The Camino de Santiago unfurled before me like a ribbon of earth and sky, a path worn smooth by centuries of footsteps—pilgrims, wanderers, seekers of something more. The late morning sun hung low, casting golden streaks across the rolling hills of northern Spain, and a gentle breeze carried the faint scent of wild thyme and dust. I’d been walking for hours, my boots crunching rhythmically against the gravel, my mind drifting between the ache in my legs and the quiet vastness of the landscape. Then, up ahead, a figure emerged from the haze of distance—a vision so vivid it seemed conjured from a dream.
She was, in every way, the embodiment of what I imagined an old grandmotherly peasant woman to be. Stooped slightly, her weathered hands gripped a stick cane for support as she shuffled along the Camino route. Her gray hair peeked out from beneath a faded headscarf, and her simple dress swayed with each deliberate step. I pictured her home tucked somewhere nearby—a modest stone cottage, perhaps, with a garden of herbs and a creaky wooden gate. Maybe she’d been visiting a neighbor, sharing gossip over a cup of strong coffee, or delivering a basket of bread. There was no hurry in her pace, no urgency, just the steady rhythm of someone who’d walked this land her whole life.
From a distance, I reached for my iPhone, nestled securely in the pouch strapped to my left backpack strap. My fingers fumbled for a moment, the instinct to capture this scene overriding the fatigue in my body. Still walking, I zoomed in, the lens pulling her closer as I framed a few quick shots. Click. Click. The shutter snapped silently, my steps never faltering, my body moving on autopilot. She didn’t notice me yet, and I didn’t stop to announce myself. The Camino has a way of keeping you in motion, even when your heart pauses to linger.
Before long, I’d closed the gap between us. As I drew up beside her, I slowed just enough to match her pace. “Señora,” I said in my halting Spanish, “¿reconoce a esta mujer en la foto?”—Do you recognize this woman in the picture? I held out my phone, the screen glowing with the image I’d just taken. Her eyes, clouded with age but sharp with curiosity, darted to the display. For a moment, she squinted, then recognition sparked like a match struck in the dark. Her face transformed—wrinkles deepening as a wide, tooth-gapped grin spread across it. She was missing a few teeth, but to me, she was radiant, a country grandmother whose beauty lay in her simplicity and resilience.
“¡Soy yo!” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of surprise and delight. She looked from the phone to me, then back again, as if confirming the magic of seeing herself captured in that tiny rectangle of light. I couldn’t help but smile too, caught up in her joy. She reminded me of the grandmother I might have known as a toddler in Cuba, before my parents fled with me in tow. I don’t have clear memories of my grandparents—just vague impressions of warmth, a lap to sit on, a hand brushing my hair—until political upheaval tore us away when I was three. This woman, with her earthy kindness, felt like a bridge to that lost past.
“Usted es muy amable,” she said shyly, her tone soft but earnest. You are very kind. Then, to my surprise, she leaned over and wrapped me in a brief, sturdy hug—a gesture of friendship that carried the weight of a lifetime’s worth of affection. Amiable. Good-natured, cheerful, helpful. I turned the word over in my mind as we resumed walking side by side. It was the finest compliment I’d received in days, maybe weeks, and it settled into me like a warm ember.
We didn’t stop moving—stopping feels unnatural on the Camino—but our conversation flowed easily. It drifted to the weather, that universal icebreaker. “Hace buen día, ¿verdad?” I ventured. It’s a nice day, isn’t it? She nodded, gesturing to the sky with her cane. “Sí, pero pronto lloverá.” Yes, but it’ll rain soon. I chuckled, imagining her as a sage of the land, reading the clouds like a book. The small talk could’ve stayed there, safe and simple, but my mind wandered to a song—Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews belting out “The Rain in Spain” from My Fair Lady. I hummed it under my breath:
The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain! By George, she’s got it! Now, once again, where does it rain? On the plain! On the plain! And where’s that soggy plain? In Spain! In Spain!
I’d bet my dusty walking shoes she’d never heard of it, but the thought made me grin. Maybe I’d teach her the chorus one day, if our paths crossed again. For now, though, we kept to the weather, the crunch of our steps filling the silences.
Eventually, I felt the pull of my original pace calling me forward. I thanked her—“Gracias, señora, por su compañía”—and picked up speed, leaving her behind with a wave. As I walked away, a lump rose in my throat. Tears welled up, unbidden, stinging my eyes. I hadn’t asked her name. It hadn’t occurred to me until it was too late, and now she was a fleeting figure shrinking into the horizon. That moment—simple, unscripted, human—pierced me to my core. It was a reminder of why I’d come to the Camino in the first place: not just to walk, but to connect, to feel, to be part of something larger than myself.
The Camino de Santiago is full of moments like that—unexpected encounters that bloom and fade like wildflowers along the trail. Walking long distances isn’t for everyone, but it’s one of the most primal, natural things we humans can do. It costs nothing but time and effort, and yet it gives back so much more. Add a pinch of purpose to it—exploration, conversation, exercise, or the distant goal of reaching Santiago de Compostela—and it becomes transformative. I’d stake my soul on it.
As I pressed on toward Santiago, still hundreds of kilometers away on the Camino Francés, my mind began to wander again. The path stretched out endlessly, a thread tying me to pilgrims of the past. I wondered about them—were people walking this route during the Roaring Twenties and Thirties, or America’s Great Depression? The answer, I knew, was yes. The Camino has been a lifeline for over a thousand years, drawing souls for reasons as varied as the stones beneath my feet. In the Middle Ages, they came seeking miracles—cures for terminal illnesses, forgiveness for sins, a chance at salvation.
During the 1930s, while the U.S. grappled with economic collapse—a young nation with no safety net of unemployment insurance or Social Security—pilgrims here were still tracing this ancient path, driven by faith or desperation or both.
When did it fall out of favor, I wondered? Perhaps in the mid-20th century, when modernity sped up the world and air travel shrank distances. But it never truly died. Today, people walk the Camino Francés from border to border—790 kilometers across Spain—not always for religious reasons, but for something deeper: a search for meaning, a return to simplicity, a chance to hear their own thoughts.
I’d started writing this story a while back, scribbling notes in a weathered journal during a rest stop on the Camino. It was incomplete then, a fragment of memory I hadn’t known how to finish. Now, months later, on March 22, 2025, I’ve revisited it, fleshed it out, let it breathe. The grandmother’s face is still vivid in my mind—her grin, her hug, her quiet prophecy of rain. She’s one of countless souls I’ve met on this journey, each leaving a mark, each reminding me that the Camino isn’t just a path through Spain. It’s a path through time, through humanity, through myself.
End
Trawlercat Chronicles 