by: Ele Pawelski

In the fiery orange of dawn, I cross the old San Marcos Bridge out of León, Spain. It’s early, but I’m far from alone. Walking poles tap-tap on ancient stone as I march ahead with the handful of other pilgrims. My first Camino day will be a 20-kilometer segment, with the goal of reaching Santiago de Compostela’s grand Cathedral in two weeks. I’m confident I can do it because this is Camino 2.0 for me.

Walking the Way of St. James and carrying all my worldly possessions, I’m treading in the footsteps of hundreds of thousands of pilgrims before me, all journeying for a myriad of reasons. As I’m more practical than spiritual, I’d expected to find the Camino to be nothing more than an arduous hike I could boast about later. I was wrong.

The traditional Camino begins in St. Jean-Pied-du-Port, France and covers 780 kilometers across northern Spain. Three years ago, I walked the middle bit—220 kilometers from Burgos to León. My partner and I had intended to walk to Santiago but sharp, stabbing knee pains derailed us and we rerouted to Morocco (that’s a whole other story). I lamented my injury and questioned whether I would ever want to try again. But, in speaking with a receptionist at one of our hotels, we learned that many Spaniards walk the Camino in spurts due to short holidays or not wishing to prep for a serious expedition. That conversation changed everything, and we began strategizing our comeback. Fast forward to September 2018.

When I pick up my backpack that first morning, I feel light and tingly; self-sufficiency is one of the greatest feelings. All in, it weighs eight kilograms including the Camel Bak of water. Packing had been straightforward, as I’d done such a good job the first time around. Plus, from lessons learned, I’d acquired glove socks (no more axis of evil blisters), a massage stick, and had committed to using walking poles, which I’d previously denounced. We also planned shorter days.

The first kilometers are suburban sprawl and concrete. While the temperature slowly climbs it’s not exactly warm; at nine degrees I’m wearing mittens and a hat. Soon, we spot an eatery with red plastic chairs and umbrellas. Ducking inside, we order the Camino staple: café con leche and tortilla Española. Fellow Camino-ers occupy a couple of other tables; we nod in camaraderie knowing we’re likely to pass and be passed by these same pilgrims today, tomorrow, and in the days after.

Probably because it’s still early in the adventure, we go three kilometers further than intended. We choose that evening’s alberge in San Martin del Camino after spotting comfy looking hammocks in the courtyard. Dinner is a communal gathering of all the guests—the ubiquitous pilgrim’s meal—with at least four languages whirling around the long table. We are the first in our assigned room of bunk beds, and I’m admittedly nervous when a group of four men show up to survey the quarters. In the end, we share with only one other couple, however, this turns out to be the loudest evening of the fortnight—there’s snoring (we may have contributed to that) and a wild, all-night party nearby.

Our only mission is to get up and walk every day. We haven’t pre-booked a single accommodation. Because we’re carrying everything, we can decide where to stay each night based on any criterion: tiredness, a beautiful village or joining new friends. The geography changes as we trek. The middle section’s high plains or meseta had been quite flat and open; sometimes we could see the next town hours before arriving. These last three hundred kilometers are relatively hilly and, toward the end, lusciously wooded with deep fragrances of eucalyptus and earth. A few of the mornings we walk above clouds, wisps seemingly close enough to touch. More than any other holiday, being on Camino provokes us to live in the moment. Our conversation, when we speak, is about what we see, how we’re currently feeling and anything else inspired by our surroundings. I don’t meditate but imagine this is pretty close.

We’ve covered 150 kilometers by Day 7, approximately halfway. Just outside my window, lightning flashes vigorously in the 6 a.m. darkness, swiftly followed by crashing thunder. I dawdle while breaking out my rain gear—bright yellow poncho with a big orange shell on the back that I bought three years ago—somewhat nervous to walk in the open. Eventually, we convince ourselves to leave, using a headlamp for guidance.

Hours later it clears up, and never rains again. Through one hamlet, the glistening sunflowers are taller than I am, as if we’re sidestepping a Van Gogh canvas. That evening we stop in Las Herrerias, inspired by a tasty looking jug of sangria as well as a warning from “Kitchener” (pilgrims tend to be known as their country or city) about the massive uphill just beyond. The rainfall shower is magnificent, if somewhat ironic, and there’s even a hair dryer. But I just can’t. . .

Myth and legend are the Camino’s milieu. After the death and martyrdom of St. James midway through the first century, disciples transported his body from Jerusalem to Galicia, where it lay buried in a field until unearthed some eight centuries later. This discovery prompted King Alfonso II to build a small chapel there, which became the end point of medieval pilgrimages. Along the route, churches, hospitals, and roadside inns were developed to protect and support the pilgrims.

Today, towns and villages are plentiful, equally catering to Camino-ers as to locals. The Way’s many churches are humble and magnificent, some intact and welcoming, others crumbling from disuse. Exiting Palas de Rei on Day 10, a priest putting out trash at 7 a.m. invites us inside for a stamp; every establishment has a bespoke imprint for my Camino passport, which pilgrims need as proof to obtain the Compostela certificate at the finale. Still, the most vibrant place in each town is often the sole café.

Films such as The Way and Walking the Camino: Six Ways to Santiago, books by Jane Christmas and Paulo Coelho as well as word of mouth have popularized the Camino. Over dinner one night, “Belgium” explains the Camino is almost a rite of passage in her home country; she’s fitting it in before going back to university that fall. It is not as well known in North America, but it should be. Comparable journeys here—Pacific Coast and Appalachian Trails—do not have quaint towns every five kilometers that make fancy coffee compulsory, and render carrying camping supplies completely optional.

By the last 100 kilometers we’ve seen every type of marker pointing the way along the Camino and only gotten lost once (neither of us took responsibility for that blunder): yellow arrows painted on buildings, trees, rocks, flowerpots; shells etched into the street; black stick figures with a pole; and the official white cement blocks that note the distance remaining—oddly never round totals.

“Buen Camino” is exchanged with everyone we encounter, whose numbers have dramatically increased since one need only walk the final 100 kilometers to get a Compostela. “Camino tourists,” my partner and I decry those walking only the last bit, usually with a bag service and prepared lunches. Sheesh, without backpacks we could run the Camino! With gentle prodding, we remind ourselves that everyone does the Camino their own way.

Majestic spires peek out between buildings on Day 14. After winding our way through the old town’s narrow streets, Santiago de Compostela’s Cathedral and Obradoiro Square stun in size. What a commotion: hundreds of pilgrims posing and photographing, joyful reunions, musicians playing for money, tour leaders holding signs, loud happy cries. Raw energy surges through the crowd. With deep breaths of accomplishment, we sit on the pavement and blend into the hubbub of the Camino’s denouement. Later, at the Pilgrim Office we claim our Compostelas, willfully ignoring the aching body parts. From “Iceland,” we find out about an evening service at the Cathedral.

The pilgrim’s mass is all in Spanish, yet so sensory, especially when the incense burner or “Botafumeiro” is lit and swung across the altar, filling our noses with smoky frankincense. At 60 kilos, it takes eight to operate and is only ignited following sufficient donations—a meaningful finale to a journey that challenged me physically and mentally. But it also prompted me to stop and smell the flowers, sometimes literally.

Takeaways from my Camino: if it’s important, persist, be less demanding, more grateful and finally, keep practicing patience even if it doesn’t seem to be working.

Camino 3.0—those first 300 kilometers—is coming up in 2022. I’m excited to return.

All photos by: Ele Pawelski and Don Kittle

Ele Pawelski recently published her debut novella, The Finest Supermarket in Kabul, with Quattro Books. Her short stories have appeared in the Nashwaak Review and in Flash Fiction Magazine. Before moving back to Toronto ten years ago, Ele lived overseas and managed human rights projects in Afghanistan, South Sudan, Bosnia, Kenya, Uzbekistan and Kosovo. Still an avid adventurer, Ele keeps a bag packed for spontaneous trips, adding to the 70-plus countries she’s worked in or visited. Follow Ele on Twitter: @Eleinthecity