Who, pray tell, managed to sleep through five alarms? Who else but me—Tina, allegedly on vacation. Part of the goal was to finally get some sleep. Ha! Getting decent sleep on the Camino is as realistic as finding a unicorn bringing you coffee in bed.
Plan: Wake up at 3:30. Reality: 4:30. Right when your body wants to marry the pillow and your soul whispers “just five more minutes,” you’re supposed to get up and lace your shoes. Cruel? Cruel is too mild a word. Life can be a real bitch.
Yesterday I met an older Polish guy at the hostel. Since we’re both Camino veterans, we had lots to talk about—and did so until 11 p.m. And then I was supposed to bounce out of bed at 3:30? Yeah, right. They should’ve winched me out.
At least we each had our own rooms—no snoring concert. Pure luxury. The only noise came from the AC that was working like it was cooling all of Andalusia.
When reality catapulted me out of bed, the Polish guy was already at breakfast. I slithered out of my “pyjamas” in record time, splashed water on my face, chugged a yogurt and a Coke, and hit the road at 5 a.m.—in total darkness.
Walking alone in the dark? No thanks. But hey, for a quiet room I’ll step out of my comfort zone. While you were still snoring, I already had 20 km behind me.
The trail started on the main road—asphalt, a balm for my feet which had suffered something akin to WWIII on gravel yesterday. After 20 kilometres of this blessed asphalt, the Camino veered off into a national park. I didn’t care. I’d seen it before.
It was Saturday. Empty roads, just the occasional motorcyclist or cyclist tossing out a “Buen Camino!” from under their helmet. For the first time in a while, it was actually nice to hear. (Unlike on the Camino Frances, where you hear it 87 times a day and by the end, you want to throw someone under the nearest donkey.)
The first part of the walk was alright. Even a bit of shade! I started feeling like, finally, everything was going to plan. But no coffee. Nothing. Nada. Sahara-level dryness. Not until kilometre 30. By then I was so dehydrated I went straight for a beer. Yeah, at 11 in the morning. And? Judge me if you dare.
Beer in one hand and the Camino app in the other, I tried to figure out where to go next. The app said 13 km to go. Google Maps said 16. I chose the Camino path to avoid boiling my brain again in the sun. Genius move? Nope. Total disaster. Shortcuts = the biggest scam of modern civilisation. Never, ever trust a route that “saves you distance” in the hills. That means you’ll be dangling from tree branches and scrambling up rocks.
The last 6 km? Drama. Opera. Tragedy. I was screaming like an enraged goat. Every turn? Another uphill. No shade. Just me, steep inclines, and my backpack with what seemed like lead-lined straps.
My legs gave out. I walked like a glitchy marionette. When I finally reached a bit of flat—BOOM, another hill. “Fuck off, just fuck the hell off!!!” I shouted. Loudly. With no filter. But God clearly wasn’t online that day.
My muscles were crying. I was crying. My backpack probably wanted to die too. And then—cherry on top—my water bottle slipped from my hand and rolled downhill. I just stared at it heading off to its new life and said: “Nope. Not going after you. Not today. Fuck you.”
My legs were shaking, my hands were shaking, and so was my faith in humanity. I grabbed two bananas from my bag. They helped about as much as a band-aid on a broken soul.
In the last five kilometres, I lost everything—willpower, dignity, belief in shortcuts. I was so pissed even the horses and donkeys got out of my way, probably embarrassed for me. I sat down, lit a cigarette and thought: if someone told me I had to go back over that hill again or, say, straight into electroshock therapy—I’d take the therapy. At least you get to lie down.
And to wrap things up: all of you bragging about Mount Everest… It only counts if you carried your backpack yourself. If you gave it to the Sherpa, then sorry—you went on a trip, not a climb.
Oh, right—the suffering stats: today I walked 43.39 km. A little more than yesterday, because why not, let’s go full throttle. And I climbed 799 metres. At this rate, I’ll be eligible for a mountain hiking badge.
If anyone asks me tomorrow how I’m doing, I’ll just say: “Fantastic. My body’s falling apart, my soul’s hanging by a thread, but I’ve got one banana left—let’s fucking go.”
Financial summary of the day (aka how much it cost to nearly die):
Food: 12 € (and it still didn’t save me from system failure)
Beer: 2 × 2 € (best therapist of the day, no questions asked)
Accommodation: 35 € (a bit steep for a place where I collapsed and blacked out, but okay—at least it wasn’t the sidewalk)
Total: 51 €
