Yesterday was a day of "foot rehab." More precisely: a day of ice compression, self-pity, and wondering whether I should just switch to cycling instead.
Luckily the place had a freezer (which in these accommodations is basically a miracle), so my ice from the shop didn't melt. One small step for mankind, a giant leap for my ankle stability.
While waiting for the Polish guy to emerge from the sun's inferno, I hand-washed laundry (because apparently I'm living in the 19th century), cooked lunch for two (like we're on a romantic weekend getaway and not in the middle of a Camino meltdown), and prayed for my feet twice while cooking.
Naturally I treated myself to a siesta too — the Polish guy was nowhere to be found anyway. Good thing, because it gave me time to peacefully reflect on my life choices... like why exactly I signed up for this sadomasochistic adventure.
At 3:30 p.m. the Polish guy finally rolled in. Looked like he'd walked straight out of Dahab. Drenched in sweat, hat falling apart, thirsty, hungry, and utterly exhausted. I could help with the thirst and hunger; for the exhaustion he'd need to find himself a therapist.
While he wolfed down food, he explained the name of the climb that had destroyed my ankle and my will to live: Calvary. Perfect! A symbol of suffering, pain, and shattered dreams of an easy Camino.
And since suffering apparently needs an identity, I named my pain too. After a few days of close companionship, we'd gotten quite intimate. Her name? Bitch. And believe me, it fits perfectly.
The afternoon called for beer. Obviously. The Polish guy wanted one — so did I. So at 5 p.m. I headed into the village centre, where everything looked like a scene out of an apocalypse movie: empty, locked up, silent. Shop? Closed. Bars? Also closed.
I wander the village with one eye on the clock and the other on my ankle. Then — around the corner comes a girl who'd struggle to buy beer even with a fake ID. I stop her, because desperate people have no shame. Luckily she speaks English. Kindly informs me I can forget about anything being open before 6 p.m. The village went on a break. Intermission. Total zen.
At 6 p.m. I'm standing in front of the shop again like a faithful pilgrim. Shutters down. Of course. But I hold my ground — I'm not putting my leg through extra laps. I wait. The owner shows up half an hour later, by which point I'm basically asleep on the pavement.
When I finally got back, I just collapsed into bed. We drank our beers each in our own bed. Almost romantic — if your standard for a date is "breathing and not snoring too much."
The heat was so brutal I showered multiple times that day.
In the evening, like a responsible pilgrim, I went to bed early — a nearly 40-kilometre stage awaited. Or maybe 20. Because apparently I've entered the phase of: "a little today, maybe a marathon tomorrow."
Truth is: I like walking. I don't need it to make sense. Just the path, music, and enough electrolytes. Too much rest kills me. Other people lie in front of the TV with chips — I sweat it out on ibuprofen and electrolytes.
In the middle of the night — thirst. Trip to the kitchen, glance at the clock: three more hours of sleep! I nearly congratulated myself. Went back to bed feeling lucky. And then — ALARM. WTF?!
Of course, I hadn't put my glasses on and read the clock wrong. And no, at that hour I had zero intention of hitting the road. I was drowsy as a koala, and the leg pain was already tuning up its own instrument. Half-asleep, I debated: stay in this ghost village, or move on?
If I stay, the locals might dig me a grave out of boredom. So — I go. At 4:40. Breakfast? Coke and a Nalgesin 500. Medically approved. Basically.
Of course the pill doesn't kick in right away — because Spain runs in slow motion. I walked two hours in pain. Again. Persistent, loud, annoying — Bitch in all her glory.
I decided to walk along the main road — at least it's flat and free of the kind of potholes your ankle loves to fall into.
Arriving in Zafra — a pharmacy. My destination. I bought Flogoprofen and Ibuprofen. My personal Camino doctor? ChatGPT. I trust him more than God at this point. The cream worked like magic. YOU RUB IT ON AND IT DOESN'T HURT. A "magic wand."
Happy as a kid at a funfair, I decided today I'd push for almost 40 kilometres. Cream + pill = courage and the illusion of invincibility. And the cost? €12. Back home I'd pay €30 for this.
And let's be clear: I'm the type who tries every possible fix before admitting defeat. If/when it all fails — I'll raise the white flag. But not today.
Walking is my therapy. And my party. Music in my ears, me on the trail, the world on pause. The second half of the day moved to a bassline. I wasn't jumping around, mind you, didn't want to tempt the gods of pain. But a smile? Priceless.
I reached my destination before the heat hit — which is as rare as finding an open bar at 5 p.m. in Spain. More than happy with today. Finally, I could walk more again!
And then the highlight of the day... an older gentleman in his car stopped on the road, wished me a safe journey, and handed me a cold Coca-Cola through the window. The Camino is the best advert this brand could ask for. And hand to hand, no less!
Stats of the day (aka "how much does it cost to be in pain and happy"):
📍Walked: 38.43 km
⛰ Elevation: 335 m
🛏 Accommodation: €15
🍅 Food & drink: €10
💊 Cream + pills: €12
Total: €37 for a personal victory, a miracle cream, and one really good Coca-Cola.
