The Storybook Camino

Zubiri, Spain • September 5, 2025

To date, the scenery on the Camino has been nothing less than spectacular. Everything is green, every field is well manicured, and every town is laid out as if on the pages of a child’s storybook. Consequently, I've started calling this the storybook Camino. I wonder how long it will be before the landscape changes and the feeling of being in an idealized world fades.

But it's not just the landscape. Any number of pilgrims stand out as larger than life because of their fashion choices or because of their flamboyant personalities. For example, as I walk, a group of ladies comes up behind me. I don’t turn around immediately, but instead walk for a long time listening to them because I’m hearing women with thick Irish brogues. When I do finally stop and turn around, I find out that they are three friends from Ireland, and that they are on their way to Santiago. I find myself thinking of them as three Irish fates who are here to keep an eye on all the threads of fate that intertwine on the Camino. I hope in the days ahead I’ll see them again and that they’ll play some role in how this story unfolds.

And, of course, there are also lots of stories in this storybook walk. Every day I have lots of conversations with nice, interesting people from all over the world. Admittedly these conversations are short, and they often only sketch out or hint at broader stories. Still, they're delightful and oftentimes unexpected. Now, I'm experienced enough to know that not everything that’s said is true. For the most part, though, I feel the people I've met are genuine and can probably be forgiven an occasional embellishment.

"I'm Glynnis. I run an import business in Sydney, Australia."
"I'm Jovi from Houston. I worked 30 years at Oracle before I retired."
"The name's Vortex. I'm a neurosurgeon from Denver."

I drop into step with Marstella who is having a conversation with a man named Jerry from Canada. Jerry is talking at length about his Italian wife, and he is extolling her boundless virtues with the fervor of a Romantic poet: she's beautiful, she is an amazing cook, she never criticizes him when he wants to go out with his friends. It is an unabashed hagiography. As he talks, however, I start to wonder if Jerry doth protest too much. If his wife is so amazingly perfect, why did he leave her to walk the Camino for six weeks?

I meet a nice lady named Jill from St. Louis. We have an awkward exchange where I confess to being a Kansas City Chiefs fan, and then I ask what brings her on the Camino.

"Well . . . why not?"
"Really? That's your reason: why not?"
"I wanted to do something hard."
"Okay. I think you chose well."

The craziest story I hear is from Pat, who is Canadian, but she grew up in Argentina. She tells us a story about a train ride she took many years ago from La Paz, Bolivia, to her home in Jujuy, Argentina.

"When the train stopped, the people on the train began to frantically throw their things out the window: bags of rice, chickens, bundles of whatever. And at the same time, the people outside the train started pushing their stuff in through the windows. It was chaos. At one point somebody handed me a baby, and I didn't know what to do. But people were yelling and everything was happening so fast, so I passed the baby out the window. A few minutes later a lady came up to me and asked frantically, "Where's my baby? Where’s my Estrella?" I told her I passed Estrella out the window. Then everybody on the train and off the train started shouting, "Bring Estrella back!" And then, a few minutes later, somebody pushed Estrella back into the car from a window on the other side of the train."

But, to date, my favorite story is a Camino love story that a man named KS told me. He and his wife are Korean, but they live in Arizona.

"Ten years ago I went on the Camino, and it was the best thing I ever did.
"How so?"
"I had to endure a lot, but it made me more patient and aware of other people. It helped me understand how I need to treat my wife and take care of her."
"I see you brought her with you."
"Yes. This is my wife Angela. This year is our 40th wedding anniversary. In 10 years, we will walk the Camino again."

I'm now on a quiet stretch of the Camino. Large trees line either side of the path, and it is dark and cool. I catch up to an older man using a single wooden walking stick to make his way up the trail. His name is Manuel, and he is from Avila. He is 67 years old, and he retired from his job two months ago. When I ask him why he is walking the Camino, he replies that "I have spent my entire life working. Now I need to decide what's next." He is not frail even though his steps are measured and careful, seemingly content to let the present moments stretch out as long as they need to. This may be the path to his future, but he seems to be in no hurry to get there.

At one point, I walk ahead and leave his company. I find myself walking alone. The path is still storybook serene. I entertain myself with the pathetic fallacy that perhaps these trees also have stories to tell. Afterall, they have been patiently caring for pilgrims for a hundred years if not longer. As I imagine a long procession of pilgrims walking beneath their branches, I try to imagine what the trees might say. And I am surprised at the immediate response.

"Many, whose faith has burned brighter than yours, have set their feet to this path. This is not a common road, nor one given over completely to recreation. Many still labor with burdens, seen and unseen, seeking a path to take them nearer to God. Walk, therefore, with circumspection and attention so that in passing, your feet do not mar this path, but further hallow it as have the feet that passed before."