15/09/2025 - That was my bed.

Wow. What a day. The longest I’ve ever walked in one go: 29 km. Maybe that’s nothing for some, but for me, after already doing the equivalent of a semi-marathon every day for the last eight ones, it feels huge. An exploit. I’m proud of myself, astonished even. And what surprises me most is not just the distance, but how much I can still do beyond the walking itself. I managed to work for my dad and Robert, edit my entry for the blog, do my laundry, clean my space, prepare my clothes for tomorrow, and still sit down to write. Who even am I? Especially considering that for years I thought I was “lazy.”

But maybe I was never lazy. I just wasn’t going after what excites me, what sparks joy and speaks to my soul. Challenges have always been part of my cravings. I love setting goals and seeing how far I can go, sometimes to the point of obsession. That’s a lesson I had to learn the hard way. But now I see it clearly: I’m wired to expand beyond my comfort zone. I’m built for my own greatness. I’m a warrior, a huntress, a woman who will go the long way to make shit happen for herself.

And still, I’m just as soft, tender, delicate, romantic, nurturing. One pole reflects the other. The more I push my physical and mental endurance, the more I seem to cultivate peace, care, and love inside myself. Today I stopped to listen to birds, watched a squirrel dart across my path, and chatted again with those lovely Canadian ladies. I love how those small moments of sweetness live right alongside the fire.

This morning didn’t even look like the start of such a big day. I woke up at 7:20, my latest yet, and lingered in bed, unhurried, debating whether to stop in Navarrete (13 km ahead) or push all the way to Nájera (another 16 km). Something was buzzing in me, maybe hormones kicking back after my period, maybe just a craving to take a big bite out of life. Who knows?

I went for coffee and yes, another ham-and-tomato sandwich (Spain really doesn’t cater to pilgrims’ morning hunger). While there, I called my father. He told me to slow down, take it easy, relax. I told him I felt strong, that I’d walk to Navarrete and then see how I felt.

The first 2.5 hours flew by. I even spent an hour on the phone with Calypso, updating each other, her job, her summer, her new discoveries about her body, how hardship and rejection can be alchemized into self-worth. Deep, beautiful conversation, fueling me as I walked. By the time I reached Navarrete it wasn’t even midday. My body felt so good, my mind so clear, that I didn’t hesitate. I kept going.

I stepped into an enormous church, picked up my stamp, and stood in awe before a golden wall of carved saints and ceremonies. The sheer grandeur of it all. I couldn’t help but wonder about the money, the secrecy, the power dynamics behind such creations. And I understood why so many people are reluctant about Christianity. I’m not religious, I’ve never read the Bible, never recited its prayers, but I do love churches as sanctuaries, places where centuries of faith and intention still linger in the walls.

After a pause with lemon cake and water, I bumped into Martine, a woman I’d met in Villamayor de Monjardín, and we exchanged encouragements. By then, the sun was merciless, burning my skin, sweat running down my back. I put on my rock playlist, electric riffs, funky grooves, and pushed forward.

Every time my energy dipped, I spoke affirmations out loud, reminding myself why I was here. Each wave of fatigue gave me a new “why.” Still, that last hour was brutal. I searched for shade, hydrated, distracted myself with little games in my head. I even opened ChatGPT to ask me random questions. At one point I completely lost the plot and started sprinting, alternating bursts of speed with my bag and camera bouncing everywhere. It didn’t save time, but the rush of change of pace felt amazing after six hours of the same step after step.

When I finally reached the bridge into Nájera, I jumped with joy. Each arrival feels like I don’t believe it until the very last moment. The relief only hits when my feet finally stop. But the day wasn’t done. At the albergue I had booked on WhatsApp, I was told they were full, my bed had been sold. After 30 km in blazing sun, it took everything in me to stay calm. That was my bed, the only place I wanted to collapse. I told the hostess firmly to find me a solution. After a few calls, she came back with one: another hostel had one last bed. HURRA!

Three minutes later, a kind (slightly overwhelmed) man welcomed me. The dorm under the roof was small, hot, and crooked, and as more people poured in, I asked about a private room. Lucky me, there was one left. A double bed, 45€. A simple luxury, but oh so sweet. I showered, wandered around naked just because I could, then collapsed into bed with a silly romantic comedy on Netflix: The Wrong Paris.

Laundry got sorted at the hostel next door (mine had no machines), but food was another battle. By 5 p.m. all the restaurants were closed. Hangry and desperate, I wandered the streets for 20 minutes before giving up and buying potato chips, cheese, the biggest apricot I’ve ever seen, Nutella biscuits, and water. Not glamorous, but it did the job. Spain’s rhythm is beautiful, rooted in tradition, but on the Camino it clashes with ours. Late meals, closed kitchens, adaptability isn’t their strong suit.

Back in my room, I ate in bed while finishing my work, satisfied that I’d managed everything I wanted. Today wasn’t as emotionally deep as some, more fiery, more straightforward, but just as rewarding. Tomorrow I’ll leave early to beat the heat and rest in the afternoon. I’ll also cross the 200 km mark, which feels insane. I’m so happy I’m doing this for myself. It’s already giving me things I didn’t know I needed.

With love, Loune.