I recently hiked a stretch of the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain. These pilgrimage routes have been around for centuries, radiating from towns all over Europe and covering… well, a lot of miles. The trails all lead to the supposed resting place of St. James at the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral Basilica.
I wasn’t walking for religious reasons—though many do—but my father was an Episcopalian priest, and I like to think he knew about the Camino and would’ve been proud that I attempted it.
With only a week to spare, I set out to hike the final 117 km (73 miles) from Sarria to Santiago. Ambitious? Absolutely. Foolhardy? Possibly. The first two days were 24 km and 25 km, which left me hobbling like I’d fought a small war. I took Day 3 off to recover and then eased back into the mileage.
The landscape was incredible—rolling farmland, stone houses, misty woods, and quiet rural paths that literally run through people’s backyards: barn on the left, family home on the right. Some hours I walked entirely alone; others I was swept up in cheerful crowds speaking every language imaginable.
The people were extraordinary, too. Some had started in France 30 days earlier and crossed the Pyrenees on foot. Absolute legends.
A lot of pilgrims talk about having spiritual revelations out there. I’ll admit I had a few moments myself, but I’m still processing them. What I can say is that I came home changed—and yes, newly tattooed.
I wasn’t walking for religious reasons—though many do—but my father was an Episcopalian priest, and I like to think he knew about the Camino and would’ve been proud that I attempted it.
With only a week to spare, I set out to hike the final 117 km (73 miles) from Sarria to Santiago. Ambitious? Absolutely. Foolhardy? Possibly. The first two days were 24 km and 25 km, which left me hobbling like I’d fought a small war. I took Day 3 off to recover and then eased back into the mileage.
The landscape was incredible—rolling farmland, stone houses, misty woods, and quiet rural paths that literally run through people’s backyards: barn on the left, family home on the right. Some hours I walked entirely alone; others I was swept up in cheerful crowds speaking every language imaginable.
The people were extraordinary, too. Some had started in France 30 days earlier and crossed the Pyrenees on foot. Absolute legends.
A lot of pilgrims talk about having spiritual revelations out there. I’ll admit I had a few moments myself, but I’m still processing them. What I can say is that I came home changed—and yes, newly tattooed.
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