Last night, I cooked myself some eggs with vegetables and a slice of bread because I knew the next day would be a tough stage with only one stop along the way. One stop. In other words, if you can’t get coffee there, you can spend the rest of the day talking to cacti and your own demons.
I slept wonderfully and woke up before my alarm again. Apparently, my body is turning into a pilgrim alarm system that doesn’t need batteries. Around here, the day doesn’t really get going until eight, but I got up at seven so I’d have plenty of time to get ready at a leisurely pace. Backpack, clothes, water, everything in its place. The morning routine was almost meditative. All that was missing was coffee, and then I could have called the whole thing civilisation.
When I left my accommodation, I was hoping to come across a café along the way where I could enjoy my morning ritual: coffee. I don’t ask much of life. No yacht, no seaside villa, no wealthy husband. Just coffee. And, if possible, a toilet that doesn’t require climbing equipment.
Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on my side this time. I had 15 kilometres of dusty trails past fields ahead of me. Fifteen kilometres! No coffee, no bar, no sign of civilisation. Just me, dust, and an endless landscape that apparently considered staring at fields the height of entertainment.
The trail dragged on like chewing gum someone had stuck under a table three days ago. I wasn’t enjoying it. I started wondering whether the entire stage would be like this. If it was, I thought, I had a razor in my backpack and might have to use it to make some serious life decisions. Of course, I’m exaggerating. Probably. But after fifteen kilometres without coffee, nobody can guarantee the soundness of their thoughts.
At last, I reached Caudete.
COFFEE!
I could almost have hugged the coffee machine. I sat down, took my first sip, and immediately began wondering whether continuing was such a good idea after all. The next town, where I had accommodation booked, was another 26 kilometres away. No shade, no water along the trail, no cafés. Wilderness again. Another day when I could chat with the bushes, although I was beginning to suspect that the bushes in this story were more emotionally stable than I was.
I admit I was a little scared. But what could I do? I had chosen the Camino de la Lana myself. Nobody had kidnapped me, thrown me into a van, and driven me to Spain, although at that particular moment my imagination would probably have agreed with that version of events. This was part of the journey. I had to keep going. I’d manage somehow.
Over coffee, I checked the Buen Camino app and then Google Maps. After a brief meeting with my two advisers, I decided that Google Maps would have the final say today. We go way back. It’s generally reliable, can be quite pleasant company, and has saved me more than once from ending up in the middle of a field, pretending that was exactly where I’d intended to go.
Of course, I forgot one tiny detail: the signal can disappear.
And so I left Caudete and set off on a trail that was absolutely beautiful for the first eight kilometres. Open countryside, lovely views, a wide gravel track. Finally, something to my taste! I could look around, breathe deeply, and even feel like a pilgrim in a travel brochure rather than a woman who had been negotiating with her own nervous system since morning.
The trail won me over. I relaxed. I almost began to believe that the Camino really was a pleasant experience and that perhaps I was just a little too dramatic.
And then came the moment that always arrives on the Camino when you get too comfortable: life gives you a slap in the face.
The signal disappeared, and I found myself in a forest so dense that I was convinced the trees were about to hold a meeting and collectively decide to fall on me. I need space. I need air, open views, and the ability to see where I’m going. Here, everything felt so cramped it was as if someone had locked me inside a green cupboard and forgotten where they’d put the key.
The silence was worse than a tomb. Not a person, not a car, not a fellow pilgrim to reassure me that I was still living in a world where normal things existed.
Then, in the middle of nowhere, I spotted a parked car.
Of course.
Apparently, it wasn’t enough for my brain that I was alone in a forest with no phone signal. It also needed props for a crime drama.
A new episode of *ID Crime: The Pilgrim Who Just Wanted a Coffee* immediately began playing in my head. If I met someone out here, I thought, the best-case scenario was that they’d rob and assault me. The worst-case scenario was that I’d be on television as a missing person three days later. Someone might even say, “She was a lovely woman. She enjoyed walking and loved coffee.” And that would be it. End of story. No second season.
The worst part was that this was the only section of the trail offering any shade. And all I wanted was to get out of that green horror film as quickly as possible. I was practically running. The trail climbed uphill, and my heart rate was probably already in the “call a helicopter” category. Eight kilometres of pure drama in which absolutely nothing happened—except that I mentally lived through about seven different kidnapping scenarios and at least three of my own funerals.
When I finally emerged from the jungle, I breathed a sigh of relief. There was still an uphill stretch ahead, but at least I could see the sky.
The sky! Such a simple thing, yet at that moment I would have preferred it to a five-star hotel.
And at the top of the climb, there was a house.
A house in the middle of nowhere.
In my world, that never means anything good. Houses like that usually come with a dog that isn’t exactly famous for its hospitality and an owner who might appear around the corner holding a tool whose purpose I’d rather not know. Naturally, I heard barking.
“No,” I told myself. “I’m done with this. Today I’ve already completed the entire survival course, including the psychological breakdown module.”
But I had to pass the house. A white Caddy was parked outside. I walked past as calmly as possible, as though I did this every day, as though this were my regular afternoon stroll rather than the setting for my next nervous breakdown.
I made it past the house without incident. All that remained was a descent along a wide gravel road.
Finally! A trail to my taste. Wide, open, easy to see along. The kind of path where you can see at least a hundred metres ahead and your imagination has less room to produce horror films.
But when I was about 500 metres from the house, I heard a car approaching from behind.
Seriously? Is this day ever going to end?
At that moment, I swore I would stop watching *ID Crime*. At least for a few days. Perhaps I should watch a cooking show instead and remind myself that people in this world do other things besides commit crimes.
The car pulled up alongside me and stopped. Behind the wheel sat a gentleman who was over 80 years old.
Eighty-plus.
According to my paranoid theory, he should either have been a retired criminal mastermind or someone who would ask if I needed help and then steal my backpack. Instead, he politely asked where I was going.
I told him I was heading to Almansa and walking the Camino de la Lana.
Then he asked whether I had enough water.
I said I did.
But the gentleman wasn’t convinced. He got out of the car and opened the back to check whether he had any water. He didn’t. My Spanish, which in moments like this is roughly at the level of a child who learned five words yesterday, was just good enough to explain that I was well supplied.
But he insisted that he would go back home and bring me some water.
“There’s no need, really, thank you. I have enough,” I tried to explain.
Eventually, we said goodbye and went our separate ways. At the point where we met, I still had 11 kilometres to go.
I continued walking, thinking what a kind man he was. Then I returned to my thoughts and the trail. On the Camino, you get used to people being kind, although apparently my own brain needed a little time to process that fact through its internal security system.
When I was about 8.5 kilometres from my destination, I spotted a car approaching in the distance.
A white Caddy.
Naturally, all sorts of thoughts immediately crossed my mind. But as it came closer, I recognised the same gentleman. He pulled up beside me, lowered the window, and offered me 1.5 litres of water and a sandwich.
For me.
Just for me.
For the woman he had met on the trail who had told him a few kilometres earlier that she had enough water.
I froze. Literally. My brain needed a few seconds to process what was happening. Until that moment, I had been expecting danger. Now, in front of me, was a man who had driven back home just to bring me food and water.
Of course, I thanked him and tried to give him some money. He refused to take it.
And that was when I broke down.
I started crying. Not the elegant kind of crying where a single photogenic tear rolls down your cheek, but the real kind, where your face falls apart like a badly built house. In the end, I hugged him and kissed him on the cheek.
Then we said goodbye.
I thought he would drive back home. But no. He turned the car around and drove in the other direction, back towards town or wherever he was going.
I couldn’t believe it. This man had driven approximately 20 kilometres for a complete stranger, just to bring her water and a sandwich. I don’t know how much his pension is, but I doubt it’s so generous that he can casually throw money away on fuel and food. And yet he had done exactly that.
I cried for the next four kilometres because of his kindness.
Not because I was hungry or thirsty. But because, in the middle of the wilderness, after hours of fear and suspicion, someone reminded me that there are still people in this world who help simply because they want to. No expectations, no personal gain, no social media photo, and no need for applause.
This gentleman deserves a place in my blog and a permanent place in my heart. If I could, I’d build him a monument. Nothing huge, because that would be excessive, but at least one with a plaque reading: *My paranoia rests here. Temporarily.*
Before we met, of course, I’d also had a lengthy conversation with Google Maps.
“How can you possibly think it’s acceptable to send me through the wilderness at a time like this and then abandon me in the middle of nowhere?” I asked.
Google Maps defended itself the way people do when they know they’re technically right but have completely missed the emotional point.
It reminded me that I’d complained about the boring trail that morning. Since we’ve known each other for many years, it had apparently concluded that I needed some prettier views, a more varied landscape, and a few photos that would make me sigh and declare how beautiful the Camino was.
And I have to admit, it had a point. The landscape really was beautiful. The views were worth admiring, and the photos would turn out lovely.
But, dear Google Maps, next time I’d still appreciate it if you didn’t take me through a jungle on the way to those beautiful views, where there’s no signal, no pilgrims, and absolutely no evidence that civilisation still exists. Beauty is wonderful, but I don’t need it bundled together with the feeling that I’m about to become the lead story on the evening news.
After meeting the gentleman who brought me water and a sandwich, however, I had to admit that the day had a purpose. Not because of the views, the kilometres, or reaching my destination, but because of a man who showed me what kindness means without giving it a second thought.
For once, I couldn’t argue with Google Maps. For the first time in my life, I was genuinely grateful that it had sent me along a trail where I met someone who restored my faith in people.
And so I thanked it for a stage that will remain in my heart forever.
The final 8.5 kilometres were much easier after that. The trail descended, and I had so much water that I could even have washed myself along the way if I’d fancied the luxury of a personal bath. The kilometres passed quickly.
My favourite part of any stage is the final three kilometres. By then, you know you’ve won. Your bed is almost within reach, you’ll soon be able to take off your shoes, and you can finally stop pretending that every single part of this adventure is wonderful.
But one must never get too confident.
Because that was when the flies attacked.
Not one or two. Not a few innocent flies that simply wanted to admire a pilgrim. No. An entire air force squadron. They flew straight into my face, bit me, came back for more, and apparently decided I was their amusement park for the day.
They were bloody annoying.
By the end, I had spent more energy fighting the flies than walking. I was slapping myself in the face as if I’d lost a bet, trying to kill them. No success. The flies had better stamina than I did and, apparently, a superior tactical strategy.
Eventually, I started negotiating with them.
“Right, ladies, listen up. We’re all prostitutes in this world; it’s just a matter of price. How much do you want to leave me alone? One cent? Two? Ten? Just don’t tell me you want fifty cents, because that’s far too much for this kind of service.”
Apparently, after lengthy negotiations, we settled on one euro.
And so I arrived in town fly-free, but thoroughly exhausted. Not so much from walking as from the day-long psychological marathon. When my feet started going on strike, I had to stop at a bar for a beer. Again.
Apparently, the Camino isn’t just a pilgrimage route. It’s also one very long Spanish bar-tasting tour, provided you have a good enough excuse.
Over my beer, I decided that after a day like this, I deserved at least one night in a castle. If not a royal bed, then at least a room with a view, a servant to bring me dinner, and a red carpet to escort me to my room.
After all, I’d survived the wilderness, walked all those kilometres, conquered my paranoia, received a personal delivery of water and a sandwich, and negotiated with flies. If anyone deserved royal treatment, it was me.
Almansa really does have a castle perched on a rocky hill above the town, as though it has been keeping an eye on everything happening below for centuries. Its stone fortifications, towers, and jagged battlements look ready for a siege. The historic centre winds around the castle, with narrow streets, old buildings, and the Palace of the Counts of Cirat, now known as Casa Grande. The town has that unmistakable medieval atmosphere that makes it easy to imagine knights, nobles, and grand castle banquets.
In my imagination, the castle could have opened especially for me that evening. A castle steward would be waiting at the entrance, bowing deeply before saying, “Welcome, brave pilgrim. Your room is ready. The wine is chilled, dinner is being prepared, and your foot massage begins in ten minutes.”
Reality had other plans.
There was no castle for me. Instead of a royal bed, I found accommodation that looked like a hospital for monks who were just about to depart for the afterlife. The walls had that special shade you won’t find in any interior design catalogue, and the lighting was just right for making you question every life decision you’ve ever made.
Out of respect for the people staying there, I’ll lock my dark humour away in my head this time. I’ll throw the key somewhere between my backpack and my dirty socks, where I certainly won’t find it again until Burgos.
Today’s stage was beautiful, but also incredibly demanding on my mind. My body was walking, my legs were doing their job, and my brain was busy producing crime series, documentaries, and disaster scenarios with an unlimited budget.
But I survived it. In one piece.
And although I nearly convinced myself several times that the whole thing had been a terrible idea, I didn’t give up. I kept going, even when I was scared, when I had no signal, when I doubted myself, and when I felt that my own imagination was more likely to finish me off than the kilometres.
Most importantly, though, today I met a man who showed me through one simple gesture that kindness still exists. Sometimes you find it where you least expect it. In the middle of nowhere. On a dusty trail. In a white Caddy. In a bottle of water and a sandwich brought by someone who simply cares.
That’s how I’ll remember today. Not for the forest, the lost signal, the flies, or my paranoia.
But for a kiss on the cheek, a hug of gratitude, and a man who gave me back something I hadn’t even realised I’d lost along the way.
My faith in people.
And yes, Google Maps, thank you too. But tomorrow, I’d appreciate less jungle and a little more civilisation.
**Buen Camino! 🥾❤️**
