Now then, dear reader—lest you, like my sister, are under the impression that this is simply an elaborately costumed pub crawl across Spain with the occasional prayer thrown in — allow me a moment of theological reflection before returning to our regularly scheduled tales of aching joints and surprising geography.
This morning over breakfast, something quietly beautiful happened.
We sat in a dining room of ten pilgrims:
Two from Spain, two from Germany, two from France, two from Canada (yours truly and companion), and two from the United States. Ten people. Ten languages or dialects. Ten ways of expressing gratitude for strong coffee and clean socks. And yet — we were all heading in the same direction.
We may speak differently, dress differently, and disagree on whether a croissant counts as sufficient protein — but we are all walking a path, spiritually and literally, that leads us toward God.
The Camino does that. It reminds us that while we journey in many ways, we are all, at heart, pilgrims in search of grace.
Now, on to the comedy.
While gathered in that little breakfast room, our host asked where everyone was headed for the day. Eight of the pilgrims proudly proclaimed their destination: Arcade — a fine town and, as we would soon learn, a formidable one.
David and I, perhaps a bit smugly, replied: Redondela.
Our host’s face lit up with relief.
“Ah, lucky you! Only 14 km. The others? Almost 30!”
David and I chuckled into our café con leches with the quiet satisfaction of two men who had outwitted the calendar and outwalked the rest. A short day! A gentle climb! What could go wrong?
Ah yes… elevation.
It turns out that the route to Redondela involves a 500-foot climb, followed by a 500-foot descent.
Now, this may not sound like much to the sprightly, but to my arthritic hips, it felt like summiting Everest in sandals. Meanwhile, David’s knees, never ones to miss a dramatic moment, began protesting with every blessed step downhill. If my hips were singing the blues, his knees were composing a full requiem.
Eventually, we reached Redondela, sweaty but triumphant, and found shelter — a bus shelter, to be precise — where we decided to check the final distance to our hotel.
I tapped in the address, expecting directions to a quiet little inn just up the street. Instead, my phone boldly announced that our hotel was… 14 kilometres away. In Arcade.
Yes, dear reader, it turns out we had chosen the wrong town.
We had misread the itinerary, misjudged the map, and now found ourselves only halfway through what was meant to be our “short day.”
I double-checked the dossier in disbelief. Sure enough:
“To reach your hotel in Arcade, continue for 14 km. Includes moderate climb and descent.”
Well. At least it was consistent.
David, ever the realist, shook his head and said,
“So much for the record I set yesterday for the longest walk to get a beer.”
And off we went—limping, chuckling, and fuelled by the promise of another café con leche.
By the time we hobbled into Arcade, we’d earned every blister, every smile, and every seat at the table. We found our fellow pilgrims, old and new, and shared a glorious supper at a local restaurant, swapping stories, nursing sore limbs, and realizing that this accidental extension of our day had led us to a deeper kind of Camino.
As we sat to eat, we noticed a fellow at a nearby table who appeared to be along. We invited him to join with us. A few minuted later we saw a young woman we had met on the way who was from Barcelona, along with her friend. They were also alone. WE invited them to join our little team as well. As the night went on, we were gathering quite an impressive crew.
Tomorrow, we cover just 13 km. A gentle stroll, they tell us.
But if it turns into another pilgrimage-within-a-pilgrimage, I shall offer it up—perhaps with a glass of Albariño in one hand and a walking stick in the other.
And for now, dear reader, I must rest.
I am not sure if I’ll be walking tomorrow, or simply leaning forward with intent—but either way, the road continues. And so shall we.
Buen Camino.