I prepared well before leaving for eight days of hiking on the Camino de Santiago, the ancient pilgrimage path across northern Spain that's also called "the Way of St. James." I brushed up my rudimentary Spanish, dusted off my hiking boots and followed tips to keep my pack under a reasonable 20 pounds. I read about Camino history and foot care. I even got a cortisone shot to pacify my arthritic hip.
Still, I was nervous as my husband and I rode the bus to Los Arcos, the tiny village near Pamplona where we joined our son Mike, daughter-in-law Lindsay and year-old granddaughter Eve. They'd been hiking 10 to 15 miles per day, carrying a baby and jumbo pack, for two weeks. As a grand finale to more than two years in Europe, they were hiking the full Camino, covering more than six weeks and 700 miles from inside France to the grand cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, then on to Finisterre on the Atlantic Ocean. We would share eight days of the journey.
We are hardly a matched set when it comes to physical activity. My husband runs marathons and considers 50 miles a leisurely bike ride. Mike and Lindsay snowboard, skydive and otherwise defy caution and gravity. I'm a practiced and eager hiker but was clearly the weak link in this mighty chain.
Our spiritual beliefs also differ. Our son is skeptical of organized religion; our daughter-in-law has a generous spirituality grounded in her commitment to social justice. My husband and I are cradle Catholics. Prayer and Sunday mass are important parts of our lives, and the Camino's appeal included its rich religious heritage.
As with every family vacation, it would be a challenge to accommodate everyone's tastes. But the towns along the Camino have been serving a vast range of pilgrims for hundreds of years. If we could accommodate each other, the Camino would do its part.
In the Pamplona bus station, a pair of Norwegian women with full packs wished us "Buen Camino." In a small church nearby, an old Spanish woman did the same. The early signs were good.
Starting the journey
It was less than a five-minute walk from the bus stop in Los Arcos to the small hotel where our son and his family waited. "Con la bebe?" asked the clerk. "Segundo piso." We found them on the second floor, and soon we were all in a nearby square, sipping beer and holding our granddaughter's hand as she toddled around the fountain. When Eve's bedtime came, I volunteered to stay with her so that her parents could have dinner together. Rule one for happy multigenerational travels: Give the parents a break. Rule two is closely related: Savor the time alone with the grandkids.
The first morning, my husband and I took off from Los Arcos after a standard Spanish breakfast of a croissant and café con leche. The others would follow later after their college friend Manuela arrived by bus to join us. No problem. Yellow arrows and the scallop-shell symbol of St. James mark the Camino well. The few times I wandered onto another path, another pilgrim would quickly whistle me back.
We spent that first morning walking west through the rolling vineyards of Rioja, past stone villages and hedges scented with wild roses and honeysuckle. In the 12th century, hundreds of thousands of devout Christians made the arduous pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela each year, starting as far away as Germany and Luxembourg. They prayed for miracles or atoned for sins by traveling to Santiago, where legend held that the bones of St. James the Apostle were buried. That journey was as important to Christians then as making a hajj to Mecca is to Muslims today. Encouraging pilgrims also helped Christian rulers reclaim the Iberian peninsula from Muslim conquerors.
Most of today's pilgrims — peregrinos in Spanish — are drawn less by faith than a desire to let walking and reflection guide them for a while. Jutta, an Austrian woman who runs San Saturnino, a serene and welcoming albergue (hostel) in tiny Ventosa, advised me: "Don't plan. Don't live as you do at home. I just walk. I carry my backpack and see what will happen."
By midmorning, the rest of our family caught up with us. We stopped for coffee at the top of a beautiful hill, where an enterprising couple had set up plastic chairs, a generator and an espresso machine. After the break, the younger ones strode ahead, only to connect with us again at lunch. We would start each morning knowing where to meet at day's end.
This leapfrogging was a good solution for our different abilities and ambitions. Mike wanted to walk every step of the Camino; the rest of us were happy to shave off a few miles when we were tired. So while our son hiked at a blazing pace, others could walk more slowly and take an occasional bus. Eve was a resilient and cheerful traveler, but carrying her was hard work for Lindsay, and my hip was grateful for the break.
A comfortable routine
Days fell into a comfortable routine — light breakfast, on the trail by 8, a slice of hearty egg-and-potato tortilla espagnol midmorning, followed by more walking, a light lunch and the final push to our destination. Along the way, we savored small delights — red poppies blazing in wheat fields, a creamy gazpacho served with a straw at a tiny greengrocer. Children are rare on the Camino, so walking with Eve meant traveling with a celebrity — "the Camino baby" — and being treated to endless waves and grins.
Most days, we finished hiking by 2 or 3 p.m. After a shower and rest, we met outside to explore the village, share beers and tapas and idle away the hours until dinner. Although Wi-Fi service was generally available, the appeal of blue skies, cold beer, conversation and people-watching was far greater than anything online.
One of the great gifts of the Camino is people's readiness to share stories and belongings. "Why are you walking?" someone asks, and the conversation begins. That first morning, a Dutch businessman explained that he was trying to break his addiction to success. A young South Korean man with a huge camera and small pack was grateful for the gift of a granola bar. One night we shared dinner with a Lithuanian entrepreneur. Another night, an American anthropologist joined us.
The religious dimension of the Camino remains for those who seek it. At San Juan de Ortega, a once-thriving monastery that now maintains a lovely chapel and austere hostel, a daily 6 p.m. mass was followed by a simple dinner and special blessing for pilgrims: "Be for them on the road companion, guide at the crossroads, breath in fatigue, defense in the dangers, shelter along the way, gentle breeze in the heat, shelter before the cold, light in the darkness, consolation in disappointment and firmness in its purpose." After the blessing, the priest gave each of us a small silver cross on a black cord.
Inevitable challenges
No vacation is without challenges. In Burgos, a stomach bug struck; sharing a group bathroom in a threadbare hostel made it even grimmer. We declared a rest day and moved to a four-star hotel overlooking the city's glorious Gothic cathedral. Someone fetched electrolyte salts for the afflicted while the rest of us explored the city, including the extraordinary Museum of Human Evolution. The next morning, we stuffed ourselves at the hotel buffet. Mike and Manuela set off to hike more than 25 miles to make up for the missed day. The rest of us traveled partway by bus.
Another rule for family vacations: Adapt, adjust and look after those who need some TLC.
In the 11th and 12th centuries, northern Spain was a dangerous wilderness, without the cafes, gravel paths and ibuprofen-stocked farmacias of today. Ancient pilgrims faced robbers and wolves and shortages of food and water. Noblemen, guilds and religious orders built hospitals and refuges for them to rest and recover. Some of those buildings are ruins now, but a few remain in service.
A hardy spirit of hospitality endures. Peregrino dinner menus offer three courses plus wine for $9 to $11. At tourist attractions like the Burgos cathedral, visitors who present a Camino passport — with stamps marking each stop — get a break on entrance fees.
Some hosts feel like family. At one albergue, a grandmother saw Eve toddling unevenly in slipper socks and advised: If you buy her shoes with some traction, she'll be walking within a week. The next day in Santo Domingo, Eve got her shoes. That night in a hotel bar, we watched her take her first proud, rolling steps.
Communal life has its inconveniences as well. Snoring in the dormitories makes earplugs a necessity. Hot water for showers may run out. Upper bunks can be a challenge for older travelers. In many albergues, pilgrims are expected to be up at 6 and out by 8. In one dormitory, a German-accented voice scolded me for using my Kindle past 10 p.m.
And the small villages have limited resources. During busy summer months, if there are no beds left in a village, the pilgrim has no choice but to keep on walking. Often Lindsay called ahead to reserve private rooms, which were far easier with the baby.
Lessons to bring home
One is never alone for long on the Camino. Drawn by guidebooks, blogs and movies such as 2010's "The Way," starring Martin Sheen, more than 200,000 people walk at least its final 60 miles each year. Most encounters consist of a quick "Buen Camino." But some go on for days or longer. Mike's college friend Manuela has hiked the full Camino twice and stops regularly in London to see members of her Camino "family."
Sometimes I walked alone to watch, pray and talk with pilgrims from around the world. I spent one afternoon alongside a Canadian woman who is lovingly trying to let go of her adult son's struggles. The next day, a college student from Pennsylvania limped alongside me, discouraged that she lagged far behind her classmates. When I saw Angelica a few days later, she proudly told me that she'd walked nearly 20 miles that day.
At Fromista, our last stop on the Camino, the town's biggest restaurant was closed for a First Communion celebration. The town's other restaurant was overwhelmed by hungry peregrinos. By the time our turn came, the hamburgers and paella were gone. We made do with fried eggs and patatas bravas.
But all these inconveniences were trivial compared with the lessons I carried home: how little I'd needed to be happy. How satisfying it is to walk. How important it is to be open to strangers, attentive to the natural world and present for the people I love. How to listen for the whisper of God. I wear the silver pilgrim cross from the Camino to remember.
Lynda McDonnell is a writer, journalist and retired nonprofit administrator. She lives in Minneapolis with her husband and regularly hikes the Ice Age Trail in Wisconsin.
