Winter pilgrims: that species that does not go extinct even with cold, rain and closed bars
There are two types of people in the world: those who do the Camino de Santiago in summer… and those that do it in winter. The latter are not better prepared, nor crazier (well, a little yes), but they have something special: an infinite capacity to continue walking when everything invites you to return home and order a hot soup.
The winter pilgrim comes out in the morning wrapped in layers like an emotional onion. Does not walk: splash. The rain does not fall, accompanies you. The wind doesn't blow, pushes you back. And the cold doesn't bother... the cold dialogue directly with your bones.
The landscape is beautiful, yes. Beautiful. Spectacular.
But you don't see it because:
- Your hood is fogged up.
- Water enters you in places you didn't know existed.
- You're calculating whether you can still feel your toes or not.
Then comes the great winter sport of the Camino: search open shelter.
Google says yes. The sign says no. The hospitalero left “until spring.” And you, with the face of a Russian novel, read the mythical paper taped together:
👉 “Closed for the season. Buen Camino.”
Buen Camino… MY BOOTS.
And when you find one open, the magic begins:
– “Is there heating?”
– “Yes, whenever you want.”
– “Hot water?”
– “It depends on your faith.”
Sleeping in a hostel in winter is a spiritual experience. You hear the wind, the rain, the wood creaking and your own body wondering what life decision brought you there. You share a room with four other survivors who don't talk much, because we are all thinking the same thing: tomorrow we also walk…but why?
And then there are the bars. Oh, the bars.
In summer you have plenty. in winter disappear like the desire to socialize. You arrive in town at four in the afternoon, soaked, dreaming of a hot coffee... and you find:
– Closed bar
– Another closed
– The third “opens only on weekends if there are people”
(Spoiler: there are no people. Only you.)
But then, miracle. An open bar. You enter like someone entering a sanctuary. You order broth, coffee, wine, soup, something hot, whatever. The waiter looks at you and already knows:
— “You come from the Camino, right?”
Yes. It shows. In the soul And in the smell of humidity.
And yet... something strange happens.
There are no crowds. There is no rush. There are no selfies every ten meters. The Camino in winter speaks to you softly. It gives you silence, empty landscapes, deep conversations with strangers and an absurd feeling of pride every time you overcome another stage.
The winter pilgrim does not boast. Survive.
And when he returns home, dry and warm, he says a phrase that no one understands but is absolutely true:
“Next year… I'll repeat it anyway.”
