Category: Camino de Santiago 2026

‘I’ll be the bull and you be the runner’, I said to Paul. ‘And Emma, can you film us?’.

We were on Calle del la Estefeta in Pamplona. The bull running street. The street where each year those who feel life is just a little too safe throw caution by the by and race before a hoard of marauding bulls. And here we were, on that street! It’s so fun going places you’ve heard of all your life yet never expected to visit.

I raised pointed index fingers atop my head, lent forward and stomped my foot menacingly. As menacingly that is as a middle age man in an orange cap pretending to be a bull on the streets of Pamplona, can muster. Paul let out a shriek (not really but it makes a better story). I leapt forward and Paul ran until guffaws of laughter left us breathless.

Later that day Paul, Emma and I (Khia was actually resting on our rest day) visited Plaza del Torro. The famous bull fighting ring where matadors (alpha males dressed to the nines) majestically wave their coloured capes before the large horned beasts, all the while stabbing them with barbed spears. It was fascinating, even if I had to call upon my quest to walk the Camino with equanimity to suppress my inclination to judge the brutal sport as entirely unnecessary exploitation of beasts who would, I suspect, prefer to eat grass in a peaceful paddock. We watched the running of the bulls in action on large surrounding screens and took photos of ourselves poking our heads through boards making us look like matadors. All of this though paled in comparison to the fun to be had in the middle of the bull ring itself where there was a bulls head perched on a wheel with handles like a wheel barrow and a selection of capes for use by ‘the matador’. Once again, I was the bull and Paul the matador as I lunged at his waving cape. Hilarious. And possibly the most fun you can have on a rest day along the Camino de Santiago.

Although maybe there is competition for that title. That evening in the main square of Pamplona, together with our pilgrim friends Pippa from NZ and Beck from Tuggeranong (in Canberra!) we bumped into JuJu, chief of the TuTu tribe. We met JuJu on our first day, a third of the way up the Pyrenees. An American lady with a selfie stick, walking in a purple tutu and recording videos about the Camino for the interweb. Juju and her friend Margot invited us to join the Tutu tribe.

How could we say no? I mean really. It would have been awkward. So we said yes! After which we each took turns donning the purple tutu and twirling before the large gazebo in front of Ernest Hemingways favourite haunt (the Cafe Iruña) while Juju took a still photo and a video of each of us.

Margot asked Paul what he did for a living to which Paul replied that he teaches leadership. Margot however did not hear ‘leadership’, she heard ‘ladyship’ and looked at Paul quizzically. You teach ladyship? Paul suggested he would need to seek advice from Emma and Khia before taking his first class.

So now we’re members of the Tu Tu tribe, a membership which has yielded a warm hug on all subsequent engagements.

We left Pamplona after our rest day, making our way through the outskirts of town and back into the countryside. The path gradually climbed and then climbed some more through fields of wheat and barley splashed with red poppies before reaching Alto de Peron, the Mount of Forgiveness.

It’s an iconic milestone on the road to Santiago. An inscription reads, ‘Donde se cruza el camino del viento con el de las estrellas’ — “where the path of the wind crosses with that of the stars.” In fact the sculpture is intended to represent different eras of the pilgrimage over the ages. From its beginning in the middle ages up to the present day. We lingered. We took photos and then to no ones surprise, we kept walking.

Onto Uterga and a tiny albergue in my favourite kind of building. The kind where nothing is straight. The walls, the floor, the doorway, the stairs all of it wonky as all get out. Emma and I lay out on our bed and the blood slowly drained towards our heads. The floor wasn’t flat, but good to have your feet in the air I suppose.

The next morning we took a detour, out to the Eunate. An octagonal church built in the 1100s; by whom however no one seems to know. The Templars perhaps? The Templars mission of course (I say of course but I had to look this up) ‘was to protect pilgrims travelling to the Holy Land, who were often beset by thieves and marauders intent on robbing them of the large amounts of money they needed for the journey’ (https://historiamag.com/ten-fascinating-facts-about-the-knights-templar/). The Eunate (translates to 100 gates) is surrounded by 33 arches around which you’re supposed to walk 3 times, taking you to 99 arches, with the 100th being the entry itself. Which we didn’t go through because we didn’t do our homework and had arrived before it was open. So, we kept walking.

Then it rained. I mean, I think that’s when it rained. The days are blurring together. Hills, vistas, towns, flowers and people are all becoming one. It’s an effort to work out what happened when and what we saw in what order. But at some point it started raining. And kept raining. Thunder and lightning too.

Khia walks fast when there is thunder and lightning, but Paul and Emma were cool like cucumbers. They have umbrellas and special little attachment do-dads so that they don’t have to hold them by hand. Very effective, but it is hard to take them seriously with their go-go-gadget brellas!

We stopped, as pilgrims do, at the Bodega Irache wine fountain on the other side of the town of Estella. The winery provides 200 litres a day of free wine from a fountain mounted in the wall. We pretended to sip the wine from our pilgrim shells because that’s what pilgrims do and frankly it was raining too hard to stop and actually enjoy the experience the traditional way. That is by actually drinking it. The days walk finished at the Oasis Trails Albergue. It had a pilgrim’s room warmed by a wood stove. The whole place was run by volunteers, most of them from the US and Canada.

They believed in God and it was striking to me. A young woman by the name of Mary Anne wandered into the pilgrim room and we began chatting. She was delightful. Warm and engaging and seemingly interested in us. She talked about God, in all seriousness, as having arranged things for her to come and volunteer here to assist and help passing pilgrims. It was the same for Dan, and Mitch and two others whose names I am sorry to say I now can’t recall.

They prepared a meal for us that evening in a cozy common room. Nothing was too much trouble and the food was fantastic. A Mexican salad followed by a vegetable or chicken chilli. In conversation over dinner I met another volunteer who also talked about how God had arranged things for her to come and spend two weeks here volunteering, though she wasn’t quite sure why he (God) had done that. I got the impression she thought he (God) was being a bit cheeky.

I’m dwelling on this, I don’t why. These people were genuinely lovely. They didn’t need to be here doing this, but here they were and the atmosphere they created was a delight. We laughed and talked. It was like being back at our first albergue at Borda. So easy to talk and chat with total strangers. And yet as a devout (but still searching) atheist, I just couldn’t reconcile their familiarity with an interventionist God, a being they so clearly spoke about not just as real but as benevolently and actively guiding their life. My lack of faith sat in contrast to the palpable sense of service they brought and the atmosphere of community created by their belief. It was one of the most enjoyable evenings of the trip so far.

Before dinner that evening Emma and I went on a side trip. Sitting on a hill, high above the Oasis Trails Albergue at Villamayor de Monjardín was the ruins of a castle originally dating back to Roman times. The view at the top was of stormy skies over a patch work landscape of forest and fields. It was just stunning. The ruins had a functioning bell which Emma rung, the sound carrying to our albergue below. On the way back we watched a thunder storm on the horizon and followed its progress across the valley towards us. It bucketed down less than a minute after we made it inside.

The next day? You guessed it, we kept walking. A rhythm is forming and the days just seem to go by. This country frankly is not fussed about breakfast and we often find ourselves walking 10 kilometres or more before we eat. We are usually pretty hungry by that time and it’s an odds on bet as to whether the next town will have a cafe and if they do, whether it will be open. And yet, we still haven’t actually gone hungry. One day, I think it was the rainy one, the best we could find was a cafe without much charm attached to a large supermarket. Oh my God (maybe he is real) the tortillas de potatas was amazing. We had one serve followed by another before stocking up on supplies to avoid any possibility of future low blood sugar levels.

Paul got some toothpaste as well because he was running low. That night when he brushed his teeth he said the taste was off. It was a bit floury. Then it started to gum up his mouth, so he started trying to rub it off with his fingers, which started sticking. Increasingly desperate he searched for real toothpaste to remedy the situation. When he pulled out his google translate it turned out he had actually purchased dental adhesive! So funny. Paul said he would have laughed himself if his gums weren’t glued together.

Reminded me of Khia’s request for sparkling water back in Paris when the bottle we purchased turned out to be menthol water. Which happened again today only this time the sparkling water turned out to be sugar free lemonade! In Paul’s defence he did translate the label on this second bottle. It translated as soda. He coupled that with the badge indicating zero calories and figured that could only be water.

We are currently in Logroño. Having our second rest day. We got here by… walking. Another delightful day in which Robyne from Borda had caught us up and walked with us. We also met Gina from Canada who we also walked with for the day. It is one of the most delightful things about this experience, just bumping into people, meeting new people, walking with people for a while and then letting them drift away, and later bumping into them again.

The skies were stunning on the walk into Logroño. The rain had cleared but the skies were still moody, presenting my most favourite scene of all, a sunlit foreground with dark and stormy clouds behind. I fell behind, my camera paying homage to the scenery of The Way of Saint James, and whoever or whatever created it.

And finally. I’ve been collecting photos of cats of the Camino. Here is the selection so far.

‘What’s wrong with this one?’, Paul wanted to know.

It just didn’t have the right vibe for good coffee. That was what was wrong. Paris is of course known for many things. The city of lights. The city of romance. But the city of coffee? Many coffee shops in Paris have this whole Paris thing going on, with colourful flower boxes, wicker chairs and little round tables lining the street, positioned just so for people watching. The coffee however leaves much to be desired.

It was however coffee time, and despite having walked past a dozen or more discrete specialty coffee shops in the same part of town the day before, they were now nowhere to be found. It’s very difficult to manifest just exactly the thing you want precisely when you want it.

So we plonked ourselves down at Maison Bichet, an aesthetically attractive cafe, and ordered two cappuccinos and a cafe au lait. The cafe looked like everything you could hope for, but the coffee machine behind the counter was no La Marzocco.

When our coffee came it was weak and burnt with fairy floss like milk froth extending for an inch above the tepid brown liquid. There was a light sprinkle of chocolate dust for the two cappuccinos.

We were crestfallen. It was an otherwise perfect Parisian day. The sun was shining, it was 20 degrees. We had just been for a cruise on the Seine on the hop on hop off Batoboat. The Seine was sparkling, and clean. I understand they cleaned it up for the Olympics and it looked good enough for a swim.

That particular morning we had intended to hop off at Jardins Les Plantation, but that wasn’t to be. Someone sleeping rough had parked themselves right where the Batoboat alights. Still, hard to think yourself hard done by when you’re minorly inconvenienced by someone who has just spent the night sleeping on the pavement.

Instead we headed off to the north, in search of Saint Martin Canal, the Sacré-Cœur and Montmatre.

We had spent the day before this, our second after arriving in Paris, doing laps of the Seine and its sights on the Batoboat. It was all so French! I mean there were French flags fluttering in the spring breeze atop the Hôtel de Ville, Musée de Orsay and of course the Eiffel Tower. Actually… maybe there was no flag on the Eiffel Tower. But then there doesn’t need to be, does there?

I figured any day in Paris was a good day, because in the scheme of things there are not really that many days spent in Paris. Not for your average Canberran anyway. The tower was resplendent and I wanted one of those photos where you make it look like you’re holding it up in the air from the tip by positioning your hand just so relative to the camera lens. We didn’t get far enough back from the tower though so it didn’t quite work.

Cest la vie. We found a boulangerie, fromagerie and supermarche to make up for it, before having a picnic in park overlooking the Seine. These were good times.

Our time in Paris wasn’t all so picture perfect. Back to the coffee shop. Khia abandoned hers after a single sip. We paid the exorbitant 21 euros for three abysmal coffees, and headed back onto the pavement.

I wanted to visit Canal Saint Martin. I’d read a blog on must see things to do in Paris which promised a charming district of galleries and coffee shops all set along a leafy boulevard arching over the canal. There was a leafy boulevard over a canal, but the rest of what was advertised seemed to be missing. It was a bit grim, run down and lacking the Parisian charm of La Marais where we had been the day before. Still there was a boat traversing a series of lochs which made for entertaining viewing.

It got grittier after that as we made our way from Canal Saint Martin over to the Sacré-Cœur. Where did the charming Parisian streets of our first day in the La Marias go? When we had stumbled into the charming Place des Vosges (a fashionable square where famous artists such as Victor Hugo have lived) and spent a half hour dozing in the sun in the charming park with fountains and gallery laden walkways in buildings around us? And where the owner of a closed toy shop saw us peering in the window and came out to open it for us just to show us around.

The charm returned as soon as we climbed the stairs to the Sacré-Cœur with views out over the city. We went inside the soaring domed basilica. More basic than Notre Dame, which we had visited the day before, it was impressive nonetheless. Still I just don’t know how I feel about these places. Inspiring and off putting all at once. The stain glass windows are nice.

Notre Dame had a carved relief which included images of babies being stabbed with swords. It wasn’t quite how I remembered it from 21 years ago when Emma and I first visited, but there it was. Khia remembered her bible stories and informed me it was King Herod who had heard of a prophecy of the coming of a king. He didn’t want to be usurped so thought it better to slaughter some infants lest one of them grow up to replace him.

Notre Dame had a big fire back in 2019 so perhaps it’s unsurprising that it wasn’t quite as I remembered. The fire destroyed the timber structure supporting the lead roof which also turned to liquid and ran down into the cathedral. It could have been worse. The vaulted stone ceiling prevented more damage inside the cathedral itself. The entire place had to be scrubbed clean nonetheless and roof and spire rebuilt. I’ve got to say the facelift has done wonders. It’s magnificent. I mean really. The dark stone work I remembered from twenty years ago is gone and in its place, glistening white limestone forming the vaulted stone ceilings soaring overhead. Gorgeously painted antechambers line the nave. They picked a great colour scheme. A little dark and moody perhaps but no denying the Catholic Church has taste, or good interior design consultants at least.

Meanwhile back out at the Sacré-Cœur, Paul was feeling the pressure. He needed to deliver a quality coffee for Khia. Khia likes a coffee around mid morning, to which I can relate. Cafe Maison Bichet had missed the mark badly and Paul was not keen on seeing Khia go disappointed.

He got excited after consulting Google and declared he had found the best flat white in Paris! Suddenly we were off on a mission. We blew through the hyper Parisian scene of Montmartre (read tourist trap), plunging down steep stairways into more delightful and charming streets (read still touristy but not OTT). Round a corner. And there it was. Spree Coffee. Heavenly choirs sung, Ahhhhh!!

Paul ordered flat whites from a delightful Parisian father and son combo. Who said Parisian’s were snooty? The coffee was from Mexico, with undertones of chocolate according to Khia’s palate. The scene was perfect, a sunny afternoon under the shade of an awning on a cobble stoned street. We sat and we watched the world go by. Paris style.

This all but sums up our three days in Paris, with the exception of our stop at the Tuileries Garden (one of the hop on hop off locations on our boat tour) and an evening dash to the Arc de Triomphe.

At the Tuileries there was icecream, right where Oliver remembered it from ten years ago when we had spoken to him a short while beforehand. Ah, but that was not all. There were boats too and a pond! Little tiny wooden sailing boats for rent. 6 euro for 30 minutes. Paul didn’t hesitate, later declaring it the best 6 euro he has spent in Europe. He shoved it off into the pond where it tacked and turned all of its own accord while he and I ran around the pond lined with sunbathers sprawled in chairs, looking for where it would come ashore. There were other sailors too, but none of them older than 10. May we never grow old.

On our last night I was struck by a dose of FOMO and wanted to visit the Arc de Triomphe and Champs Élysées. One metro and one train later (paid for twice by Paul because his metro travel card played up and not paid for at all by me because my metro travel card played up (I jumped the gate, don’t tell anyone) and we arrived at the Arc just as the sun was setting. We circumnavigated the roundabout admiringly, stopping at a park bench to watch traffic with no rules when a pigeon took a dump from the tree above right onto Paul’s foot. Shit happens.

Au revoir from Paris.