€80 FOR A LAUNDRY SERVICE, FREEDOM FOR MY BUTT, AND THE ROAD THAT LED ME INTO A FAIRY TALE
So, what happened yesterday when I finally arrived at the hotel?
At first, I thought I'd won the lottery.
A hotel! A proper room! A clean bed! A shower! No smell of dying monks or centuries-old dampness!
After everything I'd been through over the past few days, I was convinced I'd collapse onto the bed and fall asleep before my head even touched the pillow.
But no.
My body decided it wasn't going to sleep.
Apparently, it had called an emergency meeting of all my organs, and they'd unanimously passed a resolution:
“Sleep? Motion denied!”
EXCUSE ME?!
After all those kilometres? After the scorching sun? After a sleepless night? After my backside had suffered fourth-degree burns?
And NOW, when I finally had a normal bed, we weren't going to sleep?!
Wonderful.
So basically, I'd paid almost €80 for the privilege of washing my clothes.
For that money, I could practically have bought a whole new outfit, put it on, thrown the old one away, and still felt more financially responsible.
Every possible swear word started flying out of my mouth.
Slovenian ones.
Probably a few invented ones, too.
If a linguist had been listening, they could have written a doctoral dissertation on the creative use of profanity under conditions of extreme exhaustion.
And then it hit me.
Karma.
Apparently, I was being punished for yesterday's dark humour about monks on their deathbeds.
“HEY, UNIVERSE!” I protested. “IT WAS JUST A JOKE! AND I DIDN'T EVEN SAY IT OUT LOUD!”
But apparently, karma has listening devices inside people's heads, too.
I had to accept that my afternoon nap wasn't happening.
So I moved on to the next most entertaining activity you can possibly enjoy on holiday.
Repairing the damage to my own body.
If someone had told me before leaving for the Camino that I'd spend most of my free time inspecting, treating, and attempting to rescue various body parts, I'd have told them to stop exaggerating.
On a journey like this, you expect your legs to be the first to go on strike.
Feet. Knees. Muscles.
Something logical.
But no.
In my case, my backside decided it had something to say.
And not discreetly.
Not with a gentle warning.
“Listen here, madam,” I told it. “You're just along for the ride! My legs are doing all the work! What exactly have YOU got to complain about?”
But apparently, my butt wasn't interested in constructive dialogue.
So I rubbed cream on it, looked after it, and tried to improve its working conditions.
Yes, I know. This is all starting to sound very strange.
At the very least, I decided that tomorrow it would get some fresh air.
While dealing with my various bodily disasters, I started planning Day Five.
A new stage lay ahead.
And with it, a new problem.
A forest.
Again.
Apparently, the Brothers Grimm had moved to Spain and decided to write their next horror story right along my pilgrimage route.
After my experience two days earlier, I had absolutely no desire to revisit an enchanted forest where a wolf, a witch, or someone who'd just escaped from an episode of ID Crime might appear at any moment.
Thanks, but no thanks.
I'd already used up my entire lifetime allowance of woodland romance.
So I started looking for an alternative.
And I found one.
The CM-3201 road.
Paved. Easy to follow. According to the information I'd found, suitable for pedestrians and not particularly busy.
Perfect!
I know what you're thinking.
“But you're on the Camino! Why aren't you following the official route?”
Because, my dear armchair critic, I'M the one carrying the backpack, walking in the heat, sleeping in hospital-like accommodation, and currently dealing with a backside undergoing major reconstruction.
Meanwhile, you're sitting at home, probably within arm's reach of your refrigerator.
Judge me. I dare you.
Besides, I was considering setting off very early, possibly while it was still pitch-dark.
And if I had to choose between a clearly visible road and the Brothers Grimm's forest, where my imagination could write my obituary within five minutes, the decision was pretty simple.
Asphalt, I love you!
Once the plan was sorted, I went to the shop.
To buy fuel for my body.
I bought a Coca-Cola and a sandwich.
Because if you set off before the bars open, you have to organise your own supplies.
And because I was apparently overflowing with optimism again, I set myself a rather ambitious goal.
Tomorrow, I'm going to walk a little over 50 kilometres.
Yes.
Fifty.
After a sleepless night, yesterday's flaming backside, and all the other adventures.
If optimism were a criminal offence, I'd have been behind bars a long time ago.
But the plan was ready.
Food bought.
Clothes washed.
Butt treated.
Only one thing was missing.
Sleep.
At nine in the evening, I went to bed.
And this time…
I slept like the dead!
Finally!
No negotiations.
No complaints.
No emergency meetings.
Just darkness.
And blissful unconsciousness.
Then, at six in the morning…
WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!
Of course.
The neighbour's dog.
Because why would anyone on the Camino need an alarm clock when Spain apparently has a nationwide pilgrim wake-up programme run entirely by dogs?
The dog was barking at God knows what.
Maybe the postman.
Maybe a cat.
Maybe its own life choices.
Whatever it was, it clearly had a lot to say.
“Could you PLEASE shut up?” I muttered into my pillow.
Apparently, it wasn't interested in my opinion.
Despite that, I somehow managed to squeeze in another good hour of sleep.
So I finally set off at half past seven.
And then the first miracle of the day happened.
The village bar was open!
I couldn't believe it.
“One coffee with milk and courage, please. And a cold Coca-Cola.”
If courage came in bottles, I'd buy it in bulk.
I filled my internal fuel tank, supplied my lungs with another two cigarettes, and headed off.
A long day lay ahead.
But this time I had a plan.
And a road.
And most importantly…
No Brothers Grimm forest.
The walk was pleasant.
Yes, I was walking on asphalt.
But after all those gravel tracks, loose stones, and uneven paths, asphalt felt like a red carpet beneath my feet.
No sharp little stones attacking the one exact spot on my foot that was already sore.
No constantly checking where to place my next step.
And above all…
My phone could stay in my bag!
What luxury!
I didn't have to check the map every five minutes.
I didn't have to work out whether to turn left, right, or through some bushes where the next episode of a true-crime documentary might be waiting for me.
Just straight ahead.
The road.
Me.
And my thoughts.
But there was something else that made me especially happy.
No dogs!
No barking.
No lunging at fences.
No canine alarm system sending my heart rate to Olympic-sprinter levels in three seconds flat.
Today, I walked completely relaxed.
Without fear.
Without constantly expecting something to jump out from behind the next corner.
And it was fascinating how much difference that made to my body.
I had more energy.
My steps felt lighter.
My mind was calmer.
Apparently, kilometres aren't the only things that exhaust you.
Sometimes, what's happening inside your head is far more tiring.
And my brain had been working so much overtime over the past few days that it deserved a paid holiday.
Today, it finally got a day off.
I made my first stop after 23 kilometres.
Twenty-three kilometres!
For many people, that's an entire day's hike.
For me, apparently, it was just the warm-up act.
I treated myself to a small beer.
And that's when I noticed something wonderful.
My backside was silent!
No burning protests.
No dramatic warnings.
No demands for emergency evacuation.
Madam was satisfied.
And I think I knew why.
Today, I'd made an important fashion decision.
Instead of leggings, I'd put on shorts.
So the lady could get some fresh air.
Apparently, that was exactly what she'd been missing.
After days trapped inside tight leggings, she could finally breathe.
If she could speak, she'd probably have said:
“THANK GOD! SOME BLOODY VENTILATION AT LAST!”
You really do learn to appreciate strange things on the Camino.
Once upon a time, I got excited about a new dress.
Today, I'm celebrating because my ass doesn't burn.
Clearly, I'm making progress.
I didn't spend too long over my beer.
I still had plenty of kilometres ahead of me, and I didn't want to sit around for too long.
Although I must admit, chairs are becoming an increasingly attractive invention.
I headed back onto the paved road.
And I still felt safe.
Yes, even with cars and trucks passing me.
In fact, the drivers were incredibly considerate.
As they approached, they moved well over to the other side of the road. Some even used their indicators.
Even when there was nobody behind them.
As if they were saying:
“Don't worry, pilgrim. We see you. You've got your space.”
And I thought that was genuinely lovely.
I raised my hand and gave each of them a smile in thanks.
Such a small gesture.
But after everything I'd been through, it meant a lot.
There was plenty of space along the side of the road for walking.
Well, at least for me.
If I weighed 300 kilos, they'd probably have had to introduce special traffic regulations.
Two police cars passed me as well.
And nobody complained about me walking along the road.
Quite the opposite.
The officers smiled and wished me:
“Buen Camino!”
Well, would you look at that!
They were probably thinking:
“Just leave her. These pilgrims live in their own little world anyway. They all go wherever they please.”
And they weren't wrong.
Pilgrims really are a peculiar species.
We voluntarily walk dozens of kilometres.
We pay for accommodation where we don't sleep.
We drink coffee and forget to pay for it.
We lose our caps.
And then we write blogs about the whole thing as though it were the best decision we've ever made.
Perhaps we really do need professional help.
But not today.
Today, I was far too busy walking.
The kilometres passed surprisingly quickly.
The landscape opened up around me, the road wound between hills and fields, and for the first time in days, I was genuinely enjoying the simple act of walking.
No panic.
No forest monsters.
No canine concerts.
No wondering whether I'd end up in the next episode of a missing-persons documentary.
And then came the moment when I had just 14 kilometres left to my planned destination.
Fourteen.
On asphalt, that's about two and a half hours of walking for me.
Nothing dramatic.
I stopped in a town, had a Coca-Cola and a cigarette, and checked Google Maps.
I wanted to see what the road ahead looked like.
On the map, it resembled a snake that had just drunk three litres of sangria.
Left.
Right.
Left again.
A sharp bend.
Another one.
And another.
All of it downhill.
“Fine,” I thought. “A few bends. No big deal.”
Then I looked at the estimated walking time.
Almost four hours.
WHAT?!
“Google, have you completely lost your mind?”
Fourteen kilometres on a road, and almost four hours?
“What am I supposed to do? Walk backwards? On my hands? Hug every single bend and tell it my entire life story?”
It seemed completely impossible to me.
Normally, I'd cover that distance in about two and a half hours.
But I didn't let it bother me too much.
Google had already demonstrated some very interesting ideas about what constitutes a pleasant route.
So I put my phone away and marched on.
About 300 metres later…
BOOM!
I stopped dead.
The view that opened up in front of me made me forget about the kilometres, the exhaustion, the beer, my backside, and even my long-standing love-hate relationship with Google.
Alcalá del Júcar.
Oh.
My.
God.
WHAT A VIEW!
The earth had practically split open in front of me.
As though someone had taken an enormous knife, sliced straight through the otherwise ordinary Spanish countryside, and created a fairy-tale canyon.
Far below, the River Júcar twisted through the landscape, having spent millions of years carving its way through the rock.
And apparently, it had been extremely bored, because it certainly hadn't chosen a straight line.
Oh no.
The river had gone for the artistic approach.
A bend here.
A bend there.
A little to the left.
A little to the right.
As though it were drawing an enormous green snake curling around a rocky hill.
And on that hill…
A TOWN!
Not an ordinary town.
Not just a few houses, a shop, a bar, and a church.
A proper medieval wonder.
White houses huddled together and climbed the steep rocky slope in terraces, as though competing to see which one could reach the top first.
Some looked as though they'd simply been glued to the rock.
Others were actually built partly into it.
Yes, you read that correctly.
Houses inside the rock!
Apparently, centuries ago, the locals realised that building materials were expensive and thought:
“Why build four walls when the mountain can provide half the house for free?”
And that's how the famous cave dwellings, or casas cueva, became one of the town's defining features.
Some caves are connected by tunnels, some are open to visitors, and others have been turned into bars and spaces where people can enjoy the naturally cool shelter of the rock.
Genius.
Yesterday, I'd nearly lost my mind because of the heat and lack of shade, while these people had found the solution centuries ago.
Move into a mountain.
No air conditioning.
No fan.
No electricity bill requiring a second mortgage.
And perched on top of the rocky hill is a castle.
Of course.
Because what would a medieval town be without a castle?
The castle has Islamic origins, dating back to the period when Muslim rulers controlled this part of Spain. During the 12th and 13th centuries, it served as an important defensive position, with commanding views over the valley and the routes along the river.
Later, the area came under Christian rule, and the castle underwent various alterations over the centuries.
In short, history was pretty lively around here.
Armies.
Rulers.
Conquests.
Defences.
Changes of power.
All the things we now watch in historical dramas, where everyone has magnificent costumes, perfect hairstyles, and suspiciously white teeth.
Reality was probably considerably dirtier and a lot less romantic.
But the castle is still standing.
High above the town.
Like an elderly gentleman who's witnessed so much human stupidity over the centuries that nothing surprises him anymore.
Probably not even a Slovenian pilgrim talking to herself after 40 kilometres.
Below the castle, narrow, steep streets wind between the white houses.
The kind of streets that make you look uphill and wonder whether you're staring at a road or a training course for Everest.
And since I'd already walked a considerable distance that day, I developed enormous respect for the local residents.
“My dear people, if you walk up and down these streets every day, you certainly don't need a gym membership.”
Down by the river stands a famous stone bridge known as the Roman Bridge, although its present-day appearance dates from a much later period.
Apparently, even bridges around here enjoy a slightly dramatic historical introduction.
“Roman Bridge” does sound considerably more impressive than “Bridge That Has Been Rebuilt Several Times.”
Among the white houses stands the Church of San Andrés, while the castle rules over the entire scene from above.
The whole place looks like a film set.
Except there are no set designers.
No computer-generated effects.
No fake façades.
It's a real town.
And that makes it even more extraordinary.
Below me stretched the deep canyon, the green river, the rocky cliffs, and houses that looked as though they were growing straight out of the stone.
Sunlight lit up the white façades while the river traced its endless curve between them.
The contrast was stunning.
Dry, almost harsh Spanish countryside on one side.
And far below, a green oasis that looked as though someone had secretly transported it here from an entirely different world.
For a moment, I just stood there.
And looked.
No internal monologue.
No complaining.
No sarcasm.
Which, in my case, is practically a medical phenomenon.
Then my brain switched itself back on.
“Ah. So THAT'S why Google said almost four hours.”
I looked at the hairpin bends twisting down towards the valley.
The road looked like an enormous strand of spaghetti someone had thrown down the mountainside.
And suddenly I realised that perhaps Google knew something I didn't.
“All right, Google,” I said. “I'll give you one point for that.”
Just one.
Let's not get carried away.
I still haven't forgiven you for the jungle.
But the view…
That view was something special.
The kind of view that reminds you why you're walking in the first place.
Why you get up in the morning.
Why you carry a backpack.
Why you put up with the heat, the pain, the terrible accommodation, and all the absurd adventures.
Because sometimes you come around a bend and find something so beautiful you couldn't have imagined it even in your most optimistic dreams.
And in that moment, everything feels worth it.
Even the €80 I'd paid for the most expensive laundry service of my life.
Even yesterday's flaming backside.
Even all the kilometres already behind me.
I stood above Alcalá del Júcar, admiring a town that seemed to have grown straight out of the rock and then decided to stay there forever.
But I still had a long way to go.
And judging by all those hairpin bends below me, I was beginning to suspect that the day hadn't finished messing with me.
Before I even started descending towards the town, I remembered one extremely unpleasant fact of life.
What goes down must eventually come back up.
And at that moment, I felt slightly sick.
I'd already walked almost 40 kilometres.
FORTY.
My legs were still doing their job, but I suspect that was only because they hadn't yet worked out how to submit an official letter of resignation.
I looked down at the town.
Beautiful.
Fairy-tale-like.
Romantic.
But now I was seeing it from a different perspective.
HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO GET BACK OUT?!
Because admiring a medieval town from a viewpoint is one thing.
Realising, after almost 40 kilometres, that you somehow have to climb back out of that architectural masterpiece is quite another.
And if there's one thing I know about towns like this, it's that their streets have a very interesting relationship with logic.
Left.
Right.
Up.
Down.
Dead end.
Steps.
More steps.
And suddenly you find yourself standing in front of a house you've already passed three times.
Welcome to the labyrinth.
Which is all very lovely if you're a tourist.
If you're wearing nice clothes, comfortable sandals, carrying a tiny handbag, and planning to sit on a terrace with a glass of wine after sightseeing.
Meanwhile, I'd already walked almost 40 kilometres, had a backpack on my shoulders, and wanted just one thing.
OUT!
I descended into the town.
And of course…
I got lost.
Because why should anything be simple today?
At first, Google Maps tried to cooperate.
Then apparently even Google gave up.
The little blue dot jumped around the screen as though it were having a nervous breakdown.
“Turn left.”
I turned left.
“Turn around.”
I turned around.
“Continue straight ahead.”
STRAIGHT AHEAD WHERE?!
THERE'S A WALL IN FRONT OF ME!
If Google had a face, I'd probably have grabbed it by the collar and demanded to know whether it was taking the piss.
The swear words started flying again.
All of them.
Including a few I didn't even know I knew.
Meanwhile, tourists wandered peacefully past me.
Beautifully dressed.
Well rested.
Smiling.
Taking photographs of the houses, admiring the architecture, and generally enjoying life.
And there I was, looking like an escapee from a military survival-training exercise.
They were probably thinking:
“How fascinating! They even have a local attraction here. A woman with a backpack who talks to her phone and swears in an unidentified language.”
Dear tourists, just so we're clear…
EXTRA METRES ON THE CAMINO ARE NOT WELCOME!
Especially not after almost 40 kilometres.
And ESPECIALLY not UPHILL!
Every unnecessary metre is a personal insult.
Every extra step is a declaration of war.
And every wrong turn is grounds for filing a formal complaint with a higher power.
After God knows how many bends, climbs, and nervous outbursts, I finally managed to escape the labyrinth.
Freedom!
Civilisation!
A road!
I nearly kissed the asphalt.
And then I saw it.
A yellow arrow.
That lovely, innocent little pilgrim arrow.
A symbol of hope.
Trust.
The right path.
I looked at it.
It looked back at me.
Well, probably not, considering it was painted on a wall, but after this many kilometres, you start developing some very interesting relationships with road signs and trail markers.
“All right,” I told it. “You win. I'll follow you.”
THE BIGGEST MISTAKE OF THE DAY.
Because that treacherous little yellow arrow didn't lead me onto a beautiful pilgrim trail.
Oh no.
It led me between rocks.
At first, everything looked reasonably manageable.
A narrow path.
Stones.
A bit of scrambling.
“Fine,” I thought. “Apparently we're having another little adventure.”
I walked for about a kilometre.
And then…
A CLIFF.
Not a metaphorical one.
Not an emotional one.
Not the kind you experience when you check your bank balance after five days on the Camino.
A REAL CLIFF.
The path I'd been following ended at a dangerous drop.
I looked ahead.
I looked down.
I looked behind me.
And only one thought entered my mind.
“ONE MORE STEP AND I WON'T BE WRITING THIS BLOG.”
Well, at least I wouldn't be the one writing it.
“ARE YOU BLOODY KIDDING ME?!” I shouted at the yellow arrow.
So much for the symbol of trust.
So much for spiritual guidance.
So much for Buen Camino.
Apparently, the arrow wanted to send me on a direct pilgrimage to heaven.
No stopovers.
Thanks, but my reservation up there hasn't been confirmed yet.
I turned around.
And walked back.
Another kilometre.
Because apparently, today's stage wasn't long enough and I needed another two kilometres of bonus entertainment.
Two kilometres of stress.
Two kilometres of fighting for survival.
Two kilometres I hadn't ordered, didn't want, and certainly wouldn't be leaving a positive review for.
When I finally made it back onto the road, I was exhausted.
Not so much from the walking.
More from everything that had happened inside my head over those last two kilometres.
First, getting lost in the town.
Then betrayal by the yellow arrow.
And for the grand finale, a cliff.
If the Camino had a complaints department, I would definitely have demanded to speak to the manager that day.
And to make matters worse, I was almost out of water.
Excellent.
In the Spanish heat, after nearly 40 kilometres and another two kilometres of adrenaline-fuelled tourism.
My body was starting to send increasingly aggressive notifications.
“WATER. NOW.”
And then…
The Virgin Mary appeared to me.
No, I wasn't having a religious vision.
Although, given the circumstances, I wouldn't have been particularly surprised.
Mary appeared in the form of…
A FOUNTAIN!
A beautiful, life-saving water fountain.
If I'd heard angels singing, I'd simply have dropped to my knees and said:
“All right. Message received.”
I approached it as though I'd discovered the Holy Grail.
I drank about a litre of water in one go.
A whole litre!
No breaks.
No manners.
No dignity.
Then I soaked my head with water.
It ran down my hair and face, and I could feel myself slowly returning to the land of the living.
If someone had taken a photograph of me at that moment, I'd have looked like a drowned woman who'd just been informed she still had another 12 kilometres to walk.
Because yes.
There were still 12 kilometres ahead of me.
But at least there was one positive thing.
Flat ground.
One long, endless stretch of flat road.
The kind where you can see the road stretching far into the distance.
Very far.
Too far.
So far that you begin to wonder whether you're actually moving or whether someone has put you on an enormous treadmill running in the opposite direction.
I stared ahead.
“Is my mind going to survive this?”
My legs were still willing to cooperate.
Mostly because they were back on asphalt.
My brain, however, was considerably less enthusiastic after the labyrinth and cliff adventures.
But there was no other option.
Step by step.
Kilometre by kilometre.
And then a vehicle pulled up beside me.
AN AMBULANCE.
Yes.
A real ambulance.
For a moment, I wondered whether the universe had finally realised it had taken its jokes a little too far.
The driver rolled down the window and asked whether I needed a lift.
How lovely!
How kind!
How incredibly tempting!
I smiled, thanked him, and gestured with my fingers that I'd walk the remaining distance.
“No, no, thank you. I'll manage.”
On the outside: brave pilgrim.
On the inside…
“Hang on a minute. An ambulance. A bed. Lying down. Maybe an IV drip. And perhaps some absolutely magnificent painkillers.”
Practically a dream wellness package.
Except instead of a hotel logo, it had a red cross, and instead of a massage therapist, there was a paramedic.
But apparently, my pride was still alive enough to refuse the offer.
The gentleman drove away.
And I carried on.
About five minutes later…
I REGRETTED MY DECISION.
Not because of my legs.
Not because of the heat.
Not because of my backside.
But because of…
FLIES!
FLIES!
Bloody annoying, persistent FLIES!
I have no idea where they came from.
Perhaps they'd held a meeting.
Perhaps someone had sent out a notification that an exhausted pilgrim was walking along the road and her nerves hadn't been sufficiently destroyed yet.
Whatever the reason, they'd arrived prepared.
One around my face.
Another by my ear.
A third in front of my nose.
A fourth apparently on a reconnaissance mission.
I waved my arms.
I blew at them.
I flailed around.
I tried ignoring them.
Nothing.
NOTHING!
If persistent human harassment were an Olympic sport, these flies would have taken home every gold medal.
Without competition.
Flies are a magnificent torture device.
Forget medieval dungeons.
Forget sophisticated interrogation techniques.
Just send someone down a long, straight road after fifty kilometres of walking and release ten flies around their head.
Within fifteen minutes, they'll confess to everything.
Even things they haven't done.
Even stealing the Mona Lisa.
Even assassinating Julius Caesar.
Anything to make the flies disappear.
And mine didn't.
Oh no.
They'd apparently decided we were going to spend the rest of the journey together.
Perhaps they thought I was lonely.
Dear flies, you couldn't be more wrong.
I DO NOT NEED THIS KIND OF COMPANY!
Especially not the kind that's going to land me in a psychiatric ward instead of a hostel.
I walked, waved my arms, and swore.
If anyone had been watching from a distance, they'd probably have thought I was performing some special form of pilgrim aerobics.
Backpack on.
Arms in the air.
Strange movements.
Occasional screams.
A deeply spiritual experience.
The flies accompanied me almost all the way into town.
As persistent as the tax authorities.
And about as welcome.
But eventually, I made it.
THE FINISH LINE!
After more than fifty kilometres, a fairy-tale town, a labyrinth, a cliff, a life-saving fountain, and an aerial assault by flies, I was finally standing in front of my hostel.
If I'd had any energy left, I'd probably have raised my arms in triumph.
Maybe sung the national anthem.
Maybe burst into tears.
But my body had only one request.
SIT.
I went inside, checked in, and ordered a beer.
Because after a day like that, water simply isn't enough for psychological rehabilitation.
The lady behind the bar looked at me and gave me the beer on the house.
SHE BOUGHT ME A BEER!
What a lovely gesture.
So simple.
And yet, after everything I'd been through that day, it meant the world to me.
I didn't need anything grand.
No medal.
No congratulations.
No speech about how brave I was.
Just a little kindness.
And a cold beer.
I gave her a hug and thanked her.
Because sometimes words aren't enough.
Then she showed me to my room.
And as I stepped inside…
OOOOOOH!
IT SMELLED AMAZING!
Clean.
Fresh.
Like normal life.
Like a place where nobody had died three centuries ago and left the smell behind as a permanent cultural heritage exhibit.
A BALM FOR MY NOSE!
After my recent accommodation experiences, I was ready to invent an entirely new hotel rating system.
Forget stars.
Forget location.
Forget breakfast.
Just one question:
DOES THE ROOM STINK OR NOT?
This hostel would get five stars.
Maybe even six.
If I could, I'd have bottled some of that smell and carried it with me for emergencies.
The lady showed me the room.
I looked at the bed.
And at that moment, I knew my body had officially finished its shift.
A shower?
No.
Changing clothes?
Maybe later.
Contemplating the meaning of life?
Absolutely not.
I was so exhausted I couldn't even be bothered to shower.
And that says a lot.
Because after walking more than fifty kilometres, most people dream of a shower.
I was dreaming of just one thing.
Being horizontal.
Well, almost horizontal.
Because I somehow gathered the last few atoms of energy for one extremely important activity.
I put my legs up against the wall.
So all the water could flow back down through my body.
Yes, I know.
Anatomy might not be my strongest subject.
But after a day like that, nobody was going to convince me that gravity didn't have some kind of special arrangement with my legs.
I lay on the bed, legs propped against the wall, staring at the ceiling.
Fifty kilometres, plus a few extra generously donated by my extraordinary navigation skills.
One medieval town.
One labyrinth.
One cliff.
One fountain worthy of sainthood.
One ambulance I was stupid enough to refuse.
And a squadron of flies I would happily report for psychological abuse.
But I was there.
At my destination.
In a clean, lovely-smelling room.
With a beer gifted to me by a kind stranger.
And my legs in the air.
If this is what spiritual enlightenment looks like, it comes in a very strange form.
Maybe the Camino really isn't just about walking.
Maybe it's also about learning to laugh in the middle of chaos.
About noticing kindness after all the swearing.
About finding your way again after all the wrong turns.
And about being able to appreciate something as simple as a room that smells nice after more than fifty kilometres on your feet.
Today, I got everything.
A fairy tale.
A horror story.
A psychological thriller.
A wildlife documentary.
And, finally, a happy ending.
Buen Camino!
P.S. Dear yellow arrow, from now on, our relationship will be based on fact-checking. And Google, that applies to you too.
