18/09/2025 - You carry your fear.

I arrived early today, and the walk itself was beautiful. The morning felt light, easy even, and I realized as I sat down that I often write mostly about what stirs inside me. I imagine you can somehow see what I see, live what I live, but I don’t always describe enough of what’s around me. So here’s the scene: I’m sitting on a bar terrasse, facing a cathedral carved out of massive stones, its weight pressing into the square with centuries of silence. A few pilgrims sit nearby, each carrying the look of long days of walking, their voices weaving together in different languages. The sun is high and merciless, and I’m grateful for the umbrella above me. My bed is already queued for the opening of the municipal albergue, one of those first-come-first-served places. Some eat, some rest, some just seems to exist. Some will stop here, others will push on three more kilometers to the next village.

I love this atmosphere, but dawn is still my favorite part of the day. When I left the hostel this morning it was pitch black, so I strapped on the headlamp a woman gave me back in Logroño, as she was finishing her Camino there. I walked half an hour in that darkness until the shadows of trees and fields began to take shape. Slowly the sky shifted from black to deep blues, then softened. I turned off the lamp, entered a forest, and walked in the silence of nature’s last moments of sleep. The animals still hidden, the birds hesitating before their song, the whole world pausing just before it wakes.

The colors right before sunrise are my favorite. Different from sunset, which is loud and blazing. Here the sky melts into pastels, soft oranges and pinks that feel cool against the eyes. It’s like watching a painting breathe in front of me, nothing out of balance, no color trying to dominate another. Just pure harmony. I feel my soul nourished each time, as if the Camino itself is gifting me a private masterpiece before the world stirs awake.

Later I stopped for coffee and an omelette with pan con tomate, stretching the moment as long as I could before heading on. In the next village I bumped into Isabel, a Spanish woman I’d first met in Logroño. We’d clicked instantly back then, chatting easily in our dorm room. She’s strong and fiery but also carries a calmness that I find grounding. She works in IT, lives nearby, and is only walking until Burgos because her holidays don’t allow more. Like many, she’ll finish the Camino in parts.

I feel privileged to be able to work while walking, and yet I understand why people my age often can’t take this time. It makes it rarer to find companions I truly relate to. But still, I enjoy the mix: the Koreans who seem born for this kind of trek, the Americans whose personalities I recognize instantly, the Australians whose company I always appreciate, and of course the French scattered here and there. Strangely, the Spanish themselves are rare on their own trail. And then all the others: dozens of nationalities, each reacting differently to discomfort.

Some pilgrims send their bags ahead with companies, walking only with a small daypack and finding their belongings waiting at the next stop. I respect this choice for older walkers or those with injuries, but for the rest it feels like skipping a part of the essence. There’s a saying on the Camino: you carry your fear. The heavier the fear of lack, the heavier the pack. For me, carrying my bag is part of the pilgrimage, a reminder of what I consider necessary.

And speaking of it, let me tell you what I carry. My bag-pack is a 40L Millet with rain cover, and inside: a light sleeping bag (400g, down to -8°), a sling bag for my essentials (money, passport, credentials), rain jacket, microfiber towel, flip flops, headlamp, 2 t-shirts, 1 short, 1 long pant, 2 pairs of socks, pajamas, 2 underwear, a cashmere sweater, a knife, my laptop for work, a Kindle, and chargers.

My toiletry bag holds the basics too: mini shampoo and conditioner, a bar of Marseille soap for both body and laundry, hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste, face cream, body lotion (I use it to massage my feet at night), sunscreen, deodorant, razor, tweezers, ibuprofen, disinfectant wipes, and vaseline. And let me highlight this last one, because it is truly essential. Since covering my toes with it each morning, I haven’t had a single new blister. A Brazilian woman taught me this trick, and when I saw her immaculate feet after days of walking I finally understood how. Vaseline prevents friction, and honestly, it’s a gift on a long trek like this one.

My bag feels light, never stuffed, and I love it that way. Each object has value now, each serves a purpose, and I’m grateful for every single one. Some people only carry a toothbrush as their toiletry, others walk with sticks, some even camp in tents. Everyone has their own needs, their own definition of what matters.

The albergue of tonight might be the worst yet: dark rooms, thin mattresses where my hips sink to the springs, mold on the walls, and the “cherry on top”: a cold shower. But I’ve decided to keep it cool. My body feels strong, my walk was smooth, and tomorrow after 27 km I’ll be in Burgos with an apartment of my own for two nights. I can already picture it, rolling in my sheets, maybe with a bath and a glass of red wine, maybe with loud music and a dance. Who knows.

It’s crazy how emotions swing here, from one hour to the next. Last night I was in a trance of heaviness, almost scared to reread what I wrote, but today I feel lighter, as if a veil has lifted. I remind myself not to judge any of it. I’m doing my best, moving through new terrain inside and out, and the eclipse tunnel right now is heightening everything. Therefore, I can only trust this cleaning.

With love, Loune.