"Grace fills empty spaces." —Simone Weil

If there was one resounding feeling at the end of our first day on the Camino—a day spent largely among wild horses and billowing clouds—that feeling was one of relief. It wasn’t a sensation that arrived all at once—instead, it was a shift in perspective that expanded gradually throughout the day. It was like incense, filling in the spaces of us, replacing our worries with hope and fears with an expanding vision of the long journey ahead.

The sun moved from overhead to the horizon, and we inched closer to a significant realization: we would in fact survive the 17-mile day in the Pyrenees, shoulders new to heavy packs. Each step led us closer to Roncesvalles—the place where we would spend the night—fostering an ever-increasing belief in our resilience. This was especially true at the point in which our long upward climb began sloping downward—a profound change of direction, became mirrored in our mood. This didn’t mean we felt confident about the entire Camino. Only that we were warming to the idea that we would make it to a place where there would be a bed to lay our heads.

As we began decreasing our elevation, we reached a small peak. Stopping there, we noticed a path below us on the left. Tracing its route on the map, it appeared that it would offer the most direct route down to the municipal hostel where we planned to spend the night. It was the shortest and potentially quickest, path. To the right, we observed a second path, this one winding into a pine forest. A sign stood at the intersection between the two routes, arrows pointing in either direction. It wouldn’t be the last time we felt as if we had been dropped into a scene from The Wizard of Oz. Back at the Pilgrim’s Office in St. Jean, we had been made aware of this crossroads. Deemed unsafe, we had been advised to avoid the path on the left. Despite this, we saw other pilgrims heading that way, and there was chatter among the pilgrims in our midst that either way was fine.

We decided to stop and rest before we began, what wethought would be, the final stretch. It seemed as if we were almost there—a sensation that would deceive us along the Camino, time and time again. Peeling off our backpacks, we lowered our stiff bodies into lush grass. Not far from us, a couple were perched with their terrier—a sweet dog with fluffy ears. Immediately he showed an interest in Jonah and came sniffing over, interested in the snacks we’d spread out around us. We chatted with the couple, one of whom spoke a bit of English with a thick French accent. We learned they were locals on a day-hike. They worried about their dog bothering us, but we welcomed his affection. His wet nose and soft fur soothed our weary bodies and slightly fragile hearts after such a trying—and yet, very beautiful—day. Moments like these would become an elixir for our bodies and spirits. The profound nourishment of a moment’s rest, interactions with our surroundings—the observance of wildlife or strays, friendly locals with an encouraging word, a delicious bite of food. It all became so precious and soothing. These were the details we would remember.

Having taken in many photos of pilgrims before arriving on the Camino, I had dreamed about lying in expansive rural places. I was aware of the sun, beginning to drop lower on the horizon, but still I took a moment to lie back, to release the tension in my shoulders from my pack and to soften my body all around. Jonah was still enjoying the dog and I was coaxing my muscles soft. I noticed my body temperature drop immediately and knew we should keep moving. The longer I stayed there, the harder it would be to get up.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, we headed right. As we entered the tree-lined path, we saw a group of bikers up ahead—they were struggling with the rocky surface. We’d reached the beginning of a multiple-mile stretch of rocky path that wound downward. There were beautiful vistas, our feet were increasingly achy looking out from them. We had spiraled up the mountain, and now we were spiraling down on rough terrain. This went on for many hours. It’s difficult to remember what we were thinking. One thing I know is that we were fully in the experience together. If there was one gift from the Camino, it was the steadfast presence of my son. At this point, I didn’t really need anything from him in the way I had in the initial steep climb up. And yet, his companionship—his quiet confidence—brought me tremendous comfort and peace.

At some point, we began sensing we had reached a lower elevation. We had to be close now. It was dusk, there were no other pilgrims around, and a fog had dropped. We were walking in what seemed to be a sloped field, barely able to make out a building in the distance. Never having been to an albergue, and with the exception of a photo we’d seen, we had no idea what to expect of this one. The building ahead appeared to be constructed of dark wood, but it seemed awfully small for a municipalalbergue—generally the type that houses the greatest number of pilgrims. We’d been walking such a long time, we couldn’t imagine needing to go further.

Reaching a section of the path where giant boulders filled the grassy area, we began wondering, were we even still on a path? My mother’s instinct crept in slightly. We didn’t know, but shortly after we glimpsed a couple of pilgrims up ahead. They were walking past the building. We used our walking sticks to steady our footing coming onto and off boulders, attempting to prevent injury at this precarious moment when exhaustion met poor visibility. Finally, we were beside the building, which up close seemed more like an abandoned barn than anywhere anyone would want to sleep. The path to its side sloped upward and looking around, it seemed we’d arrived in an area that felt like a rural farming community. Cold, damp air surrounded us as we finally connected with signs for the Roncesvalles Pilgrims' Hostel—one of the most famous on the entire Camino—and continued onward.

Storm clouds loomed overhead as we lifted weary legs up a pebble-strew path toward a massive, elegant stone building perched on a hill. Inside we would be greeted by a team of Scandinavian volunteers, and discover our bunks on the third floor. We’d listen to the sound of thunder rumbling in the night and be awakened by the aching and glorious sound of bells. ❤️