The night before, Andrea and I met a young French guy at our accommodation. He was 26, had quit his job, packed his backpack, and set off on the Camino. He started somewhere in France, but don’t ask me where—I forgot the second he told me. What I do remember is that he had been walking for 49 days and that he wasn’t slow, especially with legs as long as a Monday. We had a lovely evening with delicious ham, olives, and cold beer. Spaniards don’t mind if you have your speaker on the table playing retro music or Solomun. Just to be clear, I always ask if it’s okay first—and I make such a good impression that they can’t say no. A land of music. Damn, I love these Spaniards, but at the same time, they drive me crazy with their slowness and lack of organisation. A snail is faster than them. We watched the sun bid us farewell—a kind sun that caresses your skin and lulls you to sleep. In the morning and evening, it’s a wonderful companion, but in the middle of the day, you just want to fight it. You’d lose, of course, because it’s stronger. That’s what makes the morning and evening moments even more special.
Anyway, the evening went beautifully wrong. In the morning, we felt Olympic and started walking together. But the weather screwed us immediately—headwinds and sidewinds. We were at 900 meters above sea level, where the weather behaves differently. And we had to climb to 1,400 meters. Walking was tough, but I didn’t care—I was back in the mountains, no more walking through towns along the main road, which can kill your soul. When I walked through towns, I started missing the empty paths through the fields. But that day, we were back in the hills, surrounded by breathtaking nature. As we started descending, I remembered that this was the stage that destroyed my other leg in 2016—or rather, I destroyed it myself. The descent is 10 km long. The path was full of rocks, and my feet were sore—every step felt like stepping on a LEGO brick. My feet were swollen, which meant poor circulation, and every bit of pressure was unbearable. So, I opted for the paved road—no unwanted foot massage. I remember eating the last pain relief gel I got from the hospital, letting it do its job, and flying down the hill. A great feeling, since I had been slow for the past 300 km due to torn Achilles tendon ligaments.
The paved road, however, also meant cars, motorcycles, and cyclists—because this road was made for playing with speed, weaving through stunning curves and landscapes. It would be a sin to hold back here. I was on foot, yet the road felt like a speed-induced fever dream. ALL IN!—which also meant real danger for a walker, as the road wasn’t exactly wide. A real gamble with life. But with my quick reflexes, I wasn’t afraid of cars. The day before, I had saved Andrea from an accident—a sudden gust of wind knocked over a sun umbrella in a bar where we were sitting, and I caught it mid-air with my right hand before it crashed down on him. My dominant hand is my left. So, yeah, confidence on autopilot. My mom would have a heart attack, but lucky for me, she doesn’t have Facebook.
My legs were ready for anything this year, so I decided to do the same stunt again. Look, some mistakes are just too good not to repeat. Especially because I came here to enjoy myself, not to carefully watch my steps—I came to open all my vents and let nature reset my system. A controlled breakdown in the best way possible. When I launched myself down the hill, I raised my arms high in the air and started dancing—hips included. Normal people will never understand. And they don’t need to. I don’t understand everything either, and frankly, I don’t want to. It was the most beautiful 10-kilometer descent. Pure happiness, zen, and surreal beauty.
On the way, I remembered my first car, which I “inherited” from my mom. How amazing it would be to throw it into all these gears and hear that “YELLING!” sound. I had a Suzuki Swift 1.3 GTI. It would glide through these curves in third gear. Pure happiness. I also thought of my dad, who used to race rallies—how amazing it would be to be his co-driver here. A legend—at 70 years old, he still drives like a pro at high speed. I trust him so much that I can fall asleep while he’s driving. But when it comes to speed, sleep is out of the question. Last year, he picked me up from the Venice airport in my cousin’s Tesla. “Dad, unleash the beast!” 260 km/h on the highway, the acceleration—pure poetry. I laughed the entire ride. The only thing I missed was the sound and smell. So, Nejc Slatner, I’m looking at you—I still haven’t bought my FlixBus ticket from Venice.
Anyway, because I took the paved road, I walked 4 km more than the others, and Andrea was the first to the finish. I didn’t want to take that joy away from him—I let him enjoy the moment, as it was his first time arriving before me. He was waiting for me at a bar with a big smile and a cold beer, as we had to decide where to stay that night. Since the Spaniards were celebrating some holiday and a village fiesta was planned, we chose accommodation at the far end of the village to avoid the noise. As we drank beer, our French friend joined us. After two beers, we walked to our lodging together. I needed cigarettes, so I stopped at a bar to buy some. The guy working there looked grumpy—easily 200 kg, probably wrecked from last night’s fiesta. But I was in such a great mood after a fantastic day that I gestured for him to smile. He started laughing, and as I reached the door, he whistled at me—I turned around, and he made the same gesture back at me. Maybe I brightened his day for 20 seconds, and he brightened mine. People don’t need much.
When we arrived at our lodging, I was thrilled—it had a huge garden, perfect for a siesta and later for a fiesta. After washing up and doing laundry, we lay down in the room and napped for an hour with some good music. Then we headed to the garden for more beer and ended up partying with the owner. He even danced with us. I must have told him I loved him at least ten times, hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek—because he let us play our music and made me the best burger. I didn’t want dessert, but he brought it to me anyway. My bill was €14—I gave him €20 and told him to keep the rest. We almost argued because he didn’t want to take it, so we settled on leaving him just €1. But in the morning, as we left, I secretly placed the remaining €5 next to the grill and, for the first time, left a review on Booking, telling all the hikers coming after us to stay there—it had everything a walker needs after a tough day.
