After yesterday's walk of more than 50 kilometres, which somehow turned into a psychological thriller, a navigation course, a close encounter with a cliff and a wildlife documentary about flies, you'd think I'd have slept for at least twelve hours. Well, I didn't.
**The night was short.** I'd apparently forgotten that after walking more than 50 kilometres, there isn't much of the day left. By the time you reach your accommodation, check in, order a beer, confirm that all your limbs are still attached and finally make it to your room, it's already time to go to bed.
But I have another job. **Writing this blog.** Because apparently, physically walking halfway across Spain every day isn't enough. I then have to spend another two hours reliving every traumatic experience so I can entertain you lot.
A normal person would collapse into bed after fifty kilometres, close their eyes and remain unconscious for the next ten hours. Meanwhile, I'm sitting there with my phone, wondering how best to describe the moment when a yellow arrow nearly sent me straight to heaven.
**Everyone needs a hobby.** Some people collect stamps. Others knit. I collect kilometres, nervous breakdowns and material for my blog.
Writing took me about two hours, so I went to bed considerably later than I should have. I didn't go into town. Although I'm sure Casas Ibáñez had something interesting to offer, I decided to skip the cultural programme.
Because after a day like that, a bed is no longer just a piece of furniture. **A bed is your best friend.** The kind that doesn't ask how you're feeling, doesn't expect a conversation, doesn't suggest going out for a drink and, most importantly, doesn't make you walk another five hundred metres to the town square. It simply welcomes you. No questions asked.
Besides, the noise and bustle of town didn't appeal to me at all. People, cars, voices, music, conversations… No, thank you. My brain had experienced enough sound effects yesterday. If I could have chosen, I'd have booked a room with a view of complete silence. And no flies. Especially no flies.
I slept reasonably well. Not terribly, but not so brilliantly that I woke up wanting to hug the entire world.
And then something unusual happened. **This time, my alarm woke me up. Not the other way around.**
Normally, I wake up before my alarm on the Camino, as though there's an extremely irritating personal trainer installed somewhere inside my head.
“GET UP! THERE'S WALKING TO DO! SUNSHINE! KILOMETRES! SUFFERING!”
But today, the alarm actually had to do its job. Apparently, my body was a little tired after all. Which, considering yesterday's marathon, was a truly shocking discovery.
When I got out of bed, the first thing I did was check my legs. Because after more than fifty kilometres, you never know whether you'll wake up as a functioning human being or a rusty shopping trolley.
I took a few steps.
And…
**NOTHING!**
No pain. No blisters. No limping. No sensation that someone was hammering nails into the soles of my feet.
My legs felt completely normal.
“Are we all right, then?” I asked them.
Silence.
“No complaints? No strike action?”
Still nothing.
**A MIRACLE!**
After more than fifty kilometres, they were apparently ready for another shift. I don't know whether I have exceptionally good legs, incredible luck or muscles that are simply too frightened to argue with me anymore.
Whatever the explanation, it was a good sign. Because another long day was waiting for me.
And when you're walking these kinds of distances, you have to use your head as well. Which, in my case, can occasionally be quite a challenge.
You can't simply march fifty kilometres and hope your body will somehow cope. Well, you can. But the following morning, your body might report you for workplace abuse.
So I have a rule. **At least two proper breaks.**
Not the kind where you stop for thirty seconds, take a sip of water and march on. Real breaks. Take your trainers off. Let your feet breathe. Give them a little massage. Allow your toes to remember what life feels like outside a shoe.
And, above all, remind your legs that you still love them, even if your daily decisions suggest otherwise.
That's my little strategy for long stages. If you want your feet to keep working for you, you have to treat them like friends occasionally. Not like employees at a company that never pays overtime.
I packed my backpack and set off. Ahead of me lay the route from Casas Ibáñez towards Campillo de Altobuey.
The landscape here gradually opens into the agricultural countryside of La Manchuela. Vineyards, fields, long tracks and a horizon that seems to go on forever.
This stretch of the Camino de la Lana connects small towns across vast agricultural land. The usual stage division takes walkers from Casas Ibáñez through Villarto and then onwards to Campillo de Altobuey. Naturally, I decided to combine both sections into one long day.
Because apparently, I don't know how to walk normal distances.
**Why walk 25 kilometres when you can walk 50 and spend the evening questioning every decision you've ever made?**
Today's walk began exactly where yesterday's ended.
**On the flat.**
Eleven kilometres.
One enormous stretch of flat ground.
The kind where you can practically see your entire future before you've even had breakfast.
The road ahead. Fields on either side. The horizon somewhere in the distance. Nothing obstructing the view.
Apart from the slightly disturbing fact that whatever you can see far ahead is still far ahead half an hour later.
In a landscape like this, you begin to suspect someone is playing tricks with time.
You walk. And walk. And walk.
You look ahead.
Same view.
You look behind.
Same view.
If someone secretly changed the scenery, I probably wouldn't even notice.
At least my legs were happy. They liked the flat terrain. So did I.
For the first few kilometres, anyway.
Unfortunately, I hadn't managed to get a coffee that morning. Which, frankly, is a serious violation of basic human rights.
People go on the Camino to find inner peace, the meaning of life and perhaps some profound spiritual enlightenment.
Personally, I'd have been perfectly happy with a coffee with milk.
But there was no bar. No coffee.
And then the sun came up.
And with it…
**THEY RETURNED.**
My old acquaintances. My faithful companions. My very own airborne attack squadron.
**THE FLIES!**
NO!
NOT AGAIN!
Apparently, yesterday's flies had recommended me to their relatives.
“Listen, girls, there's a Slovenian woman walking down the road. She reacts brilliantly to harassment. Waves her arms, swears and performs some fascinating dance moves. Come along! It'll be hilarious!”
And they came.
All of them.
With their cousins. Aunts. Neighbours. And probably some distant relatives from the next province.
Because we're not talking about two or three flies here.
Oh no.
**AT LEAST THIRTY!**
Thirty flies around me. On me. In front of me. Behind me. Around my ears. On my arms. On my face.
They had apparently decided that I was the region's newest tourist attraction.
And this was where the joke stopped being funny.
Yesterday, I could still laugh about them. Today, I couldn't. Not even slightly.
When you've been walking in the heat for hours, you're tired, there's still a long way to go, and thirty irritating little creatures are constantly buzzing around your head, your spiritual tolerance disappears remarkably quickly.
All those beautiful thoughts about nature, peace and being at one with the universe vanish.
Only one thought remains.
**“GET LOST, YOU BLOODY FLIES!”**
I noticed that the problem was particularly bad near fields. Wherever there were fields, there were flies. And since I was walking through countryside where fields were pretty much the main attraction, I quickly realised I had a problem.
A big problem.
Not the kind you solve by taking a deep breath and thinking positive thoughts.
I tried everything. Waving my arms. Walking faster. Blowing at them. Ignoring them. Negotiating with them.
“Ladies, listen. Nothing personal. But I don't like you. You clearly adore me. This relationship has no future.”
Nothing.
They persisted.
Like people who send you a sixth message after you've ignored the first five.
“Hey, did you see my message?”
**YES, I SAW IT!**
**AND NO, I DON'T WANT TO TALK!**
The worst part was stopping to drink water.
You'd think a person could at least have ten peaceful seconds to open a water bottle.
But no.
The moment I stopped, they attacked.
One up my nose. Another on my bottle. A third on my leg. A fourth somewhere it most definitely hadn't been invited.
And judging by their enthusiasm, I suspect a few were even attempting to inspect my private parts.
**HELLO?!**
**YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO BUSINESS DOWN THERE!**
My backside had barely recovered from yesterday's rehabilitation programme, and now another front had apparently opened.
At one point, I'd had enough.
And I mean seriously enough.
Not my usual dramatic exaggeration where, after three kilometres, I announce that I'm calling a helicopter.
This time, I genuinely thought:
**“If this carries on, I'm going home.”**
Not because of the kilometres. Not because of pain. Not because of exhaustion.
Because of flies.
Imagine that.
A woman walks hundreds of kilometres, survives the heat, getting lost, forests, dogs, cliffs and accommodation where even the ghosts would demand a refund.
And then she's defeated by flies.
If that happened, my pilgrim gravestone would read:
**“Distance couldn't stop her. Mountains couldn't stop her. Thirty flies finished the job.”**
What a magnificent ending.
I had to do something, so I came up with a rather unusual fashion solution.
**I covered my head with a T-shirt.**
Yes.
A T-shirt.
If anyone had seen me, they'd probably have assumed I'd escaped from a badly organised desert expedition.
But at least I couldn't feel the flies quite so much anymore.
And that mattered far more than my appearance.
I also didn't dare wear short sleeves, because then the flies would have been free to wander all over my arms.
And I would probably have suffered a complete nervous breakdown.
So there I was, walking in long sleeves.
In the sunshine.
In the heat.
With a T-shirt over my head.
**THE FASHION ICON OF THE CAMINO DE LA LANA.**
If a fashion magazine had spotted me, the headline would probably have read:
“Autumn Collection 2026: Despair, Sweat and Psychological Instability.”
I was absolutely roasting.
But at least walking was a little more bearable.
You quickly learn on the Camino that comfort isn't always about temperature. Sometimes, sweating like you're in a sauna is considerably more pleasant than having thirty flies constantly crawling over your skin.
And then I suffered another loss.
**My beloved CM-3201 abandoned me.**
The road that had given me such peaceful walking yesterday finally went its separate way.
I had to return to the official Camino route.
“No, please, don't leave me,” I thought. “We were getting along so well!”
But the CM-3201 had its own plans.
And I had my yellow arrows.
So I found myself walking between vineyards.
Now, vineyards are beautiful. They really are.
The rows of vines stretching across the landscape give this part of Spain its own distinctive character. La Manchuela is a wine-producing region where vineyards are part of everyday life and local tradition.
From a distance, it all looks almost idyllic.
Sunshine. Vines. Earth. Peace.
You can imagine a lovely evening, a glass of wine and a conversation as the sun goes down.
Except I wasn't sitting on a terrace with a glass of wine.
I was walking between the vines.
And there were…
**EVEN MORE FLIES!**
WONDERFUL!
Apparently, I'd left the main road and walked straight into their annual conference.
If there had been thirty of them before, there were considerably more now.
“Welcome, Madam Pilgrim. We're delighted you could attend our meeting. Today's topic: How to Drive a Human Being Completely Insane in Record Time.”
But at least there was one positive thing.
**No dogs.**
Which was almost funny.
At the beginning of the Camino, I'd been afraid of dogs.
Today, I was almost starting to think I'd rather meet a dog than another fly.
Almost.
Let's not get carried away.
The countryside was wide open, with fields, vineyards and long tracks stretching out in front of me.
This wasn't the dramatic Spain you see in tourist brochures, where every bend reveals a castle, a canyon or a picturesque little village.
This was a different Spain.
Wide.
Quiet.
Agricultural.
The kind of place where the land seems to have the final say and human beings are merely occasional visitors.
The Camino de la Lana was historically connected with routes used by traders, livestock farmers and people transporting wool and other goods towards Burgos.
Walking across these vast open spaces, it's easy to imagine people travelling here centuries ago without Google Maps or GPS.
Just roads, directions, villages and their own experience.
Although I'd really like to know what they did about the flies.
Because I seriously doubt they were so spiritually enlightened that the little bastards didn't bother them.
Perhaps they simply swore at them in old Spanish.
Which would mean I have considerably more in common with those travellers than I'd imagined.
The landscape was so open that it felt as though I were walking through an endless postcard.
Except the postcard wasn't moving.
I was.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
And something interesting happens on paths like these.
When there aren't many distractions around you, you start listening to your own thoughts.
Which can be wonderful.
Or rather dangerous.
**BECAUSE TODAY, I CLEARLY HAD FAR TOO MUCH TIME TO THINK.**
And I began asking myself something I hadn't really considered properly until now.
**Do I actually want to continue along the French Way when I reach Burgos?**
The Camino de la Lana ends in Burgos, where it joins the famous Camino Francés.
And most pilgrims would probably say:
“Brilliant! Then you can carry on to Santiago!”
But I started thinking differently.
Did I really want that?
The French Way is beautiful.
There's no doubt about it.
But it's also extremely popular.
Which means…
**PEOPLE.**
Lots of people.
Pilgrims in front of you.
Pilgrims behind you.
Pilgrims in bars.
Pilgrims in hostels.
Pilgrims who want to talk.
And talk.
And talk.
“Where are you from?”
“How many kilometres today?”
“Is this your first Camino?”
“Why are you walking?”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
Dear people, nothing personal.
Really.
But this year, I'm apparently not in the mood for a live-action pilgrim social network.
On the Camino de la Lana, I have something that suits me perfectly right now.
**PEACE.**
Silence.
Space.
The freedom to walk alone with my thoughts.
Well, and the flies, but I certainly didn't invite those.
I don't need to meet new people every day.
I don't need communal dinners.
I don't need conversations about how many kilometres I've walked or what shoes I'm wearing.
And above all…
**I DO NOT NEED A SNORING ORCHESTRA.**
Because if there's one thing I genuinely don't fancy this year, it's the shared dormitories on the French Way.
Just imagine.
You finally arrive at your accommodation.
Tired.
Sweaty.
Desperate for sleep.
You lie down.
Close your eyes.
And then the concert begins.
The first pilgrim starts with a gentle bass.
The second answers with a tenor.
The third adds the sound of a chainsaw.
The fourth is apparently trying to start an ancient tractor.
And the fifth produces noises that really ought to be investigated by paranormal experts.
**THE INTERNATIONAL SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA OF SNORING.**
There's no conductor.
But everyone's playing.
Each at their own tempo.
And I'm lying in the middle of the concert, wondering whether sleeping outside among the flies might actually be the better option.
No.
I really don't want that this year.
Nor do I particularly fancy saying:
**“Buen Camino!”**
A hundred times every single day.
I know.
It's a lovely greeting.
Part of the pilgrim tradition.
And normally, I like it.
But imagine walking along a path where you meet someone every few minutes.
“Buen Camino!”
“Buen Camino!”
“Buen Camino!”
By the fiftieth greeting, I'd probably just start raising an eyebrow.
By the hundredth, I'd attach a sign to my backpack:
**BUEN CAMINO TO YOU TOO. IN ADVANCE. FOR THE ENTIRE DAY.**
Maybe I could even have a T-shirt made.
On the front:
**BUEN CAMINO!**
On the back:
**YES, YOU TOO.**
Then I could simply walk.
Without saying another word.
Besides, Santiago has never particularly attracted me.
I know that for many pilgrims, Santiago is the ultimate destination.
The cathedral.
The square.
The arrival.
The feeling of having completed something.
And I completely understand that.
But for me, the Camino has always been about more than arriving in a particular city.
I've never walked simply to collect a certificate at the end and take a photograph in front of a cathedral.
I've walked for the journey.
For the experiences.
For the landscapes.
For that special feeling when you open the door in the morning and have absolutely no idea what the day will bring.
Well, apart from flies.
I'm now fairly confident those will be waiting for me.
I've already walked the French Way twice.
**Twice.**
And both times in the most wonderful company.
Those memories hold a special place in my life.
Memories of people, moments, conversations and feelings that you can't simply recreate on demand.
And today, as I walked, a thought occurred to me that actually surprised me.
**Why should I try to rewrite those memories this year?**
Why should I walk the same route again when something different is calling me right now?
Why should I continue simply because the Camino de la Lana joins the French Way in Burgos?
Because that's what the map says?
Because Santiago is the official destination?
Because someone else thinks a pilgrimage has to end there?
No.
This is my journey.
My legs.
My head.
My decision.
And so today, somewhere between vineyards, fields and flies, I made up my mind.
**I WILL WALK THE CAMINO DE LA LANA TO BURGOS.**
That's where this route ends.
And that's where my Camino will end this year, too.
**Then I'm going home.**
No continuing along the French Way.
No crowds.
No snoring.
No hundred daily greetings of Buen Camino.
And, most importantly, no feeling that I have to do something simply because other people expect me to.
When I admitted that to myself, I felt an unexpected sense of relief.
Not because the walking was over.
There's still a long way to go before Burgos.
But because I'd allowed myself to choose my own destination.
And that's something we sometimes forget on the Camino.
We become so focused on kilometres, stages, trail markers and the final destination that we forget to ask ourselves one simple question:
**“What do I actually want?”**
Today, I answered it.
And I liked the answer.
The French Way will still be there.
So will Santiago.
Neither of them is going anywhere.
And my memories of two beautiful Caminos in the most wonderful company can stay exactly as they are.
They don't need fixing.
They don't need repeating.
**Some things are beautiful precisely because you leave them as they are.**
Meanwhile, the path continued through fields and vineyards towards Campillo de Altobuey.
This part of Spain has its own special beauty.
It isn't loud.
It doesn't show off.
It doesn't offer a spectacular view around every corner.
Its beauty lies in the wide-open spaces, the rhythm of the fields and the feeling that, for a while, you've stepped outside the everyday world.
In the distance, the outlines of small settlements slowly appear, while the tracks connect places that most tourists will probably never visit.
And that's exactly what I love about the Camino de la Lana.
Here, you don't have to compete for space on the trail.
You don't have to race to secure the last available bed in an enormous dormitory.
You don't have to walk in a procession.
You can simply be a person on a journey.
Although, admittedly, it would be considerably nicer to be a person on a journey without thirty flies around her head.
The area towards Campillo de Altobuey belongs to the agricultural landscape of Cuenca province. Fields, vineyards and long stretches of open countryside alternate along the route, and distances often look much shorter than they actually are.
That's one of the traps of this landscape.
You see something in the distance that looks quite close.
“Ah, lovely. Nearly there.”
Then you walk for half an hour.
Look up.
Still there.
Another hour.
Still there.
**“ARE YOU MOVING AWAY FROM ME?!”**
At moments like that, you genuinely begin to wonder whether the horizon is even a real thing or just a remarkably convincing optical illusion.
But the kilometres kept adding up.
And I kept walking.
With my new decision.
With my thoughts.
And, of course, with my flies.
Because apparently, I've taken out some kind of special subscription to their company on this Camino.
One that can't be cancelled.
Free delivery.
Unlimited visits.
No refunds.
As I thought about the day, I realised that the Camino had once again shown me something interesting.
Yesterday, after more than fifty kilometres, I got a breathtaking view, a cliff and a cold beer.
Today, I got something different.
**A DECISION.**
No great drama.
No special sign.
No enlightenment on top of a mountain.
Just me, a long flat road and enough time to think that I finally managed to ask myself what I actually wanted.
Perhaps that's the greatest danger of long, flat stretches.
Not that they're boring.
But that they leave far too much room inside your head.
And then you start thinking about things you successfully push aside when you're at home.
Sometimes you find an answer.
Sometimes you find another question.
And sometimes you simply realise that life would be considerably more pleasant if every fly in the world collectively decided to go on holiday.
Today, I managed all three.
And although I'd seriously considered going home that morning because of those infuriating insects, I now knew that I wasn't going home because of the flies.
I was going home when I reached Burgos.
Because that was my decision.
And that's a much better reason.
**Camino de la Lana, you and I are carrying on. All the way to Burgos.**
French Way, you can remain a beautiful memory for now.
And as for you, flies…
**YOU CAN ALL GO HOME TOMORROW.**
Seriously.
Nobody will miss you.
**Buen Camino!**
**P.S.** If I meet one more fly tomorrow that tries to crawl up my nose, I'm seriously considering patenting a beekeeper's veil for . Apparently, it's the only piece of Camino equipment I haven't bought yet.
