Carrión de los Condes to León by bus. My ankles were screaming, my heart was raw, and the endless wheat fields felt like a cosmic joke. So I cheated. Here’s why taking the bus was the kindest thing I did for myself on the Camino—and why “authentic” isn’t always worth the pain.
Let’s rewind a bit. I’d just waved off Alexandro in Frómista—the Italian who’d been my Camino shadow for weeks, with his thermos of espresso and his knack for turning every blister into a laugh. That goodbye hit like a rogue wave, ugly tears and all, and the Meseta was waiting like a smug bully: 90 kilometres of flat, sun-baked nothing, wheat waving sarcastically as if to say, “Come on, Makareta, face your demons properly.” My not-HOKAs were battered, my legs felt like overcooked noodles, and grief—fresh from Kilcoy’s ashes—was still riding shotgun. The purists bang on about the Meseta being the Camino’s “soul stripper,” where the monotony forces you to confront everything you’ve been dodging. Yeah, well, I’d already confronted plenty, thanks. My soul didn’t need more stripping; it needed a breather.
So I booked the bus online the night before, from Carrión de los Condes straight to León. At the stop, I met Angela Thompson, a 58-year-old Sydney legend with a drawl thick as Vegemite and zero tolerance for self-inflicted torture. “Bugger that,” she said as we watched the hardcore pilgrims trudge past, packs bobbing like they were proud of their misery. We grabbed café con leche, swapped stories (hers about a marriage that crashed harder than mine, mine kept vague), and boarded like conspirators.
The ride was pure relief. We rolled through towns like Ledigos (where old hospital ruins whisper of lepers and mercy), Bercianos del Real Camino (royal road vibes and Templar ghosts), and Reliegos (with its ermita tales of virgins and lightning miracles), picking up dusty pilgrims at every stop. Outside the window, the wheat fields blurred into gold, poppies flashing red like warning lights I was happy to ignore. No shade, no hills, just horizon taunting you forever. Angela and I laughed about our “cheat day,” but underneath, it felt right—kind, even.
Look, I get the purist argument: “You didn’t earn it if you skip.” But earn what, exactly? More pain? The Camino’s not a boot camp; it’s a pilgrimage, and mine was about surviving grief, not proving toughness to strangers on forums. My body was telling me loud and clear: rest or break. Skipping those three days let my ankles heal, gave my heart space to process Alexandro’s goodbye without the Meseta grinding me down further. I arrived in León fresh enough to soak in Gaudí’s Casa Botines, drown in the cathedral’s rainbow glass, and share hot tubs with Jessica and Angela—moments of joy I’d have missed if I’d limped in half-dead.
Regrets? Not one. The Camino gave me what I needed: time with mates, raw truths, and the stubbornness to keep going. “Authentic” isn’t suffering for suffering’s sake—it’s listening to your body and soul when they whisper (or scream) “enough.” If you’re planning your Camino and the Meseta looms like a bad ex, know this: buses exist, taxis too, and no one’s revoking your compostela for using them. Walk your own walk, mates—light pack, kind heart, zero guilt.
What about you? Skipped a stage? Proud purist? Drop a comment or email me at hello@apilgrimsjournal.com—I love hearing your stories (and no judgment here).
Buen Camino (bus or boots), Makareta (Margaret)
(Images: Me on the bus, watching the Meseta blur by—relief with a side of reflection.)
If this resonates, grab Walk in My Shoes for the full messy story, or A Pilgrim’s Journal to plan (or cheat) your own adventure.
