I never really planned to walk the Camino. At least, not consciously. But perhaps the seed had been sown long ago—when I was still a young girl, sitting quietly as my father read The Way by Jose Maria Escriva. He spoke of walking and faith as if they were twin souls, inseparable and interdependent. I remember being mesmerised, not by the book itself, but by the sheer impossibility of that connection. It felt abstract, mysterious—something beyond reach. Life moved on. I forgot about it.
Fast forward four decades, I found myself at a crossroads. It wasn’t a dramatic collapse or a crisis, but rather a slow, gnawing need to find myself again. To reflect, question, maybe even reaffirm what I believed in. And then, almost by chance, I learned that a friend was walking the Camino. Something clicked. I couldn’t join that year, but the idea lingered. Eventually, I convinced my husband to join me, and we walked together. That was my first Camino. And though each pilgrimage since has held its own meaning, it was during my fifth—and most difficult—Camino that I truly understood what this journey was about.
When pain becomes prayer
That fifth Camino took place in August. The heat was punishing—over 40 degrees most days. I developed blisters, more than I’d ever experienced before: seven toes, both heels, the sole of one foot, one side of the other. It started with a tiny blister I ignored on day one, and it haunted me all the way to Finisterre. I was in pain. Constant, agonising pain. And yet, through that suffering, I learned more about life, about myself, and about the mysterious power of prayer.
I still remember that dry, dusty stretch of road. Nothing but heat, silence, and an overwhelming sense of desolation. I tried to find solace in the solitude, in the blue sky, in the birds overhead—but I couldn’t. My thoughts kept returning to an impossible situation in my life—something I had long given up on. That day, I made a silent decision: I would offer up that painful situation in prayer, every time my feet hurt. And oh, did I pray.
Something shifted. A day or two later, I stopped asking why—why now, what had I done wrong? Was it my shoes? My socks? Not enough training? Instead, I began to focus on my blessings. On family, health, the privilege of walking such a sacred path. I let go of control and began to pray with acceptance. Curiously, I only prayed for that situation during the Camino. I left it on the trail, so to speak. And two years later—out of the blue—I received exactly what I had been praying for.
That transformation, that inner pilgrimage, stayed with me far longer than I ever anticipated. It taught me the kind of trust that isn’t about certainty, but about surrender.
The rhythm of the walk
Every Camino begins with anticipation and a bit of fear. The first few days are always a tug of excitement and doubt. What if my health fails me? What if I miss a turn? But slowly, as metres become kilometres, and days find their rhythm, something in me softens. The walk becomes more than just a physical task—it becomes a space. A space to confront what I’ve avoided, to revisit what I’ve shelved, to give meaning to thoughts I hadn’t realised were meaningful at all.
There’s something beautifully primal about walking without rush, without agenda. You begin to observe not only nature, but your own inner landscape. The birds, the wind, the smell of eucalyptus—all become part of your meditation. The Camino doesn’t just strip away distractions; it turns your mind into a place of pilgrimage too.
Lessons that linger
What has the Camino taught me? To trust the path. To let go of the illusion of control. I am, by nature, an anxious person. I like to plan, to prepare, to foresee every possible outcome. But walking the Camino again and again has taught me that things rarely go according to plan—and that’s often where the beauty lies.
Sometimes, what seems to be going wrong is actually what’s going right.
So I keep walking. And with each step, I learn again how to surrender—how to walk not just through Spain, but through life—with faith, curiosity, and a deep sense of peace.
Rituccia Portelli is a mother of two and grandmother of five and a member of XirCammini.
She walked her first Camino in 2015 and has since completed routes in Spain, Switzerland, France, England, Scotland, Ireland, Sardinia, Sicily, and mainland Italy.
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