundred kilometers back to Santiago — 130 laps around the Kralingse Plas — and I’ll be right back where I started. Don’t bother trying to understand…

Valencia is a beautiful city with beautiful women, beautiful shops, beautiful cafés, beautiful terraces, beautiful facades, and beautiful churches. And also plenty of beggars and the filthy smell of the sewers — just as you’d expect in a large, hot city. Its cathedral has been turned into a museum. Because of my advanced age I get a three-euro discount and pay six to enter. Not much for a museum — but for a church? I’m not so sure. No, I better like the Iglesia San Juan del Hospital, just around the corner from the Carrer del Miracle. There I can walk straight in for the pilgrim’s mass and take a moment to reflect before my journey. A handful of elderly believers and only two other pilgrims. Tomorrow will be a quiet walk — three of us at most.

Right next to the Center Valencia Youth Hostel — rooms with 2, 4, 6, 8 or 16 beds — where you can be upgraded to vagrant for a handful of euros, stands a hotel where you can postpone that status for five times the price. I walk into what I think is the hostel. It looks surprisingly good for a warehouse of bunk beds — until the receptionist tells me the price. I’m annoyed; far too expensive for a bunk bed. But fine, no complaining: for that price I get a private room with air-conditioning, a real bed, and a bathroom.

Only later, as I walk through the city, do I realize that the actual youth hostel is the building next door to my hotel. On the sidewalk, young people stand smoking joints. Father Jacob has steered me through the right door. Tomorrow, the real pilgrim life begins — my own Carrer del Miracle. 

Camino de Levante

Sow with every step you take in your daily life and give the best of yourself.

Inhabitant of Tembleque

Algemesí

Early in the morning I begin the Camino de Levante. I can summarize the long road to Algemesí in one sentence: seventeen kilometers of city, thirteen kilometers of industrial estate, and ten kilometers of farmland — mostly citrus. Not a single pilgrim in sight, not even on a bike. Dry riverbeds. A pleasant square in Silla with a beautiful church that happens to be open, and a nice terrace with excellent coffee. The road itself is literally as old as the road to Rome: the Via Augusta, of which nothing remains except imitation columns — like mile markers, just… not quite.

By the end of the day I reach a truly ugly town full of reeking factories and warehouses: Algemesí. The first locals I see are two Muslim women and a hustler rummaging through a dumpster. The old town does redeem itself somewhat with charming little streets. My — if I may say so — excellent mood and energy hardly suffered, not even from all the roaring, stinking factories, but for now forty kilometers a day is the limit for my feet and legs.

And so I find myself, at a quarter to four, sitting on a bench in a tiny park, stared at by an important bronze head of a man perched on a granite pedestal. It’s 29 degrees Celsius, but in the shade with a bit of wind it’s perfectly tolerable. I would much rather be lying on a pilgrim bed right now, granting my feet, legs, and back their well-earned rest: I’ve been on the move since six this morning just to get here. The museum-slash-tourist office won’t open until 5:30, not 3:30 as the guidebook claims. Five-thirty! They have the key to the municipal albergue. I could also get it through the police. The officer on duty speaks Spanish, as do I — only he speaks more than my twenty words. That makes phone communication rather impossible, and in any case he doesn’t understand what I’m asking for. I thank him for his effort with one of my twenty words — gracias — and he replies with one of the remaining nineteen: nada. And so I sit here, being patient, listening to the birds, because walking a few more kilometers to the police station is something I cannot — especially for my feet — justify. The albergue is located on the second floor of an old building. A staff member from the museum brings me there. She speaks a little English — just enough for me to understand her. Her older colleague speaks fluent Spanish. I understand none of it, but her warmth comes through regardless. The dormitory looks like it belongs in a museum. At the end of a long hallway are the showers and toilets. Everything looks well kept. A perfect place for my first night on this Camino.

Mountains loom faintly in the distance. I pray the Camino does not cross them. Things are challenging enough as they are.

Xàtiva

I had the entire albergue to myself. A rare and blissful silence. As I leave, the sky looks strange. Moments later I hear rumbling — thunder, though none of the weather apps predicted it. In Alzira, an appealing modern town, I sit down for an extended coffee break, hoping the storm will pass. But nothing happens, so I decide to continue. After a kilometer it dawns on me that my walking sticks are missing. Back to the café. It costs time, but it brings far more than the retrieval of two sticks: the storm finally breaks loose — in town, where I have shelter, and not in the open fields. White rabbit!

Never heard of my white rabbit? It stands for miracle. On the Camino I am more attuned to miracles than in “ordinary” life. There we usually just call it coincidence.

The route leads past beautiful towns and villages, a stream with turtles, less industry and more orange groves than yesterday, and far more kilometers than I anticipated. I reach the mountains but, to my relief, I don’t have to cross them. No other walkers in sight. Those two from Valencia? Never saw them again.

In Algemesí I meet an exceptionally helpful employee at the tourist office. His English is good, and he does his best to arrange a room at the Casa Rural in Xàtiva. It’s only a ten-minute walk. Halfway there, the owner — balancing on his scooter with one leg in a cast — comes to meet me and show the way. He friendly shouts a flood of information in Spanish, which does not improve my understanding, but the essential message lands perfectly: I have my own room, even with air-conditioning, and it is easy to find. 

I’m delighted.

Moixent

I wake shortly after five and begin my morning ritual: breakfast, a shower, packing up, and heading out. The town is still quiet, the only sound the blackbirds singing their early songs. After an hour the road climbs toward a pleasant village where a cat joins me on a bench while I eat a roll. The landscape becomes more rural, following a valley with a fading little river. Orange groves give way to olive orchards. In the distance, built against a mountainside, I see a town crowned by a castle above it. Every town in this region lies beneath a castle. Clearly a lot of battles were fought here, and in the cafés the disputes still continue, while on the walls I see all manner of slogans — even swastikas, thankfully usually painted over. I refuse to give them attention, let alone take photos. I try not to judge, but I can’t help feeling a shudder, just as I can’t neutralize my disgust at the trash scattered along the roads. But there’s light, too: someone wishes me my first Buen Camino. An energetic woman in a beautiful little town. I did take her picture.

There are an astonishing number of unfinished projects here. Today especially: kilometers of railway line with no rails, just rusting fences. A railway would be the shortest and flattest route. A pity it’s closed off — it would make a perfect Camino.

At the police station in Moixent, I’m given access to my lodging for the night. A police officer registers me and escorts me to the albergue in the same building. If not for the fact that I’m not in handcuffs, it would feel downright odd. Again I am the only pilgrim, which comes with the advantage of a long, unhurried shower and laundry. Outside the window hangs a drying rack. My clothes dry quickly in the sun — just in time, before a sudden burst of hail the size of hazelnuts would have ruined everything. The utter simplicity of the place keeps me humble. It isn’t clean, and it’s about as cheerful as a holding cell. Perfectly fine for a pilgrim, but not for tourists. Tourists should stay in hotels with ironed sheets. Here you get bunk beds with vinyl mattresses — the kind bedbugs dislike, and so do I. I spread my fleece blanket over it and sleep in my clothes. This is a pilgrimage, not a vacation. And honestly, I’m not sure how I could recommend this kind of existence to anyone as the happiness of the pilgrim.

Almansa

Today I head into the mountains on my way to the Meseta. The hillsides have been carved into horizontal terraces. Only seventeen kilometers on the schedule, which is why I don’t leave until eight. By half past eleven I’m already in La Font de la Figuera. There’s a market. In a café I order two coffees, a non-alcoholic beer, and have my bottle filled with cold water— all for five euros. I buy bananas at the market. The weather is perfect — no more than 26 degrees with a strong breeze — so I decide to keep going. Bananas… they fuel me well.

Onward to Almansa, another twenty-three kilometers. Wide-open landscapes with handsome fincas. Now I’m entering La Mancha — the realm of “the Man of.” Long, flat roads. Not a soul in sight. Kilometers and kilometers alongside a highway. Plenty of time for sudden insights about an old relationship to surface. The wind blowing straight into my face drowns out the traffic noise. I’m enjoying the landscape and the walking so much that I don’t notice the blister developing under my left foot, or the sun burning the backs of my calves. I discover both only when I try to shower in Almansa. The hot water scorches my calves.

I’m staying at Albergue Esclavas de María, where, for a small amount of money, I’m given a guest room in the convent. Sister María, on duty, wears a spotless white outfit that makes her look like a dental hygienist. I have to insist that she take ten euros — the rate is only seven. The floor of the room is damp, and the bathroom is more than dirty. With a towel I make things somewhat dry and somewhat clean. I can’t understand how immaculate Sister María allowed it to get this way.

This town, too, has its own castle, but that one’s for tourists. Needless to say: that’s not my tribe. In a café I eat fried potatoes and a sandwich with fried eggs and ham. I can’t finish it and take the rest with me for breakfast.

In the night I wake up with the realization that the room probably flooded through the drain during the torrential downpour — the same one that hit me in Moixent. In my mind I rehabilitate María. She’ll find a filthy towel in the morning. I hope she’ll have her own midnight insight that I’m not the kind of slob who soils towels, but a very clean pilgrim indeed.

Alpera

Sister María had told me that the front door — locked at midnight — would be open again at six. At five minutes past six I’m outside, surrounded by cooing pigeons. Today’s plan: a long walk of forty kilometers.

I’m wearing new trail runners, the exact same model as my previous pair that were worn down to threads — only now in a different color. These days, no color is too ridiculous when it comes to sports shoes. And so this elderly pilgrim now marches along in glowing lemon yellow. I couldn’t quickly find anything better. Over the years I’ve tried all kinds of footwear, from high “mountain boots” to simple sneakers. Some gave me a painful knob by my ankle; others gave me blisters. Now I’ve settled on trail runners. Not ideal in heavy rain, but otherwise light and flexible.

I don’t have enough food or water with me. Thankfully, a gas station opens early — good for limp sandwiches and a liter of cola. Combined with what’s left in my pack, it’ll get me through forty kilometers.

Now the real work begins: a path through nature, up, down, and up again. Unbelievable vistas. Traffic noise fades away until there’s nothing left but a few birds and the crunch of gravel under my shoes. Occasionally my pack creaks. After two hours I force myself to take a fifteen-minute break. Not longer — the day will take at least ten hours. I pass a tall rock formation I already saw from afar two days ago. Then a stretch along a railway line, a tiny hamlet, a majestic solitary tree. And then, exactly halfway, a sign pointing to a hostel offering a special peregrino rate — but 3.6 kilometers off the Camino. Tempting, but I walk on. Two hundred meters later I reconsider and check the weather on my phone. Severe thunderstorm warnings flash across the screen. Time to be sensible.

The hostel in Alpera turns out to be a simple hotel. On a large covered terrace I order a tall glass of fresh orange juice. After a while the owner brings me to a little office to check me in. The room — smelling faintly of green soap, neatly fussed over, with air-conditioning and a painting of a half-nude woman seen from behind — costs thirty euros. The owner tells me I can settle the bill later in the restaurant when I come down for dinner. My feet rejoice, a pair of underwear goes into the wash, and I can calmly rewrite my notes, which had lacked the necessary details because of time pressure. There’s even time for groceries. My old shoes go into the bin today — saves six hundred grams. I keep the laces. You never know.

It was a good decision not to keep walking. Thunderstorms — I don’t like them. Though in the end the severe weather passes audibly around Alpera, not over it. The menú del día also passes me by. At eight o’clock I head to the restaurant to eat. No chance: everything is shut tight. On the hostel’s website I see that the regular room rate is thirty euros. So much for the special peregrino price. I decide that the delicious zumo de naranja I had that afternoon must have fallen under the special peregrino discount of zero euros. Dinner I don’t need; I have enough provisions in my pack. All in all, I’ve come out ahead today.

Higueruela

I sleep like an ox. The alarm has to put an end to it. Before leaving, I slide thirty euros under the shutter of the hotel’s little office.

Not even half an hour into the walk, another walker overtakes me. A small lamp glows on his chest even though it’s already light out. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, over which he has a yellow walking-club T-shirt. Below his shorts protrude two pale calves. On his back blink two red taillights — also on. A professional walker! From his phone spills a stream of Spanish chatter. Thank God he has no backpack: no competition for the municipal albergue in Higueruela, which has only two beds. He speeds past, and twenty minutes later comes toward me again. The lights are now off; the chatter-phone is still on.

Rain arrives. Just a little, but enough to warrant gaiters and a rain jacket — always a bit of strenuous fiddling. The umbrella goes up. When the rain stops, I sit on the concrete edge of a drainage culvert — nothing better available — and eat. Then it starts again, this time not “a little.” A driver pulls over and offers me a ride. No need: it’s ideal rain weather — no wind, sixteen degrees. Sixteen degrees! In the middle of Spain, in the middle of summer! I stay dry and don’t overheat in my poncho. Only problem: there is nowhere dry to sit and give myself — and especially my feet — a bit of rest. That wears me down. An Italian cyclist passes, heading to Santiago. Cycling in the rain seems no fun at all, though at least he can sit down.

Tired, I arrive at my destination. Maybe it’s the altitude — I’m still not used to being at more than a thousand meters. At the town hall I’m told the key to the albergue is at a restaurant. Finally, coffee. The menú del día is excellent. The owner also offers rooms at a special peregrino rate — thirty euros — but I head to the municipal albergue. It’s housed in the former city hall on a charming little square. The interior competes in simplicity with the makeshift holding cell from two days ago, but it’s spacious and has a perfectly good bathroom. And free. I set my pride aside. I wouldn’t impose this on my wife, but for me it’s more than fine. As long as the bed isn’t crawling with nasty creatures, or I’ll regret my thrift.

Children enter the same building for music lessons. They haul enormous tubas up the stairs. One of them gives a short demonstration while the instrument is still in its bag and sitting on a little cart. He bends himself into a knot to blast out a note. I shout bravo. Moments later, a warm rumble drifts through the building: an impromptu serenade for the weary pilgrim.

The village sits on a hill. At the top stands a chapel dedicated to Saint Barbara. She is, among other things, the patron saint of mountain dwellers — because of the danger of lightning strikes. I walk up to it. In the distance hangs a thunderstorm. Barbara watches over Higueruela and lets the sun shine.

Chinchilla de Monte-Aragón

I fall asleep like a stone, straight through the endearingly off-key harmonies of the brass band rehearsing above me. When I wake, I check for creatures. No bites, no suspicious marks, no unwanted roommates — no regrets. I leave as quickly as I can, since bad weather is forecast later in the day. Besides, the tourist office in Chinchilla closes at two, and it’s twenty-nine kilometers — at least seven hours on the road. I can’t manage to lock the front door. Then it will simply have to stay open. At the bar where I got the key, there’s no mailbox, and all the shutters are down. So I slide the key halfway under an ashtray sitting on a beer barrel out on the sidewalk, along with one of the bar’s business cards. They’ll find it.

What a beautiful walk again! I keep taking pictures. Orchards— mostly almond trees — fields of grain, fallow ground. A tiny hamlet. A cross with a sign: “1,000 kilometers to Santiago.” With the play of sun and cloud-filtered shadow, the land appears in every imaginable color. Hundreds of rabbits dart off the moment I approach, and three larger animals — chamois-like — vanish just as quickly.

Yesterday my energy was low and my pack felt heavy; today I’m blazing along again. Good thing too, because I’ve barely stepped into the tourist office when a thunderstorm erupts. The friendly, somewhat older staff member waits out the storm with me and then walks me to the albergue. He stamps my credencial with such ceremony you’d think he was signing my will. The place is immaculate — good facilities in a handsome old building, the town hall no less. In the register I see that almost no pilgrims come through; the last one was a week ago.

Soon the sun returns. I eat something and walk up to the castle of this gorgeous little city with its steep, narrow, twisting streets. From there I can see for dozens of kilometers, including the direction I’ll be heading in the coming days: seemingly endless flat land. It moves me deeply to think I will walk across all of that. Albacete lies just fourteen kilometers away as the crow flies. That’s tomorrow’s goal.

Dark clouds loom all around. When I’m “home” again, another thunderstorm breaks loose.

Later I buy groceries in the small corner shops — one-person businesses — where I’m helped with warm friendliness. That means a lot, because for now, that’s all the human contact I have here.

La Roda

I had planned to walk to Albacete — just seventeen kilometers— but I now see that if I tack on another twenty to reach Gineta, I won’t have to walk forty tomorrow, but much less. That suits me fine, because the coming days will only get hotter. The earlier I arrive somewhere, the less I’ll suffer from the heat while walking. 

Today’s route consists of long, quiet roads past orchards, fields of wheat, onions, and garlic, as well as busy stretches through industrial zones with their inevitable illegal dump sites. Once, a long thick snake slithers across my path. Hundreds of rabbits flee in all directions.

Albacete is a big city with plenty of shops and traffic — not ugly, not beautiful, but perfectly adequate for lunch on a bench in a park. After eating, I push on for the final twenty kilometers. I take very few photos of the city. Only the bullring— looking like an enormous, bright yellow tiara — catches my attention.

In Gineta, there is supposedly an albergue in the municipal sports complex where pilgrims can sleep on judo mats. Far too hard, and the only reason I haul a nearly half-kilo air mattress around with me. In a cultural center–cum–bar, I manage to explain that I wish to stay there. This results in much fuss and many phone calls. Eventually a man comes to inform me that the albergue has been shut down and that there is no hostel or hotel anywhere in Gineta. In La Roda, seventeen kilometers farther on, the albergue is open. I gulp down my alcohol-free beer so I can catch the train. The man races me to the station— white rabbit! — and within five minutes the train arrives. A schedule of only a few trains per day. The conductor sells me a ticket for cash.

In La Roda, a police car pulls up beside me and the officer asks if I’m a peregrino and on my way to the albergue. He puts me in the car and drives me there. Another white rabbit! He isn’t wearing a seatbelt and gestures that I don’t need to either. So we squeal our way to the albergue. He calls the hospitalera over and over, but she doesn’t pick up. He leaves me to wait on a bench in the shade. I’m just grateful to be sitting. Twenty minutes later, he returns and says he’s still working on it. A little later, a very friendly woman drives up and beckons me to come with her. I end up inside the arena of La Roda — yes, the bullring — where an albergue has been set up, probably eighty years ago, but no matter: I’m sleeping in the arena of La Roda. First things first: I explore the grounds. From above, I peer into the pens where the bulls were held before the fight, and I walk across the sand where they — or the matador — met their end.

I thought I’d have an easy day tomorrow by walking those seventeen missed kilometers after all, but my wife Ellen tells me I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. All right then — but that does mean I’ll have to walk much farther tomorrow, after already having walked so much today. It will work out in the end. I trust that completely. That’s what matters. Trust. Out here, there are not only plenty of brown rabbits but the occasional white one too.

The air mattress is going permanently to the bottom of the pack.

San Clemente

At five o’clock I wake up and take a shower straight out of 1935. The light switch is right next to the faucet. Still, I somehow manage not to electrocute myself while washing up. The switch has been expertly wrapped in plastic, and I make sure not to splash too much. Not that splashing is easy anyway— the chic copper showerhead is clogged with lime and produces more of a dribble than a spray.

I set course for Minaya, eighteen kilometers away. After yesterday’s long trek I don’t dare plan farther ahead, but when I arrive at half past ten, nothing keeps me from continuing on to San Clemente: Minaya is a dull village, every café is shuttered, and the hostel looks like a motel planted on an industrial estate.

First there is plenty of noisy urban sprawl and trash, then quieter, gently rolling paths and wide-open views. This is the “Ruta de Don Quixote.” Ants drag off grains of oats. A farmer sprays his orchard wearing nothing more than a simple mask. A field laborer chats with me and asks for a cigarette. Lucky for both of us: I don’t smoke. Stones cleared from the fields lie in great heaps. One village boasts a gate. The next boasts nothing at all. The grocer there works the way I remember from childhood: I ask, she confers with her husband, and she fetches. All of it on a few square meters. A whole life in that tiny shop. Touching. I lunch in the shade on a bench beneath a tree.

San Clemente has a beautiful old center. I have to wait another hour before the tourist office opens. I spend some time in the church. After twenty minutes I’ve had enough and step outside— just in time to see the woman from the tourist office unlocking the door. White rabbit, I think, and follow her in. The intake takes about fifteen minutes, but then I receive a fully modern apartment. A passerby kindly points me toward it. The ground floor sleeps six pilgrims, but tonight it is entirely mine, with everything you can imagine — even a washing machine and a dryer.

Today I realized why I keep walking. Some people binge-watch series on Netflix to follow the story; I binge-walk stages to watch the landscape unroll beneath my feet. And just like a series, you never know what surprise the next episode will bring, and so I keep walking on, curious. Even an industrial zone never truly disappoints. Strange, isn’t it? 
I’m a bingewalker.

Mota del Cuervo

I don’t head out early for today’s twenty-four kilometers. I walk down the street and immediately I’m back in paradise: endless fields, no traffic, no industry, just the sweet-smelling countryside. A ruined castle. There aren’t many rabbits here, but plenty of birds of prey. Could that be the reason? Childhood memories come flooding back — our simple family vacations on the island of Texel, staying on a farm. The farmer, Uncle Aris, shot pigeons, pheasants, and rabbits. My mother cooked the rabbits on a little oil stove. No oven with top and bottom heat or preset roasting programs.

A car stops. I fall into conversation with the driver. He has walked several Caminos and recently opened an albergue. We have an easy, pleasant exchange, and he gives me his address.

The hospitalero of the albergue I planned to stay at doesn’t respond to the doorbell, not even after a contact person tries on my behalf. In the meantime, I’ve spent so long sitting on a terrace that — rested and refreshed — I decide at a quarter to five that I can manage the twenty kilometers to the place whose address I received this morning. Long story short: by nine-thirty I’m freshly washed and seated at the table with a friendly Spanish couple, Ricardo and Cari, enjoying an excellent meal. With the help of Google Translate we manage a good, personal conversation. They deserve a white mini-rabbit.

La Villa de Don Fadrique

Breakfast consists of several kinds of cake and coffee. I spend a good while consulting with Cari about where I should spend the next night. In the end it seems there’s no real option other than heading to El Toboso — a kind of Don Quixote Disneyland — only eleven kilometers away. But as I step outside, after Cari kisses me goodbye, I realize that yesterday’s mad dash didn’t wreck me at all. So I decide to walk to La Villa de Don Fadrique instead — thirty-four kilometers farther on. I choose the easiest, though not the most scenic, route: along the provincial road. It saves four kilometers, and asphalt is the fastest. A bit dull, yes, but given my late start at half past eight and the forecast of thirty degrees, it’s the sensible choice.

An unknown number calls me. Someone speaking Spanish rattles something off, and I understand none of it. Later, sitting on a terrace with a non-alcoholic beer, I discover it was a casa rural in La Villa de Don Fadrique — no doubt contacted by my dear Cari. After a few WhatsApp messages I get a fellow pilgrim, Antonio, on the phone. After ten days of walking alone I’ve finally met another peregrino. He speaks English and tells me there’s an extra bed in his room. Quickly arranged! 

The last seven kilometers are wonderful again — rural, gently rolling, couldn’t be better. The casa turns out to be a home with lavish interior decor. The hospitalero, Juan, hands me a beer and insists on taking a selfie with me. The room I share with Antonio is antique-chic. Velvet blankets on the beds, no bunk beds anywhere — just pure hospitality. Juan washes our clothes and sets out towels and bottles of cold water. He gives me a small plastic Camino hand. These hands — originally invented by José Sanchís, better known as Mocho — are never bought or sold. They’re passed on through a handshake, symbolizing Camino companionship. I hang it on my backpack. Last year I received one from Lola. We crossed paths a few times on the Camino, and though we shared only a few hours together, I still feel a deep connection with her. That’s how it can be on the Camino: friends for a moment, for a while, or forever.

There aren’t many albergues or hostels around here. Some places have even shut down. Antonio turns out to be an experienced walker, friendly and practical. He has already figured out much of the coming days, so our next overnight stays are arranged effortlessly despite the limited options. Classic Camino.

Tembleque

Juan prepares a good breakfast, followed by yet another photo session. He posts pictures of his guests on his Facebook page. He kindly offers to drive this elderly pilgrim part of the way. Sweet of him, but I decline. You should let old people walk. Sitting is no path to longevity.

Antonio and I walk the first ten kilometers together. You might say we’re literally and figuratively on the same track. While Antonio loves diving into the history and facts surrounding the Camino and I’m much more focused on experiencing it, we do share similar spiritual reasons for walking. We have coffee on a terrace and then continue separately. Before we part ways, I give him a white rabbit. He accepts it with understanding and a handshake.

The rest of the walk brings no major obstacles, except a small mistake that adds two extra kilometers. Along the roadside grow endless thistles — some easily three meters high. They seem to thrive under the harshest conditions. It’s warm — hot, even. A strong wind offers just enough cooling, though it also blows my Panama hat off my head. Using a lace from my discarded shoes, I improvise a new chin strap. Much better. I hear only the tapping of my poles; otherwise all is quiet. On the horizon two windmills and a church tower. Slowly, step by step, I walk toward them.

The hotel in Tembleque is large, clean, rustic and has, in my opinion, little atmosphere. After a siesta I head into town to find something to eat. Tembleque is beautiful, with a remarkable square that turns out to be an old, square bullring. A dry riverbed has been turned into a park, though it can still handle a sudden flood should the heavens decide to open. I run into Antonio again in a busy restaurant and order a salad with pollo. We strike up a conversation with two women, Esther and Llano. Antonio explains my status as an elderly rabbit-pilgrim, which is Esther’s cue to launch into a long philosophical discourse, while poor Llano sits quietly beside her. The topic: inspiration from the Higher. I can’t disagree with that. Then Esther sends over a young man who, unconcerned by the fact that we do not share a common language, showers me with wisdom at a pace Google Translate can’t keep up with. I do manage to catch one line from the translator: “sow with every step you take in your daily life and give the best of yourself.” I try, my friend, I really do — but sowing? On the Camino, I mostly feel like I’m harvesting.

It’s a wonderfully soft summer evening. Antonio and I stroll back to the hotel, chatting. Before sleeping, I jot down the day’s harvest in my phone.

Almonacid de Toledo

At dawn the town shows off its old windmills glowing in the morning red. The first fifteen kilometers glide by easily over flat roads. In Villanueva de Bogas there’s a coffee bar. On Tuesdays — today — closed, a local woman tells me. She points to a house right in front of me: “You have to ring there for coffee.” I would never do such a thing, of course, but before I realize what’s happening, she has already alerted the homeowner that a peregrino is at the door, and I’m invited in.

The interior is immaculate — plants everywhere, wrought-iron furniture. It feels wonderful to sit for a moment after more than four hours on my feet, shoes off. The man, a blacksmith, also serves as the hospitalero of the local albergue. He pours his heart into the work and gladly cares for any pilgrim, even if you’re continuing on because your walking day is far from over. In my case: a whole pot of coffee, a jug of hot milk, and some sort of cake. My coffee break arranges itself, as if by magic. I donate five euros to the albergue. He finds that odd, and perhaps it is — but I find receiving that much goodness for free even odder.

The next twenty kilometers go reasonably well, though my energy slowly drains. My feet in particular protest at such distances. The first stretch passed between grain fields; now I walk through ancient olive groves with thick, contorted trunks. Along the way, the ruins of a hermitage — once, perhaps, shelter for pilgrims.

Almonacid de Toledo has its own castle, visible from afar. At the albergue — certainly no castle — I notice Antonio’s backpack. No idea where he is. Eventually he appears, but without the key. Lost. His mood reflects it. We retrace his steps together. No key. The bar where he received it calls the mayor. We can pick up a copy. In the doorway of an elegant home, the mayor — a well-groomed woman — hands us the replacement key. Because of all this, several extra kilometers slipped into today’s tally. Restaurants here don’t open their kitchens until eight. I’m far too tired to wait and buy some provisions at a small supermercado instead. I have my own room with a bathroom — not clean, but good enough. A can of beans and a banana make up my dinner, and then straight to bed. I’m simply glad to be lying down.

Toledo

Antonio tells me he cleaned his room before going to sleep. A good idea. I’ll remember it. A solid night’s rest has improved his mood and done wonders for my feet. Together we walk to Bar Kuki to leave the copied key “on the left-hand side of the window of the left window next to the entrance.” After that, he follows a different route than I do. Not the best choice, as it turns out. As with so many Spanish projects, the start is impressive, but maintenance seems optional. The official route marked with yellow arrows dead-ends at a highway that was built over it later. If I were to go back, it would mean at least a ten-kilometer detour. Instead, I crawl — barely — under the tightly stretched fence along the highway, rip my T-shirt, and end up on a vast finca, likely belonging to a cattle farmer. After half an hour of walking across the property, I climb over a two-meter-high fence and finally reach a public path again. But I manage. Somehow, I manage.

From afar, I see Toledo rising high — its grand buildings perched on the hill. The climb into the old center is fierce. Breathless, I catch myself staring blankly inside a motorcycle shop window as if struck by intermittent claudication. My hotel is close to the cathedral, tucked into a narrow old street. I open a window and hear booming Spanish voices and cars squeezing through the alleyway. First things first: shower and laundry. The dusty roads left traces.

Terraces, tourists, ancient buildings — Toledo has no shortage of them. The cathedral is now a museum. A museum is not a cathedral. That’s how it feels. As an old man I get a discount. The place is enormous and impressive, though to my eyes somewhat over the top with all its gold and carvings. Groups of Chinese tourists are guided around in their own language. I forget to get my pilgrim passport stamped. I wander the city, eat a plato combinado, and buy plenty of water and snacks for tomorrow’s thirty-two kilometers — out of the city and back into nature. That’s where I prefer to walk.

Torrijos

I walk down through the maze of old zigzagging streets, descending the hill on which Toledo’s historic center sits. Only then do I notice that escalators have been built along the hillside, taking you all the way up. Exactly what I should have known yesterday.

My insides are upset. I want neither food nor drink. With no real energy, I set off. Because of roadworks I have to walk farther than I’d hoped. I follow the yellow arrows — thankfully — because the route on my phone would have landed me on private property again, as I later discover. Once I almost end up on the wrong side of a highway fence again.

After four hours of walking along busy roads, I finally find a low wall to sit on. Then on I go, now no longer along traffic but through a nearly overgrown track — hardly pleasant. Eventually, after hours more, I reach a village with benches. At last, a place to sit, but the sun is too hot. I haul myself upright again and find a terrace in the shade of trees. I manage only half a bottle of 0% beer. In Spain you often get a little something with your drink — today olives, pickles, tiny silver onions. I love them, but not today. Still, a long rest and a few sips of cola do me good.

Dark clouds loom over the last six kilometers. I step up the pace. In the end I walk straight into a thunderstorm, but by then I’m almost in Torrijos. The rain holds back, and so does the thunder.

At the tourist office I’m given a code for a small box holding the front-door key. I manage to open the box, but getting the key to turn in the lock is a different story. Back to the tourist office I go. I’ve walked so much already, and now it’s raining again, I complain silently. A young man from the office comes with me and opens the door in one effortless twist. The albergue is spacious and tidy.

Most days I genuinely enjoy walking, but today was a struggle: my stomach acting up and the heat so intense that the mousse au chocolat in my backpack has turned into thick chocolate milk.

Escalona

I haven’t experienced this in years: I slept more than ten hours straight. A few pills for my rebellious stomach, and I’m on my way. The morning air is cool and pleasant. To my surprise, my energy has returned. Even the first six kilometers along a highway don’t bother me. I’m almost giddy with relief.

After twelve kilometers I take a short break in a village — of course it has a castle; they all do around here. I don’t quite dare to have coffee yet. The next thirteen kilometers go well too. Just like yesterday, I spend countless kilometers on a nearly overgrown path, ending in a large puddle hemmed in by thick brush. I make a wide detour through the vegetation and manage to keep my feet dry. Dry feet mean fewer blisters. Mountains rise ahead of me. This area has suddenly become strikingly green: trees, shrubs, reeds.

Escalona sits on a broad river. Just before the real heat sets in, around one o’clock, I reach my albergue after a solid climb through this fortified town — yet another with a castle positioned strategically above the river and the land beyond. Storks line the castle walls by the dozens. I pick up the key at a school. It’s the last day of classes — lucky for me, because otherwise I’d have to call the police for the key and end up in a hopeless language barrier.

The albergue is minimalist in the extreme. Mattresses on the floor and a shower without a curtain. I don’t mind in the least. I have a roof over my head, and I can wash my clothes. My trekking poles serve as laundry lines. In the sun and wind everything is bone dry within an hour. There are no other pilgrims, which is wonderfully practical when it comes to showering and changing.

The town itself is pleasantly lively, with a few attractive squares and terraces. After the siesta I stroll around and find something to eat. I’m hungry. A 0% beer goes down easily again.

Cadalso de los Vidrios

If I’d known last night that at least four shiny black beetles — each a good three centimeters long — were patrolling my room, I probably wouldn’t have slept as well as I did. Beds with legs do have their advantages.

I leave a little before six, not earlier, because it’s still dark then. The first stretch feels like it’s been neglected for centuries: a jumbled strip of loose stones climbing uphill. The sun rises over the fields, and the terrain levels out. A few hours later I reach a pleasant little town, Almorox, full of terraces. Fresh orange juice and coffee. The town hall clock strikes nine— its sound blaring from enormous loudspeakers. Time to move on.

After the town, the road climbs gently into a green, hilly landscape. Yesterday I found a tick in the hollow of my knee, probably picked up while trudging through tall grass. I tuck my trousers into my socks — today’s path is overgrown in places as well.

My route description says that in Cadalso de los Vidrios I can get the albergue keys via the police. I stop a young woman who looks like some kind of municipal officer. After much fumbling she understands what I’m trying to say and starts making calls. Then she leads me to a church where an officer, Juan, is waiting for me along with another man. He calls the key lady and insists on carrying my shopping bag and my poles. Before the keys arrive he kindly gives me a little tour of the church. As we step outside, a small procession starts up: elegantly dressed women guiding a white cart draped with a flowered canopy. It looks a bit like an old-fashioned ice cream cart, except with a statue of Mary inside it.

The key lady soon arrives. She lets me into an old-fashioned annex of the church. For ten euros I get a bed, sheets, towels, and a full registration procedure. Showers, toilets, a huge kitchen I won’t use, and a covered courtyard. Once again, I have the whole place to myself — and thus an undisturbed siesta.

I end the day on a terrace with my favorite cerveza sin alcohol. Men playing cards. A solitary woman dressed in black. Excitement over a badly parked car that blocks traffic for ten minutes. The drone of a football match on TV, the stench of cigarette smoke. For me, it’s enough. Time for bed.

Cebreros

Getting the steel gate to the street open is quite a chore. After fifteen minutes I finally manage to slip outside. In the dawn light I follow a quiet asphalt road — easy going at first — until, about ten kilometers in, the real work begins: scrambling beside and over boulders, pushing through tall, untamed growth barely flattened by the few pilgrims who passed before me. A dog guarding a flock of sheep comes over to investigate me, curious but calm. Otherwise it’s completely silent. I cross a few medieval bridges.

The final stretch climbs steeply on a concrete road toward Cebreros. A cyclist strikes up a conversation, intrigued by my long walk — and even more so after I answered his question about my age. I love that question. 

Once in Cebreros I go straight in search of water and bread; you never know if anything will be open on Monday morning. On Sunday afternoon everything is closed already, though I do spot someone carrying a baguette. I follow the opposite direction and, sure enough, there it is: a Chinese variety shop that also sells water and bread. The clever owner has a small oven in the back where he bakes his own rolls. While I’m paying, a white rabbit appears — Gustav, who speaks fluent English, starts chatting with me. I ask if he can help call the police, who supposedly have the key to the albergue. He immediately takes me for a coffee on a pleasant little terrace, introduces me to his best friend — the owner of the town’s bodega — and calls the number I give him. Then he drives me to the police station, where a policewoman is waiting outside with the key. There’s some muffled laughter, though I don’t yet understand why. Gustav drives me toward the albergue and, on the way, tells me about the lingering divisions in Spain, still festering from the civil war. “Your grandfather killed my grandfather” — accusations like that, he says, still come up today. He stays out of those debates on philosophical grounds. I confirm that I’ve seen the fractures too: in graffiti on walls, in heated arguments in cafés.

We can’t find the albergue, but Carmen — who turns out to be its neighbor — shows us the way. It’s a small, freestanding white building. She tells me to knock if I need anything. Gustav gives me his phone number: I can call him anytime if something comes up. We part as good friends, despite having met only an hour earlier.

Tonight I’m housed in what used to be the treatment room for gored bullfighters at the Cebreros arena. Inside, it’s unbelievably filthy — that surely explains the earlier snickering. The “arena” itself is just a fenced field, but the treatment room still contains an oxygen tank, an exam table, a small rolling instrument cart, a height-adjustable stool, a wonderful vintage lamp I’d gladly take home, and a sink with cold running water. As a retired physician, I feel strangely at home.

For the injured — or uninjured — pilgrim, there’s even a bunk bed. It’s probably been centuries since anything has happened here, cleaning included. My donativo is a practical one: toilet paper, garbage bags, and a fly swatter — all purchased at the Chinese shop for under four euros — and a thorough cleaning session, pests included. A bit much for an albergue without a shower, perhaps, but honestly: who else can say they slept in the treatment room for fallen toreros?

Tomorrow morning: me.

Ávila

In warm Spain, people come alive just as a weary pilgrim is trying to settle down for the night. I’ve barely drifted off when the neighbor behind me fires up a leaf blower and terrorizes his garden. Exhaust fumes drift straight into my room. I fall asleep again for a moment, only to be awakened by a group of teenagers passing by, shouting and laughing. Still, I manage enough hours of sleep for today’s long stage.

First, more than three hundred meters straight up along a stony path. After that I switch to asphalt — when you have many kilometers ahead, things shouldn’t be made harder than necessary. The road climbs gradually to over 1,300 meters, where it’s noticeably cooler than down below. After fourteen kilometers and a steep descent full of hairpin turns, I reach a charming village with a brand-new albergue. It’s only ten o’clock, and what would I do all day in a place where absolutely nothing happens? I decide to continue through the mountains along a quiet asphalt road.

After ten hours on my feet, I arrive in Ávila. My first impression —   apartment blocks, traffic, modern sprawl — hits me like a wave, and suddenly I feel lost. I wonder what on earth I’m doing and even consider quitting. Fortunately, I’m wise enough not to decide that today. Tomorrow at the earliest.

The old town is beautiful, full of historic buildings and entirely enclosed by an impressive medieval wall, where swallows dart past at high speed. Inside the walls, three people lift my gloomy mood almost instantly: a young man curious about my walk, someone who spontaneously calls out buen Camino — something I haven’t heard in a while — and a very helpful woman at the tourist office who calls the hospitalero for me and shows me the way to the albergue. Another fifteen minutes of walking and I’m at a spacious albergue just outside the city walls. The friendly, slightly older hospitalero is waiting for me with the keys. To my surprise, I find Antonio there — and, last but not least, Ellen calls. She insists I must finish the Camino. I reassure her.

In this albergue I feel human again after all the bleak, neglected places I’ve stayed recently, where I felt more like a battered vagrant than a dignified pilgrim. Sheets, a hot shower, and a washing machine — tomorrow I’ll set out clean and in good spirits. 

Camino Teresiano 

Guided by Saint Teresa, you can have a rewarding experience based on an encounter with yourself and, if you are a believer, with God.

Text from the official Camino Teresiano website

Gotarrendura

I leave Ávila behind without having seen nearly enough of her, but once I’m on my way I catch a final, glorious view-Ávila glowing in the early morning sun. Here begins the Camino Teresiano. The traffic noise dies away. In a wooded stretch a deer darts off. A few rustic villages pass by and then, suddenly, I find myself on the last ridge of the mountain range I’ve been walking through these past days. Before me lies a spectacular vista: a high plain stretching out with only a few villages like tiny dots in the distance. I hear myself say out loud, “Oh, how beautiful.” No café anywhere today. I drink in the silence of the land.

In Gotarrendura a bar is open for my daily dose of alcohol-free beer. No effort whatsoever has been made to make the place even remotely inviting. The bar doubles as the reception desk for the municipal albergue. A little later Antonio walks in. He’s surprised I’m already there and tells anyone in the bar willing to listen that I, seventy-seven years old, walk the longest Caminos. The albergue was built with government funds. The exact amount is proudly posted on signs: just under fifty thousand. For that they produced a room with two bunk beds, a bathroom, a common room, and a kitchen decorated in romantic Spanish farmhouse style. I’m shown the way by a man who spent the entire time in the bar sitting in front of a slot machine, talking nonstop to no one in particular. We pass by his house — or what passes for one: half collapsed, with an enormous assortment of household junk, boards, and indefinable debris piled on the sidewalk.

The afternoon ends with a violent thunderstorm. Good for the farmers, and good that I’m not out walking but taking a siesta. Later I return to the café, where the same man delivers a long monologue full of horrifying details about the deadly misdeeds of Spanish colonists, pausing only to step outside and smoke. The loud, erratic clientele evokes the atmosphere of a psychiatric ward in the 1960s.

The woman behind the bar has prepared a meal for Antonio and me. Lasagna — straight from the supermarket freezer and reheated today just for me. My goodness, can that woman cook! There is absolutely no reason to linger. I head back to the albergue to sleep.

Fontiveros

The day begins with an unexpected fountain of orange juice that has spent a full day fermenting in my backpack. A fine start, as if a well-shaken bottle of champagne has popped open in festive fashion.

Gently rolling land. Roads hardened with fine gravel that works its way annoyingly into my shoes and crunch-crunch, crunch-crunches with every step — a sound I meditate on in my own way. I call it empty-walking. Ellen calls it full-walking. It just depends how you look at it, but we mean the same thing. Fields of grain and other crops, the occasional little pine grove dripping resin, and every six kilometers a tiny rural village with nothing to brag about except being proudly situated along the Ruta Teresiana. The roadside is filled with references to Saint Teresa, the 16th-century scholar-mystic born in Ávila and buried in Alba de Tormes, where I hope to arrive in a few days. De la cuna al sepulcro — from cradle to grave. She didn’t walk as far as I do, but her books traveled all the better for it. A website about this route says you can “experience something deeply rewarding, guided by Saint Teresa, through an encounter with yourself and, if you are a believer, with God.” In my head I cross out the clause: “if you are a believer.”

Storks comb the land in search of food. My only fellow walkers are countless ants diligently carving their highways into the path. I grow thirsty but don’t dare drink my supply of tap water. My bowels are acting up again and I fear the warmed-up water in my bottle may be undergoing the same fermentation process as the orange juice. So I’m not touching it anymore. After twenty kilometers I find a bar: coffee, cerveza sin alcohol, and a bottle of water. Once again I notice how crucial long breaks are: after an hour in the café I’m full of energy again and whistle through the last seven kilometers. I hurry, because the sky tells me another thunderstorm is coming.

At a café in Fontiveros I receive the keys to the municipal albergue. Two police officers come stand next to me at the bar, giving me the perfect opportunity to brag about my age and the countless kilometers I’ve walked on various Caminos — over a thousand just this year alone. We crack a few jokes. They know I’m not a criminal because “You’ve got sweat on your back.” One of the gentlemen pays for my Coke and delivers a small sermon: “In this life there’s time for everything, but the most important thing is to live.” Sounds like Teresa herself. I accept his Coke and his wisdom.

With police escort I walk to the town hall, where my albergue is housed and where I find everything I could possibly want: showers, fridge, microwave, washing machine — except… a bed. I’m expected to sleep on one of ten folding cots, the kind you wouldn’t even put a refugee on, but I’m perfectly content. As a pilgrim you truly encounter everything; you rarely get what you expect, but always what you need — and the most important thing is simply: to live.

Mancera de Abajo

After several days without seeing a single rabbit, I spot a few today. The first one is white and appears on the opposite side of the street at the very moment I lock the albergue door. A woman calls something to me. I gather that the key is supposed to go into the little white mailbox, so I drop it in with confidence. The woman reacts with mild irritation and growing agitation. The key should have gone into the box at the town hall. And there I was thinking I had slept in the town hall. Turns out it was the post office. Anyway, she’s on her way to the town hall and assures me she will sort it out. “Bale,” she says several times. In my own language that means something like “boring”. I shout it back. A few days ago I saw on Google Translate that it’s spelled vale. It means “okay.”

Today’s walk is once again one long celebration: hilly terrain with magnificent views, the mountain range safely off to the south, orchards, fields, cows, storks, birds of prey, tiny mice darting across the road, rabbits, and a few small rural villages, each with an oversized church and, halfway through the day, a bar for coffee and a sandwich big enough to walk on for the rest of the day.

At the entrance of Mancera de Abajo, sculptures remind visitors that Saint Teresa once walked here too. In the village café I’m handed the keys to the albergue. The barmaid has very little to say. At my request she wordlessly stamps my credencial. After this minimalist welcome, a café patron kindly steps outside to show me the way to the albergue, located farther down the street in a former school building. The walls are plastered with posters of Santa Teresa de Jesús, but that has inspired neither guests nor hosts to keep the place clean. After a while someone drops by to flip a few switches so I’ll have hot water. Meanwhile I’ve removed a rotten melon from a desk and thoroughly scrubbed and disinfected the floors and bathroom with bleach. Donativo in natura in chloria.
Teresa would surely have approved. After all, she wrote: “God also walks among the pots and pans.”

Alba de Tormes

An hour before sunrise, I set out to the sound of crowing roosters. Rain may come later in the day, and with at least eight hours of walking ahead of me, an early start seems wise. The path is lit by the moon. The landscape grows more hilly, offering beautiful sweeping views. By eight o’clock I’m sitting somewhere with a cup of coffee — a rare stroke of early-morning luck.

Now and then I pass a simple farming village, each with nothing for sale. Once, someone spontaneously points me in the right direction. “¡Gracias señor!”

In Alba de Tormes, the Camino Teresiano officially ends; it is here that Teresa’s life ended as well. I visit a church-cum-small-museum where some of her relics are displayed and, strangely enough, a piece of “flesh.”

There is no albergue in Alba de Tormes, but the parish house is said to host pilgrims as well. The friendly staff member there tells me that it is only for destitute homeless people. I, being too wealthy, must settle for a hotel — or walk all the way to the albergue in Salamanca. That is too far, and thunderstorms are threatening.

Of the two hotels in Alba, one turns out to be closed. That means two kilometers walked for nothing, as if I haven’t walked enough already. Via Booking, I quickly reserve the other hotel, which is open. Rain and thunder roll in just before I arrive. The storm goes on for hours. I’m relieved I didn’t attempt to continue on to Salamanca.

Teresa found eternal rest here. For me, one night will do. Tomorrow I walk on.

Salamanca

At check-out, the receptionist can’t find my payment. Neither of us has the patience to sort it out. I want to leave quickly because more rain is coming, and she has a handful of guests waiting for breakfast. I pay again. It’ll sort itself out eventually.

Today’s walk is almost ideal: a former railway line turned into a footpath. No climbs. From far off I can already see Salamanca. The cathedral dominates the skyline. What a magnificent city! Last year, when I walked the Vía de la Plata, I was just as enchanted. Back then I wrote that I wanted to be there with Ellen. I’m thinking the same thing now.

I have to wait an hour for the albergue to open. I sit on a stone stairway alongside an American. Besides a small daypack, the man has a huge rolling suitcase with him, which contains, among other things, a large backpack. I tease him a bit by telling him my entire pack weighs 4.5 kilos. He then explains that his wife dictated what he had to bring: four pairs of underwear, two pairs of pants, several pairs of socks, and so on. He pulls out a notebook and a big, heavy guidebook. I pile on by telling him all of that lives in my phone and weighs nothing. Then he produces a thick binder with his printed reservations. Finally, he gives me a great treat by showing me his four pairs of glasses, each in its own case. We have a good laugh and, for the moment, we’re Camino buddies — until he announces he’ll go grocery shopping with me. That’s not happening; my friendship doesn’t stretch quite that far.

I know this albergue from last year on the Vía de la Plata. It doesn’t disappoint. A warm welcome from two English-speaking volunteers, and finally a few people I can really talk to. I share a room with the American, but I do my errands alone. Bread, fruit, water, orange juice. I hardly see the American again — except snoring passionately in his bed. I’m sure he’s off eating a Big Mac instead of bread, fruit, water, and orange juice.

Later I wander through the city. On the Plaza Mayor stands a happy child clutching a white plush rabbit. I ask to take her picture. I give one of my minirabbits to her grandfather, who passes it on to her. She’s overjoyed. A golden little moment.

I soak in the magnificent squares, parks, terraces, beautifully restored buildings, and drool-worthy art exhibits. The beauty seems endless. And yet tomorrow I continue walking, headed for Santiago. There’s no end to that either. 

Camino Torres

“You’ve earned it.”

- Rosi, mayor of Aldea del Obispo

Robliza de Cojos

Diego de Torres Villarroel, a renowned professor at the University of Salamanca, walked from Salamanca to Santiago in 1737 to make amends for something. Starting today, I follow the same route — the “Camino Torres,” which runs through Portugal and reaches Santiago after roughly six hundred kilometers, the final hundred and thirty of which merge with the Camino Portugués.

When I leave at seven, it’s simply cold: eleven degrees Celsius and a stiff wind. One last look at Salamanca, and then thirty-four kilometers without a single village, let alone a house or even a bench to sit on. It takes hours before my hands warm up. The path is a cañada real: an age-old transhumance route. Broad strips of land covered with grass and shrubs, running all across the country, where livestock is driven from summer pastures to winter grazing and back again. A few large farm complexes with cattle and expansive orchards. A herd of cows and bulls brings the transhumance alive by standing right in the middle of the path and, when I approach, moving ahead of me. They have big horns. There are calves. I don’t quite dare pass them.

I haven’t seen a soul all day — until the moment I need one. A car approaches. The driver must know whether it’s safe to get past. In fluent Google-speak I ask him. Yes, he says, as long as I make a wide arc around them. Not ideal when that arc is packed with thorny shrubs. Eventually I find a spot where the vegetation thins out and slip past. The cows and I keep a sharp eye on one another. That was more or less the most exciting moment of the day — unless you count the off-leash dog. The owner immediately clips the leash on. In Spain people are usually considerate enough to leash their dogs the moment they see me. These quiet days help me stay fully in the here and now, and for me, that’s what it’s all about.

The final kilometers are, as usual, a slog, but they do offer the sweeping views I love. Mountains appear on the horizon. I’m told I’ll have to cross them later.

At the entrance to Robliza de Cojos I spot a bar with a big terrace full of families and groups of friends enjoying their free Sunday afternoon. Finally — somewhere to sit down. Warm chicken sandwiches, cerveza sin, and lukewarm coffee. The barman calls Cristina from the albergue for me. After half an hour she arrives by car to pick me up. She does everything she can to make me comfortable. “Welcome,” she says several times. What a sweetheart. The albergue is housed in an abandoned school with a large garden and a covered area where I settle in easily.

And here’s something remarkable: on Sunday evening, from five to seven, the village “supermarket” — a clean, spacious, simple shop housed in a windowless barn — opens its doors. Perfect. Now I can start tomorrow with fresh water and supplies, since I’ll probably find nothing along the way. Once again, the Camino takes excellent care of me.

Alba de Yeltes

Today I plan to walk to San Muños, but things turn out differently. After twenty-two kilometers — past endless cows behind fences that bolt away from me, and again the most beautiful vistas — I reach San Muños. All the cafés are closed. A woman from the town hall points me to the albergue “in the doctor’s house.” She asks my name and takes my picture. On the way there I hear that the albergue houses homeless people. The albergue is under the same roof as the village doctor, a woman who clearly has no interest in pilgrims. She fires off rapid-fire Spanish. Google can’t keep up with her, but one sentence sticks: “You must wait.” I feel brushed off. That’s no way to treat a pilgrim. Through a window I see that the albergue is an absolute pigsty. I sit on a bench and mull over the situation while my colleague — the doctor — drives off in a big fat Audi. Wait until that filthy dump opens, and no café in town? No chance. I’ll walk the extra twenty-four kilometers.

At that exact moment a mobile vendor stops across the street. That cannot be coincidence. The driver opens the back doors of the truck and there — standing between stacks of vegetables— is a heavily made-up Spanish woman with bright red lips I’ll never forget. She sells me a bunch of bananas: power fuel for the long haul, available at precisely the right moment. White rabbit!

Continuing on to Alba turns out to be a good gamble, even though two ticks land on me along the way. At the entrance of the village a group of people are playing pétanque. They enthusiastically point me toward the albergue next to the court and gesture that I can just walk right in.

Inside I’m welcomed by two women. Aurora, an older lady, is the hospitalera. The other, Manoli — also of a certain age — runs the local bar. She immediately arranges a meal for me at her bar and a cheese sandwich for tomorrow’s breakfast. White rabbits, all at the perfect moment.

Aurora is surprised to see me. She had been told I would arrive tomorrow! Apparently Cristina called her, or the woman from the town hall in San Muños. I never figure it out, but it is remarkable. Aurora grumbles that some guests leave a terrible mess. “Just yesterday — a whole family. They were going to a wedding. Those aren’t pilgrims.” That’s why she’s cleaning now. I score some points by telling her that I’ve cleaned out two albergues myself. Aurora points out a coffeemaker with milk and ground coffee for my breakfast tomorrow. She asks me to pray for her when I reach Santiago. I promise I will. Here, the old-fashioned Catholic pilgrim faith is still alive.

Ciudad Rodrigo

After Aurora’s filtered coffee, Manoli’s sandwich, and six kilometers of asphalt along what a sign tells me is the Cañada Real de Extremadura — that last word meaning “extremely difficult” — I reach the village of Bocacara, where both bars are closed. The cleaning lady I see going inside has no intention of providing this pilgrim with basic necessities, but I am equally unwilling to walk the next twenty kilometers on just a can of cola and half a liter of water. An older gentleman solves the problem by asking a couple of construction workers. Naturally, they fill my bottle with tap water. Then he gestures for me to follow him — back to the bench where I had left my walking poles. I thank him for his help and move on.

First a forest of cork oaks, then wheat fields, and then grassy tracks through thick vegetation. After the grass: a tick-check. And yes, of course, I spot one climbing up my pants, heading for the lush pastures of my body. The umpteenth one in just a few days. Finally, after missing a turn, I end up on a main road— saving almost two kilometers. A blessing at twenty-nine degrees under a Reckitt’s-blue sky.

Ciudad Rodrigo is a beautiful, classic Spanish fortress town. The albergue is enormous and clearly designed for all sorts of youth-oriented tourist-educational programs — but there isn’t a single youngster in sight. What is here: stench. The work of a plumber or sewer specialist would have been far more effective than the excessive spraying of synthetic floral perfume. It seriously compromises my comfort. I may be a pilgrim, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy foul odors. Same goes for the frequently suffocating stench of pig farms along the way. But aside from that, I’m satisfied again.

Aldea del Obispo

The self-service breakfast in the fridge is long expired, the fruit partly rotten. What a stink hole. Out the door as early as possible.
 It will be a hot day with temperatures above thirty and barely any wind. A varied route, ranging from asphalt to tall grass. The latter is unpleasant: all sorts of things poke through my socks. Several times I share the path with cows and bulls. They walk endlessly alongside me, leaving barely enough room to pass. Also not pleasant.

In Aldea I’m not quite sure where to request the key to the albergue. I eventually land on a covered terrace on the Plaza Mayor, where a few people are sitting. I call out “hola,” and immediately a woman starts calling Rosi, the mayor, for me. Rosi arrives after about fifteen minutes — bright red hair, blue T-shirt, and cut-off denim shorts. Together with the caller she leads me to the albergue, which is perfect. Good beds, a functioning kitchen, and faultless bathrooms. I’m given extensive instructions, and they even walk part of the way with me to point out the grocery store. I thank them for their warmth. “You’ve earned it,” they reply in a motherly tone. A hundred times better than yesterday’s stink hole, where I also managed to leave my towel behind. Thankfully, there are towels here. I’ll surely find one to buy in Pinhel tomorrow.

I buy some basic supplies in the tidy, simple supermarket the ladies recommended.

Pinhel / Coimbra

It’s going to be thirty-five degrees today, which means leaving at six so I can be indoors before the worst of the heat. Within half an hour I’m in Portugal. I gain an hour there, and suddenly it’s only half past five again. Right after Almeida, a beautiful fortress town, four barking dogs charge at me. I can handle one— but four… I turn around. A hundred meters back there’s a detour onto fast, safe asphalt with no dogs. Just before Pinhel a strange kind of dog crosses the road. It doesn’t bark and has no collar. We keep an eye on each other and keep our distance. When I continue walking, it crosses back again and disappears into the greenery.

In Pinhel I stop at a local medical post because my left eye is bothering me. I get there around noon. After two hours of waiting-plenty of time to type out my “medical history” in my phone and translate it into Portuguese — and after a lot of fuss but no actual examination except a pointless blood pressure reading, a taxi is ordered. Thirty kilometers away, in Guarda, there’s a hospital with an ophthalmologist. The taxi driver can barely write. He scribbles something on a business card. That will have to be the invoice. The meter shows 42 euros; he says 40 is enough.

The intake nurse immediately tells me a doctor will see me, but that this hospital does not have an ophthalmologist. I’m placed in a waiting room next to an older woman — clearly a psychiatric patient. She loudly expresses her displeasure about something or nothing. Apparently she assumes everyone is as deaf as she is. The whole waiting room watches, seemingly unmoved. Then the food service rolls in with a trolley. Sandwiches, coffee, tea. I pick a Vache qui rit sandwich. Pretty tasty when you’re hungry. The food lady at least manages a smile. Meanwhile I discover an electrical outlet above my head— perfect for recharging my phone. Oh, how I’d love to take photos! Time drags on without the number of patients decreasing. Soon the eye doctor will be long gone and I’ll still be waiting — but the kind triage nurse assures me the specialist is available 24 hours a day. Apparently a proper referral is needed.

At 5:30 p.m. a doctor calls out: “Jan Gerritsen.” I forget for a moment that I’m in Portugal and yell back in pure Dutch: “That’s me!” He apologizes for the long wait and explains that he’s covering for three colleagues. He’ll contact an ophthalmologist in Coimbra — 168 kilometers away — and gratefully uses the medical history I prepared to write his referral.

Back to the waiting room, where in one afternoon you can observe an entire textbook of general pathology. The shouting lady rolls herself toward the exit once again in her wheelchair. That’s not allowed. Staff and a helpful bystander steer her back. People shuffle by with IV poles, patients are wheeled through the waiting room in their beds, a tall young man strikes various catatonic poses — in short, a pandemonium.

I’m called in again. After consulting the ophthalmologist, the verdict is that I must be taken urgently to Coimbra for an examination and possible treatment. My insurer approves ambulance transport. I may be an urgent case, but the ambulance takes its sweet time. At seven the food trolley comes by again. I take another cow-laughing cheese sandwich. The screaming woman gets one too. She screams with her mouth full. I tell her that’s not appropriate. In Dutch. She quiets down briefly. The previously unmoved onlookers now smirk a little. I go to the bathroom — past two beds occupied by patients. The smell is awful, like on a farm. I suspect it’s the patients. When I’m done, the toilet keeps flushing loudly. It needs a referral to a plumber. One patient is snoring explosively. With thirty-three kilometers in my legs and having been up since five a.m. — four a.m. Portuguese time — I could use a nap myself. My wheelchair neighbor accompanies that thought with a braying wail that would make a donkey jealous. Someone comforts her, briefly, and then she tries to escape again.

Finally, around eight, I’m loaded into a rattling ambulance for a two-hour ride to the university hospital in Coimbra. There, on a busy traffic square, the driver briefly hits the siren. Glorious. The university hospital itself: what a collection of old junk — but at least I get a proper exam. Close to midnight I hear that the issue is with the vitreous, something that will resolve on its own.

I consider sleeping behind a stack of chairs in a waiting area, but a security guard prevents that. Somewhere in a corridor I sit down to find a hotel — preferably nearby. Booking.com insists I’m looking for tomorrow night. Useless. I need a hotel now. On my map I spot one nearby with a 24-hour reception. The hospital exit is hard to find — no signs, just taped-up instructions contradicting each other. Two rounds of asking for directions, and finally I’m outside. After a fifteen-minute walk through a dark city I reach the hotel, large and modern. A far cry from a communal albergue. At one in the morning I’m between crisp white sheets. Wonderful not to be entirely unmoored.

Trancoso

Coimbra is a beautiful city, but I don’t see much of it. Decathlon — where I want to buy a small towel and some merino T-shirts — is six kilometers outside the center. That occupies half my day, and they don’t even have the right towels. Later I do find one at a Chinese shop where you can buy anything from screws to bikinis.

I’m too tired to climb the steep streets up into the old center. Down below there are enough pleasant streets and squares. On a small, friendly terrace I enjoy a good meal and book an online ticket for the five-o’clock bus to Trancoso — the town I would have walked to today from Pinhel. As beautiful as Coimbra is, give me the quiet of the countryside any day. Forget the crisp white sheets.

Trancoso is a quiet little fortress town. On this Friday evening I hardly see a soul. The terraces are empty. Maybe it’s still too early. My hotel is excellent, especially for only thirty-five euros. There are no other guests. That promises a good night’s sleep — again between crisp white sheets.

Sequeiros

The hotel was fine, the bed fine too, and still I didn’t sleep well. So twenty-four kilometers — even on as much easy asphalt as possible — is more than enough. Once I turn back when my path, after an ancient little stone bridge, dissolves into wilderness. Several loose, barking dogs, but none of them has the courage to come close when I bark back and wave my poles.

My phone lists an address for twenty euros. Sure enough, they have a room for me. I arrive at a chic four-star hotel full of festively dressed guests. I don’t quite blend in with my decidedly un-festive outfit. A room costs a hundred euros, but the receptionist adds that at Restaurante Santo Estêvão, a hundred meters down the road, they have rooms for thirty. A win-win: he senses that I’m counting my pennies, and he’s rid of this vagrant. The room next door is more than good — better than last night’s even. I can’t understand how they do it here for a few tens of euros. For that price I even get a swimming pool with screaming children and, in my room, a crib — but that kind of luxury I don’t exactly need.

Moimenta da Beira

My energy is back after an excellent night’s sleep. And then, to find a coffee bar after only eight kilometers in the rustic village of Lapa — pastéis de nata included — pure bliss. No troublesome dogs today, only annoying flies. Quiet asphalt roads. Pine forests. Plenty of climbs. A village of ruins, Carapito, where I rest and have lunch.

Moimenta has a stately old quarter with many places to stay, but they all turn out to be closed — some temporarily, others for good. A young woman in a café gives me an address, but no luck; closed today as well. Eventually I do find a room, but I can’t locate the place. On the street I stop a random woman and ask if she can help. She speaks French, calls the number, and — chattering away in rapid French of which I understand maybe ten percent — walks me all the way to my “hotel" three hundred meters down the road. Such friendly kindness.

There I’m met by the proprietress, a grumpy old lady entirely devoid of friendliness — toward me or toward her miserably barking dog, which has been left to suffer in the heat in a filthy pen in the junk-filled backyard, pacing in desperate circles. My room has a simple, old-fashioned bathroom with the usual defects, and a side room with an extra bed and tiny windows at eye level. The air smells of cooking and mothballs. The décor is straight out of the 1950s. It’s noisy, and the vacuum cleaner has probably been broken for years. The landlady finds it unnecessary to take down any details of her guest. Wordlessly she takes the fee for one night. The same price as my suite last night. Imagine the nerve. And yet — it is the third day in a row that I’m assigned room number 6. For the Chinese, a lucky number, especially 666, according to Wikipedia. Now I must say: the little towel I bought in Coimbra at a Chinese shop for €2.15 I somehow managed to lose that very same day; but today, on my way to a supermarket near my mothball room, I stumbled across another Chinese shop where I found a towel for only €1.95. If that isn’t good luck, I don’t know what is.

Lamego

Today’s route leads through several attractive and seemingly fairly prosperous villages with lovely little churches. I walk through a multitude of landscapes: vineyards, fields, forests, and especially mountains — so many mountains — and the path, often paved here with square granite blocks, never goes around them but always straight over the top. I also manage to go the wrong way for a kilometer or two. Coffee at half past ten. Inside the bar a group of people pays for my coffee. Just like that. I love it. I treat myself to another cup for the enormous sum of one euro. Excellent coffee from freshly ground beans, as everywhere in Portugal, even in the shabbiest cafés.

As I continue walking, I see smoke rising from behind the mountains. Clearly a wildfire. On a specialized site I find exactly where it is. For now it’s far away, but I keep a close eye on it, also with tomorrow’s route in mind.

At a medieval tower guarding an equally ancient bridge, there’s a terrace where I take my time recovering with a glass of cola — which is to say: sugar, caffeine, and water, or energy, pep, and hydration, exactly what I need. The steep roads today demand long and frequent breaks. That’s why I’m on the road so long.

Late in the afternoon I arrive in Lamego, sweaty and tired. The cathedral — like so many churches in Portugal and Spain — is closed. Directly across from it is my hotel, clean, with a pleasantly old-fashioned interior. My room overlooks the square and the cathedral. I buy some supplies and wander a bit. The city has many churches. At the far end of an elongated square lined with terraces, ponds, and statues, a long baroque stairway stretches more than a hundred meters uphill toward a church with two towers pointing theatrically toward the heavens. Amid all this pomp and splendor of this pilgrimage site, I feel like a cherry on a giant Roman Catholic whipped-cream cake, but I lack the energy to climb the six hundred-plus steps to receive the blessings of Nossa Senhora dos Remédios at the top.

Mesão Frio

A faint drizzle falls all day — too little for the farmers and not even enough to justify a rain jacket. The upside is that it never gets very hot under the cloud cover. That’s a blessing, because I have never climbed slopes as steep as the ones today. It’s all sighing and sweating, even though it’s only twenty-two degrees. I can’t imagine walking here in thirty.

After an hour, five barking dogs come charging at me. A woman shows up with two more dogs, drawn by the racket — made by the dogs and by me. “Nada mal,” she calls out. I shout back, in indignant Dutch, that you can never be sure of that, and at the same time I’m proud that I stood my ground — even if I was shaking from fright. The other dogs I encounter today are chained, behind fences, or don’t bother to move, so no further issues.

At Peso da Régua I cross the Douro on a long, old-fashioned iron bridge swarming with tourists. They cluster together in busy tourist hotspots but you don’t see them anywhere else. After two kilometers along the Douro the road crosses an unguarded railway track and then climbs extremely steeply. The breathtaking views over the valley and river are my reward for the gasping ascent. This region is unique and stunningly beautiful. For centuries people toiled here to build terraced slopes with stone walls for the cultivation of grapevines, planted in neat rows that create striking graphic patterns across the landscape — rightly declared a World Heritage site.

The place in Mesão Frio where I made a reservation yesterday turns out to be a restaurant. As I arrive, a delivery guy drops a five-liter bottle of wine on the ground. The smell is wonderful as it spreads across the pavement, and I have no idea that this is an omen of trouble, as I will soon discover. Inside, they inform me that I didn’t reserve a room but a dinner table for tonight. Hadn’t I already said that phone calls in Portuguese do not work for me? So my dream of a comfortable bed shatters, though at least I still have a promising dinner ahead. Slightly disappointed I step outside, but I spot hope: further on, I see HOTEL in huge letters on a rooftop. Sadly, another setback. Closed — and has been for years, judging by the neglected state of the building.

Eventually I find a B&B. Annoyingly, the owner wants to charge more than the price on Booking. At my grumbling she concedes five euros, but without breakfast, because she refuses to get up at six for an early pilgrim. She insists on cash. Madam pockets the money — no taxes involved. The room is luxurious, with a gorgeous view over the mountains and the Douro, and there’s even a pool in the garden. I start to feel less and less like a pilgrim. Luxury beckons. I spend an hour in the shower and use all the towels, soaps, and shampoos. She should’ve been nicer.

Back in the village, a friendly greengrocer points me to the albergue, which is open and a lot cheaper than the ninety euros of the B&B. At the restaurant, a neatly set table is waiting for me. The food is excellent and inexpensive, and the service warm.

All’s well that ends well. The setbacks turned out to be mild.

Amarante

The road keeps climbing, sometimes at a twenty-percent grade, but it’s worth it. Again I’m full of admiration for the people who live here in the mountains, who over the centuries made this terrain passable. Hamlets glued to steep slopes — unimaginable to a flatlander like me. A surprise after six kilometers: a spotless little establishment. That means a seat, rest, caffeine, and cake — essential fuel for the next stretch: a continued steep ascent through forests to today’s high point at 884 meters, almost six hundred meters higher than where I started three hours ago. The weather is still kind to me: cloud cover, about twenty degrees. Then the reward: a winding descent through riotously green hills. The sun breaks through. 

I walk into the center of Amarante over a long classical bridge. Nearby is a hotel with private rooms and dormitories. I choose the dorm. Odds are good no one else will show up. I may have landed in a busy tourist town, but tourists don’t sleep in dorms. Beautiful old buildings, squares, churches, terraces — it sounds cliché, but it isn’t. At seven-thirty I eat on a terrace. In Portugal that’s early, but for me it’s too late: I want to be in bed.

Guimarães

Today had a bit of everything: fog, drizzle, sun, lots of asphalt and traffic, a few serious climbs, an ideal path on an abandoned railway line, coffee here and there, and two stages in one day because the first one ended far too early in a place so utterly uninteresting that I couldn’t imagine spending the whole day there.

Every now and then I see someone working a field — just hand-hoeing the soil. In bigger towns too, obituary notices taped to lampposts, always with a photo of the deceased when they were alive, always overweight. A baker drives around and hangs little plastic bags of rolls on customers’ gates. Somewhere a truck broadcasts important announcements through a loudspeaker. A church clock that “chimes” the hour through speakers. Vineyards where plenty of work is still done by hand, either because the terrain won’t allow machinery or because labor is cheap — I don’t know. People spraying pesticides with no masks. Many ruins, even of a massive former monastery. Apartment blocks and other structures abandoned mid-construction. An old woman doing laundry by hand at a public wash basin. Ultra-modern villas in stark white, black, and glass — sometimes so overdone they resemble bunkers. Mixed in are traditional houses with gateways guarded by lions or eagles — both looking to the right. Apparently they were out of “left.” And rarely do I hear a hoopoe with its soft hoop-hoop-hoop…

Guimarães, a pilgrimage site, is a classic Portuguese city with a colossal castle, proud of its church at the end of a long avenue of ascending baroque gardens — as if the carpet has already been rolled out for Our Lord upon His return. I feel privileged to be staying right in the center in a dirt-cheap little design hotel. In the small lobby sit two glazed white rabbits in a niche. I added one of my own mini-rabbits after initiating the interested — and not unattractive — receptionist into the gospel of the white rabbit.

Braga

Few kilometers today, so I can leave late and take it easy, at first through a pleasant urban landscape with plenty of coffee, water, cola, bread, fruit, yogurt, roadside chapels, and even two bom caminho wishes from attractive women — and one from a skeletal, chain-smoking man who offers me water. But then comes the hill: the dreaded 250-meter bump I can’t avoid. The path is an old Roman road paved with large flat stones through a eucalyptus forest. Often a stone is missing. Stolen to build a shack? At the top stands a church, complete with yet another grand approach ramp for Our Lord — the next pilgrimage site on my route, competition for Santiago.

Walking into Braga is less unpleasant than in most big cities. Beautiful boulevards with lots of greenery and contemporary apartments and homes. I access my hotel room by means of several codes. I prefer a living receptionist. My “room” measures barely five square meters. I don’t need more, and it’s still better than a bunk bed in a dorm — and above all: it’s right in the middle of the center, which flaunts its handsome buildings and streets to great effect. The shared bathroom is spotless and hasn’t yet been used by other guests today, which is a relief.

I’ve been hauling around a “just-in-case” can of beans for days, but the emergency never came. So tonight that becomes dinner — and my pack is lighter for it. Afterward I wander through the city, including a very generously poured glass of port of inferior quality on one of the overflowing terraces, where you can order anything except a healthy salad. It’s a wonderfully warm summer evening. If only we had more of those in the Netherlands.

I want to turn in early for tomorrow’s long stage. My cubicle is not only tiny but also scorching from the sun that blasted in all day. The window opens — for fresh air, but also for the noise of the busy street below and the mosquitoes. The fan roars like a municipal lawnmower. Window closed, fan off. The suffocating heat — and the fact that I’m sleeping near yet another pilgrimage site — helps me feel like a pilgrim again.

Ponte de Lima

I can keep it short about this long route. Hilly, green, streams, rapids, houses, churches, eucalyptus forests, a hoopoe, and barking dogs. Behind the mountains, more mountains. The effort consumes all my attention. I can’t quite settle into a steady walking rhythm. The villages here are bland and modern, the towns classically beautiful and, although different, somehow all the same: old buildings, beautifully tiled facades, pleasant squares, stone arch bridges. I’m nearly oversaturated with all this loveliness.

In tourist-heavy Ponte de Lima, the Camino Torres — on which I’ve been walking alone all this time — joins the land route of the Camino Portugués. I check my phone to see exactly where the albergue is. A man asks, “Albergue?” I nod. “You’re standing at the door!”

Inside, on a landing, I see a woman. We greet each other. She says, “How are you?” The usual response to that question is something like “fine, thanks,” but after five weeks of silence I take it as genuine interest in my humble person and proceed to pour a stream of walking-related tales into her ears. 

This municipal albergue is large, with more than enough space for what I estimate to be thirty-five guests. It feels good to be among people again, but it’s also an adjustment. Especially the constant talking around me. Next to me, two women have been conversing at great length and with very little restraint, in some Slavic language. I hold myself back, but I’d gladly silence them — if needed with pastéis de nata. The rest of the dorm is filled with young folks laughing and chatting with great enthusiasm. After thirty-eight days of trotting along like an eager young pup all by myself, here I suddenly feel old and lonely.

Camino Portugués 

If it’s stories you want, you’re better off walking the Camino.

Gandra / Valença

This is a real Camino day — the kind I’ve been longing for after all the silence of the past weeks: now and then a familiar face from the previous albergue, a friendly chat, a little shared momentum. Here on the Camino Portugués I once again see signs for hostels and albergues, pilgrim menus, and yes — even ads from taxi companies offering to whisk you over a troublesome hill. There are memorial spots where people leave stones, photos, and other cherished tokens. None of that existed before Ponte. There simply weren’t any pilgrims to house, feed, transport, or commemorate.

I stop in a peaceful spot in the middle of nature at an albergue called Quinta Estrada Romana. A few people I know are sitting outside in the garden waiting for the door to open. I abandon my plan to cross into Spain today. A perfect decision: the hospitalero, Diogo, welcomes us warmly, provides clean laundry, and serves a communal meal that naturally leads to good conversation. His guests are cheerful and open-minded. Diogo gets it. He’s walked many pilgrim routes himself.

At dinner I address him and reveal the secret of the White Rabbit. He earns the White Rabbit Award for creating such a warm, welcoming place where a wandering pilgrim can catch his breath and meet others. No certificate, but he does receive a tiny plastic rabbit. Glasses of wine are raised, and friendships are formed — for a short while or for as long as they will last.

Twelve hundred kilometers after Valencia, I finally find it here in Valença: the real Camino feeling again, thanks to Diogo and the lovely people gathered today.

Mos

When I wake up, almost everyone has already slipped out quietly. One last glance at Diogo’s special albergue, then I head toward nearby Valença, a lovely fortified town. The cafés and bars are still closed as I walk through, and why would they be open? Tourists aren’t out this early. Soon I cross the Rio Miño. Halfway across the bridge Spain begins, and so does the rain. Just a light sprinkle, repeated a few times. On the other side lies Tui, another beautiful fortress town, where I see familiar faces from yesterday-especially at the Mosteiro de Nosa Señora da Concepción, where a cloistered nun sells a little box of cookies for ten euros through a tiny rotating hatch. Carefully shielded from the world, she earns something for the monastery.

I run into Beth. She’s carrying a large, well-packed backpack and pushing a stroller filled with even more gear — and a child. I offer to push for a while. She’s all for it. Beth, a psychologist, is walking the Camino Portugués from Porto with her five-year-old daughter and has done enough pushing for now. Sometimes the child rides in the stroller, but never uphill. We talk about failed relationships, psychotherapy, and — of course — about pilgrimage and how wonderful it can be. Meanwhile I’m shuffling along like a grandfather behind the stroller, and together we joke to other walkers that we’ve become a family today. After ten kilometers, mother and daughter hop on a bus toward a hotel, and we say goodbye with a fitting embrace. Friends for ten kilometers.

Today’s albergue is commercial but still dirt cheap. I can eat in the attached restaurant. At reception stands a pilgrim, Marie, whom I’ve now run into three days in a row at various albergues. We’re both happy to see a familiar face. She was the first — and only — pilgrim I chatted with in Ponte de Lima after weeks of walking alone. We have dinner together and enjoy ourselves in an otherwise unremarkable setting. The few other guests keep to themselves. The group from last night stopped in O Porriño probably. I would’ve liked to see them again. You can grow attached to certain people quite quickly.

O Porriño didn’t appeal to me: too many backpackers, including luxury walkers with tiny daypacks. And besides, it wasn’t far enough — because in four days I want to reach Santiago. It’s only about a hundred kilometers now. I do need to collect two stamps a day for my compostela, otherwise those thirteen hundred kilometers will have been for nothing.

Pontevedra

Today’s route isn’t exactly thrilling. A bit of nature here and there, then plenty of city noise. Lots of walkers — I won’t classify them. Occasionally a rabbit drawn in marker on a wall somewhere. Why? No idea. And of course the usual memorial spots where people try to tackle eternity with things like stones, photos, bracelets, shoes, and so on. I get a bonus ten kilometers because my planned destination is fully booked, and the next option only appears after another two hours of walking. Along the way I chat with a young woman with a sore knee, but the conversation is abruptly hijacked by a faith healer who, with a laying-on of hands, brings the Lord straight into her knee. Such rude benevolence does not deserve my attention. I move on. For the rest, I’m focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other according to a schedule that will get me to my flight home precisely on time.

What was nice today? A twenty-seven-year-old German teacher with the most beautiful jet-black wavy hair, with whom I enjoyed sitting and chatting over breakfast — that is, two cups of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a slab of cake — and later a forty-four-year-old Flemish translator for the EU with lovely brown eyes, who’s walking the Camino to figure out what she wants to do with the rest of her life.

In Pontevedra I end up in a gigantic albergue full of young people. My eyes land on a metal plate above my bed indicating that this spot is reserved for a disabled person. I’m not that bad — on the contrary, I feel great, except for my feet. They had too much work and too little rest today. I share a dormitory of at most five by five meters with ten others, including a Spanish father and his twenty-year-old daughter. Her grandfather is two years younger than I am. Hearing that, I’m quite content with my status quo after more than thirty kilometers.

Caldas de Reis

The last of my dorm-mates went to bed at eleven-thirty; the first one’s alarm went off at six. Off I go with far too little sleep. Fortunately, today’s stage is neither long nor particularly tough.

In the half-light the blackbirds are singing. Funny — some towns greet you in the early morning with doves, others with roosters, and still others, like this one, with blackbirds. And speaking of sounds: every village and town rumbles and reeks of gasoline-powered lawnmowers and chainsaws. The moment you hear and smell that, you know you’re approaching civilization.

Once again, thanks to being turned away from a fully booked albergue in Caldas de Reis, I manage to find a spacious room for a few dozen euros — the last one available, according to the hotel receptionist. I literally end up in a warm bath and manage to catch up on a few hours of sleep.

I get a good meal on a terrace by the water. Spanish friendliness in the hospitality world can sometimes be as warm as ice. After my excellent meal — an olive-oil-drenched tomato salad and fried octopus — the gum-chewing waitress asks, or rather shouts, as she clears the table: “Dessert or coffee!” Spaniards often talk loudly and intensely among themselves. I never get used to it. She returns: “Dessert?” Me: “Helado.” Her: “Helada.” Indeed, I think, smiling to myself.

Padrón

The closer you get to Santiago, the more walkers and vacationers appear — clusters of chattering people clinging to one another. For my overnight stay I choose an albergue in the original Franciscan monastery of Herbón, accessible only to those who actually carry their own backpack and have a credencial. No reservations here. In the evening there’s a communal meal for a maximum of thirty guests. I gladly walk an extra five kilometers for a place like this.

I arrive early and still have to wait a few hours before the doors open. More and more pilgrims gather. One person’s relentless talking rises above the quiet beauty of this place. I’m always amazed by the unstoppable urge some people have to bombard each other with words.

At 3:15 the door finally opens. Even more pilgrims have shown up. The elderly hospitalero quickly loses count. Everyone receives a set of disposable sheets, and I think, just lay out thirty sets beforehand and you’ll know exactly when you’re full. His dedication doesn’t suffer for it — if anything, it deepens when he sees that I’m ten years older than he is. That earns me a lower bunk.

A woman walks in. She massages calves and backs on a donativo basis. I don’t need that. If only she came by with fries or something. Dinner won’t be served until nine, after Mass has been celebrated. Then three Camino friends arrive carrying food and invite me to join them. White rabbit! In the evening all guests are taken on a charming tour of the monastery’s various buildings. Afterward we attend Mass. At the end, everyone reads a saying or blessing in their own language, followed by the pilgrim’s blessing, sealed with a certificate on which you must still write your own name and date.

At nine o’clock dinner is finally served: a tasty pumpkin soup, plenty of healthy salad, a simple pasta, and a modest dessert. Because of the echoing acoustics in the kitchen and my imperfect hearing, I can’t really participate in the conversations. That’s fine. The atmosphere is warm — that’s what matters.

All in all, a classic Catholic refuge, full of kindness toward pilgrims on their way to the holy remains of Saint James.

Spain is modernizing. Old simple villages are modernizing. The busy Caminos are modernizing. A place like this may not exist anymore in twenty-five years.

Santiago de Compostela

I’m woken at seven by Gregorian chant. Breakfast is as Spartan as any pilgrim could wish for: two small pieces of toast with butter and jam, plus coffee. Then I’m on my way.

Padrón is close and perfect for supplementing that meager breakfast. Coffee and cake. Along the way I say goodbye to a few people — Mark from Liverpool, Marie from France, and a couple of others whose names I never learned but with whom I shared brief friendships. Beyond that, the daily protocol is carried out just as it has been for the past forty-two days: walk, and walk some more.

Entering Santiago, I pass a shop selling brand-name clothes for next to nothing. I buy a pair of jeans and a polo shirt for a few tens of euros. Clean clothes for the plane.

Outside the Oficina del Peregrino I hear someone call my name. It’s a good acquaintance, also from Rotterdam. Remarkable to run into him here, so far from home.

Inside the office where the compostelas are issued, my number is skipped. I simply walk in and meet a Dutch-speaking woman behind the counter. The computer system doesn’t recognize the Levante, nor the Teresiano, nor the Torres. But in the end she manages to enter the 1,340 kilometers and Valencia on my certificate. I’m satisfied.

Then on to the “Huiskamer van de Lage Landen” (Living room of the Low Lands) for a pleasant talk with the two volunteers who welcome pilgrims there. We agree to have dinner together later that evening.

I left Valencia alone. I arrived in Santiago alone, and lo and behold — Saint James immediately provides good company.

Tomorrow I go home!

Santiago – Rotterdam

First, a proper breakfast in a good café. Then some shopping for my sweetheart. Not easy to find something nice in this Walhalla of souvenirs and trinkets. 

Forty-five minutes before the pilgrim Mass begins, the cathedral is already packed. I manage to find just one spot — on a stone stairway by the side entrance. Not comfortable, but strategically perfect: should the botafumeiro, the enormous incense burner hanging in the center of the church, start to swing, I’ll have front-row seats. There’s still time for a pleasant chat with the people around me. A woman with ‘Through Mary to Jesus’ printed on her T-shirt and her daughter gratefully use my knees as a backrest. Impressive, really, how thousands of people — believers and non-believers alike — gather here in peace every single day.

Somewhere along the way a woman had asked me to pray for her in Santiago. How can you say no to such a request? I can’t, at least. And though the Good Lord surely knows whom I mean, it feels proper to commend her by name. The problem is — I’ve forgotten it. So before the Mass begins I read through many of my notes to find it. As I do, the stories of more than forty days and thirteen hundred kilometers — full of small miracles — rise again to the surface. Inspired by the name I finally discover, and by the brief but intense burst of sunlight that illuminates the cathedral on this wet, overcast day, I ask the Lord if He might shed His light on Aurora — that is her name.

And yes, I’m on the front row again when, at the end of the service, the botafumeiro begins its enthusiastic arc through the cathedral. The white clouds of incense fill the church, and with the scent — and with my new jeans and polo shirt — I’m reassured that during the almost fourteen hundred kilometers home by bus, plane, and train, I won’t smell like a pilgrim.

In the rain I wait for the bus to the Santiago airport.

In a few hours I’ll be home. Wonderfully fast-but the story ends here.

For stories, you’re better off walking the Camino.

Carrer del Miracle: Epilogue 

“Something” — call it the Camino, the Universe, or Saint James — takes care of you, for you are walking on a Carrer del Miracle.

It’s eight in the evening. The day is nearly done. I look back in my mind, scroll through the photos I took today, and start to write. Enough has happened, and what I had already forgotten resurfaces with those images. The writing seems to come on its own. I hold myself back — there isn’t enough time to write everything down, because I need to sleep early; the next day always begins before the heat sets in, so I can reach my next bed in time.

That is more or less how all forty-three days ended on my Camino from Valencia to Santiago de Compostela. Beginning in Valencia, where my eye caught a street sign: Carrer del Miracle. Each day a new story — new roads, new towns, villages, and hamlets, new landscapes, new people, new experiences, and above all: new miracles.

How do I summarize that? By saying it’s a road of thirteen hundred kilometers where — until the Camino Torres merges with the Camino Portugués near Ponte de Lima — you rarely meet another pilgrim? In my case, only one? Or by listing all the different landscapes: groves of every kind, endless grain fields, foul-smelling industrial zones, ruins, mountains, rivers and creeks, the rolling Meseta? Or by recounting that the police helped me find lodging more than once, that I slept twice in the treatment rooms of bullfighting arenas, cleaned out two neglected albergues as an in-kind donativo, removed four ticks, and lost two towels?

I don’t know. But this I do know: on this long, quiet, unknown Camino, I encountered happiness every day — in the beauty of the land, in the warmth of the people, in the inspiration of the Universe, and in myself.

That so few pilgrims walk this beautiful, long path is a mystery to me. Truly, you don’t have to be a hero, an athlete, or a young god. It is sometimes hard, yes, but step by step you grow stronger — not only physically, but in the trust that Something — call it the Camino, the Universe, or Saint James — will take care of you. Because you are walking on a Carrer del Miracle.

Coming Home 

“A lo largo del Camino hay un mundo mágico que tú no ves, es el guardián protector que te guiará y aguardará dándote suerte. Buen Camino.”

- Santiagus

Walking along the Camino del Norte on my way to Santiago, my eye fell on the text of a small tile set into a wall. I took a photo and thought nothing more of it.

A year later, while writing about the beautiful things the Camino offers, I came across that photo again. With the help of Google Translate, the text revealed itself: “Along the Camino there is an invisible magical world with a protective guardian who will guide you and wait for you, giving you good fortune. Buen Camino. — Santiagus.”

This little Camino miracle, just sitting there along the roadside, spoke straight to my heart. A bit of tile-born wisdom about the magic of the Camino — and as far as I’m concerned, not only the Camino. I felt the urge, like Santiagus, to write about it.

But who is this Santiagus? You can’t find him online — not even in the Biblioteca Nacional de España. I put A.I. to work and it told me that Santiagus is the pen name of Santiago López Navarrete, yet the internet yields nothing on him either. I can only guess whether he once walked from albergue to albergue in sandals with a knapsack and a hand-carved staff — or whether he rode an e-bike, booked his rooms in advance, used taxis and luggage transfers. A pity I can’t find him. I would have liked to shake his hand.

But his “invisible magical world” found me, and shakes my hand now as I sit tapping away on the keyboard, writing about the Camino.

Back home, I continue my Camino — my road through life — always searching for the miraculous.

Don’t think your pilgrimage is “finished” in Santiago. You can be sure that your experiences on the Camino — your lessons, if you will — will stay with you always. You take home a contemporary version of your indulgence:

Peregrino por siempre — Pilgrim forever

PART 3 – APPENDIX

If the pilgrimage is a metaphor for life, then all we truly need is trust — trust in a good outcome, trust in our fellow travelers. From that trust, you set out. Without knowing where you’re going. Because who knows the ending of their own life?

- Wim Diepeveen 

My Camino Résumé

2021 Rotterdam – Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port 

A learning journey in long-distance walking and the secret of the white rabbit.

I first heard about the pilgrimage routes to Santiago in 1998, when a friend — armed with a pilgrim’s blessing from the local priest — walked from the Netherlands all the way to Santiago. Her stories stirred something in me, a longing to set out myself. It never happened, not until an article about the Camino shook me awake in early 2021. I told my wife Ellen about my plan to walk from Rotterdam to Santiago in three months.

“Of course you should do it. You need to reach a hundred, and walking is good for both body and mind. You’ve worked hard. Go enjoy life,” she said — so generously that I’m still grateful.

At that time, public life had come to a near standstill because of COVID. Walking was almost the only thing we were allowed to do. So we walked — Ellen and I. Walking felt like a release from COVID restrictions, and it became perfect training for the long trek I wanted to begin as soon as possible. After all, I was 74, and I had no idea how long I would still have the time and energy for a journey that, in my imagination, would be long and demanding.

As soon as the travel restrictions eased and people were allowed to move around again, I set off with eight kilos on my back: tent included, and even an ultralight little chair. I wore brand-new high hiking boots — right up until I couldn’t go on anymore somewhere in Belgium. Huge blisters under both feet forced me to stop for weeks. That year, I got no farther than Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, at the foot of the Pyrenees on the French-Spanish border. But the walk was anything but wasted. It was, quite literally, a learning path.

I learned how to care for my feet, which shoes suited me, what gear could stay home and what was indispensable. I learned that my age was no obstacle at all and that, step by step, I was building a strong condition and could walk increasingly long distances. I also learned that new shoes can cause trouble. I learned to read maps, navigate, find places to stay — and, most of all, I learned how wondrous the roads to Santiago can be.

Crossing Belgium and France on foot: what experiences, what beautiful countries, and what a magnificent way to discover them step by step. My longing for the Camino only grew stronger. The following year, I would set out again from Rotterdam toward Santiago — this time better prepared.

2022 Rotterdam–Santiago de Compostela 

An invitation to step out of ordinary life and set out on an extraordinary journey.

Of course, I could have continued walking from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, but I wanted to walk from home to Santiago in one continuous stretch — a requirement, in my mind, for a “real” pilgrimage. And so I left Rotterdam once again. On this long Camino I wanted to “walk meditatively.” I didn’t really know what that meant, only that I wasn’t doing this for sport or tourism, and that I had little interest in public transportation or architectural highlights, museums, cafés, haute cuisine, theories of landscape, or history. What I was interested in was the simple experience of walking — what it would do to me, what it might open. Naively, openly, and preferably seasoned with mind-expanding moments.

During the first four days, I took public transport back home each evening. On day five I walked with my wife Ellen from Middelburg to the ferry port in Vlissingen. On day six I crossed the Scheldt by ferry. That crossing felt like the true beginning of my Camino. Three days later, in Belgium, I was walking on a towpath along the Scheldt. The past days had already brought remarkable encounters: a count who welcomed me into his castle, a barge captain and his wife who invited me aboard their beautiful ship for multiple cups of coffee on a day when no café existed, a caterer who stopped his car one breakfast-less morning just to hand me a few delicious sandwiches.

Along that towpath — lined with thick trees every ten meters— sat a rabbit. That alone caught my attention, since I hadn’t seen a single rabbit up to that point, but especially because this one was bright white and sitting upright. It looked like a plush toy, yet it was unmistakably alive. As I approached, it dove into its burrow beneath a tree. At that moment I had a strange impulse: I had to know what this meant. Without thinking further, I pulled out my phone and searched online: ‘spiritual meaning white rabbit’.

The first sentence I read:

“The white rabbit is a sign of the possibility of spiritual awakening and an encounter with the Divine. The white rabbit symbolizes an invitation to step out of ordinary life and embark on an extraordinary journey.”

I was stunned. It felt as if the road itself spoke, giving me a sign that I wasn’t walking alone. But accompanied by whom— or by what?

As a child in my parent’s ‘black-stocking church’, I had plenty of time to think during endless services. In my mind I divided people into two categories: those who simply believed in God, and those who somehow knew God through direct contact. That seemed like a sturdier conviction. I assumed the minister must have such contact — he couldn’t possibly just claim things without hearing them from the Source, could he? Besides, such contact guaranteed him a ticket to eternal life. That struck me as highly desirable.

Those childhood thoughts laid the foundation for my lifelong interest in spiritual experience. I tried meditation countless times in hopes of touching the mysterious fabric of the Universe. Limited success — until that moment beside the Scheldt, when the impulse came to look up the meaning of the white rabbit. The answer was astonishing. It felt like a sign that I wasn’t walking alone — that Something was walking with me. Since then the white rabbit has become, for me, the symbol of — let’s say — the universe, and of the magic of the Camino in particular. Seeking the miraculous became the essence of my pilgrimages. Walking the Camino became a kind of meditative retreat.

My original plan was to switch to the Camino del Norte after reaching Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. But due to a booking mistake I ended up on the Camino Francés instead. In hindsight, all for the best. These days I would encourage anyone walking to Santiago for the first time to take the Camino Francés — the classic route, a true rite of passage carried by centuries of pilgrims.

When I arrived in Santiago, I posted on Facebook that my pilgrimage was complete. Someone immediately replied:

“From now on, you are and remain a pilgrim.”

2023 Camino Portugués, Camino Fisterra, Vía de la Plata, Camino del Norte-Camino Primitivo 

Pilgrims agree in advance to accept whatever happens to them. Whatever happens is good. My bed is good. The welcome is fine. The night’s sleep too. And then the pilgrim moves on. Because that’s what it’s about. Walking. Moving on.

- Hape Kerkeling

Ellen had gathered from my stories that life on the Camino is good, and so we decided to walk the Camino Portugués together in the spring. We mostly stayed in B&Bs and small hotels. After reaching Santiago we continued on to Fisterra and Muxía. It became a wonderful journey — and for me a completely new way of experiencing the Camino. Walking together brings its own unique qualities, I discovered, different from walking solo.

Immediately afterward I took the train to Seville to “quickly” do the Plata. Originally I had planned to walk the Norte. In summer, the north of Spain is usually cooler than the interior. But then the weather shifted — from extreme heat to pleasant temperatures across the whole country — which suddenly made it safe enough to walk straight through the middle of Spain in midsummer. In Granja de Moreruela I switched from the Vía de la Plata to the quieter Camino Sanabrés, which continues toward Santiago. A thousand kilometers of nature, cities, villages — Spain in its purest form.

An unforgettable walk. And still, I hadn’t walked the Norte. So in September 2023 I left for Bayonne to finally start the Camino del Norte: a quiet, scenic route with a lively tourist atmosphere along beaches, coves, and beautiful towns. Halfway through I shifted to the Camino Primitivo, which — with its silence and space — better fits what a pilgrim needs, or at least that’s what I believe. As we approached Santiago, a small group of caminofriends formed, sharing our last evenings eating, drinking, talking, and laughing together. Unforgettable.

2024 Camino Portugués, Camino Fisterra, Camino de Levante – Camino Teresiano – Camino Torres, Camino Francés

 The Camino provides

Ellen wanted very much to walk the Camino Portugués together once again. Just like the year before, we continued on to Muxía. Almost 400 kilometers — beautiful and meaningful, but not enough for me. So in early June, right after we returned home, I left again — this time for Valencia, the starting point of the Camino de Levante. Once more the weather cooperated: not too hot, which made it possible to responsibly walk this long mid-summer route straight across Spain and Portugal toward Santiago.

In Ávila I left the Camino de Levante to follow the magnificent, quiet Camino Teresiano, which ends near Salamanca in Alba de Tormes.

From Salamanca I continued on the Camino Torres. On the first 1,250 of the 1,400 kilometers I met exactly one other walker — except in Salamanca, where the route intersects the Vía de la Plata. The silence gave me all the space I needed to reflect on what pilgrimage truly means to me.

After Ponte de Lima, the Torres merges with the Camino Portugués Central. There, at last, I saw other walkers heading toward Santiago again and had the kind of encounters with fellow pilgrims that are so characteristic of the Camino. When I returned home, I assured my wife that this would certainly be enough for the year.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. Within two months I was on the road again — this time for a very particular reason.

Along the way, and on various Facebook pages, I saw how many people cling to supposed certainties out of insecurity: walking only in groups, reserving every overnight stay, relying on e-bikes, luggage transport, organized tours, and so on. In my view, none of that makes it easier to experience the magic of the Camino. As a counterweight, I decided to write a book about that very magic — born from the conviction that the road provides, that trust is all you need, and therefore that you do not have to plan every detail in advance. To give that idea real weight, I didn’t want to write a theoretical essay. I wanted a lived experience. So I chose to walk the eight hundred kilometers of the busiest Camino in the second-busiest month of the year — the Camino Francés in September — without a single reservation. I left it entirely to the Universe where I would sleep each night.

How that turned out, you’ve read in this book. 

2025 Camino Portugués, Ruta de la Lana – Camino Francés

This year began with what has by now become a tradition: doing the Camino Portugués together with Ellen. And, following that same tradition, it was entirely organized by her — meaning all accommodations were reserved in advance, avoiding dormitories and bunk beds. The only difference this time was that we did not continue on to Muxía. There was plenty of rain and windstorms, but despite that, it felt like a truly pleasant walk. At the end, Ellen even announced that she would like to walk this Camino again in 2026.

Immediately afterward, I took the train to Alicante to begin a solo journey along the Ruta de la Lana toward Burgos. From there, I joined the Camino Francés. The Ruta de la Lana is generally a beautiful, quiet, and adventurous route, at times passing through unspoiled natural landscapes. The temperatures were not too high — an absolute requirement for this route. It feels more like a long-distance hiking trail and is less suitable for inexperienced walkers, especially in midsummer, when it can become dangerously hot in central Spain. There are quite a few pilgrim accommodations, though certainly not everywhere.

Information and the Web

If you search the internet long enough, you’ll automatically come across countless useful apps and Facebook pages filled with practical information about routes, lodging, and everything else a pilgrim might need. In several countries there are Camino associations. In the Netherlands it’s the 'Genootschap van Sint Jacob'. Once you’ve read their website from front to back, you’ll already be very well informed. The same goes for the website of the Flemish Compostela Association. Still, there are a few suggestions I don’t want to keep from you.

□ caminoweather.com, a site that gives average weather patterns for (parts of) your Camino. Useful if you want to know whether to bring warm clothing — but don’t expect any guarantees of ideal walking weather.

□ AlertCops, a Spanish app you can use if something unpleasant happens.

□ Rome2rio.com, which provides extensive information about public transportation. Use it — but relying too eagerly on public transport, taxis included, tends to boost convenience more than it fosters an authentic pilgrim experience.

Make sure you have a reliable weather app on your phone that can warn you about storms or dangerous conditions.

You’ll easily find other helpful websites on the internet. I’ll leave further exploration to you: I wouldn’t want to deprive you of that pleasure.

Guidebooks and route booklets can be informative, but they add extra weight to your backpack and are vulnerable on a rainy day. In addition, the information becomes outdated quickly. I don’t take them with me. Everything I need is on my phone.

Pack Weight

Backpack                                                    grams
Backpack                                                        810
Shell on the backpack                                   65
Clothing
Underwear                                                        55
2 pairs of (toe) socks                                       70
Shorts                                                               165
Fleece jacket                                                   210
Long-sleeve shirt                                           120                             
Light padded jacket                                     330
Flip-flops                                                         260
Washing
Small towel                                                     100
Toiletries                                                          210
Rain gear
Poncho                                                            390
Gaiters                                                              100
Electronics
Charger, etc.                                                    120
Sleeping
Sleeping bag + liner                                      825
Food and drink
Spork                                                                   10
Water bottle                                                      50
Miscellaneous   
Sit pad                                                                45
Neck pouch                                                       65
Extras                                                                500
Poles 
2 poles, usually not in the pack                   325 
  

Total 5 kg. max. 

In the cold season, add a maximum of 600 grams for extra clothing.

If you bring a tent and sleeping pad, add another 1,400 grams.

All in all — including tent, accessories, extra clothing, and a warmer sleeping bag for colder conditions — never more than 8 kilograms.

Ignore the “10% rule.” Go for the lowest weight possible.

Donativo 

Many hostels along the Camino are funded by voluntary contributions — donativos — from their guests. The principle is simple: you pay today for a pilgrim who will arrive tomorrow and may have fewer means.

In keeping with this generous donativo tradition, this book is offered digitally, free of charge, without profit or any (hidden) commercial intent.

If you would like to make a contribution, there are several ways to offer a “donativo in kind”:

1. Share a link to this book with as many people as possible — friends, family, and especially anyone who is planning to walk a Camino or has already done so, and…

2. Send me a short message with your personal impression of the book. Let me know whether you’d like to be informed about new chapters or future updates. Suggestions and corrections are also very welcome.

Books 

Quotes and citations in this book can be found in the works listed below:

• Jeroen Gooskens, Ver onderweg. Valkhof Pers, 1998.

• Steven Graham, Het geluk van de wandelaar. Uitgeverij Oevers, 2022.
Original title: The Gentle Art of Tramping.

• Neale Donald Walsch, Een ongewoon gesprek met God. Kosmos Uitgevers, 1997.
Original title: Conversations with God: An Uncommon Dialogue.

• Hape Kerkeling, Ik ben er even niet. Uitgeverij Ten Have, 2007.
Original title: Ich bin dann mal weg.

• Marsilio Ficino, Brieven, Boek III. Rozekruis Pers, 1996.

• De Gids voor de pelgrim. Nederlands Genootschap van Sint Jacob, 2021.

• Wim Diepeveen, Altijd vandaag. Lopen naar het einde van de wereld. Uitgeverij Palmslag, 2021.

• Teresa of Ávila, Book of the Foundations (Libro de las Fundaciones).

Author’s Note

This book is based on the author’s personal impressions, views, and experiences.

You are welcome — encouraged, even — to let these stories inspire you, but of course, you remain fully responsible for the choices you make. This applies to every aspect of your pilgrimage: what you pack, whether you walk alone or with others, whether you join an organized group, whether or not you reserve your accommodations, and so on.

If you are unsure whether you are physically or mentally able to undertake a long-distance walk, consult a (sports) physician before setting out. 

Acknowledgements

First of all, Ellen — thank you for your generosity and love, for giving me the freedom to walk the Camino for months at a time, for encouraging me to continue my spiritual journeys along the Way, and for patiently reading all my manuscripts.

White Rabbit, thank you for waiting for me on April 5, 2022 at 18:30 near Esquelmes in Belgium, along the Scheldt, to bring me into direct contact with that “SOMETHING” — call it what you will: the Source of All, the Universe, or whatever name you prefer.

Thank you, SOMETHING.

Angela, your professional editing has freed this book from countless errors. I cannot thank you enough.

AnneMarleen, thank you for the wonderful portrait of me with the white rabbit. It makes me genuinely happy.

Neeltje, years ago your stories about the Camino set me on the path to Santiago. I am still grateful.

My thanks to Frans, Maarten, Ben, Netta, and Diaaeddin. Your dedication in reading the manuscript and offering valuable comments has enriched this book immeasurably.

Dennis, you are more than deserving of a White Rabbit Award for the time and care you invested in the English translation.

My thanks to all my readers. You are essential in keeping the ancient values of the Camino alive — simply by taking the time to read this book.

And lastly, heartfelt thanks to all pilgrims, hospitaleras, and hospitaleros with whom I shared dear encounters, each of whom strengthened the spiritual pull of the Camino for me.

Contact

Did you enjoy reading my stories? Do you have an idea that might make this book even better? Are you curious about my other walks — or is there something else you’d like to share? I’d love to hear from you. Please use the contact form on the website.