Behind the Albergue Door: Inspiration Agony Adventure on the Camino de Santiago

to winemakers and their trusty burros, but the beauty of this particular expression is its versatility.
    Did you know that chestnuts are a real thing?
    I didn’t. I alternated between thinking they were just a catchy word made up to fit the strangely discombobulate lyrics of a certain Christmas carol , and a handy bit of slang used to describe my balls in a marginally less vulgar way. But as it turns out, not only are they a real live nut, but on some sections of the Camino Frances the trees were literally sagging under the weight of millions of these suggestive little brown nuggets. After back to back nights below freezing leading up to the wonderful little town of Villafranca del Bierzo, autumn had finally come rushing around the corner in the form of unexpectedly multi-coloured leaves and millions of chestnuts weakening their grip on formerly life-sustaining branches. On a ridge just beyond, and high above, Villafranca we spent the morning walking along an amazing woodland path with the sun of an impossibly blue sky filtering through the yellow, orange and red leaves like a delicious smoke haze in a stripper bar during Sunday brunch, with chestnuts literally raining down on us from above like waves of Loonies and Toonies slapping off a dancer’s buttocks, still warm from the tight pockets of Wrangler jeans. It was truly a magical time.
    How can you motivate yourself to hike longer days and make up some time?
    Realistically, there are three choices:
An iron will
Chocolate
A leather bullwhip embroidered with the name of your couples therapist
    At some point along the way it seems that everyone finds the need to stretch a day out beyond the distance they’ve become comfortable with. The reasons may vary – catching up with friends, fleeing enemies, an illegitimate child from a previous Camino experience is celebrating a birthday, or you’ve heard tell of a café with simply sublime cupcakes – but whatever the reason, it is always a chore convincing your body to do something it is not accustomed to. Sort of like hiking 800 kilometres, or tap dancing to Tom Petty’s solo stuff. A couple tricks I used were setting my watch back a couple of hours, or wearing a bouquet of pleasant-smelling tulips around my neck. Sometimes when I was feeling particularly winsome myself I would try to help other pilgrims by offering my own set of rewards for the first to arrive, customarily allowing them to join me for their choice of five minutes of either cuddling, showering, crying or playing Twister.
    Is the trail hard to follow?
    Most of the time it is no problem at all. Nearly every even remotely confusing spot has a yellow arrow or two to ensure you don’t veer off-track. It is also in the best interests of all the albergues and restaurants to keep you from wandering off. Where you have to watch out is where there are albergues or restaurants that are slightly off-route because they often do their shady damnedest to confuse you into ending up on the trail less travelled, where you may just end up stopping off for a tortilla and coffee, or maybe to spend the night in one of their creaky bunk beds. Cities are always tough as well, mainly due to the sheer number of route options and the difficulty recognizing one small arrow among the modern urban chaos. And because there are usually distracting girls around wearing something other than filthy and shapeless nylon pants.
    Besides the odd inefficient zig zag in some of the larger centres we never actually “got lost” until someplace between Arzua and Arca do Pino on day 34 – I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere and walked for a good half hour, feeling suspiciously more and more alone before finally deciding to turn around just as Laynni, who was a couple hundred metres behind me, was being accosted by a woman telling her we were going the wrong way. Ironically, just minutes before it had been the Camino shells along that very woman’s fence that had convinced me to set aside my doubts and continue on a bit further. Anyway, while we never did figure out exactly where we were on the map, we were able to just backtrack to the highway and follow it to the next town on our list, only a couple kilometres out of our way. Not as pleasant as a quiet forest path, but considerably more pleasant than turning up somewhere in the middle of Portugal, confused, and two weeks later for dinner.
    How can I really make a difference with generosity and ironic humour?
    Some rely on their