Day 14 was without a doubt the worst day on the Camino de Santiago.

It was the two week mark. I had crossed the halfway point the day before. Everything seemed fine. And then day 14 happened.

I hate day 14.

The morning started dramatically.

 

We were all sleeping soundly when suddenly one of our roomies was screaming loudly in German…

Tom – the man who had told yelled at everyone the night before not to snore – was a sleep-screamer. And I think German is the scariest language to hear a sleep-screamer at full volume.

After the outburst everyone else started giggling and eventually I drifted off to sleep again.

I awake early the next day – keen to continue along the Camino de Santiago. As I was brushing my teeth a very hungover German Tom stumbled into the bathroom.

“So…” I started, “You tell everyone not to snore and then you scream in your sleep!?”

We were both in bad moods and he guiltily accepted that he had indeed screamed.. But only because of the alcohol…

“Have a nice life Tom”.

And I started my day feeling like the meanest pilgrim on the Camino de Santiago (and I probably was that morning).

Apparently my meanness caused some bad karma…

The day went on innocently enough – despite the feeling of guilt sitting low in my stomach. I walked, I ate, I drank, I walked.

At some point the Danish ultra-marathon couple ran past me and at some point I found the first live field of sunflowers after two weeks of only passing dead fields.

My mood started to improve until my foot started to hurt… Not just hurt – ache.

The more I walked  the more painful it became. In the space of half an hour I went from a normal happily walking pilgrim to a complete cripple.

I limped all the way to the next town,El Burgo Ranero, with only one shoe on.

There were lines of people outside of every albergue that were already ‘full’ and knowing that I was too injured to continue walking – and too stubborn to get in a vehicle I stumbled into the doctors office.

I pointed to the top of my foot which was in agony now and the pharmacist at the front of the shop handed me some anti-inflamitory cream – without charging me – and called a hotel on the outskirts of town to reserve a room for me.

I was planning on splurging on a private hotel room at some point but not under injury circumstances but gracefully accepted the room and limped all the way there.

It was a tacky petrol station ‘motel’ on the side of a huge highway. The reception was at the side of the diner where a room full of truckies stared at the crippled young pilgrim stumbling in.

I was taken upstairs to my very clean and hospital-like room and as soon as the lady left me there I followed in my own self-pity until I fell asleep – only leaving my room once to buy some shitty petrol-station snacks and soft drink to ice my foot with. Eventually night fell and I lifted off again hoping that somehow I would miraculously wake up fully recovered…