Believing on the Way to Nájera
he day began with empty stomachs. Our assumption that a café would always be open early proved unreliable, and Logroño left us high and hungry as we departed the city. We trudged along city parks and bike paths, every closed store and silent café a reminder that the next opportunity for food lay 13 kilometers ahead.
The sky was a deep, perfect blue, punctuated by soft gray and white clouds. Tall trees and poppy fields drew our attention, but hunger quickly returned. Then, around a bend, the sight stopped us in our tracks: a shimmering lake, still hidden from the morning sun, surrounded by dark hills. Its calm surface reflected the deep blue sky and instantly cleared our minds.
Relief, and joy, came shortly after at a café on the water's edge. Plastic tables and freshly brewed coffee felt like heaven. As we ate, a family of swans emerged from the lake, their elegance a perfect complement to our surroundings. Full stomachs and caffeinated blood restored our energy for the journey ahead.
Later, we encountered Marcelo Lobato, a walking legend who has traveled nearly 5,000 miles across Europe. With a stamp from him in our pilgrim passports, we continued past the highway and into the rolling farmlands. Eight kilometers later, we arrived in Navarrete, a circular hilltop town. We wandered its streets to reach the church, marveling at the centuries-old altars and gold-covered saints.
The longest stretch of walking yet lay ahead. Nearly 16 kilometers through farmland, dotted with occasional trees and distant white mounds growing into buildings. In Ventosa, we decided to push all the way to Nájera, avoiding intermediate stops. The terrain was unforgiving, and by the last hill, my hips and feet were screaming.
Music helped me cope, and as I reached the summit, "Believer" by American Authors began playing: 'I'm a believer that things will get better.'
The lyrics hit me like a ton of bricks. All the pain, all the stress, the struggle of walking, and the hardships of life, they will get better. It was overwhelming. Nearly in tears, Tania and I descended into Nájera, finally finding beds at Las Pena on the city's edge.
After a lunch and drinks along the river, and a much-needed nap, we regrouped with friends, sharing wine and chocolates in the sun. The Camino continues to introduce me to people who make the days richer and the miles more meaningful. Tomorrow, Santo Domingo awaits, with a ghost town along the way.