Yesterday after lunch, we decided to drive to Mérida, because it was still early and we wanted to save ourselves some driving time toward Cádiz the next day. We dropped anchor for the night by a lake, about four kilometers before Mérida.
This is the place where, back in summer, I cooled down both body and soul: my body with a head-first jump into the water, and my soul with a cold beer from a nearby bar. Then I confidently returned to the Camino route, confidently got lost, and generously gifted myself an extra seven kilometers of walking. Because sometimes it's just not the moment to look for yellow arrows — sometimes it's the moment for "Let's go our own way, we know what we're doing."
(Spoiler: we didn't.)
In summer, this place was full of people enjoying carefree days, sunshine, and life itself. Today? Today there were only a few couples in love, performing romance as if auditioning for a French art film. All that was missing was an accordion.
When we arrived at our stop, I of course went for my bad habit — lighting a cigarette. I was gone for less than three minutes, and when I stepped back into the warm motorhome… BOOM.
Plan change.
In that short time, my father had clearly held a serious meeting with the weather forecast and delivered his verdict:
"We're only going as far as Zafra."
Apparently, I'll have to quit smoking — major life decisions seem to be made while I'm outside.
Bad weather was expected in the south as well, so Zafra it is.
To be clear: bad weather means cloudy with a few drops of rain, which for my father is completely unacceptable. Red alert. Almost the apocalypse.
When you travel by motorhome, you can afford to play around with distances. On the Camino, walking, you don't get that luxury. The route is set in stone, and you walk it from start to finish — no matter the weather. If you're a real Camino pilgrim, that is. You can take a rest day if it rains… and then you keep going. No drama. Well, maybe a little.
Honestly? I don't really care where we are. This trip is mainly about spending time with my parents. Everything else is just a bonus.
So a new plan was agreed at the table: tomorrow morning I'll walk about 30 km toward Seville, my mom will cycle in the same direction, and my dad will pick us up somewhere along the way. NATO-level logistics, minus the uniforms.
Once the plan was confirmed (for now), it was time for sports on TV: alpine skiing, cross-country skiing, biathlon, ski jumping, and of course the news.
Here, my father is a world champion TV watcher. He enters a trance. The outside world ceases to exist. Bombs could fall and he wouldn't blink. He has selective hearing — his ears only perk up if you mention sweets or if I tell him I've managed to break something.
I'm no longer the sports fanatic I once was. My mom, however, still enjoys watching how good Slovenians are at winter sports — national pride and all that.
When the TV entertainment ended, we went to bed. My bed is the biggest — almost king-size — with plenty of space. It's located above the driver's and passenger's seats, which means my dad has to prepare it, so we all end up going to sleep at roughly the same time. Family logistics, motorhome edition.
Nights in a motorhome are incredibly peaceful. Silent. Almost quieter than a cemetery. Sometimes I seriously feel like checking their pulse — just to make sure they're breathing.
My parents don't snore.
Which is either a blessing… or slightly suspicious.
One big advantage of motorhome life is that in the morning, coffee is ready before I've even properly opened my eyes. The table is already full of food to fuel the day's walk. My parents don't let me help. Honestly, I couldn't even if I wanted to — the space is tiny and chaos appears instantly.
My mom makes sure her two children (read: her daughter and her husband) are never hungry or thirsty.
The alarm went off at 8:10, even though my bladder woke me up an hour earlier. Somehow, heroically, I managed to put it on pause until the alarm rang.
When we got up, it was quite cold — we were right by the water. Outside, fishermen were already out hunting for dinner. We, meanwhile, were hunting for warmth. At breakfast, we changed the plan again and decided to head straight to Cádiz, because we were freezing. The weather forecast had changed overnight. Morning sports would be replaced by afternoon sports once we reached our destination.
On the way, we stopped at a supermarket to stock up on food. We spent just over €50 for a few days, which is about what an Italian pilgrim spends on the Camino in one day. Then came the gas station stop: fuel tank full, waste tank empty, water tanks refilled. We also had to find gas for cooking. With all that, the drive to our final stop passed quickly.
My mom prepared lunch, and then we finally went for a short walk together — 12 km. Half asphalt, half mud. On the second half, dogs barked at us from behind fences. Perfectly safe, but still uncomfortable.
Last autumn, I was bitten by a dog — an American Akita. I'll never forget that bite. The pain was awful. So yes, I admit it: I'm "a little" afraid of dogs now. Just a little. Barely noticeable. Totally under control.
My dad broke his personal 10 km walking record that day. That's what happens when you're walking with two people who love speed.
We returned home muddy, which meant laundry duty. Then came siesta. My mom spent the time knitting a blanket — her second one on this trip. She also knitted me winter slippers, which I absolutely love. They look slightly medieval.
My dad, meanwhile, was "fighting" with the TV. So it's obvious what he's been doing for the last two hours.
And I took time for the blog.
The plan for tomorrow exists — but there's no point in writing it down.
By morning, it will probably be different anyway.
Let's be surprised. 😏✨
