Today’s stage offered two routes: the longer one, taken by pussies who preferred to go around the mountain, and the shorter one, chosen by masochists and lovers of early morning mist in the hills. The hill was brutal, merciless. Sweat ran down our bodies and tears of suffering down our faces. There were moments you just wanted to turn back, because the climb felt endless. But you keep pushing, knowing that after rain comes sunshine. That sweet reward after the effort. And we waited for it—and got it. The view that followed was spectacular. Hills wrapped in mist, houses poking through the fog from the hilltops, sunbeams adding an indescribable magic to it all. You just stand there, drinking it in, and cry from the beauty. I stood still and watched the mist flow between the mountains and slide down into the valley. The view from up high took my breath away. It was the kind of view that pays back every drop of effort you poured into the climb. Today’s stage was the highlight of the Primitivo—the very reason most people choose this route. We had the perfect day to hike the Hospitales trail, the same path hikers used to take centuries ago, straight over the mountains. The hills are still the same as they were back then… raw, stunning nature.
In recent years, with the Camino becoming more of a tourist attraction, they’ve also marked a route through the valley. That one’s longer and passes through villages, so it’s safer. But the Hospitales trail over the mountains isn’t recommended in fog or bad weather. On those bare peaks and passes, it’s easy to get lost. Hospitales is considered a tough, remote route. Technically it’s not difficult—it’s just a mountain hike—the only real challenge is its length: 25 km from one village to the next. And to top it off, the area is full of cows and horses. And we all know how I feel about those creatures. Honestly, I prefer them on a plate, next to potatoes and a juicy sauce. Signs of civilization finally showed up around kilometre 30. I had a coffee, which worked about as well as a scarecrow in a hurricane. The cigarette, of course, was perfect—for yelling every curse word known to humankind. More swearing came when the waitress told me to go smoke across the road, even though I was already outside. I don’t get it, but okay—Spain. From the bar to my albergue was another 5 km, and the village I was heading to had no store. So I had to buy food right there. Extra weight on my back, blazing sun above—it felt like the kind of moment you just want to shoot yourself in the head. The only saving grace was that the albergue had a pool and a pool table. When I finally got there, I threw myself straight into the pool—fully clothed. That was both my shower and laundry. Two birds, one stone. Compared to last night’s hellhole, this place felt five-star.
Then came the usual routine—pack the backpack for tomorrow, rest, and sip some liquid gold. Gro arrived at the hostel about an hour later. She was exhausted—she’s not used to hills. She’s from Denmark, land of flat land and wind. I asked if she needed help, but she shook her head and said she’d join me for a beer once she sorted herself out. Later she really did join me by the poolside lounger. We made our plan for the next day and booked a bed for the night ahead.
