Finding Tradition and Change on the Portuguese Camino

We’d actually joked about this possibility on the walk. What would happen if they had two or three beds, not four? Who’d have to keep walking, taking one for the team? And that’s very close to what actually happened; there was only one spot left. Even though we started the afternoon as a rag-tag group that just happened to walk at the same pace, reaching our destination for the day together had bonded us, and we decided we wanted to find a sleeping solution that would keep us together, so we could all be sure that everyone was taken care of and have a celebratory cerveja.

The albergue owner, a middle-aged local woman, kindly called around to find us other lodging. Luckily a neighbor higher up the hill had two spare beds and a fold-out couch we could claim for 60 euros. Sold! After a hearty dinner of barbecued meat, we spent the evening sitting on the balcony, eavesdropping on a family’s outdoor dinner party as if it was a Bravo special and delighting in the fact that we wouldn’t be sleeping on bunk beds, trying to ignore strangers’ snoring.

This pilgrimage through Portugal and Spain was my second camino. (The walk itself, and the act of doing the pilgrimage, are both referred to this way, as the Spanish word can mean both road or route and journey.) Four years earlier, I’d spent a week walking the last section of the route known as the French Way, the most popular of the dozen-plus Camino routes. The Camino, also known as the Way of St. James, is actually not a single route, as the name would suggest, but a network of pilgrimage trails stretching across Europe that come together at the tomb of St. James, in northwest Spain’s Santiago de Compostela.

Originally, during the Middle Ages, Spaniards simply stepped out of their homes and began walking to Santiago as a religious act of devotion. In the following centuries, the Camino gradually grew into what it is now, a series of known routes named for the countries they begin in, the direction of the route, or other distinguishing features: the French Way, the Portuguese Way, Camino del Norte, Camino Primitivo, and more. Pilgrims—as participants are deemed, no matter what their motivation for joining in—fly or take a train to their starting point of choice, then plot out an individualized itinerary to Santiago and its famed cathedral. Some set off in organized groups, and an entire infrastructure has been built up for Camino-goers who want to have all of their travel logistics (down to the moving of their luggage) taken care of. Others, like me, simply fill up a backpack and go, often solo or with one or two mates. There are, of course, Catholic participants who walk the route as a spiritual pilgrimage, but for others, the reasons for walking the Camino are now as varied as the nationalities of the pilgrims.

My first trip, I had walked 75 miles (120 kilometers) along the last stretch of the French Way (though I never was in France, as the majority of that route heads westward across Spain). Officially, if you walk at least 62.12 miles (100 kilometers) of one of the designated Camino routes and can show proof—in the form of daily stamps collected in a personal Camino passport-style book (which you can get from pubs, shops and albergues along the way)—you are eligible to receive a beautifully-calligraphed certificate, given out in Santiago, as a lasting souvenir. The idea of challenging myself to walk further than I ever had before appealed to the side of me that likes to test my bravery and endurance with adventures like skydiving and running marathons. Plus coming away with such a poignant keepsake of the journey appealed to my sentimental side. As soon as I heard, from a friend, that an adventure like this existed, I carved out a week when I could be away from work to tackle the last stretch of the French Way, beginning in Sarria, Spain.

The experience, much to my surprise and delight, had been unexpectedly powerful. I had envisioned it as an active holiday that would let me escape from daily city life—like tackling a marathon, only more social and hopefully less stressful for my body. But along the way, I ended up meeting strangers who helped me talk through grief over my mom’s death and formulate how to move forward. We laughed and cried, ate delicious Galician food, and had profound conversations about humans’ place in the world while enjoying gorgeous landscapes. It seemed like everything life should be, shrunk down to a week.

Of course, after such a positive experience, I wanted to go back. And after spending the entire pandemic in a cramped New York City apartment, I thought the Camino might be able to lift my spirits again. I also craved the community of the Camino, as well as the nature, and even the long stretches on my own that let me think and process uninterrupted. This last piece felt especially needed. I had recently left an event programming job that felt like it had sucked the life out of me. I was questioning whether to stay in my current field and trying to figure out how much to prioritize my latest professional pursuit, teaching yoga and mindfulness. My head and heart were confused and cluttered, and two weeks of simply walking seemed like it might just be the only cure.

So, once again, I carved out time. I had about two weeks I could devote to trekking 185-ish miles (300-ish kilometers), starting in Porto. When I lived in Ireland for a few years, I had traveled to Lisbon frequently, but didn’t know the rest of Portugal. Tackling the Portuguese Way could provide an opportunity to see smaller towns and villages outside of the capital. Other than booking my flight, I didn’t plan very much or set too specific of an intention, other than making the experience a walking meditation; I wanted to enjoy each step with the crashing waves of the Atlantic as my soundtrack, and I hoped for clarity.

Once again, I started solo but frequently found myself with others. I’ve found that even when we walk alone, pilgrims are always alone together. There’s almost always someone in the distance, behind or in front of you, and their presence is a constant reminder that you’re part of something much bigger. Personally, I’m social, so I end up striking up conversations with others. Which is how I ended up walking with my new temporary Camino family.

The next morning, I woke up next to Laura, a 20-something from Germany with whom I had agreed to share the twin bed. We threw on tees and athletic shorts, slathered on sunscreen, and wondered what to do about nagging foot blisters. Meanwhile, Thomas, a rugged Dutchman who was on his fourth Camino (seemingly for the physical adventure of it all), heated water in a kettle. As I waited for the sludge-like instant coffee to cool, I devoted 12 minutes to the one ritual I tried to do no matter what—a seated meditation to center myself before a day of movement.

After coffee, everyone grabbed their packs, and we trudged downhill to rejoin the coastal path, looking for the next yellow arrow that pointed the way. The Camino is extremely well mapped, and there are guidebooks and phone apps you can use to navigate the trail, but I prefer to put technology aside in favor of a simple approach, following the (literal) signs and walking along without knowing what comes next.

The first few hours that day, we walked mostly in silence as everyone settled into their pace, their bodies, and the terrain. Eventually, we saw a small shop, and Doug and I went in to grab espressos. The other two, however, kept going. This kind of thing—which would likely be considered rude in regular life—is a normal, acceptable occurrence on the Camino. Walking companions come and go. Sometimes you catch up with people in just a few minutes. Sometimes you never see those momentary friends again. Other times you might reunite days or weeks later, as if by magic.

Today, Doug and I trudged on alone, stopping just once to sit on a sidewalk and snack on trail mix. When we arrived at the albergue where we’d planned to meet, there was still no sign of the others, who must have taken a slightly different route to the town. The only other person there was a Spanish hiker who greeted us with a question: “Have you reserved a bed here?”

In the past, before the pandemic, booking non-hotel accommodations along the Camino was unnecessary—in fact, it wasn’t usually possible. First come, first served and payment in cash was standard. During the pandemic, however, albergues began allowing online bookings or asking pilgrims to send WhatsApp messages in advance, and the change has stuck. Finding lodging, I sadly learned, has gone from a foot race to a phone race and we had to act fast. So, Doug and I borrowed the Spaniard’s phone and called the albergue owner. “All reserved,” he confirmed, and hung up. Our next half-hour became a frantic search for alternatives. We messaged nearby places with beds. No space. There was no choice but to keep walking; the next town with a hostel was almost 6 miles (10 kilometers), and we’d already done a full day’s trek.

“This feels really unfair, but I don’t know who to be mad at,” I blurted out. Doug, who worked as a chaplain and spiritual counselor for a hospice back home in Kentucky, was in agreement. For a while, our steps were angry and bitter. Then, we came across an older German duo resting by a stream. Wally appeared to be struggling. He was hunched over and dripping with sweat, while Tina—who we learned was a cancer survivor and his best friend—served as caretaker.

“Come walk with us,” Doug suggested. We apparently had had the same thought: after stumbling upon them, we had a duty to get them to their next point. So, as a new group, we walked on.

Minutes later, the sudden appearance of a cluster of tables and the faint hint of French music seemed like a mirage. But it was very real: a quaint bistro right in the middle of the Camino that only opened for a few hours each afternoon. Over toasted tomato sandwiches and beautiful bowls of gazpacho, we found the rejuvenation we needed to make it a few hours more to the next available beds, in a hostel overlooking the ocean. Later, after dropping off my pack and getting set for the evening, I waded in the cool waves; it was the first time that trip that I had managed to find the right occasion for such a swim.

As I walked into the water, I remembered a phrase frequently uttered by pilgrims: “The Camino provides.” Previously I had shrugged it off as a way to put a positive spin on hiking missteps. But that day the expression came to life, urging me to be open to what the world was teaching. On this day, the Camino certainly did provide.