When the day's stage is done, the first thing you do is take a long, cold shower. Then comes the housekeeping—organising your things and washing clothes. On the first day of this odyssey, I arrived at the destination so late that I decided to skip the laundry, knowing it wouldn’t dry by morning. Gro arrived at the lodging three hours ahead of me, with plenty of time to do everything and even rest. My siesta (or fiesta) that day was spent with Erik at the bar. By the end of the day, we barely had time to socialise before bedtime, just enough to plan how far we’d go the next day. The goal: Pamplona. Neither of us bothered to count the kilometres exactly. We just guessed—35 kilometres sounded about right. We agreed to leave early in the morning, as shade along the route was scarce, and the heat would be merciless. Gro started ahead of me, but we kept meeting at bars along the way. The path wasn’t paved but rather uneven, so you had to pay close attention to avoid twisting an ankle. This focus slows you down and wears you out. The only saving grace was the nearby river, always offering a refreshing splash. It felt just right, like a puzzle piece snapping into place.
Around kilometre 30, the path bared its teeth in the form of steep stairs climbing upward. By this point, I was exhausted—soft legs, fried brain, and the afternoon heat at its peak. I paused at the base of the stairs, gave them the middle finger, and debated whether to hop up on one leg or crawl on all fours. I chose the latter—good for stretching the arms.
My app said I’d walked 33 kilometres, and I was elated—only two more to go! But around the next corner, a sign informed me there were still four kilometres left to Pamplona. My spirits sank. I had no choice but to change the music on my phone. A metal playlist might do the trick, I thought, and thankfully, it did. Quickened steps carried me forward.
About 300 metres from the city entrance, I met a family of four on bicycles, with a dog riding in a special box on the father’s bike up front—the captain. I asked the mum if they were doing the Camino. She looked tired but smiled and said yes. I asked if she was okay, and with a weary smile, she admitted she often wondered why she was doing this at all. I laughed, offered her some water, and said that in 15 years, she wouldn’t regret it. She was embarrassed that I was walking faster than she was cycling through the city. I reassured her, saying she had the tougher job: caring for two kids and balancing on a bike loaded with gear. I shook her hand, gave her a hug, and told her how much I admired parents like her. As we approached the city, her youngest, a six-year-old, looked exhausted. I asked if I could help. She nodded, so I grabbed his bike with one hand and his hand with the other, and we walked towards the goal. The boy’s smile lit up his face, and my heart swelled. At the top of the incline, I gave him a high five and said goodbye. It was one of the most beautiful stage endings so far. There’s nothing like the joy of making someone else smile—small victories.
Gro arrived two hours later, visibly tired and dehydrated, and went straight to bed. Coming from Denmark, she wasn’t used to hills or this kind of heat. Before drifting off, she asked if we could take it easier on the next stage. I happily agreed—there was no rush. Since I arrived early, I had time to rest and wash my stinky clothes. The hostel was huge, and I struck up a conversation with a guy from Uruguay, who later made me a fantastic seafood risotto. Whether it was truly amazing or I was just that hungry, I can’t say, but it hit the spot. As always, there were plenty of Italians around. I met a group of four young ones who spoke decent English and had a great sense of humour. Later, we went out for drinks—three rounds, to be exact. All we were missing was Erik, who had decided to join us but made the rookie mistake of washing his clothes too late the previous day. His clothes hadn’t dried by morning, so he had to wait for the hostel’s dryer, delaying his start. Along the way, he messaged me, saying the heat was killing him. Only a fellow pilgrim can understand this sentiment—and laugh, having been in the same position not long ago. By 10 p.m., I went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the next day and saw Erik. He was shuffling up the stairs like a zombie, beer in hand. I was shocked—sure he wouldn’t make it. I burst out laughing at his battle-worn appearance. I hugged him, and he told me how happy he was to have made it. Over a drink, he shared how he’d been arguing with “Good Erik” and “Bad Erik” in his head along the way. I asked who won. He said the argument was interrupted by the cold shower he took upon arrival.
The memory still makes me smile, just like a story from 2016 when I walked the Camino with Tina. After trudging 59 kilometres to our day’s goal, we spotted a sign with an arrow and the words “the way to the next bar.” In that moment, all we could envision was a cold pint, with condensation dripping down the glass. Ooo, fuck me, yes…so, show me the way to the next bar! Along the way, we passed the perfect sleeping spot with a view of the river and a bridge—pure poetry. But there was no time to admire it; beer awaited. One beer turned into a night of laughs, but hunger eventually drove us to attempt making sandwiches. In the dark, without flashlights (bravo, us!), the cheese and salami missed the bread and landed on the ground. Of course, we ate it all anyway.
In the morning, as always, I was the first to open my eyes. In front of me was a "sleeping" bird. I thought I was dreaming. When I got into a vertical position, I saw even more "sleeping" birds, and to top it off, they were accompanied by horse figs. Strange decoration of the room, I think in a still wawiwi state, and I say to myself, so much for poetry. I couldn’t wait for Tina’s reaction. Her face was priceless, and we laughed until our stomachs hurt.
After all, I'm here for the adventures that make such beautiful and interesting memories. Yes, you can call us professional amateurs. Because we managed to lay the armaflex around the cemetery and not in the cemetery. Who knows, knows 😊 We didn't want to know how much shit we ate for dinner the night before. But we still drank coffee in the company of dead birds and then set off towards new adventures.
P.S. Writing this is much harder than walking. Just saying.
