The plans were beautiful. Almost epic. Until I stepped onto Spanish soil.
The moment I landed in Spain, the weather officially took over as the main organizer of our Camino. All carefully written plans folded into themselves like a cheap sun lounger and went on forced vacation. Rain, wind, and temperatures had their own agenda—and we were clearly just extras in this production.
If the Camino has taught me anything by now, it's that plans on the Camino don't change slowly and diplomatically. No. They change immediately. Dramatically. Without explanation. One foot still at the airport, the other already in reality: "Forget everything you thought you were going to walk."
But no worries.
If Plan A doesn't work—Camino de la Plata—we simply move on to Plan B: Camino Augusta, starting in the city of Cádiz.
The difference?
Just 300 kilometers and about 6 degrees warmer.
Which, in Camino language, means less suffering, more enjoyment, and significantly fewer conversations with your frozen fingers.
So after the first completed stage, we made a fully democratic decision (meaning: fast and with very little resistance) to drive toward Cádiz the next day, where the weather is kinder—to walkers and cyclists alike. Because let's be honest, life is too short to freeze if you don't absolutely have to.
The first stage started in Cáceres and ended in Aldea del Cano.
The day before, when we arrived in Cáceres, we made a plan for the next day—the kind of plan that works perfectly… until you wake up and check the weather forecast.
My parents had 74 km of cycling planned (round trip) to Alcuéscar, while I had a modest 37 km on foot, because apparently I still haven't fully recovered from the summer Camino. And in between—priorities are priorities—lunch.
And what a lunch.
We had prawns in buzara sauce, so good the plate was begging to be wiped clean with bread. Literally. My taste buds threw a party, with excitement levels comparable to a village festival. Healthy, fresh, delicious—and then, of course, bread stepped in to make sure we wouldn't accidentally die from eating too healthily.
After lunch, we went to explore the city. Cáceres completely charmed us.
Cáceres is a city where every stone has more stories than an average family Christmas lunch. The old town is so perfectly preserved that you half expect a knight to walk past at any moment—sword in hand, medieval ego fully activated. No wonder it's a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Even the walls here don't dare fall apart without permission.
The history of Cáceres is like a good Spanish soap opera: Romans, Moors, noble families fighting over who had the tallest tower and the thickest walls. Every house wanted to be more important than the next, which is why the city today has more towers than your average fairytale castle. The architecture is powerful, stone-heavy, and slightly intimidating—like it's quietly saying: "Don't touch me, I'm 500 years old."
Walking through the city feels like strolling across a film set. It's no coincidence that Game of Thrones was filmed here—Cáceres has a special talent for looking dramatic even when you're just going out to buy bread. Narrow streets, tall façades, shadowy passages, and a silence so deep you can hear your own thoughts (which is sometimes mildly uncomfortable).
When it comes to tourism, Cáceres is not a city for rushing. It's a city for slow walking, constant 360-degree head-turning, and the occasional collision with a wall because you're looking up instead of ahead. No flashy shop windows, no screaming tourist traps—just history, stone, and that feeling that you're a little too small for all this greatness.
And then there's the food.
Extremadura doesn't overcomplicate things. People eat the same way they have for centuries: meat, cheese, cured ham—and then some more meat, just in case. Jamón ibérico is practically a religion here, and Torta del Casar is the kind of cheese that makes you forget all dietary promises. This isn't cheese. It's a creamy temptation that demands bread, wine, and complete surrender.
While walking through the city, we were caught by the rain and headed back to the camper, because my father is apparently made of sugar—which, as it turns out, is not ideal in the rain. I ended up in bed at the exact time Spaniards usually start getting dressed to go out. I dedicated two full hours to Netflix (because recovery is important), and then I fell asleep.
During the night, the rain was so heavy it woke me up twice. But in the morning—surprise—the sun was shining. We got up at 9:00 a.m. Poetry.
My father immediately started protesting that he had no intention of cycling in this cold, so my mom joined me for the walk. We crossed the city once again as it slowly woke up. The path led us through fields that were extremely muddy, forcing us to watch every step. Since we didn't feel like arriving at our destination looking like pigs fresh from a mud bath, we decided to return to the very familiar N-630 road.
The path was flat and bathed in sunlight. It felt good to be back on this trail. About three quarters of it came back to me, even though I had previously walked much of it in the dark. I remembered everything. After 24 km, we had to stop, as rain was once again approaching.
Since my father hadn't exercised, the house rule applied: whoever rests cooks lunch, makes coffee, and washes the dishes. I must admit—he cooked the rice perfectly. Watching him in the role of a housekeeper was… interesting. Definitely not something I'm used to.
