Since I knew I couldn’t avoid either the sun or the darkness for this challenge, I started late—at 7 in the morning. The night was lovely, especially if you're lucky enough to dream about your own funeral. No joke. I woke up in shock. When I told Saudi later over the phone, he said I was lucky—most people never get to experience that. He asked me if many people showed up. I told him, surprisingly yes—like ten more than the queen’s.
As I was leaving Finisterra, the sunrise was stunning. I thought, great, straight into hell first thing in the morning. But soon enough it started raining—nonstop until Muxia, which is 30 km away. Then the sun came back. The Almighty made sure the weather was as varied as the terrain today. Tina, Pobalina, and the Almighty were working double shifts, while the Berliner took night duty only. Because I was walking in the opposite direction of other hikers, I didn’t meet a single soul for the first 60 km. Just annoying dogs and a bunch of tourists. The lower the sun sank, the more irritable I became. I was about to walk into the night, and I hate walking that long in the dark—especially in the middle of Spain, where it’s easy to get lost. I remembered all the horror stories from the Camino Facebook group and, of course, paranoia set in—especially after what happened to me just outside Gijón. On top of that, I realized today was a Christian holiday—Assumption of Mary—which meant tons of fiestas across the country. Drunk and possibly high Spaniards everywhere. What could possibly go wrong?
Restless thoughts raced through my head. A night in the club flies by if the music’s good, and you just move on to the afterparty. But the night on the Camino drags. The kilometers too. This was the longest night of the year for me—New Year’s Eve can’t even compete.
I listened to music until it got dark, then obeyed my mom and turned it off to listen to the surroundings. I used the Camino app until sunset, then switched to Google Maps since it would lead me along roads, not forest, and was easier to follow. On hikes this long and in tough conditions, your brain shuts off—you start to hallucinate. That's why I trusted Google Maps. No mistakes allowed in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, with no hostels or open bars around.
The advantage of the night? Much cooler temps—makes walking easier. Of course, I still sweated. Out of fear. My only company were the stars above me—shooting stars fell one after another. A beautiful show that actually calmed me a little. Later I realised walking in the dark is quite pleasant—if there are no cars or villages nearby. Unfortunately, the incident in the eucalyptus forest still haunted me, and with my wild imagination, even the tiniest villages sent my heart racing. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors? People aren’t to be trusted—they’ll do anything for their own gain. If you ask me where I walked that day—I have no clue. Every time I saw a car on a remote road, I dove into the corn or grass. On the Berliner’s orders. That’s how afraid I am of people. But on remote paths there was a peaceful calm. And once I adjusted to the dark, I was okay. Just me, the stars, and silence. Unfortunately, Google Maps later led me onto a main road—which I hated. I checked the Camino app to see how far I’d strayed from the official route. Too far for a hike like this.
Since I wasn’t on the official trail, there was no water. I had to ration what I had, even though I was dying of thirst. I had about 50 km to go, and just under a liter in my backpack. But then—hallelujah!—Mary appeared with a water fountain. There was no sign saying it was unsafe, so I downed 1.5 liters in one go, refilled my bottles, and continued. It was a highway, technically, but thank God it had a shoulder about a meter wide—for idiots like me walking toward their own death. I thought I was walking fast, but Google Maps disagreed. The road dragged on like intestines, probably because it felt dangerous. Trucks and sports cars zipped by—the kind you recognise by their engine sound. Even though I love that sound, tonight it drove me crazy. They were overtaking other cars—probably drunk too. Never a good combo. I had no choice—I had to walk 14 km terrified.
Midway, two kind police officers stopped me. They told me the road was extremely dangerous. I explained there was no alternative nearby and that I always step away when I see or hear a car. They wished me luck and let me continue. Secretly I hoped they'd offer a ride to the next safe road. But no such luck—so I trudged on.
Finally, I made it to side roads—lit and quiet. Sleeping villages all around me, while I wandered like an idiot through the night. My legs held up well. No pain in thighs, knees, or ankles. But at kilometer 95, a giant blister on my left foot popped—so sharp I nearly launched forward into the air. I didn’t dare look. I knew it’d mess with my head, and there was nothing to be done anyway—just get to the finish line. But the pain became unbearable, so I tried walking in flip-flops. Took off my sock and saw another blister—this one on my pinky toe. Huge. You could see it from a plane. It was just a matter of time before it burst.
After a few meters in flip-flops, I put my sneakers back on—the pain was even worse. So I walked the rest of the way with my laces untied to improve blood flow. The last 17 km were brutal because of the pain. My right foot, at least, was still going strong. But because of the blister, I overused my other leg and drained more energy. Christ-like suffering.
At kilometer 100, the Berliner started singing Wham!’s “I’m Your Man.” I asked if he was okay—maybe low on vitamin D? He said we were almost at the finish line and could start having fun again. “Are you stupid?!” I snapped. Anything could still go wrong. And once—if—we made it to Santiago, we’d still have another 3 km to the hostel through this massive city. I told him to go to sleep. From here on out, I needed Tina and Pobalina. Without them, I wouldn’t make it. The pain in my left foot made me wish I were a Barbie doll so I could unscrew my foot. The kilometers dragged on. When we finally reached Santiago, I saw a hospital and thought, “That’d be a great place to stay tonight.” Foot care, soft bed, hot guys, and bland food. What more could you ask for?
But a promise is a promise. Dani was so kind—he gave me a private room in the hostel where I could rest in peace, and the cleaning lady wouldn’t nag me to get out so she could tidy up. She doesn’t like me—I don’t like her. At 6 a.m. I heard the church bells—DING DONG—and my thoughts wandered back to the altar. At that moment, my ideal bed. I mean, if I’ve already had sex on an altar, I might as well sleep on one too. But we kept crawling forward.
In Santiago, I saw a ton of taxi flyers. Physically dead, I dialed a few cab companies to take me to my hostel—but they were all busy. My last atoms of energy left me at the 100th kilometer. I walked through Santiago like a war survivor. Just 500 meters from my bed, I saw the first open café. I went in for 300 ml of life—Coke—to give me enough strength to make it home. A man around my age spoke to me. He knew English, so we could talk. He sat on a stool—I sat on the floor. No energy for a barstool. He was kind and told me I looked awful. I thanked him for the compliment. He asked if I’d just started the walk to Finisterre. I said no—I was finishing my one-day hike from Finisterre to Santiago. I had every right to look like shit. It took him a few seconds to realize that meant 117 km. He was stunned. Said he’d heard many Camino stories, but mine beat them all. I asked why he was up so early. He said he was a taxi driver, just starting his shift. I burst into laughter. He asked why, and I told him I tried calling every taxi 6 km ago but all lines were busy. My story made him laugh to tears—even the bartender joined in. He shook my hand in respect and offered me a free ride to my hostel, seeing how destroyed I was. My EGO and I agreed—it was more than enough for one day. So I accepted his lovely gesture. When he dropped me off, I gave him a big hug and told him he made my morning and I’d never forget him. He refused money. Said I’d paid him with my story and that he admired my grit and determination. For those few minutes, he was my best friend. When I stepped into the hostel, I collapsed on the bed—shoes on, clothes on, full bladder, and stinking. No energy to shower or pee. Just took off my shoes and pulled up the blanket. When I woke up, I checked the damage on my left foot. Worse than expected. I didn’t dare shower—I knew it would sting like hell. So I just smelled like a corpse until 6 p.m. Then I gathered courage.
Dani brought me a blister needle, bandages, and disinfectant—non-alcoholic, thank God. Alcohol would’ve killed me. Based on the wound, I decided to stay with Dani for 3 days, not just one as planned.
Then I’ll head off on the Camino Portuguese.
