The French Camino is one of the routes of the Camino de Santiago, an 800 km pilgrimage that crosses the Pyrenees from Saint Jean Pied de Port in France to the tomb of the Apostle St. James in Santiago de Compostela in Spain. I left Australia on the 29th of April with a short stop in Paris before commencing my walk on the 2nd of May 2025. I walked into Santiago on the 4th of June, having walked for 32 of the 34 days on the trail. I wrote a message to my family around the halfway point, that I was ‘deliriously happy’. I really was. Now that it’s over, I want to go again.

The following, are my social media posts (slightly modified here to achieve a little bit of coherence) regarding my experiences and heartfelt emotions while walking.

1st of May, 2025.

I’ve been working very hard for a very long time – but I’ve emerged from my cave – looking and feeling like a disheveled bear after a long winter underground. My PhD thesis has been submitted and I’m in Paris. I landed early this morning after a mostly uneventful flight, that reminded me of two things. 1. There’s nothing quite like having someone step on your toes to remind you to keep your shoes on when sitting in an aisle seat. 2. I’d forgotten that I’m not known for my patience with snorers – which makes me question my sanity as I’ve decided to spend the next 33 nights sleeping in mixed dorms (albergues) as I walk 800kms along the Camino – the French Way.

I expect I shall be learning a lot more about myself over the coming weeks, but I will try my best not to learn too many of those things the hard way. Anyway, with my foot only a little bit violated, and a train trip scheduled for tomorrow to take me to the Camino’s starting point, I dropped my backpack at reception and immediately set off to explore Paris. I saw some pretty cool sights too, including the Louvre (from the outside only, as I didn’t feel like lining up), and the recently restored Notre Dame, where the bells were belling, and the vibes were vibing. I found a cute cafe and bought myself some fries and a glass of champagne – because I can – and a couple of French men flirted with me which made me think that perhaps ‘I’ve still got it’ . Ha!!

Finally exhausted and walking back to my hotel, I was also congratulating myself on my great sense of direction, until I wondered why it was taking me so long to spot the Seine, which I was expecting to come across at any moment. Finally, I asked for directions and realized I was actually walking 100% in the wrong direction. Well, I guess it’s confirmed that I’ve still got absolutely no sense of direction at all. Luckily, I don’t care and I’ve got Google Maps. Also, luckily I probably only embarrassed myself a little bit when I couldn’t figure out how to turn the light on in my room and had to go and ask reception for help. Hmm, I probably should have been able to figure that out by myself. Next time for sure.

I am planning to write about my adventures over the next 5 weeks or so – if I have the energy after walking 25-30kms every day – so if anyone is interested, please stay tuned. If not, please just skip by and have a nice day

4th of May, 2025.

I made it to Saint Jean Pied de Port, the starting point of the French Camino. Felt surreal to have finally made it to the place I have been reading about for so long. Arriving in the evening, the town was buzzing with newly arrived ‘pilgrims’ – like me – buzzing around like excitable kids in a lolly shop. I found my albergue, dropped my bag off and hot-footed it to the Pilgrims Office to collect my Pilgrims Passport. However, I’d missed their closing time by 5 minutes which meant that I’d have to go back in the morning to organize this vital Camino credential. I also knew that I needed to start walking early the next day as it was said to be the hardest and longest of all the days, so I was a little annoyed with myself that I’d not gone there first.

Long before sunrise and the office opening time, I was sitting outside the office with my pack, listening to the birds waking up. It was a long wait. I chatted to a man from the US, John, who had not organized his accommodation in Roncesvalles and he was shooed out the door of the pilgrims’s office, told he needed to walk quickly to get a bed without a reservation.

At long last, I had my Camino credentials in hand, Camino scallop attached to my pack, and I was ready to go. But I felt like a disorganized mess – I had no food (it was too early for shops to open) no internet (my eSIM was playing up), and no idea where to go. Some kind locals then directed me to go uphill (well that should have been obvious). I was crossing the Pyrénées, so that was fair enough. It took eight hours of hard walking to get to the top of the pass – followed by an hour of steep, slippery descent. I had no food on me, nor had I eaten the night before. I had been unsuccessful in getting any food as planned, other than a banana, and had been betting on a Food Truck that was supposed to be some way up the Pyrenees. I finally saw it – I quickened my step and I was almost there, but 20 metres away from its glorious promise of anything edible, it pulled out of its parking spot and the driver waved to me as he passed me and several others as he drove down the road. Time for siesta. I could barely register what had just happened.

I did know in advance that the crossing was going to be hard, but that truly was a special kind of hard. It was relentlessly steep, and as we got higher, it became very windy. Windy enough to stop any forward momentum. I found out later that the wind actually blew a woman off the path down a steep hill, but I didn’t know that then. Then it started to rain, and everyone donned their sexy Camino-recommended ponchos. It’s quite a sight to see a bunch of monochromed, humped-back oompaloompas walking single file up a mountain.

Near the peak of the pass, we were surprised by a sudden storm that brought hail, lightning (just above us), and thick fog. It was one of the most epic (scariest) walks I have ever done. I was really glad to have buddied up with a couple of Australians at the time, so I wasn’t alone. The way down the other side of the peak was not easy either. Many were struggling with the slippery rocks and mud and one poor man took a hard tumble right behind me.

Finally, we arrived at the Roncesvalles monastery. It sure was a welcome sight. My Aussie friends and I were separated; diverted to our unique pre-booked dorm rooms. I was very glad that I had thought to book this place in advance because it was a very long walk to the next accommodation option. A night of good food and wine followed, with lovely people who had all just done a very hard thing.

7th of May, 2025.

I have walked 135km so far, averaging 27 km per day.

Day 5 today – I ended up in Monjardin, a beautiful little village on top of a hill, with lovely views of the surrounding countryside. I am in Basque Country. It is quite cold when you stop moving and I have finally stopped shivering after my shower. I walked most of the day with a gorgeous Swedish lady – Annelise – and we talked almost constantly about important – and not important things – so the km’s just flew by.

The scenery on this walk is actually ridiculous. It’s so stunningly beautiful it seems like it’s make-believe. Everywhere I look, it’s fields of undulating wheat fields, paths lined by wildflowers, poppies, rapeseed, and tulips. I turn my head and see a majestic church with huge bell towers of massive stones and intricately carved statues, or narrow, cobblestoned streets that appear straight from medieval times, arched Roman bridges, and grand water fountains. It makes your heart ache for the beauty of it.

The Spanish people honour the tradition of the siesta, and nobody is in a hurry. There are few cars in the towns, but many smiles and ‘Buen Caminos’ called out in greeting. Even though I don’t speak a word of Spanish – it doesn’t matter. A smile and a gesture of some kind is usually enough to get a message across. Pilgrims are treated so kindly and respectfully. Nothing is too much trouble. If you wander around a village to do some sightseeing, the locals will tell you that you are going the ‘wrong’ way. Then point you in the right direction – back on the ‘way’.

The pilgrims who walk with you, know that you’re awed and hurting – just like they are – so there is no need to waste time on banalities, leaving room only for honesty and camaraderie. While the landscape and the villages take your breath away, the fellow pilgrims and the local people restore it.

On the second night, a group of us went to a restaurant. John from the US, who I’d met outside the pilgrim’s office that first morning in the dark, was there. He was the one who’d had to rush on that first day to try to get accommodation in Roncesvalles. Turns out, he’d missed out on a bed and had needed to walk another 10 km at least. By the time he got there, he and his belongings were soaked and he was beyond tired. But on this night he was in great spirits and the conversations flowed around consciousness, free will, and many other hot topics that I could discuss with passion.

11th of May, 2025.

213km completed, and still going.

That afternoon, I was sitting alone in my top bunk having gotten out of sync with my first Camino family who included some phenomenal humans including Harvey (from Scotland), Gabi (from Panama) and Owe (from Germany). I was thinking about my sore leg and what I was going to do about it.

Two hours later, I had returned from a beautiful meal at a fancy restaurant (did you know it is ok to wear socks and sandals when you’re a pilgrim?) Viola – a gorgeous dog-trainer from Germany that I’d met along the way, turned up in my dorm, and outside, we ran into Denise and Richard – originally from Scotland but living in NZ who I’d also met at some earlier Pilgrim’s dinner. Richard is a retired pastor and simultaneously hilarious. We decided to eat together. The conversation flowed – as did the wine – and soon, I was feeling loved up and warm again.

It seems effortless. I am not resisting the magic of the Camino and it delivers time and time again. For two days, I’d walked with John – getting to know him as an exceptionally good human. Highly ranked in the Order of Malta, he is a true gentleman (one example of this, being his insistence on taking the vulnerable position when walking along a road), smart, kind, and incredibly resilient. We talked almost continuously for 2 days straight. I forced it out of him – but he has had meetings with the now-deceased pope on four occasions.

Then our plans diverged and yesterday was the first day that I walked alone. For me – solitude is growth and healing and while I had loved all of the conversations and the amazing company of those I had walked with, I was looking forward to a day on my own. For the first half of it, vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see. This delightful morning was followed by a long, incessant climb into Cirnuela. The last two hours were tough and very cold. By the time I arrived at the albergue (32km later)- sans reservation – my feet felt like minced meat, and I was shivering from the rain and the icy wind.

The owner was very direct. ‘We’re full. Keep walking.’ The next village was 6km further along, and I just couldn’t.

‘Could I sleep in your basement?’ They must have been the magic words, as he found a very nice bed for me in a very nice room shortly thereafter. Not quite sure how that worked out so well.

Today, as I was walking happily along, I managed to get hold of two of my three kids – and we FaceTimed for a while. As I topped a rise, three hot air balloons came into view, floating above Sante Domingo – my destination for the day. I could not be loving the Camino any more. It sure keeps on delivering.

May 14th, 2025.

I’m still walking. Day twelve is done and dusted. Almost 300km.

Yesterday was a very good day.

It didn’t start so well though. My left shin was giving me some grief – almost certainly the result of me favouring this leg for any big step-downs, while babying my right knee with an old injury. I diagnosed myself with shinsplints and Dr Google was not very encouraging. When I woke up in the little town of Belorado, I realized I couldn’t put any real weight on it. I normally start walking at 6am, but I waited until 8am to go and ask if I could hold onto my bed for another night, assuming that would be fine, so I could give my leg a rest.

‘Sorry, we are fully booked out’. The kind lady even called around town, and everything was booked. Not again.

‘I guess I’d better start walking.’ It was already after 8.30, and I was suddenly quite worried. My usual tactic was to get into the next place as one of the first pilgrims, to secure a bed. Now I was already two hours behind my usual schedule, and I wasn’t sure I could even walk that far with my painful leg, let alone cover any ground quickly. I was also a little worried I would do more harm to my leg, especially since I know I have strong pain threshold and I am very stubborn.

It was a very hard, monotonous day of walking through pine forests on a hard gravel road, with a strong and icy wind in my face. I could walk up hills with relative ease, but the straights were hard and the downhills almost impossible.

However, after 20km, the pain suddenly started to ease a little and by the time I hit the next town of San Juan de Ortega, it was mysteriously almost bearable. I walked into the only place that might have a bed – a monastery that doesn’t take bookings but is cheap (and a bit rough) for the authentic pilgrims who like to fly by the seat of their pants and get the full experience, i.e., me.

‘Yes – of course you can have a bed’.

What a relief. I’d made it – and I had a place to sleep. The monastery was as authentic as you could get. Stone walls, arched doorways, freezing cold, with moisture literally running down all the walls. Having secured a bottom bunk (what bliss) in a 20-bed dorm, I met a group of Scots I’d chatted to at some previous town including the lovely Harvey who I’d walked with for a day over a week ago, and Wayne, his very fast walking friend.

‘Join us for mass in the old church at 6pm’.

I was deeply moved by the service. As the Spanish priest’s voice echoed around the ancient stone walls, I was moved to tears. I’ll carry that moment with me forever.

Afterward, the Scots grabbed hold of me. ‘You’ve had mass with us, now you’ll have dinner with us too.’ My goodness – I’ve never enjoyed myself so much. There was a lot of wine, and I have never belly-laughed so much in my entire life. What a night! By the time we eventually found our way back to the dorm, the snorers were already settling into their night of disturbing the peace. Two of the Scots, their beds on the other side of the dorm to me, returned a little later than me. One of them quietly approached me with a blanket he had located somewhere and placed it over me. It was so unexpected and so kind. It was also very much appreciated since I was already shivering in my sleeping bag. Soon, the snoring turned into a cacophony of sounds – out of sync, with all the members of the orchestra seemingly represented in some fashion. I could hear the Scots – start to laugh. You know the type of laugh where you are trying not to laugh, but you just can’t help it. Then I started to laugh too (I did have a lot of wine) and others joined in as well.

That night, laughter and snores blended in perfect harmony in that freezing-cold dorm in an old monastery in San Juan.

Yes, it was a very good day.

May 17th, 2025.

Still walking. Day 15. 375km completed and I am still walking with a cheesy grin on my face. I love this so much.

For me, the hardest part of the day starts from the moment I open my eyes, and finishes when I am standing on the street with my pack securely strapped on my back, looking and feeling like an overgrown turtle – albeit much less graceful than such a majestic, minimalist creature. At that point – the absolute best part of the day begins. I walk!

I always wake up when it is still dark and begin partaking in the pilgrim dance of the early-starter, feeling around in the pitch black for the items placed carefully around me on my mattress – each item planned the night before with military precision – to be as efficient as possible. I always drag everything into the hallway to pack it into my pack there – but I am most likely making more noise in my attempt to be quiet than I would have, if I just turned on the light and got it done quickly.

Sometimes, I draw the short straw and end up spending the night 1.5 metres above floor height. This makes my getaway more difficult, with the added element of feeling more discombobulated than usual. I always hope the bunk bed will have a guard rail (not always), there will be a ladder (not always), and that the person below me won’t be snoring like a jet plane all night long (not a guarantee). This morning- the singular stool for two adjoining bunk beds, might as well have been on the opposite side of Spain. I got down somehow, without breaking any bones.

I’d walked a full day with a sweet, almost-retired Australian school teacher, Sue – and we’d turned up at the albergue without a reservation. ‘We can only take one of you’. We looked at each other. Neither of us was going to throw the other one under the bus, and we both assumed our best pleading expressions adding, ‘we’ll sleep on a mattress on the floor’.

‘Okay then’, she conceded. ‘I’ll find you both a bed.’ And with that, she promptly shut the door behind us. We were in!

Less than 10 minutes later, the owner called my name. ‘Laila – come with me. We’re going to a party’. I collected Sue on my way out the door. She was unsuccessfully trying to clean a weeks’ worth of mud off the soles of her shoes.

A community Farmer’s Festival was underway in a smoky shed down the road. ‘Try some of this’ – was repeated over and over by the kind locals – till ultimately I had remnants of blood sausage (a local delicacy), and some other mystery meats in my teeth. ‘Ok – we go now,’ said the proprietor after a short while. We obediently followed her back out into the street, and while she returned to the albergue, Sue and I detoured to the bar across the road.

Soon I found myself comfortably included in a simultaneously passionate and sweet conversation about free will, God, purpose, suffering – and many other staple conversation-topics of now-seasoned pilgrims, in this case disproportionally represented by Canadian engineers. Two of these engineers were John and Gardner who I met again many times. The night was hilarious, sweet, emotional – and oh, so real.

Sue and I walked happily together most of the following sunny day until – having different agendas – we parted ways near the town of Castrojeriz.

Approaching this town was like entering into a fairy tale. I could barely move forward, for the number of times I stopped to take photos. First, it was the beauty of the multitude of flowers that bordered the path, its obedient river of pilgrims moving along it. Next – it was the impressive church and houses nestled comfortably into the hillside. But then the castle came into view. It has been perched there since the 9th century, gazing down at the ‘peasants’ below, seemingly without a care in the world. I could almost see Rapunzel letting down her hair, except for the earthquake that must have toppled her particular tower in the 18th century. This town awed more than others have managed to do – if that was even possible by that stage.

Leaving it the next day, the sun was bright, but the air a chilly 4 degrees. The way led through more fields of wheat, followed by a continual climb out of the valley – reaching the peak, only to be greeted by the panoramic views behind me, and the Maseta in front of me – the flat plains of Spain that I will be walking across, for the next 9-10 days.

May 21st, 2025.

I think what I will remember most – once this ‘little’ walk is a distant memory – is the raw humanity. The honesty of the Camino. I’m currently sitting in a bar sipping carefully on a glass of glorious peregrinos wine – feeling pretty chuffed that I have arrived intact at my next destination yet again – with a flower tucked behind my ear this time. Another blissful Camino day behind me.

I walked alone today – which is my strong preference. I stopped many times, literally to smell the flowers and gape at the clouds. I also petted a cat, gave a young French girl a spare needle to pop her blister at the next village, and paused to stretch my achilles tendon about 35 times.

I’ve also learned a new word – ‘ambivert’. That’s me. I love being on my own – but when I’m with ‘my people’ I’m a social butterfly. And the Camino ‘people’ are ‘my people’. I just love them all. Even the snorers. I have met some absolute gems of humans here. There’s no pretense. It feels so real.

Everyone seems to be here for a reason. In the early days, the first question was invariably, ‘So – why are you walking the Camino?’ Most people had a carefully prepared answer. ‘To figure out what I’m going to do next’… ‘I’m working through a failed relationship… ’Someone I loved died, and I’m grieving’… I’ve finally retired and I’ve always wanted to do this’… ‘I need a mental break’ (me)… and so many other valid and perfectly important reasons to leave reality behind and do a ‘hard’ thing.

One of the finest people I met in the first week, told me about his wife who died tragically, just a short year ago. After a while, he said, ‘you’re a very good listener. Now it’s your turn – what’s your trauma?’ I think I might have laughed a little in my surprise. I thought very carefully though, before I responded. ‘Me? I don’t have any trauma.’ And I don’t. But the question lingered. Why am I always just a moment away from tears? And why do I carry this ridiculously heavy pack on my back? Is it penance for something I can’t remember doing wrong? I have no idea – but what I do know is that I, like most people walking the Camino, am working through something.

Funnily, now – just past the half-way point – people have stopped asking that question. It just doesn’t matter anymore. We’re all just walking. We walked yesterday, and today, and we’ll walk again tomorrow. That’s all we do now. We get up – we put things in our backpack – and we walk.

Our thoughts are most likely fairly similarly primal: ‘I might get hungry soon – I’ll probably stop at the next cafe’ … ‘I have a pebble in my shoe – can I be bothered getting it out or should I wait to see if it settles somewhere?’…‘Do I want a croissant or tortilla de potato?’… ‘Do I need to pee’…. ‘Did I put my phone back in my pocket’ (then check the pocket for the 46th time that morning)… ‘Can I actually do this?’

But here we all are. Doing it. This thing that is similarly wonderful, hilarious and terrifying at the same time.

Yesterday, I was properly mooned by a German as I walked past him in the albergue just at the wrong moment. It was pretty funny. A week ago, at dawn, a young woman came hurrying towards me up the path, going the wrong way – ‘There’s a cow, with a calf up ahead! ‘I’ve heard they’re very protective of their young!’ Me – ‘I think that’s bears. It’s okay. Let’s go on together’. It was okay. Last night, a man was having a nightmare and was screaming in his sleep. I really wanted someone closer to him in the albergue to wake him up – eventually he stopped crying. That was awful to hear. Overheard conversations – ‘That’s a new blister, that’s a new blister, and thats’s a new blister. I don’t know what that is.’

Sue – the lovely primary school teacher, came past as I was sipping my wine and we chatted about her new blister and the terrible shower in the albergue the night before. Then I got another glass of wine. Then Ken – a retired Amazon VP joined me – we continued a previous conversation (started two days earlier) about kids, sports, academic conferences, pets, the meaning of life, and resting heart rates. Then he bought me a glass of wine. Then Christian – a semi-retired French archeologist who I bonded with the day before, due to our shared laptop-carrying-burdens – joined me to finish that last wine.

Now I’ve had three wines and I’m walking 32km tomorrow. Good night everyone. Thank you for reading my rambling thoughts.

May 27th, 2025.

Day 24 and I am still walking. I’ve walked 572 kms (65 of those during the last 2 days) and while I’m always happy to find a bunk at the end of the day, I’m not actually tired. In fact I feel like I have endless energy.

I am getting used to the longer distances. My body has stopped fighting me. And I say that with the utmost respect for my body and what it is – and isn’t – capable of. In the beginning, I fought with my pack, but now I barely feel it. Around day 8, I developed shin splints that almost stopped me from continuing – but I shortened my stride and my daily distance, gritted my teeth, wore my compression socks and relied heavily on my poles for 7 days or so. Now my shin is happy again.

The physicality of the Camino shouldn’t have been a surprise – 800km is a long way. And I’m certainly not invincible. Everything can change in an instant.

Many I have met along the way, have skipped through stages via taxis or buses due to injury, overuse or severe blisters, as they try to keep up with their pre-booked accommodation. Many have stopped walking altogether – planning to return to complete the Camino next year. Some have succumbed to colds (the joys of communal living), typically taking them out for three days at a time. One poor man, had to go home just before he reached halfway, due to neglecting to bring his knee with him when he turned to answer someone calling his name. One small error after walking such a long way unscathed. It can happen to anyone.

By this stage of the Camino, everybody hurts a little somewhere. There’s a distinctive ‘pilgrim-walk’ that identifies the seasoned pilgrim from those newly-arrived on the Way. It’s an I’ve-just-got-into-town-my-shoes-are-off-and-the soles-of-my-feet-can-not-tolerate-any-more-pressure kind of waddle. It’s pretty funny really, as a night of elevation (and perhaps a few hours of quality sleep) sees us bouncing eagerly out there again for more. Nobody wants to miss a day of watching the sun rise over yet another mind-bogglingly stunning town, another church spire visible against a backdrop of colours that belong in our dreams. It’s not penance. It’s pure joy. It’s heartbreaking in its beauty. I’ve cried so many happy tears on the way it’s a wonder I have any left.

This really is a meditation as – while our eyes and ears and hearts are bathed in nature and the best of humanity – we are forced to turn deeply inwards – scanning constantly for hot spots, twinges, discomfort of any sort that might turn serious very quickly. It’s a meditation that makes the days and weeks blur into one – and one where the hardest days are rewarded with the highest of highs. It’s addictive. I don’t want this to end.

I saw a sign that said – ‘The goal is to build a life you don’t need to escape from. Where peace isn’t something you chase, but something you live every day’.

Does anyone want to sponsor me to be a professional crossing-countries walker (just joking- sort of )? Why can’t this be reality?

Some amazing people entered my life during this period. Kristine from Austria, my Camino angel who became an integral person on the Camino, and I expect, for the rest of my life. Aline, from Brazil, with who I shared many random meetings but who’d I’d bonded with quickly through some heavy mutually life-altering conversations, and a shared cappucino loaded with so much cream that it resembled a Christmas tree. Michael, the very talented guitar-playing musician and his friend and author, Linda Oatman High (a very talented author), both of whom I had dinner with one night, played a competitve game of UNO with another night, and walked with another day. Then there was Father Tommy from the US who I respect from the bottom of my heart. If that wasn’t enough, I also met Father Peter and his wife Deidre again in Leon and shared a glass of wine and catch-up on their progress. They were bussing a lot of stages due to Deidre succumbing to a virus and an incessant cough, but both were in good spirits.

May 31st, 2025.

Still walking. 29 days so far. I arrived in Sarria today – a shorter day after five consecutive 30+km days and my feet are grateful to be up for a change. I got my first blister yesterday. I might have been getting a bit smug – so the Camino put me back in my place .

I’ve been walking mostly on my own for the last few days. Right now, this is my preference. There has been a subtle shift in the vibe – and I think it’s not just me. While there are still some very small groups on the trail, many now walk alone. I have walked without seeing a single human for hours on end and when another pilgrim does cross my path, a quick smile – ‘Hola. Buen Camino!’ and we pass each other by, like ships in the night, relieved to be alone again.

Everyone seems equally deep in thought. Introspective. Conversation now seems a disruption to the peace of the trail. The necessary conversations have been had already – unplanned revelations of personal information to strangers, dolled out in snippets at a time to different people. Therapy through talking – anonymous and safe, while deeply listening to others, repeating back and challenging narratives, like experts with advanced degrees in caring. The Camino has already delivered the coincidences – the pain – the mistakes that delivered the better outcomes – the right people at the right time.

Now many are walking alone. And there is so much to gain from that. I have heard many stories from women who started walking with a friend – the friend went home, and now they walk alone. They invariably describe an unexpected and sincere preference for their new situation. They now leave their albergue before dawn, because that is their preference, no longer having to wait for their friend who preferred a slow start. They stop to take the photo – not worrying about inconveniencing their faster walking mate. They discover they are capable of finding accommodation, food, the right path, being silent. It is liberating.

I have asked – because I am sincerely interested to learn if my experience is unique – ‘Are you afraid?’

They think deeply for a moment and all answer the same. ‘No. Not ever.’ This seems a common sentiment by those who have found their power on the Camino. ‘I feel safer here than I do at home.’ Here, they walk in the dark. They ask strangers for directions. They enter the forest. They sleep in a mixed dorm, barely registering that they are the only female.

For many, the Camino births the thing that was always there. Courage. I hope they bring it home.

In my first few days, when others realized I was walking alone, many told me – ‘You are very brave’. I always answered. ‘No. It would be brave if I was afraid – but I’m not afraid.’

I’ve traveled solo many times. I’ve learned that I am capable – not invincible, and I certainly make mistakes – but I am always able to figure ‘it’ out. That makes me unafraid.

I also love that I can attend to the messages from my body and adjust accordingly when I am alone. It is invariably when I walk with others, that I speed up to match their pace – and hurt some body part in the process.

Don’t get me wrong – I love the social part too. The people here are ‘my people’ and they are what I write about in my journal every night. But I am reflecting now on the other side of the coin. When I focus too much on the other person (which I know I do) I miss things – the magic moments that require careful attention.

Two days ago, I followed a rabbit as it hopped over the path. It led me to a field of yellow flowers growing wild. I lay in the flowers for a while. Then I put my phone in a tree and took a selfie. I needed to be alone to do such a ‘silly’ thing.

Yesterday, all day, I’d wanted so badly to put my feet in the river visible far below the road I was following. In the late afternoon, I managed to find my way down to it. It wasn’t that easy and might have been annoying to someone else. I soaked my feet (the water was icy cold) and I had a little picnic for dinner. I was alone, but I did not need to share the moment with anyone to enjoy it fully and I stayed precisely until the moment I wanted to leave.

The Camino experience seems to keep changing as you progress along it – but provides just what you need when you need it.

June 1st, 2025

By the time I’d reached Leon (day 22), I’d finally succumbed to a widespread Camino anxiety to book accommodation in advance after a few ‘close calls’ when I was already footsore and really did not want to walk any further. In hindsight, I was however, rather overzealous in my predictions of how far I might like to walk on my remaining days and ended up with five consecutive 30+ km days. I might have kicked myself, if my legs had been able to move freely enough to reach anywhere kickable. I also hadn’t considered the terrain at all when I planned those days and two of them in particular – day 25 (Murias de Rechivaldo to el Acebos), and day 28 (Vega De Valcarle to Tricestalla) were brutal on my achilles tendons since both days involved a great deal of climbing.

The funny thing about pain though was that I only seemed to be able to feel one source of it at a time. If my left tendon was sore, my right one took a break. And vice versa. On my third last day, I came down with pretty severe gastro, and while I suffered with that, I felt no pain anywhere at all. The brain is a mysterious and miraculous thing.

The Camino also delivered some more gifts in some lovely people who continued to keep coming in and out of my life at just the right moments. Especially Kristine from Austria – my own heart-felt Camino angel. The places and times we reunited along the way were too many and too unlikely to be anything but supernatural (I say this tongue in cheek – but I also am starting to wonder whether these things might be orchestrated). Cathy from Australia – who I met in the first week, and our paths kept aligning till the last day, despite different walking speeds. John and Gardner from Canada.

Coming into Sarria, felt bittersweet. We had been warned that the ‘feeling’ of the Camino would change from this point onwards. It was here that other Camino paths converged, and also the place where people, wanting to complete A Camino, and qualify for a Compostela by completing just the last 100km – could begin. The Camino Handbook even has a special section, reminding those who have walked from France, to be kind and tolerant of other pilgrims in the final section, regardless of their starting point. By this time, we had already seen pilgrims beginning in later sections, and it was easy to tell them apart. Firstly, their clothes were much too clean – and their pants not sagging around their butts. Also, their bags were still shiny – not the mud-splattered, fraying, thinned and stretched out fabric-receptacles of a month’s worth of belongings soaked with blood, sweat and tears. (Too much?) I once had the most unkind urge to grab a handful of dirt and rub it into the sweet-smelling, just-out-of-the-camping-store-bag, adorned with a fresh Camino badge lovingly stitched dead-centre below the perfectly red-ribboned tied scallop, as the young man skipped gracefully ahead of me. I resisted the urge successfully, but it was close.

The long-walkers also have a certain ‘look’ that makes them easily distinguishable from newcomers. Their walk, for starters. It conserves energy. It is a low, lumbering gait. Their strides are methodical and careful. Their gaze is directed forward and slightly down but constantly and evenly scanning the surroundings – for yellow arrows, toilet opportunities, pettable cats and dogs, and coffee shops. The newcomers are still learning that a movement that is unplanned and spontaneous is fraught with danger; a strain or a stumble leading to a twisted knee or worse. (I had this persistent fear of snapping my achilles tendon, thanks to the poorly-timed anecdote of a well-meaning pilgrim who knew someone who’d come so far, only to tear hers at the n’th hour). Additionally, the excited babble and new introductions were left behind weeks ago. For most of those who’d already walked a long way – finding the necessary enthusiasm to engage like this, seemed beyond reach. A ‘buen camino’ was the most we could possibly offer.

June 2nd, 2025.

After all my big talk of feeling full of energy and as fit as I’d ever felt – three days out of Santiago, I hit a little glitch.

I really wouldn’t recommend getting gastro on the Camino. Especially not when your ongoing accommodation is locked in (including your onward travel arrangements). I spent a really awful night in an albergue where I can only apologize profusely to those who shared the room with me. With 25km to walk that day – and embarrassed – I left in the dark. I really had no business walking that far. You’d think I would know better, but true to character, I turned down offers of help. About 10km later, having diverted off the path several times already, three people who I’d met many times along the way, all converged by chance at the entrance to a town: John and Gardner, the engineers from Canada, and Kristine from Austria. Noticing I was not well, they also offered to help. I continued to stubbornly refuse to let anyone carry my bag. My Camino-angel however, insisted on walking with me and located a pharmacy where some magic pills were procured (Gastro-Stop in Australia). Note to self: do not leave home without Gastro-Stop ever again. Kristine was incredibly kind and while she’d already walked much further than me that day (having started in a town at least 10km before my starting point, she continued to walk slowly beside me, for at least 15km until she could see that I was feeling better and good to continue on my own. How she’d appeared yet again, out of the blue at just the right time and place, continues to astound me.

The days that followed were shorter walking days, planned while in Leon, to enjoy those last days of walking as I neared my destination. The weather was a little dreary, and the scenery a little less impressive than the majestic vistas I had become accustomed to. I was also feeling pre-emptive sadness that the Camino was nearly at an end. There was no relief that I was nearly there – I just wanted to slow down to stretch it out.

Looking at the photos I took over those few days, I don’t look very happy. I suppose this was understandable in light of my ongoing tummy problems, but it was more than that. Walking into Santiago de Compostela felt wrong. I really hadn’t built it up in my mind and I knew there would be nobody to greet me since I’d planned a shorter day and knew I’d be ahead of anyone I might meet up with, but I expected some feeling of elation, pride, joy as I entered that square. I walked around for a while, then sat down and leaned against a pillar, looking at all the people milling around – posing for photos. I couldn’t feel any of it. I texted my family to tell them I’d arrived but hadn’t been clear that I had actually finished walking.

“So have you arrived?” my beautiful mother asked, confused by my text.

“Yes! Not sure what to do next. No more signs to follow.”

“Congratulations Laila,” she responded. “No more signs, meaning that you can walk whichever way in life you want. And that’s what you’re going to do.”

Oh, right to the heart. I sat there for about an hour, crying a little on and off before realizing that this wasn’t going to do me any good. I got up and sought out my Compostela which was surprisingly easy to get, with a very efficient system in place at the Pilgrims Office. Then I resumed my spot in the square waiting for the time I could check into my accommodation. Then the sun came out. This was followed almost instantly by the appearance of a man I knew well. Rolf from the Netherlands had arrived in Santiago the day before, having walked a couple of 40km days. Three nights ago, we’d had the most intense, personal, and healing conversation I had ever experienced. And here he was, to welcome me and it was a truly joyous feeling to see such a friendly face. He took a photo of me lifting my bag above my head – for me – a symbol of the burdens I’d carried for 800km, whose butt I kicked. Then we went to get a glass of wine. We eventually said our goodbyes.

I was walking towards my accommodation when I heard my name. It was the two Scots, Harvey and Wayne, with whom I’d shared a wonderful night at the Monastery after my very difficult but very good day. They’d also arrived the day before and it was pure delight to see them again. Later, after checking into my accommodation, I bumped into Aline from Brazil who’d only just arrived. Then I saw Cathy from Australia. There were some really lovely reunions to be had that day after all. Funnily enough, the next day, I saw Rolf one last time about 1 km from the centre of town. Small world indeed.

Day 34 + 5.

I am resting up in Porto Portugal before I head back home. It’s nice to be still for a while. I have a lovely apartment overlooking the river in the old part of town. From my vantage point on the lounge, I have a view of the river through one window, and a neighbouring rooftop, where a seagull has been diligently caring for her two chicks, through another. I feel invested in their wellbeing. She is doing a great job.

I’ve been in contact with a few of the people I met on the Camino. Kristine is with her husband now, traveling around Europe in their mobile home. Sue has finished walking and is also resting up with her friend somewhere in Porto. Christian the French Archeologist is back home with his wife. Gardner and John walked all the way to Finestera. They are going back to Canada, to plan their next action-packed vacation. Cathy decided not to walk on to Finestera. She is in Madrid waiting for her flight home to Australia. Meanwhile, she found a good restaurant near her hostel and is enjoying some vegetables.

I’ve been thinking a lot. About the people mostly. Despite my fervent declaration before I left home that I hoped I wouldn’t have to talk to too many people on the Camino, I was really wrong about what I thought I needed. It was connection that I needed – and to get that, I needed to be vulnerable. I have done that and then some. I have risked opening up and trusting people with my heart. Nobody let me down. That was a surprise.

I also had space and time to relax into conversations and to listen properly and I learned so much from that. The Camino was about the people who walked it, not the dirt or the rocks or the views or the arrows or the flowers – though they were good too.

I’ve also learned that you burn a lot of calories, when walking 800 km with a 12 kg pack on your back. I lost a lot of weight. My clothes are hanging off me, but I know I’ll put most of it back on once I get back home. When I walked into Santiago, I had no pain and I felt completely free in my movements. I reflected on the famous Camino saying: “If you start like a old man, you finish like a young man. If you start like a young man, you finish like an old man.” Well, I’d started like a young man (woman) – turned into an old woman (shin splints and tendonitis) but luckily was able to adjust enough things so that I ended up finishing like a young woman. That was good.

Here in Porto, I’ve gone on some long walks, but I feel a little intimidated by the noise, the traffic, and the exuberance of all the tourists. I’ve also seen enough historical sites to last me a good long while, so I’m happy hanging out in my apartment writing and watching Netflix, and seagulls.

I’ve been thinking about all the crazy coincidences – the people who turned up in all the same places at the exact times as each other, that seemed to defy logic or chance. The sheer amount of people who were walking, and the infinite variation in distances and schedules and albergues and breaks and side trips – the probability of some of those repeated meetings is surely very low … but there you are.

I certainly haven’t worked anything out and my beliefs are ever-evolving. What I think right now – not that I have a clue – is that it’s mostly just semantics. Most people believe in ‘something’ but just call it different things. The universe, God, the matrix, the Camino. I learned that for me, God is found outside in nature. I cannot find him in a church. And I was in nature a lot these past few weeks.