My Take on the Camino Francés

I began my Camino in Roncesvalles, surrounded by the forested mountains of Navarra — so close to the Selva de Irati, one of Europe’s great natural treasures. I didn’t hike it — not yet — but just knowing it was nearby reminded me of how vast and timeless the land truly is. The trail itself invited me to slow down and listen — not just to the wind and the rhythm of my footsteps, but to something deeper stirring within.

The stage to Pamplona was full of life — a beautiful walk that led into a city pulsing with energy. Tapas, music, laughter in the plazas, the spirit of the Running of the Bulls, and Hemingway’s lingering shadow — it all blended into a celebration of summer and motion.

But one of my most meaningful stops was in Viana, a town I hadn’t even planned on. I arrived alongside a group of cyclists I’d shared the road with all day. Though part of me wanted to keep riding with them, I felt something in me say: Stay. That quiet inner voice taught me one of the Camino’s hardest and most important lessons: you walk your own rhythm.

In a humble albergue in a small parish, I found rest, warmth, and a sense of belonging. I still remember Trek — a fellow pilgrim, his toes wrapped in cotton, being gently cared for by others. That night, we gathered around a long table with a local priest at the head. There was wine, a simple meal, and a sense that we had somehow become a family — even just for a night.

In Burgos and León, we balanced physical challenge with well-earned pauses — resting under the weight of a summer heat wave. Then, in Galicia, the air shifted. Cool mist and forest paths brought quiet relief, like a blessing on tired shoulders. The final stretch was filled with solitude and surprise reunions — familiar faces appearing just when you needed them most, stitching the journey together in small, joyful ways.

Each time I crossed paths again with someone I hadn’t seen in days, someone would smile and say:
“El mundo es como un pañuelo.”
“The world is small.”

And it was. But on the Camino, that smallness felt sacred — as if something greater was always at work, bringing people together at just the right moment.

In Santiago de Compostela, we all gathered inside the cathedral for the pilgrim’s mass. The grand Botafumeiro swung through the aisle, trailing incense and centuries of meaning behind it. Later, in the rain-washed streets, we celebrated — each of us carrying our own story, our own reasons for walking. I remember that drizzle — soft, almost cinematic — and how beautiful it felt to stand there in the heart of it all, completely present.

And in that moment — as in so many along the Camino — I felt it again:
The Camino isn’t just a path you walk.
It’s a path that walks you home to yourself.