Why write a blog?

The idea for writing a blog started as a simple way to capture the journey—those small, shared moments that define the Camino experience. From swapping stories with fellow pilgrims to discovering the quirks of each town, every day brought something new. I wanted to preserve the details before they faded into memory: the conversations, the challenges, the fleeting connections that make the Camino so unique.

Beyond preserving memories, the blog is also a way to share the experience with others. Whether you're planning to walk the Camino yourself, reminiscing about your own journey, or simply curious about what life on the trail is like, this blog is for you. The Camino is more than just a physical journey—it's an experience shaped by the people you meet, the stories you hear, and the small, unexpected moments that make each day unforgettable.

Writing a blog allows me to bring those moments to life, to share the lessons learned and the joy found along the way. It's also a chance to connect with a broader community of travelers, adventurers, and dreamers who share a love of exploration and a curiosity about the world.

Ultimately, this blog is about more than just the Camino—it's about stepping out of your comfort zone, embracing the unknown, and discovering how transformative a simple walk can be.

How it all began

The idea for this blog came to me while sitting with fellow pilgrims after dinner in an albergue in Carrión de los Condes, about two weeks into the journey. The albergue, part of a convent and run entirely by nuns, was sustained by donations from travelers. It was a cluster of Romanesque-style buildings surrounding a courtyard, with a mural painted on the back gate, which served as the pilgrim entrance. Each night, a pilgrim's mass was held, with the nuns singing hymns as a priest blessed the travelers for the road ahead.

A line of weary pilgrims stretched from the registration room into the sunlit courtyard, tired from a long morning of walking. They stood exposed to the punishing midday heat, anxiously hoping to secure a bed for the night and avoid the prospect of walking to the next town. This part of the day was always tense—missing out on a bed meant the time spent waiting in line here was wasted, and by then, beds elsewhere might also be full. If unlucky, you'd have to set out again, now battling the oppressive afternoon sun.

Fortunately, I managed to secure one of the last available beds. The accommodations were basic—a single bed in a row of three, with two rows crammed into a small room that just barely fit six people. We shared a single power outlet. The showers at least had partitions, though the ever-clinging curtains made washing away the dust and sweat of the trail a minor struggle.

The communal kitchen occupied the lower floor, connected to a modest dining room with several tables and chairs. Another adjacent room, unconnected to the kitchen, held a single washing machine and some large basins for handwashing clothes, with clotheslines strung outside for drying.

The town itself was larger than most of the small villages along the route, with the rare luxury of a supermarket—a constant temptation to splurge when tired and aimless after a long day's walk.

I packed the fusilli pasta and tomato sauce into my bag, along with some cereal bars and bananas for the next morning's journey, the small stuff pack I'd nearly left at home proving invaluable after a long day of carrying a full backpack. I made it back to the albergue just before a torrential hailstorm began, grabbing my now-dry clothes off the line as the first icy pellets clipped my ears. It would be an evening spent indoors and a muddy trail to face the next day.

Hoping to start dinner before it got too late, I headed to the kitchen but found myself fifth in line for the stove. A group of Korean pilgrims had gathered around the single kettle, soaking packets of noodles and ingredients I didn't recognize. Fortunately, my friends Kayla and Dan, an Australian couple I'd met a few days earlier, invited me to share a meal they had prepared with a Danish couple I hadn't met yet. They had cooked slightly too much and were happy to share, though I suspect they would have offered even if they had made less.

The five of us sat down to a vegan lasagna, which we paired with a bottle of Kas—a Spanish red soft drink I'd brought along. It tasted terrible, in the way a bitter tonic does, but somehow compelled you to keep sipping. I would have opted for a cheap bottle of local wine, plentiful in the region, but alcohol was prohibited in the convent, and honestly, we could all use a break from the large carafes of red wine the locals seemed to serve with every meal. The food was hearty rather than extravagant—not the culinary feast romanticized in travel blogs, but a meal made better by the effort it took to earn it.

After dinner, we lingered, talking among ourselves. More friends joined the group, adding their thoughts to the conversation. Naturally, the topics revolved around our shared experiences on the road: encounters with fellow travelers, moments of struggle and triumph, and the reasons each of us had chosen to walk the Camino. There was a quiet but palpable hope in the air for the journey ahead. No one among us was free of some ailment—blisters, sore backs, strained hips—but there was no talk of stopping. Each person's relentless determination was evident, even if the reasons driving them forward weren't always clear.

Many spoke of their motivations in vague terms, as though they hadn't yet fully understood what was propelling them onward. I imagined that by the journey's end, their reasons would crystallize and seem obvious in hindsight. But for now, the road stretched out ahead, full of potential, and the end felt distant—a hazy concept somewhere beyond the horizon.

It was during this moment, surrounded by stories and camaraderie, that I suggested interviewing pilgrims along the way and sharing their experiences. Though I hadn't followed projects like Humans of New York, I was familiar with the concept: interviews with ordinary people sharing extraordinary glimpses of their lives. I wanted to capture the raw energy of my fellow travelers, recording their motivations while they were fresh and unpolished. I hoped to explore what kept them going through the daily trials, what pushed them to rise before the rooster's call and take those first steps on the gravel path each morning.

Taking action

The next morning, I woke earlier than the alarm I'd set on my Fitbit. The silent vibration of the smartwatch usually roused me from sleep without disturbing anyone else, though the creaking of bedsprings often did that anyway. This morning, my earplugs had fallen out during the night, and the rhythmic groaning of five other beds brought me to consciousness. The five older Italian men sharing the room with me were up early, eager to get a head start on the day. They seemed especially cheerful, though since this was my first morning in their company, perhaps hugging and taking pictures of one another was just part of their daily routine.

The idea of conducting interviews had been bouncing around in my mind since the conversation the night before, but it was still more of an abstract notion than a concrete plan. When the men greeted me with warm buongiornos, I returned the gesture, and in that moment, I felt a sudden, impulsive spark to act. I asked if they'd be willing to do an interview about their Camino experience.

It was a rash decision, especially since I hadn't stopped to consider whether any of them spoke English—and I didn't speak Italian. None of them spoke English fluently, though one man could understand a little if I spoke slowly. Unfortunately, he wasn't interested in participating. However, one of the men, Bruno, from Bellinzago Novarese in the Piedmont region west of Milan, agreed to an interview.

With the help of one of his friends loosely translating and a strategic use of Google Translate, we managed to carry out the interview. I cobbled together a mix of questions I invented on the spot and others I found through a quick online search. Though the interview wasn't long, it left a deep impression on me. The thoughts and feelings Bruno was willing to share with someone he'd only just met gave me a profound sense of responsibility to honor his reflections.

In the days that followed, I met and spoke with several more pilgrims. Some were people I'd already encountered and developed a friendly rapport with, while others were new acquaintances—friends of friends or fellow travelers met through spontaneous conversations sparked by the road. A shared journey is always a natural reason to strike up a conversation with another traveler.

The collection of insights and motivations I gathered will be shared throughout this blog. These interviews come from my experiences walking three Caminos in May and June of 2024: the Camino Francés from St. Jean Pied de Port to Santiago, the Camino Finisterre from Santiago to Finisterre and then to Muxía, and the Camino Inglés from Ferrol to Santiago. Across these routes, I encountered an incredible diversity of stories, motivations, and perspectives.

I'll also include my own reflections on what works and what doesn't on the trail—covering topics like clothing, backpacks, socks, injury prevention and treatment, and much more.

The mission

The goal of this blog is twofold: to capture that undefined sense of potential shared by all pilgrims, and to offer guidance to future pilgrims as they embark on their own journeys.

Buen Camino ✦