Here, the sun doesn’t ease up until 10 PM, and its consequences drag on deep into the night – and all the way into morning. Yesterday at ten in the evening, it was still 37 degrees. During the day, it was impossible to breathe outside, so I spent the afternoon as a pot of overcooked soup and passed the time watching The Osbournes. The only reality show I’ve ever watched – and always laughed at until I cried. British humour – you either get it or you don’t.
It was so hot I was literally marinated by the evening. I showered multiple times, but only warm water came out. Cold? Dream on. I knew a hellish night awaited me – no AC, no air, no mercy. Sleep? Ha! Forget it. I tossed and turned like čevapčiči on a grill(*čevapčiči are grilled sausages traditionally made in the Balkans), waiting for the alarm to save my soul at 4:00 AM.
In the end, I woke up the alarm – five minutes before it rang.
I started the day with a cold shower. Well, an attempt at refreshment with warm water. For breakfast: ibuprofen and Flogoprofen cream. Classic.
But when I reached the door of the accommodation – locked. Great. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. This wasn’t your typical Camino albergue – it was a motel with a restaurant. Which, of course, only opens at 6:30 AM. Wonderful. So there went two and a half hours of my ideal early-morning hike – straight into the bin.
The plan to walk 42.5 km today? Rip.
All I could do was crawl back into bed and wait for coffee. I was pissed. The sun was forecasted to hit 39 degrees. After 1 PM it literally sucks every ounce of energy out of your body. So the only option was to walk just 28 km today. Honestly? Those 28 felt like 50. The path was absurdly monotonous – just gravel roads, vineyards, and olive trees. Very romantic at sunrise, but only for the first five kilometres. Then I started thinking about slitting my wrists out of sheer boredom
28 km of gravel, with tiny stones “massaging” your feet like some malicious physiotherapist. I needed a real massage just to revive the will to live in my feet.
The stage? Brutal. I had to stop several times – my feet were seriously stabbing me. In the morning, only a few farmers drove past me – one clearly late for mass, another with a cramp in his right leg (the one on the gas), and the third clearly desperate to find a toilet. All three covered me in dust so thoroughly, I was breaded.
After two hours of walking, I spotted a tiny dot in the distance, wavering between left and right. I thought I was hallucinating. But no – a woman, another hiker! I was thrilled… for about three minutes.
I clocked her accent instantly: French. You never miss that. To my surprise, she spoke English – which is rarer for a French person than a quiet riot. At first, I was excited. Then quickly on the verge of a nervous breakdown – she doesn’t know how to shut up. Like, truly.
I love walking in silence. At the end of the day, I enjoy talking to people – but the walk is mine. Just mine. Since we didn’t meet in a town, there was no easy escape or excuse to rush off to some “errands.” My soul was screaming. Still 16 km to go. I wanted to shoot myself in the head.
I told her I had issues with my right foot and preferred to go at my own pace. I hoped that was a subtle hint that she should go ahead on her own. But no – she slowed down. Brilliant. Can’t wait. The road was long. But then the sun – my new best friend – started working in my favour. It drained the life out of her, and… oh, miracle… she couldn’t talk anymore. From that point on, the walk was almost bearable.
The best part? When she told me she would never walk the French Camino because there are too many people and they all talk too much. A Frenchwoman. Seriously, you’re telling me that? If the Camino handed out medals for talking, she’d already have gold.
We still arrived together. She also had a tough time – monotonous, hot, draining stage. The good news? We arrived before the noontime dog heat. The bad news? We’re staying in the same place.
Don’t get me wrong – I like people, I like socialising. I just don’t think it’s necessary to talk all the time. Really. At work, I play hostess enough. On the Camino, I wanted peace.
When we arrived, I went straight to the store for ice. Feet first, then everything else. Cryotherapy > shower > food. Priorities are clear. I still have a long way to go, and my left foot might call it quits. So foot care isn’t a luxury – it’s survival.
Pain can progress to level three. It can get worse. That left foot might fall to pieces. But if I fix it now, that’s one less cross to bear later.
Today’s journey included two patches of shade, four curves, and a whole 42 steps of asphalt. World records all around.
And what about the Pole?
The Pole is following me. Like a loyal dog. Except 30 km behind. The man is “only” 67 and, while he’s got the soul of a traveller, he’s clearly running out of energy faster than I run out of coffee in Spain. He says he can’t keep up with my pace anymore. I say: age is just a number… except when your knees give out on every other incline.
But I’ll give him this – for his age, he’s still stubborn as hell. And he does always manage to find the nearest bar with a working beer tap, even when he can barely stand. He always sends me a picture of his beer.
Day’s stats (aka “how much it costs to hate your feet”):
Distance: 27.94 km
Elevation gain: 87 m (wow, barely anything, but my ankle disagrees)
Accommodation: €18
Food: €0 (thank you, yesterday me!)
Bag of ice: €2
Total: €20 for feet, nerves, and a new sponsorship deal with Flogoprofen.
