Since the Camino is all about the people, it’s easy to find companions—for a day, a week, or, even better, the whole month—if you just go with the flow. So yesterday at the albergue, I struck up a conversation with Tim from Canada. Tim is tall, athletic, and his body is adorned with beautiful tattoos. After a long chat, we decided to start the next day’s walk together, taking the alternative route over the hill instead of around it so we could enjoy the beautiful views.
When I woke up today, I felt a sharp pain in my left ankle—probably from all the jumping I did yesterday. I somehow forgot I was hopping around with an extra 8 kilos on my back, which my legs weren’t quite used to yet. I got a bit too carried away with excitement. For breakfast, I treated myself to a generous serving of doubt and anxiety about this two-month journey. Not exactly a promising start. To top it all off, I drank an entire litre of fruit yogurt for “good morning,” which my stomach did not appreciate. On top of that, my digestion clearly slept in today too—yesterday’s output stayed in, adding to the weight and discomfort. But hey, not every day is a good day—you grit your teeth and keep walking, silently hoping everything works out in the end.
The alternative route we chose was terribly marked, and we got lost at least three times. Right from the start we went uphill—and kept going, endlessly. I was practically scraping my lungs off the ground. The path was scattered with large rocks and roots, making the climb even harder. It was a muggy day with no sun in sight, and my body was leaking like a sieve. I ended the walk early around noon after drinking 5 litres of water—the ankle pain had only gotten worse, and continuing would have been reckless.
But the views made every drop of sweat and every gasp worth it—stunning contrasts of green and blue. Tim is faster than me and got to the top first, though to be fair, I kept stopping for photos like a total tourist. When I finally conquered the hill, I saw Tim admiring the scenery, his back turned to me, and I snapped a perfect photo. I wanted to show him, so I tapped him on the shoulder. Well, next thing I knew—it was clear Tim wasn’t admiring the scenery... he was peeing. And when I tapped him, he instinctively turned mid-action. Let’s just say—my legs were collateral damage.
What can I say? There’s a first time for everything—even being peed on. And it was my own fault. One of those moments when you really don’t know how to react—he started apologising, I just burst out laughing. We decided to pretend it never happened and kept walking.
But the hill wasn’t done with us yet—it got even steeper, so steep that gravity stopped negotiating. We had to lean forward and use our hands—it was a literal four-limbed crawl. There’s an unwritten Camino rule: never look up while climbing, or you’ll cry like a baby and call for your mum. So you just look at what’s right in front of you. And since cows and horses graze here, the path was full of shit. Of course, I managed to plant my hand right into a fresh pile—because animals really don’t care where they shit. And just like that, halfway up the hill, I was both pissed and shit-covered. I only had one litre of water left in my bag to clean myself. Not my day, clearly.
My ankle kept reminding me it wasn’t okay, so I ended today’s stage early in the small fishing village of Pasaia, about 8 km before San Sebastian. That had been our planned destination, but I actually listened to my body for once. I told Tim to go on without me—I don’t like when people wait for me. This is his Camino too. We exchanged numbers in case I recover and can catch up.
The village I stayed in has only one albergue with 14 beds. It’s donation-based—you pay what you think the stay is worth. The doors don’t open until 4 p.m., and I was there by noon. So yeah—four hours of waiting, a complete waste of time if you ask me. Pure suffering. Oh, and to even get to the albergue, you have to climb 250 steep steps with your backpack. Slitting your wrists might be easier. But hey—that’s Camino: all in or go home. I was the first to arrive, but eventually, other hikers started trickling in, brightening up the wait. Ellen, just 21 years old and living in England, arrived. Then two Germans with wicked senses of humour who cracked Hitler jokes like pros. And then three Americans showed up—real characters, the kind you only meet on the Camino. That’s when the fun began.
We decided that instead of waiting at the albergue, we’d head to the beach with my JBL speaker and make our own kind of day. Naturally, it turned into total chaos—and one of the best days ever. Apparently, everything really does happen for a reason. I got exactly what I came for—amazing people with killer humour who danced with me until 10 p.m., when the lights officially go out and it's bedtime.
