So lots of people believe that the “Camino provides…” and in many cases I’d have to agree!

I’m not superstitious or religious. Really, I think that on the Camino, people are generous and open and giving. That pilgrims in need tend to swallow their pride and ask for help. When generosity and humility come together, a miracle often results. Or at least a personal miracle. I had one of those experiences on my first Camino.

You see, my mum had brought me with her and I had no idea what I was getting into. I borrowed all my gear, but I had my own hiking shoes. Shoes that I’d been hiking with for years with no problems. They were totally worked in, they were a half size larger than my normal shoes, and they had lots of good support and features.

But I got blisters. Terrible, terrible blisters. The worst blisters I have seen on anyone on any of my Caminos. I had blisters on both sides of each toe, between my toes and ringing my feet. On both sides of my heels, on the sides of my feet, on the balls of my feet. It was crazy. And painful.

But I was tough! I thought to myself ‘if everyone else can do this, I can do it too. I can’t be a wimp and give in.’. My mum suggested my shoes were too small. I laughed her off. Of course they weren’t too small, they were the size everyone said they should be. They’d always worked in the past. So I kept going.

By the time I hobbled into Estella I had a mantra that I repeated with each step: “love the pain, feel the pain.” I had to stop at the little parkette next to the cathedral ruins for about a half hour, lying on the grass with my feet in the air. We got to the municipal albergue at about 4:30pm and they kindly said they were fully booked. I burst into tears. I really couldn’t go any further. I could barely make it to the bathroom, let alone walk to the next albergue.

They took one look at my feet and found us a bed in a closet – it was one of the best nights I had on the Camino. But that wasn’t the miracle!

The next day I continued. Foolish. I know. My mum found me some toe sheaths (yes they looked ridiculous) and taped my feet all the way around. Everywhere. She kept insisting that my shoes were too small. I ignored her advice, tugged my shoes back on and started walking on. By noon we found a place to sit for lunch. But my feet were throbbing. Took my shoes off and I lay down on the pavement and put my feet up against a wall. I could see that my feet were swollen. I unwound the tape and my feet looked like a blistered accordion. My feet were so swollen that at the edges of each tape wrap, it pushed out the tape to make space for the swelling. Once the tape was off I could see that my feet were insanely swollen, and taping them had only made the pain and pressure worse. After about a half hour of me waving my feet at the sun, we continued on.

At this point we reached a part of the trail that goes on for 8km or so without a town or a water tap. We didn’t fill up at the tap (stupid). After about 3km we found a bit of shade and a little wooden bench. I sat down and my mum offered to share her orange with me. I was exhausted, in pain and very hot and thirsty. At this point, due to all my hobbling and lying down with my feet in the air, we were miles behind the other pilgrims. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think I could keep going. But there were no roads, no people, no towns. How was I going to make it?

I told my mum I’d go barefoot. It was the only way I could see. We sat there finishing our orange and contemplating life. I think I may have been weeping. Just then, over the rise came two pilgrims! I put on a brave face and smiled at them as they walked up. One of them was a woman we’d met the previous day when she’d had problems with her hip. She had stayed in Estella for an appointment with the physio and her friend had waited with her. That’s why they were so late coming along the trail.

She must have seen my distress because they asked if everything was all right. I showed them my feet and they were horrified. The friend asked my shoe size. Well… usually 7.5/8ish. “I have sandals here in size 8,” she said. “You should use them. You can get into town and your feet will have space to be swollen through the gaps in the sandals.” It was worth a try. “But,” I said, “I walk really, really slowly. How will I find you to give you your sandals back?” I mean, these were nice sports sandals, not a pair of flip flops. “I’ll meet you along the trail somewhere, I’m sure,” she said.

I was blown away. This was crazy generosity. No one has much stuff with them on the Camino and shoes are pretty much the most precious things of all. But what else could I do? I accepted her wonderful offer and strapped on the sandals.

My feet felt fine! I continued walking. Although we were all a bit slow due to injuries, age, and heat, I was keeping up with them just fine. We walked into town together and once I’d had a shower and pulled out my flip flops (which were also excruciating due to the massive blister between my toes!). I handed back that lovely lady her sandals.

I mean, this was a miracle. They were the last pilgrims on the trail that day. They only came up after us because of an appointment with a physio (which we had encouraged the woman to get the day previously). Her friend not only had sandals, but had sandals in the exact right size. And most importantly, she was willing to part with them to help a pilgrim in need. So generous.

I don’t think I would have finished the trip without that little miracle. And I certainly wouldn’t have become totally addicted to the Camino!

The next day my mum and I took a bus into Logroño and I found a pair of shoes that were another half size bigger. I managed to keep going on our trip, and I fell in love with the Camino. I think part of what I fell in love with was the openness, camaraderie and generosity of my fellow pilgrims.

I’ve seen many other examples of this generosity along the way. And I hope I’ve learned some humility too. It is part of the miracle that is the Camino, and gives me hope that humanity isn’t always as bad as we think it is. The Camino provides…

PS. Listen to your mother.