After yesterday's exploration of Setenil, we headed towards Benalmádena, a small town less than 20 kilometers from Málaga. There we found a parking spot that had everything a human being needs for decent survival: electricity, water, peace, and that sweet feeling that you've hit the campervan jackpot. It's located right next to the promenade, which stretches for an impressive 15 kilometers. In short: paradise for people who love walking, love eating even more, and love combining the two most of all.
Once we dropped anchor, we started with my dad's legendary bean stew, cooked back in Slovenia. This stew has crossed borders, countries, and several weather systems — and somehow survived all of it in excellent condition. After that, we went for a long walk by the sea. Atlantic? Mediterranean? Honestly — at this point I don't even care which one it is. As long as it's blue and good for the nerves, I'm happy.
Before we could properly leave, there was, of course, the obligatory satellite-on-the-roof situation. My dad simply cannot function without the news. The world probably wouldn't end if he skipped one evening broadcast, but he's not willing to take that risk. Once contact with outer space was successfully established, we were finally free to go.
I have Benalmádena in my little finger — I was already here with my parents at the end of 2022. The energy here is special. Positive. Contagious. Along the promenade, shops and restaurants line up one after another, sending out food smells that practically drag you inside by force. Music plays everywhere, people are smiling, relaxed, alive. This is my rhythm of life. I slightly — okay, quite a lot — envy the people who live here. I could move here for half a year without guilt, from October to March. Life makes sense here. Depression doesn't stand a chance. The weather simply won't allow it. In the morning, the sun personally invites you outside: "Come on, you know it's going to be a good day."
Bad moods don't really exist here. Smiling faces everywhere. Even my dad — a well-known control freak — visibly relaxed. Which is basically a small miracle of nature. My mom, who is already quite zen by default, came even more alive once she realized that cycling here doesn't end with returning home as a frozen ice cube. Honestly, there's no better sight than the relaxed, happy faces of my parents. That's when you know you're exactly where you should be.
During the walk, we made plans for the next day: I would walk around 35 kilometers, while my parents would cycle to Coín. Since we were so happy with our current setup, we decided to go to a bar — not for coffee, but for mojitos. My parents tried one for the first time, and I'm proud to say: I did not disappoint. We spent our time in the bar learning Spanish and looking at ferry tickets to Gran Canaria, where they'll head once I have to say goodbye to them. Even though I would happily continue this odyssey with them. They are wonderful company, and every day with them is incredibly precious to me.
But reality is cruel. Eventually, I'll have to go home, work, and earn money for my summer Camino. I still have one more week before facing Slovenian grey skies, so I've decided not to think about it at all. I'll live in the moment and hope the last seven days play out in slow motion.
Back at our rolling home, I prepared my backpack and clothes for the next day. I'd be leaving before sunrise and didn't want to be too loud while my parents were still sleeping. My mom packed me two sandwiches for the road. I'll miss her morning coffee — but that will be waiting for me about five kilometers from the camper, in the first open bar. Before that, there's the sunrise — which I am hopelessly in love with.
I woke up even before my alarm. A very full bladder snapped me into a vertical position at 7:20 a.m. Morning bathroom rituals followed, and then it was time to hit the road. My dad was already awake and handed me the camper keys at the door — just in case I came back before they did.
What can I say — there's nothing like a morning walk by the sea in the company of a sunrise. A calm morning, fresh air, and the feeling that the world is, for a moment, perfectly aligned.
And then the sun showed up. Not the shy kind that just checks if it's welcome. No. This was SUN with capital letters. The kind that comes out saying: "Let's go, today we're doing beautiful things."
And I said: fine, I'm coming with you.
The sunrise was my coffee. On mornings like this, you quickly forget that you're missing anything at all.
The path from Benalmádena to Málaga is one of those where you don't feel like you're walking — you feel like you're participating in life. The seaside trail is just long enough, just flat enough, and just playful enough to keep your ego in check and your legs cooperative.
On one side, the sea sparkles as if polished with good intentions. On the other, life unfolds: cafés waking up, waiters practicing early-morning flirting, runners with the expression "yes, I do this voluntarily", and older couples walking slowly — because they no longer have to rush anywhere. Their goals have already been reached.
My steps are light. My mind empty. My heart slightly overfilled. Every now and then I catch myself smiling for no reason. Which is risky — someone might think I'm crazy. But in the south, nobody minds. Here, the only strange thing is being in a bad mood.
Cyclists, skaters, kids on scooters, and dogs with clearly better schedules than mine pass me by. The air smells of salt, coffee, and promises of a good day — and this path keeps that promise.
The sun climbs higher, the shadows shrink, and I grow more grateful with every step that I'm on my feet. Not in a car. Not in my head. Not in the future. Just here. Now. Between Benalmádena and Málaga. Between one life and another.
When Málaga slowly starts to appear in front of me, it doesn't feel like arrival. It feels like continuation. As if the path whispers:
"This is just the introduction. The main story is still coming."
And I believe it.
Because if a day starts with sun, sea, and walking — you know you're on the right path.
Even if you have no idea where exactly you're going 🌞🌊👣
On my way back to our rolling home, I quietly hoped that no new surprise was waiting for me there. For example — moving to Africa.
That's where my tolerance officially ends.
Camino? Yes. Sleeping in a camper? Yes. Changing plans every three hours? Yes.
Africa? Not today.
So I stopped for a preventive beer on the way home.
Not out of thirst — out of psychological preparation for possible shock therapy.
I went to the same bar where we had mojitos with my parents the night before. There works a kind, handsome waiter who complimented my Spanish yesterday — something I will clearly carry with me for a very long time, possibly to the grave. He greeted me with a smile again, as if we were old friends. Or as if he knew I had just walked a good chunk of life.
From the speakers — of course — Mariah Carey.
All I Want for Christmas Is You.
Honestly? Even if I didn't want it.
But the good thing about Christmas songs is that they only last one month.
Then they disappear. Like bad weather. Like bad plans. Like exhaustion after a good walk.
I sat there, beer in hand, smiling, thinking:
if another new idea is waiting for me at home — I'll walk my way through that too.
But first… let this day end gently.
Because some days are not for rushing.
They're for beer, for soaking up the sun, and for the feeling that you are exactly where you're meant to be 🍺✨
