Day 2 - Via de la Plata

Guillena - 13km by taxi

After waiting several hours for the farmacia to open after siesta (a custom I am 100% on board with, by the way), I ventured out to find something to stabilize my ankle. Christine was on a mission to find a market for breakfast supplies the next morning. We tried to wander Santiponce, but I was moving unbearably slow and in a significant amount of pain. I kept turning over my options. Should I cab for a few days until my ankle felt better? Head back to Sevilla? Call the whole thing off? I felt determined to continue, craving that Camino connection that only comes with walking. Again… stubborn. Christine gently reminded me, “You know, the only way you’ll really heal is if you stay off it. A few days of taxis won’t be enough.”

Because of siesta, restaurants in Spain open quite late - often tricky for pilgrims who like to eat early and rise before sunrise to beat the heat. We sat outside a restaurant meant to open at 9 p.m. At 9:15, the server casually opened the shutters and began setting up before taking our order. Christine and I chatted about our travels and past Caminos. She spoke fondly of her children and grandchildren, and her years as a primary school teacher. I shared stories about my work, my travels, and pondered aloud my direction in life.

After dinner, it was back to the albergue and straight to bed. I’d already decided I’d take a taxi the 13km to Guillena and regroup there. The next morning, Christine and James - a fellow Australian peregrino - set out in the dark as I sat at the kitchen table, thinking and crying as quietly as possible. My gut was telling me to stop. I knew the first few stages were less technical, but that the terrain would only get rougher. What if I took a wrong step and re-injured myself? Taking taxis for a week didn’t appeal to me either. I’d come here to walk. I wrapped my ankle with the pharmacy brace but hadn’t dared take a close look. It seemed fine.

The next albergue, Luz del Camino, would open at 11 a.m. I’d already called ahead to confirm a bed and explain I’d be arriving by taxi. The receptionist told me to call when I arrived, and she’d come let me in. I pulled up at the same time as Troy - another Canadian! I asked how he was doing after his 23km day, and after giving me a once-over, he grinned, “Better than you by the looks of it.” When I explained I’d fallen 30 minutes outside Sevilla, he laughed, “No. Get out.” It was such a relief to be met with understanding, no explanation required.

Once in my bunk (up a steep flight of stairs, naturally), I unwrapped my ankle and saw the swelling and bruising spreading around the sides and back. I knew then, my Camino was over. What I’d lost wasn’t just strength but trust. I didn’t want to walk in fear, second-guessing every step or worrying that I might need to be rescued.

I booked five nights back in Sevilla at the same hostel where I’d started, hoping that would give me time to figure out my next move. Alone in my bunk, I let the tears come. As I tried to pull myself together - reminding myself this was out of my control - I heard Christine’s steady voice downstairs: “Has Chantal arrived?” The Camino provides.

I ventured out to the common area, where Troy found me an ice pack (a shockingly rare find on the Camino) and tried to savour what I knew would be my last day among pilgrims.

Despite the disappointment, it turned into a wonderful day. Christine and James went to the supermarket for provisions, and I joined Troy for a beer and a snack at a nearby bar. He lives in Ontario, and when he’d left for the Camino, he’d been mid-project - building a chicken coop on his property! I told him about my plans, and he didn’t bat an eye. When I mentioned how gutted I was, he said, “Well, of course. You bought the gear, you did the practice walks. It fucking sucks.” I hadn’t told him about sneaking in the practice walks before and after work, or about saving up for new gear - he just knew.

That night, Christine, James, and I shared a Camino Family dinner at a restaurant we knew would open early. They showed me photos from their walk that day; ancient ruins, a Game of Thrones filming site, watermelon fields. James had discovered his dog’s favourite ball had ended up in his pack, and he’d been taking photos with it along the way. He complimented my Spanish and joked that I should taxi ahead each stage, find the albergue, the beer, and the food, so everything would be ready when they arrived. “There’d be something in it for you too,” he teased.

James and I before his departure on Day 3 - Buen Camino!

Back at the albergue, Christine showed me how to wrap my ankle; a small act of care passed down from her daughter, a physiotherapist. We all turned in early.

I got up with the others the next morning at dawn to say goodbye. The cyclists offered warm hugs, and Javier, ever the storyteller, met my eyes, placed his hands firmly on my shoulders and said, “The Camino will always be here. Only the people change. The Way stays the same.”

Hasta la proxima vez.