Eighty-seven kilometres. Do you see that number?! Eighty-freaking-seven kilometres, hiked in three days. If you’re wondering how I did that, the honest answer would be: unintentionally. Allow me to explain.
It was around 28 km from Sangüesa to the nearest albergue. The camino goes through plains and fields, and, ultimately, it spends a few kilometres winding through the territory of wild bulls. Now, for those who would rather not hike two kilometres in the presence of horned animals (me), there was the option of either going down a bit and following the road, or simply foregoing the original route altogether and taking a 4 km detour. This detour also leads through a really impressive canyon, and I figured I’d need to clinch the big 30 at some point anyway, so at 6 in the morning, full with energy and excitement for the day, I impulsively decided to take the detour. The canyon was indeed incredibly beautiful. The optional camino followed an old train track for a while, and finally went through an old, no longer used, unlit tunnel (*cue Taylor Swift singing, I think I’ve seen this film before*). This one, however, was decidedly shorter than 2 km, and after a few minutes in the dark the tunnel opened up again, revealing the canyon of Lumbier. Vultures were circling overhead, and the high walls of the canyon rose up high above me. Unfortunately, the canyon wasn’t that long, and I had barely passed kilometre 12 when:
- the canyon was long gone and
- so were the signs.
Long story short, maybe the actual detour was indeed a mere 4 km, but if you get lost in random fields that are very, very muddy and have to backtrack multiple times because you lost the signs again, it quickly goes up to 7 km. In an effort to heighten my spirits a bit, I blasted Les Lac du Connemara on repeat. You might think that it was quite unhinged to do, but the rhythm is perfect as a marching beat.
By the time I arrived in Monreal, I was exhausted. To add insult to injury, I couldn’t even find the albergue at first*, and walked around the village a few times. Luckily for me, the others had told the woman of the albergue that I was still on the way, and they even made a dinner reservation already. All I had to do was take a shower and get to the restaurant.
*At this point I started to have the sneaking suspicion that maybe the signs hadn’t been the problem but rather just me, because the albergue was very clearly indicated and I walked past it three times huffing and puffing that I couldn’t find it. So there’s that.
This was also our second to last day on the camino Aragones. We all knew that once we reached Puente la Reina the day after, our little bubble of peaceful pilgrimage would burst as we’d merge onto the camino Frances. I wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of having only one more day of peace, so I thought about taking it easy the day after and splitting the stage in two. After all, I had done nearly 35 km the day before, so a little rest was deserved.
The morning started beautifully, with a hazy fog surrounding us and making everything a little more dream-like. A few kilometres before reaching the place where I would stop I met up with some others of the group, and together we decided to get some breakfast in the town before they would continue. Except it turned out the bar was closed, and the next one was a good 5-10 km further down the road, and by the time I had drank my coffee I had decided that backtracking was stupid and I might as well commit to just hiking the whole thing. Tadam. Unintenional 65 km in two days. There we go.
We eventually made it to Puente la Reina, where we got a private room for four to give ourselves one more night of respite. Our albergue had a kitchen, so we told everyone from our little Aragon-group to come over one last time to have dinner together. Pol and Mark made the food, I contributed by making way too many pancakes that we also had for breakfast the day after. We said goodbye to Olivier, who would be going home as Puente la Reina was his destination, and in the morning we said goodbye to Mark too. I wrote the very prolific words in my notebook, “That shit hurt”.
(I’m not very good at saying goodbye. I like to get emotionally attached to people and things after five minutes of knowing them.)
In addition, my first few kilometres on the camino frances were rough. Our bubble had indeed burst, and I felt downright uneasy with the amount of fellow pilgrims I encountered. I spent nearly the entire way to Estella listening to music and emitting please-do-not-talk-to-me-vibes because at every point there were at least twenty pilgrims in front of me and twenty more right behind me and frankly, it was overwhelming. So I didn’t really talk to other people, and when I arrived in Estella I made it my goal to find the calmest possible albergue. I did find it, and it was called albergue Anfas, a quiet albergue on the edge of the city, with twenty-something beds that had the most comfortable blankets ever. If you’re ever doing a camino, and you find yourself staying overnight in Estella, I strongly recommend going to Anfas. It is clean and quiet, and in cooperation with people with mental disabilities. The donations of the pilgrims are used to financially support both the people who work at the albergue and their families. I took some time in the albergue to relish in the peace, and then I met with someone from the Aragon group to have dinner, and deeply contemplated getting off the camino frances at the soonest possible moment**.
**I don’t want to end this post making it seem like I hated every second of that last day, so just to clear things up a bit: it was a rough start but I have acclimatised and I’m now back to my social self.
You said THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKING AND THAT’S JUST WHAT THEY’LL DO