The Camino began for me not with a step, but with a storm. A rain so heavy it felt personal, as if the sky had reached its breaking point and simply… let go. Sheets of water poured over the hills, over the villages, over us. It wasn’t gentle cleansing, it was the universe emptying its pockets, rinsing the world of all the dust and leftover sins. Somewhere between laughing and shivering, I thought: If the Camino is a pilgrimage, this rain is my baptism.
By the time the clouds moved on, I swear my soul felt newly polished. Angels, really. That’s what we were. Or aspired to be.

And then life, in its impeccable timing, sent us a warm loaf of proof that goodness exists. A man pulled over his car, leaned out, and said, “I own a bakery.” No introduction, no explanation, just a smile and bread still warm from the oven. A tiny miracle wrapped in crust and kindness. I tucked the bread under my arm like treasure and felt something settle inside my chest. Maybe the Camino wasn’t just a walk. Maybe it was an invitation to notice.

Buen Camino: The words that open doors (and hearts)

From the first real steps on the trail, people greeted me with “Buen Camino.” Two simple words, yet they carried the weight of blessing, encouragement, and community. It felt like entering a secret society, not defined by passports, names or histories, but by the simple act of moving forward. I listened to bits of stories drifting through the air: why they came, what they carried, what they hoped to leave behind. Some spoke openly. Some spoke only through their eyes. And some shared silence, the most honest language of all. With every “Buen Camino,” I felt the same thing: You belong here. Even if just for a day. Even if just for a few kilometres. It didn’t feel like walking among strangers. It felt like walking among chapters of the same book.

The path climbed, dipped, twisted. My breath fought on the uphills, my knees complained on the downhills. Especially my left knee. But something inside me softened, step by step, village by village. There’s a strange peace that comes when your mind walks at the same pace as your feet.

Somewhere along the way, I noticed the stones: tiny piles balanced on the kilometre markers like offerings. Pilgrims carry them from the beginning, tucked in pockets or palms. A ritual of release, a surrender, a  quiet, symbolic “not this anymore.”

When I placed my own stone down, I felt a deep, familiar ache. I thought of heartbreaks, of chapters that tore me apart, of the kind of grief that burns but also carves out new space inside you. I thought of him, the love I lost too soon, and all the versions of myself I’ve had to rebuild before and yet since. Letting the stone slip from my hand felt like telling the universe: He walks with me, but the pain doesn’t have to.

Healing isn’t a thunderbolt. It’s these tiny decisions to let the past stop running the show. And as I walked away, a thought shifted inside me: Maybe it’s not what happened to me, but what happened for me. Just changing one word gave me back some air in my lungs.

Nature, legends & questionable survival techniques

Galicia welcomed me with eucalyptus forests that smelled like hiking through a giant jar of Vicks VapoRub. There were apple trees heavy with fruit, fields where cows stared at me like judgmental locals and the whispers of old Celtic legends, including the Santa Compaña, a ghostly procession said to roam at night. Would I meet them? Hopefully not. Had I mentally prepared? Absolutely.
I decided my hiking pole would make an excellent emergency ghost-defence stick. Practicality first. Multi-purpose second.

Walking through Galicia felt like stepping into a living museum:
Celtic symbols, Roman bridges, bagpipes echoing from somewhere unseen. And yet, most pilgrims were too busy worrying about blisters and café con leche to notice the centuries watching us. But I noticed. This land holds so much more than footsteps.

Ultreia! Et Suseia!

Somewhere on the road, I learned a new word: Ultreia: onward, further beyond. Pilgrims once greeted each other with this word, answered by Et Suseia! (and higher!). I loved it instantly. It felt like the Camino’s entire spirit distilled into one breath. Because out here, you don’t just walk. You walk stories:

♡ The solo walker discovering she’s actually great company.
♡ The mother and daughter who fight over snacks but cry together at sunset.
♡ Friends discovering that true friendship begins when someone snores.
♡ Couples navigating love one blister at a time.
♡ Fathers and sons saying things they’ve avoided for decades.

Every day, the Camino becomes a living library of humanity, stories whispered, carried, and sometimes left behind like the stones.

And for me…

I didn’t walk alone. I walked with memories, with love, with signs that felt too precise to be coincidences. I walked with the quiet belief that he was guiding me forward. And as I reached the end of this stage, tired and grateful, I realised something simple: You don’t need to finish the Camino for it to change you. Transformation can happen in the middle of a forest, on a cobblestone street, or in the hush of a morning mist. Sometimes, it happens simply because someone walked beside you, for a minute or for a lifetime.

So I’ll leave you with one question:

If you were to walk the Camino, whose story would you want beside your own?