Day 26: Of Rolling Hills, Lies, and Fly-Filled Skies

Today was billed as an easy 25-kilometer walk over “rolling hills.” This turned out to be a cruel euphemism, what we faced was less a gentle ramble and more an unsolicited audition for Everest Base Camp. Right out of the gate, the path tilted skyward with such enthusiasm that our calves filed formal complaints. And as if climbing Mount K2’s little Galician cousin were not enough, both cafes listed on every reputable Camino app were either shuttered forever or practicing their best impression of a haunted house, completely lifeless.

With coffee dreams dashed, we slogged upward. As the air thinned and our oxygen needs increased, we were instead treated to lungfuls of buzzing flies. These little winged demons orbited our sweaty heads like caffeinated satellites, each one determined to tap a vein and file a flight plan for the promised land of forehead salt.

Then, like a vision from some alternate Camino dimension, R from Poland came bounding up the trail, pack on, singing, glowing with vitality. “I feel great!” he declared as he pranced around the bend. We assumed he had just been assigned to mock us by the Camino gods. Moments later, he reappeared—showered, shaved, and dressed like he was ready for a dinner date in Madrid. He smiled wide and asked, “How was your morning?”

At kilometer 15, a café appeared like a mirage. Beer was ordered. Tortilla devoured. Hopes, slightly restored. T&T, dealing with battle-worn knees and hips, suggested we cab the last 10 km. My stomach, still furious at the pork belly extravaganza of the night before, quickly joined their union and demanded representation. A taxi was summoned. J&N, ever the overachievers, left their packs with us and charged ahead on foot.

Life, as it does, had other plans. The taxi took so long we had time to age gracefully at the bar. We finally rolled into A Fonsagrada just as J&N arrived, sweaty, triumphant, and only slightly smug. They kindly refrained from gloating. Probably.

Sometimes, the Camino gives you a mountain when you expected a meadow. And sometimes, it gives you a taxi… eventually.

A from Portugal walks the Camino as if it were a part of her soul, because in truth, it is. Her pack is patched with stories, a living archive of the many roads she has walked and the lessons she has gathered. Her Camino tattoos mirror my own, not just in ink but in meaning, symbols of transformation, resilience, and devotion. She lives right on the trail in Portugal, where every journey begins at her front door, as natural to her as breathing. For A, the Camino is not a trip; it is a way of life, a calling that continues to shape and refine her spirit.

I think of her as our trail angel, ever-present in the most surprising and beautiful ways. One moment she is behind you, then ahead, then appearing just when someone needs a gentle smile or a word of quiet encouragement. Her energy is calm and kind, like a balm for tired souls. She too is walking a path of deep change, and in that, I feel a shared understanding. Her presence reminds me that the Camino brings the right people into our lives exactly when they are meant to arrive. And A, lighthearted, grounded, full of grace is one of those rare gifts the Camino gives when your heart is open.