Before the first step..

Narrow and winding, the village street resembled a quaint alleyway, its cobblestones worn smooth by the passage of time. Buildings rose on either side, their weathered facades nearly touching, creating a sense of intimacy and coziness. A car would struggle to squeeze through this charming passage, while the scent of blooming flowers and freshly baked bread wafted in the air, adding to the enchanting atmosphere. Our tiny albergue jammed itself right in the center, among homes like they'd grown it. So simple. So charming. So Spain!

left our backpacks inside, and took quick, hot showers, the kind that make you feel like a person again. Even just peeling off our socks felt like a small victory.

We walked into town, both of us starving, our stomachs more vocal than our brains. Seriously? It's not easy to find something to eat between 4 p.m. and 8 p.m. in these small Spanish towns. Bars are open, perhaps, but their kitchens? Snoring.

We finally ended up at this outrageously lovely restaurant with charming seating. The outdoor area was filled with wrought iron chairs and flowerpots overflowing with blooms, while soft music floated through the open windows. We were just looking for something to eat, anything would have worked.

Unfortunately, the kitchen was closed. The waiter smiled pityingly and gestured towards the road. "Seven more minutes," he said to us. Our legs were jelly at that point, but hunger is an extremely special spur.

In the end, we found a spot and flopped down into our seats and we asked for a menu, and instead of a paper or tablet, they brought out this gigantic wooden blackboard… put it squarely between us like a presentation of art. It was enormous, so big that I had to lean back to be able to read it. I couldn't help but laugh. Isaac simply blinked at it, as in: You've got to be kidding me.

We also had a dish of crispy calamari, a juicy pork chop, and two cold glasses of water. I requested a glass of local wine as well, one €2, and quite honestly, one of the best in a very long while. Smooth, light, and just what my tired body required.

Bliss pure and simple. The kind of meal that makes you shut your eyes on the very first bite.

It was then that we noticed two young men, maybe in their early 20s, gathered together in silence. No phones. No noise. Only pens and notebooks, heads bent as they wrote quietly. I was impressed. Very impressed! Who even does that anymore? It was like stepping into a time capsule, so in the moment, so intentional. I couldn't help but gawk at them. A part of me wanted the world still to be that way, quiet, contemplative, and less obsessed.

Once our own hunger had faded, we sat and took in more of the town. Cobblestone streets that wound softly between stone walls, small shops with hand-painted signs and wooden doors. No neon. No blinding windows or flashy displays. Actually, it was hard to tell if some businesses even existed at all. The lighting was so soft, so subdued. It made me wonder: was this all aesthetics? Or were they being careful with sustainability? Either way, it gave the town a muted, intentional charm, a slow, untroubled, wonderfully subtle one.

And just next the restaurant, humbly wedged between buildings, stood a tiny stone church.beautyful and peaceful.

I nudged Isaac and said, "Let's pop by for a minute."

He gave me a look of astonishing length and grumbled,

"It's all over Rome again, Mom…".

After stopped by the church for a few minus, we took our time walking back to our albergue.

Next day….

It was 6:45 a.m., and the room was still pretty dark, lit only by the dim glow of my phone screen. Outside the closed window, the sky was just hanging on to the last bits of night, starting to brighten a little with a soft pinkish light. The walls were cool, a clear sign that a Galician morning brings a chill.

Looking out the window, the village revealed itself little by little. Down in the quiet courtyard, a small fountain was surrounded by a few metal café tables, empty for now, just waiting for the first expresso and some conversation. Stone statues were scattered around the square, like quiet watchers, all smooth and covered in moss from the weather.

To the far left, a distant rustle of garments on a clothesline stretched the old-fashioned way between rusty hooks and weathered wooden beams, beyond, a tall, rectangular stone structure. Beyond that, there was a tall, rectangular stone building. It had two crosses on top, one at the front and one at the back. I recognized it as a hórreo, the traditional Galician granary. It made me think about how ancient and storied this place is, and how well its history is remembered.

Picture taken an evening before.

Inside the room, I tiptoed so I would not wake up the Isaac. I rolled up the sleep liner carefully, still warm. The laundry washed last night was miraculously dry, soft and ever-so-slightly crisp from the night air, and I stuffed it tightly into my packing cube. The toothbrush snapped into its case. The roll of toilet paper went into the top pocket, alongside the knot of chargers. All had to pack into a single 28-liter backpack. No room for trash. No room for "just in case."

I tiptoed around the room so I wouldn’t wake Isaac. I carefully rolled up the warm sleep liner and noticed that the laundry I washed last night was surprisingly dry, soft and a little crisp from being outside. Yay to Merino wool!!!! I stuffed it into my packing cube, making sure it fit. My toothbrush snapped into its case, and I tossed a new roll of toilet paper into the top pocket along with the tangled chargers. Everything had to fit into my 28-liter backpack. No room for trash. No room for "just in case."

Isaac was falling behind. He had half-closed eyes and slumped shoulders as if his spirit had not yet arrived. He was still weary from our walk from Portugal into Tui. I gave him a few extra minutes to sleep. Then, the ritual: "Vaseline your toes," I whispered in his ear. He grunted but obeyed. A thin coating on each toe, socks, shoes. Click.

Backpack on. The chest buckle is tied. Breathe deeply.

We strolled out. The heavy albergue door creaked shut behind us, ringing thinly along the still-slumbering street. The stones beneath our feet were cold and damp. Far away in the distance, a rooster crowed once.

The Camino was calling.

To be continued…. ( might take a few days.. )