CAMINO DE LA LANA – MONFORTE DEL CID – VILLENA: WHEN GOOGLE MAPS BECOMES YOUR BEST FRIEND AND DIARRHEA YOUR UNINVITED TRAVEL COMPANION
Yesterday, I was shown to my accommodation by a gentleman who must have been well over 80. He cycled over with a smile as if he’d just won the lottery, rather than having to look after pilgrims coming through his door every day. And, as is customary in Spain, we took the lift to the first floor. I had to suppress a laugh when he pressed the button for floor one. I know the gentleman is getting on in years, but a lift for one floor? Apparently, the Spanish version of energy conservation also includes saving your steps.
Before leaving, he carefully explained the morning checkout procedure: turn off the water, switch the main electricity switch to OFF, drop the keys into the mailbox, and whatever I did, don’t forget how to dispose of the rubbish properly. Considering how little I’d actually used the apartment, he could have summed up the instructions in one sentence: *Have a shower, sleep, and don’t burn the place down.*
I couldn’t be bothered to cook, so the ashtray got most of my attention. I used the shower and the bed; everything else could happily wait for the next guest. I slept wonderfully and followed all the instructions in the morning. Well, almost all of them. I took the rubbish out myself because I decided it was time to act like a responsible adult at least once in my life.
The morning ritual on the Camino is a story in itself. You walk around your accommodation at least a hundred times, checking whether you’ve left anything behind that should be in your backpack. You inspect the bathroom, the bed, the power sockets, the wardrobe, and then the bathroom again. Then you leave, take a few steps, and suddenly it hits you: you’ve definitely forgotten something. So you go back. Check again. Nothing. Leave. And just like that, a pilgrim clocks up an extra two kilometres in the morning before even reaching the first yellow arrow.
This time, everything went smoothly. I even woke up before my alarm, which was set for 7:30. Apparently, my body is slowly getting used to pilgrim life. Or perhaps I’m simply terrified of oversleeping and having to walk all 40 kilometres in the dark.
Today’s menu consisted of two coffees, a piece of pizza later on, one Coca-Cola, and about three litres of water. That was my entire day’s intake. Some pilgrims set off with energy bars, nuts, sandwiches, and enough supplies to cross the Sahara. I seem to run on caffeine, sugar, and sheer stubbornness.
Food makes me feel sluggish when I’m walking, so I don’t eat much. Even at the end of the day, I didn’t feel particularly hungry. Apparently, my stomach is a fan of the minimalist lifestyle. Just as well, considering my backpack is already full of things I carry purely because I might need them someday.
This year, I can afford to set off a little later. I’m no longer facing those hellish temperatures of around 45°C, but a more manageable 30°C. Well, “more manageable” is the Spanish term for weather in which your face still melts, just a little more slowly.
As soon as I left town, the trail quickly led me into the wilderness. And with it came the return of my paranoia. As if I needed another problem to take along on the Camino, diarrhea decided to join me for the day. Apparently, carrying eight kilos more than I’d like isn’t enough; my body also has to declare its own state of emergency.
Thank goodness I had toilet paper with me. On the Camino, you quickly learn that the most seemingly insignificant things can be more important than all the motivational quotes on Instagram combined.
The morning scenery was beautiful, though. Soft light fell across the dry landscape, hills, and fields. Everything was so photogenic that you could almost forget you were in the middle of nowhere, alone with your backpack and a digestive system that clearly hadn’t signed up for this adventure.
Almost.
The trail wasn’t particularly well marked with yellow arrows, while the Buen Camino app kept directing me along a completely different route. So I opened Google Maps, my favourite virtual friend. Loyal, patient, and generally pretty useful. Of course, it has its quirks too. Sometimes it gets you to your destination, sometimes it sends you to the other side of the continent, and sometimes it simply disappears.
Today, it was more in the mood for: “My dear, you’re on your own from here.”
The signal kept disappearing for most of the day, which meant that for roughly three-quarters of the time, my phone was only good for emergency calls. Very reassuring when you’re walking through a remote landscape with no people or cars in sight, and your imagination is busy placing an entire criminal gang behind every bush.
Luckily, a gentleman walking his dog joined me in the morning. He showed me the way for a good five kilometres, and I finally felt my shoulders relax a little. When you’re alone in the wilderness, even a random dog walker starts to feel like your personal bodyguard. You don’t need much. Just someone walking in the same direction who doesn’t look as though they’re planning to kidnap you.
When we reached a fork in the trail, he wished me a good journey and pointed straight ahead. Naturally, I followed his advice. At that moment, I would have walked straight ahead for anyone who told me that Spain ended there and paradise began just beyond it.
And so I made it to Petrer, where I treated myself to another coffee, ate a piece of pizza, and refilled my water bottles. I’m growing increasingly fond of towns on the Camino. Not because of their architecture, history, or cultural heritage, but because they have buildings. And buildings cast shadows. At this stage of my pilgrim career, shade is the highest form of cultural heritage.
The trail from Petrer towards Sax then dragged on like a Monday morning after three days of holiday. The kilometres crept by, the landscape opened up into the wilderness again, and so did my thoughts—which, apparently, are at their most creative precisely when it would be best for them to shut up.
Every rustle in the bushes was suspicious. Every bend in the trail potentially dangerous. Every lonely stretch of path was the perfect setting for a crime drama entitled *The Pilgrim Who Thought the Camino Was a Wellness Retreat*.
I don’t even dare listen to music because I want to hear what’s happening around me. If the trail were full of other walkers, I’d probably be dancing and singing as if I were at a music festival. Instead, I keep glancing over my shoulder and trying to convince myself that everything is fine.
I really am trying to relax. I am. I take a deep breath, look at the landscape, admire nature, and tell myself how beautiful it all is. Then a bush rustles somewhere, and my internal alarm system starts blaring as if World War III has just been declared.
Anyway. From Sax to Villena, the kilometres suddenly started flying by at the speed of light. The reason? Asphalt.
Yes, asphalt. A surface that would make an ordinary pilgrim complain is practically therapeutic for me. The moment my feet hit it, my pace picks up. There’s less thinking about where to place each foot, less caution. I just walk. And at last, the kilometres start moving in the right direction.
Meanwhile, I spent the entire day trying to get hold of my accommodation. Whenever I had a signal, I called. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. One more time. Still nothing.
And because I’m apparently the kind of person who can turn a minor inconvenience into a full-length psychological thriller, I started doing the maths.
What if they’re closed today? What if nobody’s there? What if no one is expecting me?
In the worst-case scenario, I’d have another 20 kilometres to walk before reaching the next possible place to stay. That would make around 60 kilometres in total. My legs aren’t ready for that sort of adventure yet. They’re still getting used to the extra eight kilos I’m carrying. And, if I’m honest, my brain hasn’t entirely accepted that I voluntarily signed up for this whole adventure in the first place.
But when I was just five kilometres from Villena, a miracle happened. The accommodation finally called me back. They had a bed available.
What a relief! At that moment, I could have hugged my phone, the phone operator, the accommodation owner, and even the first public phone box I could find. I could walk the final five kilometres without worrying that I’d have to keep going to the ends of the earth.
Of course, it wouldn’t be the Camino if it didn’t have one more surprise in store for me.
My right foot started making itself heard. The pain, which has been bothering me for more than a year, isn’t constant and is mostly bearable. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t annoying. Imagine a housemate who stays quiet most of the time, only to pipe up at precisely the moment you least need them. And, naturally, you can’t kick them out.
When I reached town, I stopped at the first bar I came across. I ordered a beer and immediately took off my trainers. Let the foot breathe a little, let the blood circulate properly again, and let me spend a few minutes pretending I was on holiday rather than on a hike where I negotiate with my own body every single day.
The beer helped my mood more than anything else, while my foot appreciated the rest. After about twenty minutes, I set off again. And would you believe it? The pain eased, my stride became springy again, and I practically flew to my accommodation.
Small victories. The Camino teaches you to appreciate things you once took for granted: dry socks, shade, a working phone, an available bed, and a foot that decides to cooperate for at least a few more kilometres.
When I arrived at my accommodation, a pleasant surprise awaited me. A modern room, a kitchen, and a beautiful bathroom. There were two beds, but it looked as though I’d be sleeping without someone else’s snoring, nighttime tossing and turning, or any of the other free concerts pilgrims tend to put on.
And you know what? That’s exactly what I need right now.
Time alone with myself. No conversations, no adjusting to other people, no listening to other people’s stories, and no feeling that I have to be sociable just because I’m travelling among people. This year, what I’ve been missing is precisely that: my own company, my peace and quiet, and the freedom simply to be alone with my thoughts. Even if those thoughts are sometimes rather paranoid and occasionally have an extremely vivid imagination.
So I hope this peace lasts all the way to Burgos.
Of course, I know the Camino always has something unexpected up its sleeve. Maybe new people, maybe new problems, maybe another bout of diarrhea or a disappearing phone signal. But for today, that’s enough.
I’ve completed my stage, found a bed, survived the wilderness, and successfully avoided the scenario in which I’d have to walk another twenty kilometres.
For today, that’s more than enough.
**Buen Camino! 🥾❤️**
