An Ode to my Blisters: What I Learned on the Camino de Santiago
A fellow pilgrim once told me, "the first thing you learn on the Camino is that your feet hurt, and that pain grounds you to the present moment. The second is that you can overcome that pain, and the third is that you can help others overcome it too." At the time, all I could feel were the blisters forming at my ankles, the bruises from where my backpack pulled on my shoulders, and the record-breaking heat that choked my every breath.
"Well, my feet definitely hurt," I answered, giving a weak smile and changing the subject, eager to distract myself from the pain. Little did I know that feeling that pain, really feeling it, was an experience that would completely change my life as I trekked 500 miles across the beautiful north of Spain.
Glossary:
Camino Francés (the French Way) - Of the many routes to Santiago, this is probably the most famous. Many people think of it as the "standard" way, and it's the one I chose to take for a few reasons. One, it's one of the longest, and who knows if I'll ever have this kind of vacation time again. Two, it's the most popular and attracts people from all over the world, making it a unique social experience.
Pilgrimage - In its origin, the Camino was a religious journey for Catholics en route to visit the alleged tomb of the apostle St. James. (I say alleged because the story is genuinely hilarious, something about a dragon and mysterious bones in the woods.) While the walk is still a religious experience for some, people like myself also undertake the journey for touristic, personal, or spiritual reasons.
Pilgrim - Any person walking the Camino. Recognizable by their large backpack and general lack of hygiene. Can be found walking, sleeping in public spaces, or eating a bocadillo.
Bocadillo - Dry, Spanish sandwich with meat and cheese and...that's it.
Albergue - Hostels for pilgrims, usually run about €8-15 for a bunk bed in a group room. Municipal albergues are the cheapest and largest ones, run by the local government. Privately-owned albergues are slightly more expensive but sometimes include an option for a homemade dinner. My favorite option is a donativo, or parish-owned albergue, where you can give whatever money you are able to. These smaller accommodations offer a more intimate vibe and are a very unique and special part of the Camino experience.
Kayla - My walking partner who joined me for this very special adventure. We met in Nicaragua in 2021 and have been long-distance friends ever since. She is the other blond in every picture, the delusional goofball on the bottom bunk, and the most loving friend you could ask for. The one who challenges me on hard days and makes everything more fun on the good ones. She is the kind of irreplaceable friend who touches your soul and will be by your side for every adventure.
Stage 1: Basque Country
Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port - Logroño
101 miles
8 days
I started my Camino in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, in the Basque part of France. This is a common starting point for pilgrims wanting to do "the whole thing", although many people choose to start after or even before. The energy of the town is electric as everyone is eager to start the same journey and meet their fellow travelers. We loaded up on last minute gear, grabbed a gâteau basque (traditional cream-filled cake), and enjoyed our first group dinner at a lovely, family-run albergue. This was my first experience with the "kumbaya" aspect of the Camino, and while these sorts of bonding activities and bohemian vibes became common over the following weeks, it was almost a culture shock at the beginning. When the albergue sent me the group photo a few weeks later, I laughed out loud because 1) I looked so clean and 2) I looked so uncomfortable! I barely recognized myself!
We crossed the Pyrenees Mountains into Spain, accidentally taking the wrong route and then taking it upon ourselves to reroute via somebody's farm in the middle of nowhere. (The elderly French woman who lived there graciously refilled our water bottles, the first of many Camino angels.) Crossing the Pyrenees is already considered the most strenuous part of the Camino, and it didn't help that we added 6 additional miles (22 total), barely reaching Roncesvalles before sunset. However, it showed me from the beginning the true extent of my physical and mental capabilities. Despite the beginning stages of aches and pains and the very real fear of getting lost in the mountains, I knew I wanted to appreciate every moment of that admittedly stressful day, a day I will never get to live again. While I started the Camino without intention or expectation, I found a goal on that first day, to really enjoy the present moments, even when they sucked. And even though the experience as a whole was incredible, there were moments that genuinely just sucked.
One such moment was the heat wave, which started around Day 4 as we reached Pamplona, so we took a day off to rest and replace Kayla's shoes. (She ended up switching to socks and Tevas, which sounds crazy but they really worked!) By this point our lack of physical preparation was beginning to catch up with us, and Pamplona is a great spot to spend a day. It has a great atmosphere, a perfect mix of pilgrims and locals, amazing food, and iconic spots like the Plaza del Toros, where famous Running of the Bulls culminates. I can't imagine what the following week would have looked like if we hadn't listened to our bodies and given ourselves time to rest and just be tourists for 24 hours.
The next four days from pueblo to pueblo started to become easier as we struck a routine. Wake up early, walk under the stars. Stop for coffee, walk. Picnic lunch, walk in the heat. Find an albergue and a swimming pool. Rinse and repeat. We passed through iconic spots like Alto de Perdón and the Irache Wine Fountain. Meanwhile, the heat wave gradually increased and forced us to bond with our fellow pilgrims. Misery truly does love company! Said company included: an 11-year-old with a lemonade stand, a 78-year-old local in better shape than me (who adjusted my backpack so it didn't hurt anymore!), and a few friends I met taking the "scenic route". (Only on the Camino could you join a complete stranger in the woods without fear and come out with a new friend!)
On Day 8, we crossed from Basque Country to La Rioja, Spain's wine region, and celebrated the achievement of our first stage with a well-deserved lunch and ice cream with new friends.
Stage 2: La Rioja & Castilla y León
Logroño - Burgos
77 miles
6 days
We left Logroño under the stars, only getting lost in the dark a few times before getting on the right track. (Fun fact: navigating the Camino isn't actually difficult in rural areas; it's very well-marked. The hardest part is getting out of the cities!) When we arrived in Nájera, I was immediately taken with the red cliffs surrounding the town. It felt like we had walked right out of Spain and into Arizona. This beautiful scenery (and a few glasses of wine) prompted us toward the spontaneous decision to take our next (and final) rest day, which we spent snacking in various scenic areas and breaking a few rules.
They say the Camino is like a small town that moves. The same people tend to move similar distances, so you end up seeing the same people everywhere you go. When I walked down the main street in Nájera, I knew nearly every person there and as anyone from a small town knows, that can be either very comforting or very suffocating. With that in mind, we started stopping in towns like Grañón, Tosantos, and Atapuerca, smaller villages that were still on route but not considered "standard" stopping points. This allowed us to stay in less crowded, more intimate albergues and get away from the crowd of pilgrims. It gave us a bit of a head start in the mornings and made the trail considerably less crowded. In Grañón, we stayed at my favorite albergue of the entire trip, donativo church attic with mats on the floor and a lovely group of volunteers who insisted that 2 weeks volunteering in this sleepy town were "better than the Carribean". We helped prepare a group dinner and participated in a special candlelit ceremony. It was very hippy-dippy, but at this point I had fully drunk the Kool-Aid.
In Tosantos, we stayed at its sister albergue, with less than a dozen guests total, none of whom spoke a common language. Kayla and I could speak Spanish with the volunteers, but all other communication became a particularly entertaining game of charades. That didn't stop anyone from breaking out the guitar and belting out their favorite songs as we cut vegetables for our dinner. Here, a volunteer, Don Julio, said something that really stuck with me. He was a retired gentleman that lived and breathed for the Camino. He sat at the head of the table like a king holding court and regaled us with the history of the Camino and his many thoughts on the best way to go about walking it. His strongest opinion was that the Camino should be walked in silence. "You should be walking every day alone," he insisted. "The Camino is not for speaking. It is for listening," he said. Till that moment, I had never really walked in silence. I was always with Kayla or meeting new pilgrims. Even when I walked alone, I usually listened to music. Was I missing out on some aspect of the experience by not letting my mind be still?
The next day, we were walking through a particularly gorgeous area, 7 miles of green forests and wildflowers everywhere without a town in sight. I didn't see another soul for hours, which gave me the space I needed to really try out the whole "silence" thing. At first, I became surprisingly frustrated with my inability to quiet my mind. The harder I tried to empty it, the fuller it felt. I wonder how far ahead my friends are? Did I remember to give Kayla her share of the snacks? Which town should we stop in tonight? How many miles till the next town? But as I walked through the pure tranquility of the woods, I felt a peace come over me unlike anything I have ever experienced before. When I try to describe it, any explanation seems to either fall flat or sound completely ridiculous. I can't explain it, but the Camino gave me a gift that day, a faith in the universe and a calming sense of peace.
The walk into the major cities are always rather ugly compared to the more rural environments. Everything turns very industrial, especially as we entered Burgos. But once we arrived, we were rewarded with a traditional roast suckling pig and an exciting change of pace. After a few days of solitude and remote villages, being in a proper city was a welcome switch, complete with a UNESCO site cathedral, fantastic bars and restaurants, and most importantly, access to basic things like a laundry machine and Compeed.
Burgos also posed an opportunity to reunite with many of the pilgrims we had met and lost track of along the way. Again, the Camino feels like the smallest of small towns. We seemed to run into people we knew everywhere we went, but now the feeling of stifling familiarity was replaced by the comforting sensation of coming home, of reuniting with what can only be described as a family. The social aspect of the Camino had definitely drawn me to the French route, but I had lowered any expectations to avoid disappointment. But there was no need. In Burgos, I saw how widely my network had expanded and how special those seemingly fleeting moments on the Camino had become. In the simplest of terms, it was loads of fun, but in a deeper way, I could see clearly how each of us had touched one another, the impact those small moments could have, and how important the strangers around me had become. Don Julio had been right about a lot of things: the Camino is certainly meant for listening. But sometimes, what you need to listen to is the person right in front of you.
Stage 3: The (dreaded) Meseta
Burgos - León
136 miles
7 days
If Burgos was the greatest party of all time, then the next 7 days were a pesky hangover. I say this with the utmost love for the Meseta, a "plateau" smack dab in the middle of the Camino. People tend to either love or hate this particular section, but I believe that like all things, it contained nearly equal parts of good and bad. The bad being the sharp drop in temperature and sudden downpours of rain. I didn't even mind walking through the nasty weather, but it meant that our clothes (which we hand-washed and hung up every day), never dried properly. We had to tie our belongings to the outside of our backpacks, a very classy and very common look among pilgrims.)
If Nájera was Arizona, then the Meseta was Indiana, flatness and fields as far as the eye could see. While this terrain certainly wasn't physically strenuous, many find it the most mentally challenging section of the Camino Francés due to the monotonous landscape and sparseness of towns and company. You're certainly forced to spend more time alone with your own thoughts, a nightmare or a dream depending on your attitude.
What I enjoyed most about the Meseta was, in fact, the solitude. Allowing all the thoughts you've pushed to the back to finally rise to the surface is an incredibly vulnerable experience. In real life, we so rarely have the space to really dig into that vulnerability. We don't prioritize our time and energy towards inner thought, at least I don't. But in the Meseta, the space, time, and solitude are all there whether you want them or not. So you might as well take advantage of them and enjoy every minute of the rainy, colorless road.
I'd be remiss to leave out some of the Meseta's highlights, which included a stop in San Nicolás de Puente Fitero, a donation-run albergue managed by a group of Italian volunteers. It wasn't a town but rather an old monastery, where we traded the comforts of electricity and civilization for a homemade dinner (pasta cooked by Italian grandmothers), a foot-washing ceremony (per Catholic tradition), and a clear night staring at the stars. We later passed through the halfway point in Sahagún and stayed at a very solitary albergue in Calzada del Coto instead. When the only volunteer there learned I was from Kentucky, he proceeded to serenade Kayla and I with a few John Prine songs while we contentedly listened and ate chocolate. From Calazada del Coto, there are two route options: the standard route and the Roman Road. If there's one thing that's for sure about Kayla and I, we love a scenic route, especially if it means even fewer crowds and the space to obnoxiously sing and scream at the top of our lungs. Even though the rocky historical path sort of feels like "the devil's foot massage", we had an absolute blast just the two of us before rejoining the masses in the city of León.
Stage 4: The Cantabrian Mountains
León - Las Herrerías
87 miles
7 days
After another ugly urban walk into León, we enjoyed another group reunion with all the folks that had scattered like dust in the Meseta. While we loved the remoteness of the Roman Road, we were ready and excited to see our friends again. The comradery on the Camino is simple, built upon the common journey we all found ourselves on. I was shown and tried to show the utmost compassion and love to the people around me, especially knowing the physical and emotional journey that many people had gone through during the days prior. In León, we gave ourselves some space to rest, properly dry our clothes, and a taste of civilization.
As we left León, I could already see the dullness of the Meseta fade into green, rolling hills that would soon morph into mountains. It's an unpopular opinion, but I believe this stage has the most gorgeous scenery, even topping the Pyrenees. Coming out of the Meseta, we were gifted with a week of nearly perfect weather and breathtaking views as we passed through towns like Astorga, Foncebadón, Las Herrerías, and Fonfría. There were tons of crunchy, granola-esque albergues in these areas, which combined with the landscape created a lovely setting for many cheese & chorizo picnics and other fun memories.
There were so many special moments in this section, in what was ultimately the beginning of the end. Now that we had adjusted to the physical challenges, the days became almost easy and we pushed ourselves to further distances just so we could continue walking. When I think back to this stage, I just think of the fun. It was perhaps the purest, most wholesome fun I've ever had in my life. We watched an incredible lightning storm at an albergue that may well have been a commune. We threw our feet up on the walls while a fellow pilgrim strummed the ukulele. We at the best burgers of our lives and pranked our hospitalero's neighbor in exchange for free gear. We laid out raincoats in a field to stare at the stars and danced in a circle in the middle of the street (admittedly not for the first time).
As the stage came to a close, we left small rocks at the foot of the Cruz de Ferro, leaving both physically and mentally lighter. The rocks are meant to symbolize the pilgrim's immense efforts thus far. I found my stone back in Basque Country while hiking and had carried it on me all summer before starting the Camino, where it found a home in the snack pocket of my backpack. We passed by the cross at sunrise and took a moment to reflect on what exactly we hoped to leave behind. The traditional prayer goes something like this:
"Lord, may this stone, a symbol of my efforts on the pilgrimage that I lay at the foot of the cross, weigh the balance in favour of my good deeds some day when the deeds of my life are judged. Let it be so."
Let it be so.
Stage 5: Galicia
Las Herrerías - Santiago de Compostela
99 miles
7 days
Galicia is a particularly beautiful part of Spain, similar to Ireland in its green stretches of farmland and Celtic roots. Passing into the final stage was a bittersweet moment, exacerbated by the complete culture shock that occurred as soon as we hit Sarria. This town is another popular starting point for many people just wanting to walk the last 100 km, the minimum distance required to earn a Compostela, the Camino certificate of completion.
The huge influx of "Sarria starters" was positively overwhelming. The newbies stopped every 50 feet to put a layer on. Or take a layer off. Or tighten their shoes. Or loosen their shoes. Or apply more bandaids. Or ask if we spoke English. Or if we spoke Spanish. Or if we had Compeed. Of course, the answer to all 3 was yes, which turned us into involuntary Camino angels. I'll admit that frustration and irritation took hold of me at first. It felt like the warmth of my Camino bubble had been popped and infiltrated by strangers who didn't understand what the Camino really meant and were just in it for a few parties and a piece of paper at the end. Gone were the vegetarian communes and hours of silence in the boonies, replaced instead by nearly constant humming of idle chatter from people that didn't feel like "my people".
Could I be any more pretentious?
I give myself grace in that the rapid switch in energy was quite jarring, but after giving myself a few hours to grumble over it, I knew that I was the one who needed to change my attitude. These people had just as much of a right to be here as me; for some, arguably more so. I had had more than my fair share of fun days and beautiful walks. I'd had so many Camino angels cross my path; people who had helped me physically, mentally, and spiritually reach the destination where we would soon find ourselves. I'd been constantly and undeservingly blessed with slew of kind strangers who had given me water when I was thirsty, food when I was hungry, band-aids when I was bleeding, and love always. And if there is one thing I hold to be true, it is that good fortune is useless if not used to give back. So I tried my hardest to give back and be the generous and comforting presence that others had so graciously been for me. I came across a prayer in Galicia that reflects this sentiment better than my words could ever hope to. While in the picturesque mountain town of O Cebrero, the local church's groundskeeper saw my camera and insistently directed me toward the back corner beside the altar. "There's a prayer there," he explained in Spanish. Take a picture so you can show your friends back home." Here it is, per his humble request:
The crowds spread out over the last few days, which passed calmly and enjoyably. I remember lots of good food and girl talk, gorgeous walks through misty forests, and a particularly bizarre night where we were the only guests at an albergue in the middle of nowhere.
Santiago de Compostela
On Day 35, we reached the city of Santiago. It was an overcast but lovely morning, the perfect last walk. Kayla and I walked separately for a bit, then reunited by singing and dancing in an abandoned parking lot. I'm sure that caused annoyance to some, but others grinned widely at our joy and we were even recognized later as "the dancing girls". (I'll take it. I've been called worse.) We walked together a few miles from the parking lot to the Cathedral, finishing the journey together, just as we started it.
Words can't describe the bittersweet feeling I had upon arriving in the plaza outside the Cathedral. There was a sense of accomplishment on the Camino. Every day I progressed just a little bit further. I could see it on the map and I could feel it in the fading aches and pains, the strengthening of my muscles. And Santiago is the ultimate accomplishment, the finish line. Hundreds of pilgrims are propped up on backpacks outside, staring up at the Gothic-style finish line. Old friends are reunited, congratulatory embraces are exchanged, and the joy and relief is palpable (so is the undercurrent of panic as we all silently wondered, what now?)
We spent a few days celebrating and relaxing in Santiago, enjoying the remaining days of our vacation before returning to the real world. We collected our Compostelas, went to a pilgrim Mass at the Cathedral, got a new tattoo, ate ridiculously good food and said goodbye to some very special people. Leaving Santiago and all those people and memories behind was a pain even worse than blisters. It would be easy (and predictable of me) to cover up that pain however possible, usually through a long to-do list. But the Camino had taught me how to feel pain and how to overcome it, and these lessons would be meaningless if I left them on the Camino and returned the the "real world" the same person I had been beforehand. So instead I felt it, felt the bitter sadness that was saying goodbye to Kayla, who had never been more than a few meters away for over a month. I felt the anxiety of moving to a new city, starting a new job, making new friends. I definitely felt the gut punch of financial reality, having slacked off work for 5 weeks. All that pain meant that I had had something special along the way, and I let myself feel gratitude as well. I let myself feel all of it, then felt the strength and fearlessness that only comes with faith in the universe and a really, really long walk.
Nowadays, I sleep in a room of my own, absent of snoring or phone flashlights. My longest walk of the day is often to and from the bus stop. I've relocated to Asturias, Spain's natural paradise, to continue teaching English at a new school with primary and secondary students. I look forward to sharing these ongoing adventures with you soon, but for now I thank you for indulging my reminiscing and nostalgia of what was truly the best 5 weeks of my life.
Cheers to great summer and wishing all who read an even better autumn!
With love,
Julia
Beautifully written and very representative of what the Camino is.
What a beautiful and incredible story! Looks like you had the time of your life. So happy for you!