I think last night's accommodation was hotter than the asphalt at noon in Sevilla. Not exaggerating — the bed felt more like a hot plate, and I was flipping around on it like a fried squid, with no sauce of comfort whatsoever. Sleep? Forget it. I waited for the alarm like it was salvation, ready to finally get me on my feet. It was so hot I went and soaked a towel to lay on my head — not for the fashion statement, but to catch even a sliver of shade for my dreams.
A short night, resulting exhaustion, and an endless wish that the next place isn't an oven in the middle of Spain. I know, I know — that's part of the Camino too. But honestly, with a bit of goodwill and an even smaller fan, hosts could offer pilgrims at least an approximation of humane rest. When you go from one place to the next, you quickly notice who actually wants to offer you shelter... and who just collects your euros and serves you a heatstroke, free of charge.
The trail itself? Apparently pleasant, but who's to say — I was so sleepy I could've walked through Disneyland and not noticed a single Mickey. Yesterday I proudly set myself a goal: 45 km! Today? Reality. The pain wanted its attention and made itself known at kilometre 14, saying: "Lovely trail you've got here, but I'm here too." Since I didn't want to stuff myself with yet another painkiller, I decided to give her some attention instead. We're a couple now, no turning back.
I applied the cream, of course. It helped about as much as a band-aid helps a broken bone. In my head I ran through every possible solution, and there was only one conclusion: I need sleep, and the leg needs a break. While walking I even had a conversation with the Trail itself — yes, the Camino. Told it that if it wants to keep me around for a few more days that badly, it could do it with a gentle breeze or a cold beer, not a knife in my ankle. The Camino replied: "Would you walk less if I didn't give you pain?" And me: "No. What kind of a dumb question is that?!"
I adjusted the plan. Instead of my original destination, I picked a village a few kilometres earlier. But to be clear — "a few" meant another 15 long kilometres of limping with an Oscar-worthy grimace.
When I finally arrived in the village, the trees welcomed me. Not ordinary trees — dressed ones. Crocheted creations wrapped around the trunks, handmade, practically a fashion show in nature. Interesting — something you don't see back home, though I recognised it from the Camino Frances. This village has soul.
After arriving I — as one should — rewarded myself with the golden sin: a beer. At a bar right next to the accommodation (yes, luck exists). It was barely noon and I was already a total champion. The man who brought me an ice-cold beer in a frozen glass (hello, Michelin star service?!) also mentioned, by the way, that the check-in for the accommodation was right there with him. Jackpot — no more running around, just a quick shop trip for food and ice for the leg.
When I got the key, I had no idea what to expect. But when I opened the door... wow. A stone house, high ceilings, a big fireplace at the entrance (completely useless at 35 degrees, but very romantic for a December version of the Camino), air conditioning, a comfortable bed, a washing machine, a decent kitchen, and... silence. Not a soul around. Nirvana.
The decision was made before I even took my shoes off: I'm staying an extra day. Two days of rest, sleeping like a baby, washing clothes and shoes, and cold therapy for the legs. After the mandatory chores I collapsed into bed and slept until 10 p.m. That day I drank about 5 litres of fluids and only went to the toilet once. Bloated like a frog. Clearly low on potassium — time for bananas and salty snacks, no more philosophising.
Tomorrow's reserved for regeneration.
I walked 34.51 km and gained 283 metres of elevation. Given the state of my leg, still pretty impressive. For my ego? Not enough. But hey — screw it, that's just who I am.
