Unexpected Pause on the Camino Frances

Today, I am writing from the same place as yesterday—a hotel room in Logroño. This was not the original plan. Yesterday, I barely managed to walk those few kilometers from Los Arcos to Sansol before my body simply refused to go any further. When I woke this morning after many hours of sleep, my only journey was downstairs to the reception desk to extend my stay. The Camino would have to wait.

There is a particular kind of surrender in illness that I find difficult to accept. My mind immediately turns to self-accusation—that I am merely being lazy, that I should push through. Today, however, my body spoke louder than these accusations. There was simply no way forward on the physical path.

Fellowship of the Table in Logroño

I ventured out briefly to visit the pharmacy for medicine for my cold and sore throat. Later, I found enough strength to seek a proper meal. The streets of Logroño surprised me with their vitality. Everywhere I looked, Spaniards gathered around tables outside restaurants—entire squares filled with people dining together, laughing, talking (quite loudly, especially by Polish standards!), and simply being present to one another.

My heart was moved watching this fellowship of the table. In my previous work with parishes in Ireland, I witnessed how our parish priest transformed communities through this same concept—creating space for people to break bread together, literally and spiritually. Today, seeing strangers share meals and moments touched something deep within me, even as I felt disconnected from my own journey.

Initially, I wanted to crawl under my blanket and leave this day undocumented—to hide what felt like failure beneath the covers of silence. Yet watching those gathered at tables throughout the city, I realized that these words too are a form of communion. This act of placing my experience into language, of setting my thoughts upon the page like bread upon a table, invites others to sit with me in my stillness. In writing, I join a different kind of fellowship—one that transcends physical presence. Perhaps this is why I return to this blank page tonight: to break bread with unseen companions, to offer what little nourishment I have found in a day that seemed to yield nothing worth sharing.

Saint James: The Silent Apostle

I find myself reflecting on Saint James again today. He’s such a silent figure in the Gospels, yet always in Jesus’ inner circle alongside Peter and John. Unlike them, there is not a single word in the New Testament attributed to James alone. Perhaps he too understood forced stillness. His original name—Jacob, “the heel holder,” the one who sticks to the path—speaks to perseverance even in silence.

Spiritual Pilgrimage During Physical Stillness

Maybe Saint James is showing me that stillness has its own wisdom. That the spiritual path continues even when the physical path cannot. I realized today that in my discomfort, I had forgotten my morning ritual of praying the Rosary—part of my 54-day novena. It was difficult to return to the rhythm of prayer when the rhythm of walking was disrupted. Yet this is precisely what Saint James might be asking of me: to stick to the spiritual path even when the outer way disappears.

Pilgrimage as Grace, Not Achievement

I’m growing increasingly aware that this pilgrimage is grace, not merely the result of my strength or perseverance. When illness strips away the ability to walk, what remains? The invitation to give thanks. After my first Camino in 2019, during a period of profound loneliness, the same parish priest once advised me to set aside all other prayers and simply give thanks. Within days, my entire perspective transformed. Perhaps this pause is reminding me to return to gratitude as the foundation of my journey.

Practical Blessings in Disguise

Unexpectedly, this forced rest provided an opportunity to address a practical need. Since my belongings are locked away in a container until mid-June (part of the circumstances that shaped my decision to walk the Camino now), I began this pilgrimage in ordinary trainers. While adequate in the June weather of my previous Camino, they’ve proven insufficient against May’s rain and mud. Today I found a hiking shop and purchased proper GORE-TEX Salomon shoes with excellent grip. Sometimes self-care wears the disguise of interruption.

I’ve prayed for Saint James’ intercession several times today, asking to be restored to health so I can continue. I hope tomorrow brings enough strength to check out at 7am and resume walking. If not, perhaps I’ll sleep longer, then move to an albergue and try again the following day. But I’m learning that wherever I am—walking or waiting—I remain on the Camino.

Note to Self: Be Still

Today’s stillness revealed that the Camino continues even when my feet cannot. In Saint James’ silence, I found permission for my own. The path is grace—in movement and in rest, in solitude and in fellowship, in struggle and in thanksgiving. Tomorrow’s steps, whenever they come, will carry this wisdom forward.