Walking the Camino de Santiago Changed How I Travel Forever
Most trips end when the flight lands. But some? They keep walking with you, long after your boots are off and the blisters have healed.
That’s what happened when I walked the Camino de Santiago—a centuries-old pilgrimage across Spain that’s as much about self-discovery as it is about distance. It’s not just a hike. It’s a journey, in every sense of the word.
What Is the Camino de Santiago?
The Camino is a network of ancient pilgrim routes that all lead to Santiago de Compostela, where the remains of Saint James are said to be buried. The most popular path is the Camino Francés, stretching around 500 miles (800 km) from the French border to the northwest of Spain.
Historically, it was a religious pilgrimage. Today, it draws people of all faiths (or none at all) who are seeking something: clarity, healing, a challenge, or just a really long walk through beautiful landscapes.
You don’t need to be a monk to do it. Just bring good shoes and an open mind.
Why I Decided to Do It
I wasn’t going through a life crisis—just a bit of a life fog.
Burnt out. Always online. Constantly thinking about what’s next. I wanted to unplug, move my body, and maybe figure out why I couldn’t remember the last time I felt still.
So I booked a one-way ticket to Pamplona, bought a backpack, and started walking.
The First Few Days: Blisters and Doubt
I’d love to tell you I instantly loved it. I didn’t.
The first few days were hard. My pack felt too heavy. My knees ached. My feet developed blisters in places I didn’t know existed.
But something else started to happen.
Strangers would stop to check on me. A fellow pilgrim gave me tape for my blisters. A café owner gave me free coffee “porque tienes cara de cansado” (“because you look tired”).
And every morning, no matter how sore I was, I got up and walked again.
The Rhythm of the Camino
After a while, you fall into a rhythm. Wake up with the sun. Walk. Rest. Eat. Talk. Walk more. Shower. Sleep.
Repeat.
There’s no rush. No email. No mirrors. No makeup. You forget what day it is. You learn to listen—to your body, to the wind, to your own thoughts.
You meet people from everywhere: retirees, students, seekers, skeptics. Some walk in silence. Some share their life story by mile three.
And everyone’s equal on the trail. It doesn’t matter where you’re from or what you do. On the Camino, you’re just a walker with sore feet and a common goal.
The Little Moments That Stay With You
- A French couple who gave me bread and cheese during a rainstorm. - A Korean grandmother who taught me how to properly stretch my calves. - A man from Brazil who walked the Camino after losing his wife—and carried her photo in his hat. - A Spanish farmer who shouted “¡Buen Camino!” and handed me a plum from his tree.
These weren’t just moments. They were reminders: people are good. And connection doesn’t require Wi-Fi.
Sleeping in Albergues
Most pilgrims stay in albergues—basic hostels with bunk beds, shared kitchens, and zero frills. But they’re full of warmth.
You cook together. You swap stories. You learn how loudly people can snore.
I started looking forward to each night, not just for rest—but for the community.
The Landscape? Unreal.
You cross mountain passes, wheat fields, sleepy towns, forests, and vineyards. Sometimes, you walk for miles without seeing anyone. Other times, you’re part of a small, unspoken parade of souls.
Every region brings a shift in terrain—and energy. Navarra feels moody and lush. La Rioja smells like wine. Galicia is damp, green, and mystical.
Photos don’t do it justice. It’s something you feel in your feet and chest.
What You Carry (And What You Don’t)
You quickly learn that less is more. Every ounce in your pack matters. You carry only what you truly need.
Eventually, that mindset creeps into your thoughts too.
Do I really need to worry about that thing from work? Do I need to keep replaying that argument? Do I need this mental baggage?
By the third week, I’d left behind more than a few extra socks.
The Arrival in Santiago
After 30+ days of walking, you arrive in Santiago de Compostela. The cathedral appears through the narrow streets. People cheer. Some cry. Some fall silent.
I didn’t expect to cry. But I did. Because it wasn’t just the finish line. It was proof that I could do something hard, slow, and meaningful—and stick with it.
And because I realized the real journey wasn’t over. It had just shifted inside me.
What I Took Home
- Slowness isn’t lazy. It’s sacred. - Movement can be meditation. Step after step, you find peace. - People are kind. When you’re vulnerable and real, they show up. - Purpose doesn’t need to be flashy. It can be as simple as walking forward. - Disconnecting connects you. To yourself. To others. To the world.
I also took home better posture, a love for Spanish tortilla, and a few lifelong friendships.
Thinking of Doing It? Here’s What to Know
- You don’t need to walk the full 500 miles. Even a week changes you. - You don’t need to be religious. The Camino welcomes everyone. - You’ll be sore. But you’ll also feel alive. - Pack light. Seriously. Half of what you bring, you’ll ditch. - Be open. To conversations, detours, quiet, and whatever lessons show up.
Walking the Camino de Santiago didn’t solve all my problems. But it shifted something.
It reminded me that there’s beauty in the simple. That we don’t need to be constantly achieving, scrolling, or racing. Sometimes, it’s enough to just move forward—step by step, one sunrise at a time.
