🎵 Song of the Day: “Win” – Brian McKnight, Men of Honour
Today I walked another 20 kilometers. The first five and a half were through yet another town with no signs. I kept getting lost — again. Honestly, I think I’m officially changing my name to Lost and Found. Walking through a town without yellow arrows has become a regular part of my mornings now — pacing up and down, hoping the next corner will point me back onto the trail.
Once out of town, though, the world changed. I had about five kilometers of beautiful forest road. Up and down through the trees, fresh air, quiet paths. It was the first time I’ve had hills to climb — well, “mountains” might be pushing it — but it felt good. It felt like progress. Like I was walking toward something meaningful.
And then came kilometer nine.
That’s when I hit the road — literally. A tar road with trucks flying past, horns blaring, and cars whipping by with barely a metre to spare. I almost died twice. Okay, that’s an exaggeration… but not by much. It wasn’t pretty. Just tar, factories, an occasional house. No forest. No scenery. Just noise, danger, and a deep sense of what am I doing here?
So I walked. Alone. Again. And that quiet ache of loneliness started to creep in. Over the past seven days, I’ve had only two real social interactions — both of which I’ve already shared in earlier blog posts. Today, there was no one. Just me, the tar, and the question echoing in my mind: Is it quitting if you change the plan? Or is it just being wise with your energy?
I’m considering a rest day tomorrow. Maybe catching a train to Porto — where most pilgrims start the Camino — and continuing the journey from there to Santiago. Yes, that means I’d be skipping about 200 kilometers of the trail. But I’m also thinking of making up for it by continuing past Santiago, walking an extra 100 kilometers to Finisterre — to the sea, the symbolic end of the world. And maybe, the beginning of something else.
And here’s a side note that keeps tugging at my attention: it’s 11 a.m., and I’ve noticed it every day now — the locals are already at the cafés and bars, sipping small glasses of red wine. Not beer. Not coffee. Red wine. Every time I step in for a Coke, I feel like the outsider. Maybe it’s cultural, maybe it’s just Portugal… but it’s quietly fascinating. That calm confidence of taking your time, sipping slowly, even before noon.
So that’s where I’m at today. The plan may shift tonight depending on how the albergue feels — a good conversation could turn the tide. But for now, I carry the weight of the road, the ache of silence, and the hope that I’m not giving up — I’m simply choosing the wiser path.
📍 Sunflower of the Day: Today’s seed was carried, not planted.
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