Finally I decided on the Camino de Santiago, specifically the approximately 800-kilometer-long Camino Francés, probably the most popular and frequently traveled route, because to everyone's relief there I would definitely not be alone.
The Camino Francés goes from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France, across the Pyrenees through Navarre, then on through the Basque Country, La Rioja, Cantabria, Asturias, and Castile and León to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. The route encompasses several climate zones, but in June it shouldn't get so cold at night that I would freeze in my tent. Of course I could sleep in one of the many available hostels, but that's precisely what I don't want. I want to camp. And I still have a whole year to plan and prepare myself mentally. 

I packed my rucksack almost completely six months in advance, leaving only a few small items to be removed, but I never actually did a test hike with it. According to my bathroom scale, the sack weighs nine kilograms, so it will quickly reach eleven to twelve kilos once I add water and food. As far as hiking itself is concerned, I am in good shape. I've worn my hiking boots on quite a few long hikes, so I'm not too worried. However, I've never actually hiked with this much gear on my back, and certainly not for distances of at least twenty kilometres every day for several weeks. The contents of my rucksack will most likely change from time to time, but for now it includes all the things I can't imagine ever being without.

So this is my packing list:

Tent, down sleeping bag, sleeping mat (slightly shortened to reduce weight), rain poncho, sandals, collapsible bowl, two small gas canisters, mini stove, titanium pot, three-litre water bag, washcloths as towels, toiletries and creams (all in mini containers), first-aid kit and plaster strips, sun hat, collapsible drinking cup and daypack for afternoon sightseeing, bum bag for valuables, sports watch, power bank, MP3 player, cords, tick tweezers, whistle, pocket knife, headlamp, earplugs, clothespins, small carabiners for attaching things to the backpack, journal and pencil, a bag with instant coffee, tea bags, sugar and milk powder, and finally my scallop shell, the symbol of the Camino, which I will attach to my rucksack. For clothing, I am taking long wool trousers and thin hiking shorts. In addition, two T-shirts, a very thin and feather-light linen blouse, a light windbreaker and a fleece pullover. Two sets of underwear are sufficient; anything not currently being worn dries freshly washed on the rucksack.

In the end I left my rain pants and water bottle at home. I don't bother if my legs get wet, and a regular PET bottle weighs less. Every gram counts! I even sawed off the end of my comb and broke off the handle of my toothbrush. Whether that makes any difference in the end remains to be seen.

Here I go. For days now my feelings have been swinging between "I want to leave immediately" and "I don't want to leave at all." For some reason it feels like I am abandoning my friends and family, just going away and never coming back. It's so strange. I only got back the day before yesterday from a three-day European tour of Budapest, Athens, and Glasgow, and then yesterday I just sat around doing nothing. I cried a lot - could it be the excitement? As a flight attendant though I am used to being away all the time, and I am experienced with adventures, so what am I afraid of? And is it even fear or am I just uncertain, because this time I have absolutely no idea what to expect in the next six weeks?

When I finally shoulder my rucksack on the morning of June 6th and close the door behind me, my legs feel like jelly. My hands are soaking wet, and I feel nauseous as I sit on the bus to the train station. I feel like everyone is staring at me, and I wonder how many people actually notice the scallop shell on my rucksack and know what it is all about. To be honest, I didn't know either until recently: the shell is a symbol of pilgrims on the Way of St. James to Santiago de Compostela, where the tomb of St. James is located, the patron saint of pilgrims. I thought to myself, even though I am not on a pilgrimage in the religious sense, maybe I should still tie one of these shells to my backpack. And because my husband David never throws anything away, he still had a few scallop shells left over from his last scallop meal decades ago, one of which he lovingly sacrificed for me.

My journey to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port will hopefully proceed as follows:
I have now arrived at Herne train station. From here I am taking the train to Cologne and then the Thalys to Paris-Nord. Once I get there, I will be walking to Montparnasse, which is on the other side of the river Seine Here I have booked a bed in a 4-bed hostel room. Pitching my tent in the middle of Paris seems rather unrealistic to me.
Morgen fahre ich dann weiter nach Bayonne und schließlich nach Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, wo ich am frühen Nachmittag ankommen sollte. 

Paris-North

The whole journey is rather uneventful, as neither I miss my train, nor is there a public transport strike in Paris, contrary to my assumption. Arriving at Paris-North station, I wander somewhat aimlessly around the building, unable to find the restroom. When I finally locate it, I remember that I don't have any small change, as it would weigh too much. My bladder is pressing, and I am about to hold out my floppy hat to beg for a small donation when I spot a card reader next to the coin slot. Amazing, I think, never before I had paid for my needs with a credit card. And then there I am, standing in the small cubicle with my bulky rucksack on, turning left and right, trying to squat down and drop my trousers. I'm still quite clumsy with the technique as the rucksack feels rather heavy now, and I wonder once again whether I should take it off or keep it on for comfort while doing my business. It is as if I suddenly weigh ten kilograms more, hopefully I will get used to it quickly. In the end I kept it on my back, in case anyone is interested, but it was an act of balance.

Now I have an eight-kilometres walk to my hostel in Montparnasse ahead of me. I walk past Notre Dame along Rue Saint-Martin, heading south. In places the scallop shell symbol is embedded in the pavement, and I realise I am already on part of the Camino de Santiago. Along this busy main road, however, it is awful. It is dirty, crowded and noisy, and I am constantly accompanied by police and ambulance sirens. Plus it is incredibly hot! I have far too little water and buy a new bottle in a small shop. After I pay, the shopkeeper asks if he should also refill my empty bottle which I gladly accept, and promptly my rucksack weighs two kilos more.

Arriving at my hostel, I get my first taste of the pilgrim's life. I am assigned the top bunk in a small room located in a sort of courtyard. This room has a certain cosiness to it though as each bed has a curtain for some privacy. It reminds me a bit of the crew bunks on our airplanes. 

Dawn awakens the blackbird. Its song accompanies me through the empty streets of Paris Montparnasse on my way to the train station. The air is cool and somehow purified. In the distance, I glimpse the Eiffel Tower - how exciting! I am looking forward to the day ahead and everything that is yet to come. There is something special about simply living in the moment and not having to worry about anything, except perhaps figuring out how to get to the right platform. Weird, I must have entered the station through a side entrance, there is not a soul in sight, no train, no café. Nothing but empty tracks, and I can't make sense of the display showing the departure times either. I wander in every direction until, at the end of a tunnel, I see people and warm light. And indeed, everything turns out alright at the end of the tunnel. I soon get all the information I need and can enjoy a nice Café au lait"Nothing can go wrong now," I think and promptly board the wrong train. Luckily, since my seat number doesn't exist here, I realise my mistake in time. A fellow passenger explains that my train is the one directly behind this one on the same tracks. Could it get any more confusing?

Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port

Bayonne. From here it's just a short train ride to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. I have a layover of about an hour, so I am waiting outside in the sun. As I stand there wondering where I might find something to eat, a cheerful-looking, grey-bearded man wearing a rucksack comes out of the station and stops abruptly when he sees me.
»Do you speak English?« he asks with a broad grin, slowly approaching me. The friendly pilgrim's name is Andrew, and he is from Australia. We hit it off immediately and are delighted to have made our first Camino acquaintance and not have to wait for the train alone. Like little children with their new toys, we show each other our gear, especially everything we think will prove particularly useful. For example, Andrew carries a tennis ball with him, which he uses to massage the soles of his feet at the end of a hard day's hiking. In return, I proudly present my collapsible washbasin and my 20-gram mini-stove. We talk almost non-stop, so much so that a female pilgrim next to us assumes we have been friends for a long time and are walking the camino together. And yes, it almost feels that way.

In Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port we go directly to the pilgrim office. This is where pilgrims receive their Credential, the pilgrim's passport, in which they ideally collect stamps daily from now on in order to prove at the end that they have actually walked the camino. However, only the last one hundred kilometres are truly important in order to receive their certificate in Santiago at the end of the pilgrimage, the Compostela at the end of the pilgrimage in Santiago.

For those who would like to read more about it, klick here .
I already have my pilgrim's passport and am registered as well. Nevertheless, I would like to get my first stamp and some information here.

Tonight I won't be camping, instead I am treating myself to another hostel. There is simply nowhere here where I could discreetly pitch my tent. Before checking in though, I am going to have a couple of beers with Andrew. We get along really well. We chat about this and that, including how dependent he feels in every way and how he hopes that will change on the Camino de Santiago. Making it from Australia to France on his own is already a huge achievement for him. He also wants to stop drinking so much. Loneliness, he says.
I really like Andrews Australian accent and enjoy listening to him. Instead of »yes« he always says »yeeeh«, sometimes even »yeeeeeeeeh«, although I think that is probably more of an Andrew thing than a typical Australian one. 

In the hostel, I have a four-bed room to myself which I find very pleasant. Less pleasant, however, is the lack of bed sheets. The pillow is so thick and hard that I am using my garment bag as a pillow instead. It will be my pillow anyway in the days to come when I sleep in my tent, so this is a first test. The bathroom is very dirty, and everything generally looks rather dingy. 

I feel a bit lonely as I wander through the streets of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, looking for a nice place to have dinner. But then I actually run into Andrew, who is also looking for a restaurant. As we continue walking together, we meet a Japanese woman who also travels alone, and suddenly there are three of us. The young woman's name is Aki, and she lives in Canada. We make a great trio and enjoy a pleasant evening together.
Andrew is unintentionally funny. At one point he says he is 51 years old but then mentions his birth year, 1970. I hesitate because that is also my birth year, and I am definitely not 51 anymore.
»Say, Andrew, don't you think you are 52?« I ask. That look, while his mind is working and then the realisation hits him.
»Oh yeeeeeeeeh, crikey! I keep thinking I am 51, but that is not true at all«, he confesses, surprised and visibly shocked, whereupon he has to have another drink. 

It is still dark when I wake up. There is a clattering sound above me, as if people were walking around in ski boots. The old wooden floors creak when I hear voices in the hallway. Oh please, it is still the middle of the night! Besides, my head hurts, I would love to sleep some more! But there is no point in doing that so I get up. After all, I have something planned for today and that is crossing the Pyrenees! 

As I walk downstairs into the corridor, I see a few pilgrims sitting at the breakfast table enjoying fresh croissants, fragrant coffee and orange juice. With my rucksack already on and about to leave, I ask the hostess if breakfast is included in my booking. Her answer is short and clear: No! No attempt to ask if I might still want breakfast or at least a coffee, for a fee of course - no, she turns away and doesn't even bother to say goodbye, let alone wish me a buen camino Fine then. Who needs breakfast before a hike of over twenty kilometres and 1400 metres of elevation gain anyway? Au revoir et bon débarras, I think, and at 6:30 I leave the hostel.

In a bakery across the river I buy a horrible tasting cappuccino and half a baguette. The saleswoman simply places the bread on the counter, a paper bag costs extra. 
And then the big moment has come. Reverently I placed one foot in front of the other, knowing that for the next few weeks I would be doing nothing else. My Camino de Santiago has begun.

The Pyrenees

My first hiking-day is already quite challenging, because today, as I said, I am crossing the Pyrenees.
As soon as I leave the main street of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port behind, the path climbs steeply uphill on an asphalt road. It is wonderfully peaceful. The rising sun bathes the beautiful landscape in a warm light, the birds are chirping, and the roosters are crowing. This is exactly how I imagined it. Surprisingly I see very few pilgrims, and although their numbers increase throughout the day, the crowds remain quite low.

Kites circle overhead, and sheep graze in the meadows or lie dosing in the sun. Foxgloves and other flowers line the roadside, it is beautiful.
At a point where the path winds, I sit down for a rest, leaning against a large rock near a slope, when Andrew comes waving up the hill. He and Aki had booked beds in advance for tonight at the Refuge Orisson , just eight kilometres away, as they don't want to walk too much on their first day. It is not that far from here now, much to Andrews regret, because he would much rather continue walking today. 

The Refuge Orisson is an old stone house nestled in the mountains between Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and the Col de Bentar. Inside it mainly consists of a bar and a restaurant. The beds for pilgrims are located nearby. The owners only accept pilgrims who have hiked up the mountain independently, everyone else is turned away. When I arrive, not much is going on. I would have loved to try the advertised soup, but according to the owner, it is too early so the soup isn't ready yet. Instead, Andrew and I sip cappuccinos and as we sit there, Aki bursts in, grinning broadly. She has hoped to find us here and immediately orders a round of beers. Sensible as I sometimes am, I decide against alcohol, since unlike the two of them, I still have a few kilometres to hike. So instead of beer, Aki buys me a banana. Very thoughtful.

Just before I continue on my way, the soup is hot. As I go to collect my pilgrim's stamp at the counter, a young pilgrim in front of me in line orders a bowl of it.
»Is there no bread with it?« he asks the innkeeper as he takes his bowl. The innkeeper reacts almost indignantly and replies with a strong French accent, »No man, but you can buy sandwich.«
The hungry pilgrim says nothing, just looks somewhat confused, and walks away with his soup. I am on the verge of intervening, because six euros for a bowl of soup in a pilgrim hostel strikes me as pure extortion. As soon as I sense injustice, I can not hold back, and remaining silent here now is a real challenge for me.

I am enjoying the company of Andrew and Aki and would have loved to stay, but I definitely want to reach Spain today. Gosh, how that sounds! But it is true, Roncesvalles is already in Spain, in the Navarre region of the Basque Country. Somewhere there I will have to find a place where I can pitch my tent discreetly. Wild camping is forbidden in Spain, but it is tolerated along the Camino de Santiago as long as you follow certain rules, which are: pitch your tent after sunset and take it down before sunrise. Do not camp visibly on the trail due to visual pollution, not on private land or in a nature reserve, no fires and no litter. I think this is it.

The landscape here reminds me a lot of Scotland. Soon I can hardly see any trees, which is probably less due to the altitude and more to the harsh climate. Some gusts of wind are so strong that they almost knock me over. And the rucksack is so heavy. Its weight makes me stagger easily.

The first water source comes nine kilometres and 550 meters of elevation later. It is the famous Roland's Spring. Legend has it that here, in the eighth century, the knight Roland blew his horn during the Battle of Roncesvalles, and that Charlemagne drank from the spring. Instead, I am sitting here eating my potato chips. A significant moment too, one that won't go down in history, but for me certainly is more significant than the legend of Roland and his horn.

My Campsite

In the distance I can make out the walls of the Roncesvalles monastery. From now on, I will have to keep my eyes peeled for a suitable place to sleep. I am still completely uneasy, constantly thinking that someone is watching me.

Just before reaching the town, I pass a hillside with wild horses, and beyond it is a wooded area with a slightly sloping meadow in front. Small bunkers are built into the ground here, it looks almost like the Shire from Lord of the Rings. I like it here, and I decide to pitch my tent right at the edge of the woods. The ground is a bit uneven though, so I push the surrounding leaves together to create a soft, even surface. Not far behind me, the wind is blowing gustily up a slope, so strongly that I have to guy out the tent. 

Once everything was set up, I cooked myself some instant noodles in the lee of my tent. Not particularly nutritious, but I will make sure I get a proper meal tomorrow. Right now I am just exhausted and tired. I eat my noodles a little further away on the meadow and notice that it is much calmer here, and also much nicer and brighter than over there at the edge of the woods. There is also a bush here that will definitely conceal my tent, so I won't be seen from the road. Without further ado, I loosen the tent pegs and carry the assembled tent to its new spot. Yes, this is much better. And it is perfectly hidden by the bush.

It is not dark yet when I go to sleep. The crickets are chirping, and I admit it is a little bit eerie. I am not afraid as such, it is just all so new. As I am getting ready for bed in the woods, I discover a horse's jawbone while peeing. I can only hope the animal died of old age and not from wolves or something. With that in mind, good night.

Distance: 23km / Steps: 43106

I found the following video on YouTube. It shows the route from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Roncesvalles in time-lapse. Except for the end, where I walk a bit more carefully to protect my knees, this is the exact route I take.

Everything is damp when I wake up in the morning. Right next to my tent, a blackbird is serenading away with its sober medley of notes, unlike anything I have ever heard from a songbird of this species. As I wriggle out of my sleeping bag whistling in return, hoping to encourage the blackbird to try something different, it starts to drizzle. I don't want to put anything on the wet grass, so I carry my things into the woods, where it's still relatively dry, and get myself organised there. Dark clouds are gathering in the sky, and I can't help thinking about Andrew and Aki, who have to cross the Pyrenees today in this weather.

The tent is quickly taken down and packed away. Shortly before eight I say goodbye to my friends, the unimaginative blackbird and the horse jaw, when I spot my bag of food hanging from a tree branch as I pass by. I hung it there last night a little further away from the tent, just in case some hungry forest creature showed up and mistook my sleeping quarters for a pantry. I almost forgot it.

About half an hour later I reach the historic pilgrim hostel Orreaga in Roncesvalles. This former monastery was converted into a hostel as early as the year 1127 to offer accommodation and food to pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela.

I didn't see a single person the entire way here, and even now there is nobody around for miles, certainly no shop or café. A small path leads past a dilapidated building to an archway. I go through and find myself in a huge courtyard. Everything seems deserted, there is absolute silence. The gloomy weather enhances the atmosphere. I spot another archway on the opposite side, could that be the entrance to the hostel? I go through and find myself in front of yet another archway, and then there is a door. It looks locked, but if not here where else could the way to the pilgrim's office be? Did I come in through a back entrance again? 
I cautiously open the door and see a staircase leading upstairs into warm light, and I can hear the occasional voice. And there is the smell of coffee! I walk upstairs and find myself in the middle of the hostel's breakfast room, but there are no pilgrims to be seen. Instead there are cleared tables, only a few still have place settings with breakfast-cake, jam, orange juice and an apple. A few of the volunteers are bustling about, and when one of them spots me, she looks at me with wide eyes. From the outside, from the forest I come, I initially want to say, but I refrain and politely ask for a coffee and something to eat.
»Como? Pardon?« the woman asks confused. Oh dear, what’s the Spanish word for breakfast again? I gesture as if I were eating, whereupon a torrent of Spanish words washes over me. From the few words of Spanish I know I understand that only pilgrims with a certain ticket get breakfast. And that only applies to those who stayed overnight at this hostel. But I could have a coffee.
Well, I see I need to bring out the big guns. So I put on a deeply pitiful face and thank her for the offer of coffee, it would certainly help prevent me from collapsing from exhaustion. That does the trick. It isn't long before the woman comes back to ask if I would perhaps like some bread as well.
»Oh, si, muchas muchas gracias! Thank you very much!« I reply, and slump heavily into a chair. I am then served a delicious coffee, a plate with a large slice of toasted bread, a croissant, butter, honey and jam. I practically devour everything, because I am truly hungry. After all the exertion yesterday and the meagre dinner at my tent, my body is screaming for food. I would have loved to eat another portion like that, but I am grateful and leave a generous tip. It is not at all common for hostels on the Camino de Santiago to let in and serve pilgrims from outside in the morning, something I don't yet know at this point of my journey.
I get my stamp from the pilgrim's office and then I set off towards Zubiri, my destination for today.

Thunderstorm

I walk for a long time without seeing any other pilgrims. The way is beautiful and leads through a lot of ancient forest. I cross rivers and pass through small villages like Burguete, or Auritz in Basque. If it weren't for the brick-lined ditches on both sides of the road instead of pavements, I would assume I was strolling through a village somewhere in Hesse.
I almost miss the turn here because I didn't see the yellow arrow marking the usual route. Instead, as if by some miracle, I happen to glance at my map because I want to know the name of the place I am in. If I hadn't done that, I would have just kept walking straight ahead.

In the distance, I see flashes of lightning, and there is an ominous rumble of thunder. I manage to walk a few more kilometres before it starts to rain just before I reach Espinal. I put on my yellow Mickey Mouse poncho, walk quickly until I reach the village and find shelter in a doorway just as the storm really breaks. I work my way from door to door, hoping to find a café where I can comfortably wait out the rain. Instead I come across a French woman named Anne, who has also taken shelter in a house. Anne suggests we run to the church diagonally opposite, which we do. We call out to another pilgrim who is also looking for a dry place, and soon there are four of us in the Parroquia de San Bartolomé, because someone else is already sitting there. But no one is talking. It is quiet and reverent. Anne is praying, I am looking for a socket to charge my phone. I know, I sound like an atheist, but I am not. I just don't necessarily need a church to pray. What I need is juice right now. I had my encounter with God years ago, and on and off since then. It is more that churches make me sad. I have no idea why, but I almost always end up crying when I sit in a church and let myself to feel it. But what it is that I feel, I can't say, but it is profound and powerful, and it makes me sad. Perhaps that is the whole point. I don't actually know anything from the Bible, and I don't know who this James is, on whose path I find myself, except that he was an apostle of Jesus. But do I need to know all that? And do I have to pray in a church just because that's what people do? I briefly consider whether I should at least pretend to, so that others don't think badly of me. But as Meryl Streep says:

The minute you start caring about what other people think, is the minute you stop being yourself.

So I continue looking for a power source.

Meanwhile the thunderstorm is raging. It takes about half an hour before the rain lets up and I dare venture outside again. Around the corner from the church is the café I had been longing for earlier. Here I now order a coffee and a croissant with cheese and ham. As if the croissant wasn't greasy enough, the innkeeper drizzles oil onto it. Then he puts it in the oven so that the cheese can really sweat nicely in its fat-bed.

Later the sun briefly comes out, and I take the opportunity to spread my wet tent out on the ground to dry it. The rain has made everything muddy, there are puddles everywhere. On top of that, the paths are now often unpaved, full of scree and in places deep ruts open up before me. And my feet hurt so much!
Then it rains again, and what a downpour! I am deep in the woods and can only get shelter underneath a tree to avoid getting completely soaked. A small group of people strolls past me, oblivious to the weather. One of them is wearing sandals with socks, in which he slips and slides through the wet mud. A woman with white trousers is now black with dirt up to her knees. The thought of pitching my tent in this muck and crawling inside, filthy as I am, doesn't appeal to me. No, I don't want to camp tonight. Besides, everything hurts. Yes, I want a bed.

Shortly before Zubiri I simply sit down, I can't go on any longer. Now pull yourself together and keep walking, it is not so much further now., I hear an inner voice saying. I obey, but it hurts so much. It is a steep downhill slope the whole time, through all the mud and over even more scree and eroded stone grooves. How that lad in sandals managed this is beyond me. I think I would break my neck here without my hiking boots.

Zubiri

In Zubiri, the refuge Zaldiko has a bed available for me. The very friendly landlord speaks English and explains the house's features, which I appreciate as I am a complete newbie when it comes to pilgrim hostels.
»The bed costs fourteen euros, without breakfast, but there is a bar next door. Shoes stay in a cupboard by the entrance, the tap water is safe to drink, the showers and toilet are here on the left, the bedroom is over there, and your bed is up in the corner.« Then she takes my poncho and even hangs it up for me.
»And at ten o'clock the front door will be locked,« she adds, handing me a package of bed linen. 

Oh the top bunk again, I think, but I am grateful and happy and looking forward to a hot shower and later being able to put my feet up and be dry, because it is pouring down with rain again outside.

A pilgrim lies exhausted in his bed underneath mine, so I try not to make any noise while I am making my bed. This is anything but easy, because I practically have to sit on the mattress while I put the fitted sheet on, otherwise I can't reach the corners! Besides, the sheet and pillowcase are made of some kind of paper, and I am afraid they will tear if I pull on them too hard. And anyway, have you ever tried climbing the thin metal rungs of a bunk bed ladder with sore feet?

I am starving, so I head straight to the bar across the street. The food selection is rather sparse though, apart from tortillas, tapas, and bocadillos there is nothing. I would really love something proper like a plate of meat, vegetables and potatoes, or something like that. Instead I am having a piece of tortilla and a large beer.
I check on Aki and Andrew via WhatsApp because I am really worried about how they managed the Pyrenees in the thunderstorm. Aki actually hiked all the way to Espinal, the place where I found shelter in the church, while Andrew stayed in Roncesvalles. They both got soaked along the way, but thankfully they were not struck by lightning.

I am popping to the supermarket next door to buy some fruit and biscuits for tomorrow. They have everything a pilgrim's heart could desire, even pre-packaged sliced sausage, and ham hanging from the ceiling.

I am lacking conversation tonight, so after a nice refreshing shower, I head straight back to the bar, buy another beer and sit down at a table with two women drinking wine. We immediately clink glasses and have plenty to talk about. The two women are around fifty and have traveled from South Africa. One of them walked the Camino de Santiago four years ago and actually met her current husband on the way back then. She tells me that he proposed to her after just one week on the Camino, and they weren't even walking together the whole time. Well, she accepted and they have been happily married ever since. Crazy. You go on a pilgrimage and come home engaged.

Now I am really looking forward to my bed. It is raining cats and dogs still and I am so glad I am not in my tent, I would drown! So I climb up the painful ladder, stuff my earplugs in, and it only takes a few minutes before I am asleep.

Distance: 24 km / Steps: 42030

Here again the today's route from Camino Time Lapse on YouTube.

My night ends at 6:30. I haven't slept this well in a long time. Most of my fellow sleepers are still in bed, so I pack everything up as quietly as possible while sitting on my mattress. If I am staying in a hostel ever again, I will have to come up with a different strategy.

At the bar I have a greasy piece of toast with an egg for breakfast. The Spanish always use their oil, I just don't get it. Then I spot Anne at the next table, the French woman from yesterday, but I don't go over to her. It seems to me she prefers to be alone. I am not really in the mood for conversation either. But it is funny how familiar faces suddenly reappear somewhere else. Later, Anne is walking behind me, and we do end up chatting. I am surprised by her good English, because the French are usually rather reserved when it comes to foreign languages. She explains that she loves the English language and that's why she speaks it so well. We walk together for a while, chatting about this and that, and Anne gives me a little lesson in meditation. Then she stays behind to take photos, and I continue on my way. I realise that I really do prefer walking alone. Conversations distract me from my surroundings and, of course, from my thoughts. I am sure I will feel differently about this at some point, but for now that's how it is. Anne probably feels the same way, I believe that was also the real reason why she stayed behind.

Today's route takes me through beautiful landscapes again, but also along paved roads which are hardly used. Some sections involve steps and smooth stone slabs. The latter are not exactly slippery, but can only be traversed in very small steps.

Michael

Then another steep descent before the village of Zuriain. Ahead of me walks a burly man in his mid-fifties who walks rather clumsy. He's wearing a large black hat and thick glasses, and he is flailing his walking sticks around awkwardly.
»Take it easy«, I say as I overtake him.
»It’s not easy«, he replies grumpily and then mutters some German word at the end.
»Oh, you are German«, I state loudly, which he confirms with an arrogant »Of course.« Yes. Of course he is German, and a very typical one at that.
»In Germany you would need a permit for a path like this!« he grumbles, completely overwhelmed by the stone steps and the muddy ruts in the ground on this descent. 
»Like for almost everything else in Germany,« I remark cynically.
»And that's a good thing!« he says.
That chap is just what I needed. I wish the grouch a buen camino and now get out of here.
»How far is it to Zuriain?« he calls after me.
»I don't know,« I reply, »I'm just walking.«
And now, let me go.

How beautiful it is to walk along the Rio Arga in the forest. I sit down on the bank for a moment and enjoy the silence. All I hear are the birds and the lapping of the water, until more pilgrims arrive. I can hear them from afar, either from the clacking of their walking sticks on the ground or because they chatter incessantly.

After a bend on the path, a bridge crosses the river to the village of Zuriain. Right next to this bridge, beautifully situated, is an inn with a garden café where I stop for a break. I filmed this briefly here:

I buy a tortilla sandwich to go, get my pass stamped and treat myself to a cold coke. As I sit there enjoying my break, the German arrives and uninvitedly flops panting onto the bench opposite my table.
»Oh,« I say, not particularly pleased, »you here too…«
»So, what's on the menu?« the German asks, probably assuming that I welcome his company.
»The usual. Tortilla and Bocadillos.«
He gets up, goes to the counter and comes back with a tray, and as he puts it down, clumsy as he already seemed to me, he knocks over his coffee, and all runs onto the tray and down his trousers.
»Hot?« I ask, slightly gleeful.
»Yes, of course, very hot, what do you think?« he replies irritably and begins frantically dabbing his trousers.
»Wait,« I say, »I'll get you another coffee.«
I almost feel sorry for the poor soul because of the way he is. When I return to the table after yet another endless queue at the counter, the German is munching on his bocadillo and doesn't say a word when I put his coffee in front of him. Oh, you're welcome, I mutter to myself as he starts complaining about the path again. He needed a taxi yesterday, he says, the conditions are outrageous with so many people always walking this way, this really needs to be improved, and all that. I don't respond and just keep my thoughts to myself. The grouch, whose name by the way is Michael and who is from Frankfurt, then buys himself a second bocadillo and seems to want to stay a while longer. Fine, I have had enough for today. I bet he will take a taxi to the airport tomorrow at the latest, because the road is an absolute disgrace. And I can tell you right now, I won't see Michael again.

My upper bum muscle on the right side has been hurting since this morning. It stings with every step and is getting worse. It is probably from the unfamiliar weight of the backpack on my hips. Or maybe it comes from an awkward twist the day before yesterday when I was taking a panoramic photo in the Pyrenees. I felt a short sharp pain then, as if I had pulled a muscle. I have to sit down every now and then, and sometimes I think I can't walk any further, the pain is so intense. In any case I have to make it to the next village; if necessary, I can get a bed in a hostel there.
But when I arrive in Villava, I just want to run away. The place feels so eerie! It looks like the deepest recesses of the Eastern Bloc, I am not staying here under any circumstances. Maybe it is a sign, meant to be this way, so I grit my teeth and keep walking.

I am frustrated when I have to sit down on a wall again in the next village. The pain is now almost unbearable. There are still five kilometres to Pamplona, somehow I have to make it, even if I arrive on all fours. And in any case, I will have to take a rest day there, otherwise I can forget about the Camino de Santiago in a few days.

I hobble on. The infrastructure changes noticeably as I get closer to the city. The path now leads along busy roads, it is hot, dusty and noisy. I am moving at what feels like a snail's pace, so pilgrims who overtake me ask if I am okay and if I needed help.

Pamplona

After hours of agony, I spot a fortress. I am so close to my destination and I don't even know it. I expect to find a church or something like a castle courtyard behind the city walls, through which the path would then continue. Instead, the old town of Pamplona opens up before me. The moment I walk through the Frankish Gate, the Puerta Fráncia, I am right in the thick of things. I am surrounded by bars, shops, cafes and crowds of celebrating people. I hadn't expected this at all. It feels like the entire population of Navarre is milling about in the narrow streets of Pamplona's old town, and I am limping through the throng, not knowing where to even go. Camping here is obviously out of the question, so I head for the first large hostel I find. But there is a sign: »Sorry, we are full« One of their people suggests I should try the refuge Jesús y María they might still have room for me. The second one left, the first one right, and then I would be there, he says. I am praying silently that they do have a bed for me available, I just can't take any more.
Luck is on my side - I have got one of only five free beds left at Jesus and Mary's! I can stay for two nights as well, but I have to check out tomorrow morning and then come back at noon when the hostel reopens.

Jesús y María is a municipal hostel. The building was constructed in 1782 as a church and priestly school. Today a hundred bunk beds stand side-by-side in partitioned places on two floors. I get to sleep on the first floor today, and of course, I get the top bunk again, which is barely ten centimetres away from another bunk. I am really curious to see who my immediate neighbour will be. Above me, the vaulted ceiling is at least ten meters high. Every tiny sound echoes as is typical in a cathedral. A extraordinary place to sleep.

The shower is another challenge today. It is hard for me to get organised when there is only one hook in the cubicle to hang my clothes, toiletries, towel, and clean clothes. And since I am not able to think straight anymore, I accidentally forget to take off my bra and, on top of that - and I just can't understand it - to take off my hat! How did I take off my shirt while I was still wearing my floppy hat? I must have put it back on while I was trying to sort myself since I don't have enough hands. And now I am here in that shower wearing my bra and my floppy hat, pressed close to the wall because the water pressure is so weak that the jet doesn't reach any further.

I am not in a good mood today as I walk through the old town. I would like to find somewhere to relax with a beer and just be happy that I am here. I am also hungry, but I can't imagine to eat bocadillos and tortillas and tapas, or Pintxos, as they are called around here, anymore. I want something to eat that tastes good and fills me up. 
My phone rings, it is Aki and Andrew. They met up on the trail and are now sixteen kilometres behind me in Larisson. They both want to walk more than sixteen kilometres tomorrow and therefore won't be staying in Pamplona. What a shame. I wish they were with me right now. 
Finally I go to Burger King for a whopper and some chips, because that is the only food I can manage. I assume I will feel better afterward, but I don't. Everything hurts so much. Because of my strained Musculus gluteus maximus, let me clearly call it »arse«, and because of the resulting protective posture while walking, I now also have signs of blisters on my feet. And speaking of my feet, I should not forget to mention that they are also very swollen, with the soles of my feet being extremely painful, and the latter also applies to my calves and shoulders. Full Stop.

I limp back to the hostel and lie down on the bed. But first I have to climb up and I don't know how! Pain aside, every time I step up the ladder, the bed tilts slightly forward and slides around. I have to get down every now and then though, because up there is nothing where I can place my things. My rucksack is on down the floor. I am sure this will go wrong one time and I will knock the whole bunk bed over.

The doors at Jesus y Maria are locked at 10 p.m. Anyone who hasn't returned by then will have to spend the night outside. Just before ten my bunkmate arrives, the one who will be sleeping right next to me: a disgusting Italian man around fifty with a deep, growling voice. He reeks of cigarettes, alcohol, and everything else. Then he farts and laughs viciously with his three friends in the surrounding beds, who are no less unpleasant and noisy. I am shocked. These are not pilgrims, are they? I pretend to be asleep so I don't have to react. I don't even see the person below me. I only realise someone is there because the bed shakes severely with every movement. I think this is truly an extreme experience.

Distance: 24 km / Steps: 38631

It's getting light. I pull out my earplugs and hear an echoing rumble from all directions from people getting ready. Around me though everyone is still asleep, including the fartman. I climb down from the bed, quietly retrieve my rucksack, and sort my things in the corridor. My pain is barely noticeable today, the rest day will do me good.

Now I see the full extent of yesterday's town festival, there is rubbish everywhere. A few people are still lingering, sitting there with their beer cups in hand. But the cleaning crews are already on site, sweeping and scrubbing like crazy to quickly make the old town beautiful again.

I am having breakfast in a café when Aki is texting that she is about to leave Larisson, and that Andrew has already left twenty minutes ago. According to her calculations, they both should be here in about three hours. So I sit down on a wall at the Frankish Gate and watch the pilgrims gradually making their way up the path.

A rather plump old woman slowly makes her way up the path with her walking sticks. She walks close to the city wall in the shade. I must have come up here in a similar way yesterday, only with a limp. I know the woman slightly, I saw her at the tortilla counter in the bar in Zubiri and spoke to her briefly. I wave to her and praise her fighting spirit. She comes over to me, and we fall into a pleasant chat. The woman's name is Donna, and she is from Texas. She speaks softly with a very strong Texan accent, I have trouble understanding everything. I guess she is eighty years old, but at least seventy-five. Donna tells me that she lives in a trailer back home and receives a pension of five thousand dollars a month, which she uses to finance wonderful trips. Why save, she says, life is far too exciting. And because she can afford it, she takes a taxi here every day to get close to her next destination and walks the last stretch. She has her luggage sent ahead and when she can't go on any longer, she simply calls another taxi. I am so moved I want to cry, because I admire her courage and her outlook on life so much. So old and still enjoying life to the fullest by traveling all over the world, all by herself. Then Donna reaches into her bag and gives me a small wooden cross. She got it from Jerusalem, and it is blessed. I promptly start crying again. What is wrong with me?

Then I see three figures down by the path. As they come through the gate, I recognise Andrew and Aki - oh, how happy I am! Trailing behind them is a somewhat drowsy-looking young man with dark circles under his eyes and arms hanging limply at his sides, his head slightly bowed. Andrew says this is Lukasz whom they met last night. I extend my hand to Lukasz whereupon he smiles hesitantly and introduces himself. Strange fellow, I think. When I look at him, I think of Mr. Bean. But when he talks he reminds me more of Sheldon Cooper from the TV series The Big Bang Theory.

Andrew, Aki, Lukasz, and I go to the café where I had breakfast earlier. Donna is doing some shopping but joins us later and even brings some freshly baked churros. I am so happy to have their company! It is just a shame that Aki definitely wants to move on today, however, I manage to convince Andrew to stay.

It is almost noon. Donna goes to her hotel, Aki continues hiking and the rest of us wait at the hostel for the doors to open. Other pilgrims soon arrive, some of whom Andrew already knows, including a certain Neill from Ireland and Tobias from Germany. At this point, I don't care which bed I get, as long as I am surrounded by all these people. In fact, beds are assigned on a first-come, first-served basis, it is not a matter of personal preference. So I get bed number one, Andrew number two, and so on. These beds are in the ground floor though, so we will unfortunately miss out on the view of the beautiful vaulted ceiling tonight, even though I had raved about it to Andrew. Never mind, I am overjoyed. Andrew is even kind enough to let me have his lower bed, because mine is once again the upper one.

Living in the moment

Tobias, Andrew, and I throw our laundry together and share a load. I don't know, but I think we haven't used the machine correctly. My clothes smell anything but fresh afterward. It is pretty disgusting in retrospect, especially when I think that the detergent might not have gone through properly, since the boys' underwear was in there too. Better not to dwell on it.

The five of us stay together for the rest of the day.
Tobias is an extreme hiker in his mid-twenties. He started his pilgrimage from his front door in Franconia and has been on the trail for seventy-two days. Tobias always sets off in the dark in the morning, walks quickly and far and then checks into the hostels early. He says this way he avoids the midday heat and can be sure of getting a bed without having to reserve one in advance. Many pilgrims do it this way but that would not work for me. I want to enjoy the day and be able to stop and relax without worrying about being late somewhere.
I actually don't know anything about Neill, except that he seems to use the word fucking in every sentence. Fucking here, fucking there, everything is fucking, albeit in a positive sense. 
And then there is of course Lukasz. He is Polish and strikes me as extremely intelligent. He questions and analyses everything and only lets a topic rest when it is completely dissected. When you talk to him, he often says, »Aha, I see, interesting.« Everything is always interesting. Then he puts his hand to his chin, as if seriously considering what he has just heard. An unintentionally funny young man, whom I quickly grow very fond of.
Andrew is my person to relate to. We look after each other, help each other make the beds and make sure each other is okay. He sometimes sings a song and that goes like this:

»He holds the lantern while his mother cuts the wood! He holds the lantern and he does it really good.« -He relates this song to himself and says that he is the one holding the lantern. I hope he learns on the Camino that he can also chop wood.

Together we go for a drink and then stroll through the old town, where we sit down on a bench licking ice cream. I savour the moment and sometimes just listen to the conversation. I smile as I look around because they are all talking at once and I hear nothing but Yeeeeeh, Interesting, fucking, I see, interesting, yeeeeeeeh, fucking, fucking, fucking ….
It is an extraordinary combination of people, all so different and yet so alike in this moment. Andrew looks at me blissfully with moist eyes and says, »I don't want this to end.«

In the evening we walk around like headless chickens because we can't find anything decent to eat for supper. I just don't understand it - is there nothing but bread in Spain? It is unbelievable but we end up back in the same bar where we were sitting before! The sight of the tapas, or rather pintxos (which are basically tapas too, just presented differently), completely puts me off my food. I simply can't stomach any more bread. How I would love some fish fingers with cucumber salad and mashed potatoes right now.

Andrew and I are leaving Pamplona together today because he is afraid he won't be able to find his way out of the city on his own. Everyone else has long since gone, only Lukasz is still sitting on his bed, leisurely packing his things. I wonder if I will ever see him again as I say goodbye, and my heart feels heavy. That is my thing - I find goodbyes the worst, they really get to me.

We walk for ages through the outskirts of Pamplona until the landscape becomes rural again. After only a short while, my gluteal muscle pain returns, and my rucksack already feels incredibly heavy. It can't be true. Andrew gives me an ibuprofen and a piece of his bread, but it only helps a little. And even though the pain slows me down, Andrew walks beside me longer than he has planned. Finally he starts singing again, »He holds the lantern while his mother cuts the wood! He holds the lantern and he does it really good«. And as we leave the village of Zizur Mayor behind and reach the countryside, he walks his own way and picks up the pace. He keeps getting further and further away, it is as if a small dagger slowly stabbing into my soul. I hear him sing one last time, then he raises his hand to wave without turning around before disappears around the next bend in the path.

In Zariquiegui there is a small supermarket. Many pilgrims are sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall, tending to their blisters and resting. The sparrows are chirping away and roses are blooming everywhere, very idyllic. I am glad I have my sleeping mat, which folded up serves as a small bench. I unbuckle my rucksack and make myself comfortable against the wall of the house with a coffee and something to eat. Shame Andrew is no longer with me. 

This is followed by a climb to the famous ridge Alto del Perdón. At the summit of this pass stands a metal artwork created in 1996 by the sculptor Vicente Galbete. It symbolises the path of penance and forgiveness and depicts the silhouettes of people and animals on their pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

The landscape is beautiful. I walk along vast expanses of corn and barley fields, and everywhere the red of blooming poppies shimmers. Larches and nightingales sing all around me, I have never heard so many at once. They accompany me almost the entire time, and in every village I pass through, sparrows and swallows chirp. I hardly see any locals in the streets, they are probably all out in their fields.

In Utega I buy a pilgrim's staff in a small shop, perhaps it will help ease my pain a bit. I rest for a while in a café next door when an American man behind me starts talking almost nonstop in a rather loud voice. He is tall and strong, around forty I would say, with a full beard, a wide-brimmed sun hat and braces. I find out his name is Richard, and he seems to be trying to strike up a conversation with everyone around him, yet he is the only one who keeps talking. Blimey, I better get out of here, before he starts walking beside me and chattering away. So I grab my new pilgrim's staff and head off. I am not entirely sure how best to use the staff though. At the moment it is more of a hindrance than a help.

Andrew has reached Puente la Reina and sends me the name of the hostel where he is staying. I have to see how far I can get, it is still over six kilometres from here to him, and it is very hot. But it would be nice to see him again, of course.

I am really suffering right now. I stop at every shady spot because this stupid buttock muscle hurts so incredibly much. I also bandage my feet and change my socks because apparently fresh socks prevent blisters.

Puente la Reina

At four o'clock in the afternoon, when it is hottest, I arrive in Puente la Reina after 25 kilometres. I immediately find the hostel where Andrew is staying and ask at reception if I can pitch my tent somewhere here. Unfortunately I can't, but they would have beds available and I could stay for twenty euros. Tempting, but no. I don't want to spend that much money on a bed again when I have my tent.
The hostel garden is pleasantly shaded, and I would really like to eat something here, as I am starving. When I finally see Andrew, he tells me there is nothing to eat out here, but I can buy a meal in the hostel restaurant for fifty euros! He himself only eats nuts and drinks beer, that is all they have. My mood instantly plummets, and it gets even worse when that annoying Richard with his braces comes into the garden. Andrew has met Richard before and usually avoids him because he only encourages him to drink again. But now he is here and stirring things up. He buys drinks for everyone, and so it doesn't take long before he has everyone sitting at his table, whose ears he can talk off. This is all too much for me, I am hungry and tired. I want to eat and I want a proper meal, not just nuts. But I don't want to pay fifty euros either, so I say goodbye to Andrew, shoulder my rucksack which feels heavier and heavier, grab my pilgrim's staff and move slowly towards the village center.

Lots of storks are nesting on the church tower, how idyllic. A beautiful village, but it feels oppressive to me. Probably because I still don't know where I will be sleeping or where I can get food. I won't find a place to camp here, that's for sure, but leaving the village now is too far for me either.  

There is not a pilgrim in sight, nor a decent bar or restaurant. The bars I do see are full of old local men, and I doubt they serve food.
At the end of the village street, I spot a small inn whose roof terrace looks quite inviting from down here. The door is locked, however, so I ring the bell. 
»Hola.« I hear a woman’s voice through the intercom.
»Hola, do you have a bed for me tonight?« I ask hopefully.
»You have reservation?« 
»No,« I reply hesitantly, whereupon the woman hangs up the phone without comment. 

Great. Now what? Desperately I trudge back the way I came, wondering if I should just go back to Andrew's hostel. But that would be so far away again, and I still haven't eaten. New idea: search online. By now I don't care how expensive it is, as long as I don't have to walk far anymore. On a hotel booking website, I find only one hostel which is a bit outside the village, but at least it is in the direction the Camino de Santiago goes tomorrow. On top of that, it only costs fifteen euros a night. I book it right away before someone else snatches the bed. A local is kind enough to explain the way to me after seeing me with my phone, turning in all directions trying to get my bearings. He says I only have to cross the river and then climb a hill.
Alright then. If I end up lying on my back like a beetle, then so be it. Someone will find and rescue me.

Finally

I reach the hostel in a relatively upright position and am surprised by how beautifully rural and peaceful it is. And what do I see? A large meadow with three tents pitched on it! You can camp here! Unbelievable, and I booked a bed! The only way to bear this is with a good dose of humour. But I live by the motto Everything happens for a reason, so I go to the reception to say that I am here. The reception is also the counter of a large hall full of tables and chairs, similar to a canteen. Nobody else is here except for a handful of people and those camping outside.
And then something fantastic happens. Something incredibly brilliant, a blessing: I am asked if I would like something to eat! I am almost beside myself with joy, so much so that the innkeeper looks at me with wide eyes as he shows me the pilgrim's menu. I decide on a salad, chicken with chips, and yogurt for dessert, plus a beer, all for thirteen euros. And since I am already at it, I buy a breakfast ticket for five euros for tomorrow morning.
How happy I am now! I still have to wait a little while for food, so I am bridging the time with a long shower. Afterwards I sit outside and chat with Hans from Holland, seventy years old, who is here by bicycle, and with Rebecca from Germany, who is traveling with her dog and is also sleeping in a tent. Rebecca says she pitched her tent right by the side of the road on her first night in the Pyrenees, she just couldn't go any further. I need to relax about all that too. I always think I will be arrested by the Guardia Civil the moment someone spots me and my tent.
By the way, I am sleeping in a twelve-bed room here which I am sharing with four French men in their seventies. The bunk beds are arranged end to end, three on each side of the room. Of the lower bunks, only the middle ones are still free, which means that I would have one of my neighbours' feet very close to my head. So I volunteer for a top bunk. Nothing can faze me today, especially with such a feast I am about to have.

I am sitting in the canteen with Hans and Rebecca and can barely speak. I am devouring my food so greedily! These pilgrim menus are never very large, but my stomach has shrunk so much by now that I couldn't eat any more anyway. Many hostels and bars along the way offer pilgrim menus like these. They cost an average of fifteen euros and generally consist of a starter, a main course, and a dessert. Almost everywhere you can choose from options, and the selection is almost always the same: The starter is usually either a mixed salad consisting of iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, olives and tuna, or pasta with tomato or meat sauce, sometimes with cheese on top. Apart from the vegetarian option, the main course is normally thinly sliced chicken or beef with a handful of fries. These meals are very dry because they never come with any sauce, so most people ask for ketchup. For dessert, there is either a small piece of cake, yogurt, or ice cream from the freezer. Today I am getting a small cup of natural yogurt with a packet of sugar.

I am sure I will sleep like a log tonight and go to my Frenchmen, who I am guaranteed not to hear. I am so tired...

Distance: 25,3 km / Steps: 44963

In the night i have to go for a wee and as I climb down the ladder and stand up on the floor, I practically collapse in on myself from the pain. It feels like stepping into a pincushion, the soles of my feet are burning so badly. I can only move forward with flat feet, taking small steps and in a stooped position, and I realise that I fit right in with the elderly Frenchmen in the room. Incidentally, no one in the room actually snores, which I hadn't expected given the occupancy. One of the men, however, sleeps with a CPAP mask, and the machine makes strange whistling noises all night. There's always something.

At 6:30 I am sitting alone at a table in this enormous hall, waiting for my breakfast. The owner is sitting behind the counter, completely unmoved. He only starts to pay attention when I present him with my breakfast ticket. He must have forgotten that I bought a ticket from him last night. I know, it is difficult to keep up with five people... Finally, without a word, he places a tray with two slices of toast, coffee, orange juice, butter and jam on the counter and sits down again. I am left to collect my breakfast myself.

I leave the hostel half an hour later. As I am walking down the hill, I see that annoying Richard coming across the river bridge. I freeze in shock, hoping he doesn't see me, but it is already too late. His braces flash beneath his broad grin as he extends his fist bump towards me in greeting. Now I have no choice but to walk beside him for a while, and this while turns into a whole hour. Richard is actually a nice chap, just very loud and kind of conspicuous. There is something odd about him. After a while I explain to him that I am slowing down from now on because I do not want my bum pain to return. And luckily it doesn't, instead my feet are bothering me today. It is strange, really. I have done countless hikes in these boots and never had any problems with them. Now I am getting blisters and sore feet. It can only be due to the rucksack, the limping, the swollen feet from the many kilometres every day and everything combined. 

After a hellish climb just before Mañeru, a woman approaches me from behind and ask if I was German. She has obviously spotted the two small flags I bought in Pamplona for my rucksack – a German and a British one.
»Are you Steff?« she asks. This is funny, she says Andrew told her about me. The woman's name is Marion, she is also German but now lives in Colorado, USA, where she was in the army and is now a nurse. Together we treat our feet on a small hill behind the village, and Marion gives me some sheep's wool to put inside my socks on the blister that hasn't burst yet, as a kind of cushion. She swears by it and says it works better than any blister plaster. And yes, the sheep's wool really is great, it takes a considerable amount of pressure off the blister. Unfortunately it doesn't help with the pain in my bum which has come back. I know I'm repeating myself, but again I can only hobble. I am utterly desperate. Hiking is such a beautiful thing to do, but under these circumstances it is no fun at all. 

Little Miracles

The sun is blazing, and at some point strange things start happening. Things that many would probably consider as a Camino miracle . For example, I am wondering where I could get more sheep's wool. Sometimes a bit of wool gets caught in the barbed wire, which happens when a sheep walks too close. But there aren't any sheep here, not for a long time. And as I am thinking about this, I come across a tall wooden signpost. And right at the top, stuck between the post and another wooden plank, is a piece of sheep's wool. As if I can't believe my eyes, I walk slowly past it, then stop, turn around, and realise there really is sheep's wool stuck there. How did it get up there? I pluck off a bit and thank God or whoever placed it there. Strange.

Shortly after, I hear something that sounds like someone throwing a small stone into some water, or like a frog jumping into a pond. But there is no water here at all. After the sheep's wool incident, I immediately think it must be God. God really is everywhere on the Camino de Santiago, as everyone says, and now He wants to tell me something. Should I perhaps drink more? There! Again! What is that? I hear it again twice an hour later, very close to my ear. I don't understand it. This sploshy plop sound stimulates my desire for something cool, something that will soothe my aching feet. I begin to think how wonderful it would be right now to hold my swollen feet in an ice-cold stream. So at some point I say, »Please, dear God, they say the way gives you what you need. I needed sheep's wool, and I got it. Now I would like some cold water for my battered feet, please«
It takes no more than ten seconds before I hear the sound of a river beside me. Am I dreaming? And I think, if there really is a river, maybe there is a bridge coming up where I can get down to the bank? It is unbelievable, but a moment later I am crossing the Río Salado over a small stone bridge with a sand bank easily to access. This is totally insane! I can't get my shoes off fast enough, I am so eager to get into that cold water. I want to cry with joy as I plunge my feet into the icy water. I would love to sit here forever, and I actually do stay until my feet are numb, then I pull myself together and force them back into my boots.

In the small town of Lorca, I eat a hearty vegetable soup as substantial as a stew in the bar of a hostel. I am not really hungry, but I have to take advantage of the generous offer and eat what I can get. The hostel is run by a Japanese woman who stylishly paints my name and the words buen camino in Japanese characters next to the stamp.

Shortly after Villatuerta, on the left-hand side, is a 12th-century chapel, the Ermita de San Miguel Arcángel, dedicated to the Archangel Michael. Behind it is an olive grove surrounded by bushes on a meadow dotted with more scattered olive trees and a few tables and benches. I think this is a perfect spot to pitch my tent. It is just too early and too hot so I go inside the chapel and lie down on the stone bench where it is nicely quiet and cool. 

Vadim

A young man with long dark hair and a full beard also seems to be settling down here. I see him sitting outside on a bench at a table, reading. There is a rucksack in the chapel, probably his. Eventually he hobbles in and tells me that he needs to rest his foot and will sleep here. I ask him his name and where he is from, but his English is very poor, so I have to piece together his words myself: His name is Vadim. He is Polish but lives in Germany, more precisely in Baden, where he started his journey. His mother is Russian and his father Ukrainian - a decidedly unfortunate combination. Later I learn that both his parents have died. Now Vadim is on his way to Santiago de Compostela because he was »called«, as he says. He only ever sleeps in churches or ruins because he feels safe and secure there. A true pilgrim, this Vadim.

Eventually the chapel becomes too cold and the bench too hard for me, so I decide to pitch my tent now, since there was no one else around except Vadim. With the strong wind up here, setting the tent up is a real challenge as it is such a light wight, it easily blows away. The tent pegs don't hold well in the hard ground, but in the end I manag to secure my home and heave all my gear inside. Now it won't fly away under any circumstances. 

I can't stop thinking about Vadim. He mentioned earlier that he was going shopping, but he hasn't gone. Have I misunderstood him? Does he perhaps hope I go shopping because his foot is hurt? Is he hungry? I get a strange feeling, and then I remember the half-eaten cheese sandwich I have left. I am not going to eat it anyway, I never want to eat bread again in my life. So I decide to take it over to the chapel, where I find Vadim huddled on a bench in a corner on his air mattress. He immediately gets up when I try to give him my cheese sandwich, but he doesn't want to take it. He says he has enough to eat and holds out a plastic bag full of cakes and cookies. He proudly shows me all his supermarket food and lavishly offers me from everything.
»Here, I have some drinking chocolate. Do you know what drinking chocolate is?« he asks, holding out a bottle. Funny, as if I didn't know what hot chocolate was. I take a sip, because I feel like I would hurt his feelings if I refused his generosity. So this whole shopping conversation was probably meant to be about him already having been shopping and simply wanting to share his food with me. I get a piece of cake and a rice pudding from him, and in return, I leave him my cheese sandwich, whether he likes it or not. I could sleep here too, he suggests, but I am quite happy out there in my tent, even though it certainly would have been another adventure and a completely new experience.
Strange fellow that Vadim. But I feel safe with him over there in the chapel. It is reassuring to know that someone else is nearby.

I lick the rice pudding from the plastic cup like a dog as I can't be bothered to look for my spoon. I am incredibly tired. Suddenly I hear someone. A young Frenchman has the same idea as me and wants to settle down here for the night. 
»Oh, somebody already here! I had the same idea«, he laughs, when he spots my tent behind the bush he has chosen from a distance. I poke my head out and greet my new neighbour, who is now pitching his tent a little further on, behind another bush. How nice, now I am definitely not alone anymore. And it isn't long before the Frenchman comes back to me, plonks down by my tent wanting to share his food with me. He has brought a rather hearty sausage from the butcher which he cuts into small pieces with his pocketknife and spreads out in the torn bag in front of us. He also has bread and cloves of garlic. I think the idea is so wonderful and so cosy, but I don't feel like eating at all. Out of politeness I nibble on a piece of sausage and a clove of garlic. I have never eaten a whole clove of garlic like that before - how spicy it is!
»No unwanted visitors with this« laughs the Frenchman, whose name I unfortunately forgot. But he is a fun-loving, outdoorsy lad who seems like nothing can faze him. We have a great chat about the Camino with all its little wonders, about faith and about life. All that is missing now is a bottle of wine and a campfire, then it would be perfect.

Distance: 19 km / Steps: 31421

I wake up in the morning with a strong rumbling in my belly. I barely manage to get out of the tent in time and relieve myself right next to it. Oh no, please no. Every minute now I am making a huge mess which I try to cover with some cardboard lying around. Once, the Frenchman comes around the corner just as I am emptying myself again. He probably wanted to say goodbye, but at the sight of my bare bottom, he quickly turns around and makes a hasty retreat.

I feel awful, not least because I am leaving my campsite so dirty. I immediately eat five charcoal tablets which I bought on advice shortly before I left Germany so that I can at least make it to the town Estella without an accident. I promptly book a room with a private toilet in a cheap hotel while I wait for the tablets to take effect. I feel weak and tired. What could be causing this? I remember that my bowel movement was already a bit strange yesterday afternoon, so it can't be the clove of garlic I ate last night.

It rained during the night, my tent is soaked through. But I don't care, I haphazardly pack my things and try to get out of here. It is only a short four kilometres to the hotel in Estella, but boy, they are tough going. My legs are reluctant to carry me and my rucksack. Along the way I drink my last of the water, and then another small Camino miracle occurs, because just as I start to worry about the water, there is a sign pointing to a fountain where I can refill my bottle.

I am utterly exhausted when I arrive at the hostel without, thankfully, further incident. According to the website, I can't check in until 1 p.m., and it is only 10 now! Nevertheless, I ring the bell and a woman opens the door. When she sees me, she tries to send me away because she doesn't understand me. I show her my booking confirmation and indicate that I am incredibly tired and desperately need to sleep. Thereupon she goes to a small counter in the corner and makes a phone call. I stay put in the corridor and have to lean on my walking stick for support, I can barely hold my rucksack. The phone call is successful - I am allowed in.
How glad I am about the bed. I want nothing but sleep. I have a double bed and a television, but this only receives Spanish channels. There is no window, instead a glass door leads into a kind of anteroom. To the left of the anteroom are the laundry room and pantry, and straight ahead is a terrace. The terrace is surrounded by high walls, so not a very pleasant place to sit. This is where I get my only daylight which isn't much at all.

I set up my small gas stove and brew myself a cup of tea on my bedside table. Then I hang my wet tent tarps over all the chair backs, the shower head in the bathroom and over my walking stick to dry. After a short time, the room looks like a bomb has hit it. Finally I christen my toilet - properly. I don't want to go into too much detail, but the color and consistency tell me I have to act now, or I will dry out. I write a text which I then translate into Spanish using an app on my phone.

»Excuse me, could you please help me? I have severe diarrhoea and a fever. I need electrolytes from the pharmacy and bananas. Unfortunately I can't go myself. Of course I will pay for the medication, the bananas and for your trouble.«

I show this text to the woman who let me in, whereupon she sends somebody to get the things for me.
»Dinero«, she says, and gestures to show me she needs money, so I give her thirty euros. After a while she returns with a bag full of medications: electrolyte powder to mix with water, tablets for diarrohea, something to restore my gut flora, as well as bananas, yogurt, and several bottles of water. I give her the remaining four euros as a tip. She also lends me a thermometer so I can check my temperature. It is slightly elevated at just over 38 degrees Celsius. The electrolyte stuff tastes awful, but I bravely drink endless amounts of it. Most of the time it comes right back out, but at least I am ensuring a steady fluid balance.

So my day goes by. I sleep, freeze, poop, drink. I have extended my stay by another day because I know I won't be too much better tomorrow. The innkeeper checks in on me again before she goes home and says she will be back at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I want to go home too.

Distance: 3,8 km / Steps: 5870

I still have terrible diarrhoea, but I don't feel so exhausted anymore. I even walk to a nearby supermarket in the afternoon to buy biscuits, noodle soup and lemonade to get my circulation going a bit.

I am sad. The Camino de Santiago is so different from what I imagined. Yes, there have been some beautiful days and moments so far, but the overall feeling is rather gloomy. I don't know how to describe it, but it is like a mosaic, where I mainly have the less appealing pieces which I put together and look at. I don't like the overall picture, and I don't like the feeling that comes with it. The terrible food and my pain are contributing significantly to this.

I am homesick so I call David. But that only makes it worse, and I imagine how wonderful it would be to be back home in England. I see our sunny garden where David is watering the plants with the yellow garden hose. I see Bob, the stray cat who always comes to us, sitting by the door waiting for us to feed him. I see my flat in Herne and imagine myself wrapped in a blanket, lying on the sofa and watching Netflix series, one after the other. I long for the comfort of someone sitting by my bed, making me tea. I yearn for the security of a familiar environment where my language is understood. Then I catch myself entering the route from London to Estella into my GPS. It would take David sixteen hours by car to get here, and that doesn't even include breaks, traffic jams and anything else.
My room is getting on my nerves, I want more natural light. Yesterday I didn't care but today I am going stir-crazy. I have to get out of here!
The diarrhoea subsides in the evening, and I pray that I can continue my way tomorrow.