Day 13 - May 20th: The Monk
Rabal del Camino to Santibáñez de Valdeiglesias : 20.8 miles / 324 total
Our day ended uneventfully in Rabanal del Camino, where Christina found the last available room at Casa Indie Hostel. She also discovered a great little restaurant that felt like a medieval tavern—crossbowed ceiling timbers, tree trunk beams, thick layers of plaster from centuries of patchwork. Lanterns flickered softly as pilgrims filtered in, seeking warmth, sustenance, and a bit of company—just as they’ve done here for 800 years.
For Christina’s second birthday in two days (see yesterday’s post as to why), she wanted nothing more than a burger and red wine. She got her wish, and the burger was about the size of her head!
Rabanal is a quiet mountain town with cooler temperatures. We slept with the window open and loved the chill—30° air, heavy blankets, and our tiny bohemian room. Next to us, two South Korean women who didn’t speak a word of English lit up when Christina fed Jax what looked like a compost pile: bun, fries, tomatoes, burger bits, bacon, ketchup, and everything else we didn’t eat.
Since yesterday was 27 km mostly uphill, today was all descent—to Astorga. Following Lisa’s advice, I kept the distance to around 30 km and continued hoping the shin pain would level out. If it’s not getting worse, I’m holding onto hope that it’s getting better.
There’s no leaving the room without Jax. He knows the routine. As soon as I put on my hat—always the last step—he walks to the door and blocks it. His way of saying, “I’m coming too.”
Just outside of town, under the morning sun, I met a 26-year-old man with piercing blue eyes thumbing a rosary. We locked eyes, and there was that unmistakable Camino moment—a quiet pull to talk. His name is Tony. Born in Illinois, raised in Oklahoma, and once a monk in a Benedictine monastery tied to the French Solesmes Congregation. Disillusioned, he left the order and spiraled into depression, even suicidal thoughts. A year ago, he took friends to visit Notre-Dame de Fontgombault Abbey in France—the motherhouse of his Oklahoma monastery. And there, in the quiet sanctuary of that ancient place, he felt a complete release. He told me that God had lifted his burden. He’s now walking from Fontgombault to Santiago to meditate, give thanks, and eventually return to the monastery for good. Tony has no phone and says nothing has brought him greater peace than the solitude and rhythm of the Camino.
In Astorga, I passed the grand cathedral—and next to it, competing boldly with far less real estate, is Gaudí’s Episcopal Palace. In my humble opinion, it beats the cathedral. The temps rose fast once we descended from the mountains, and by the time Jax and I reached the old town, I was sweating through my shirt. Right on the Camino which in this case was a cobble stoned street, I spotted a barber shop with an empty chair. Why not? I jumped in. Jax laid next to me, oddly fascinated by the buzzing clippers. Then—to my horror—he tried to hump the barber’s leg. The young, stylish barber took it in stride. The cut was perfect, even if I couldn’t stop him from adding product. He didn’t speak English, and my Spanish wasn’t sharp enough to object. I was tasting hair gel for the rest of the day. Total cost: €12.
We arrived in Santibáñez de Valdeiglesias around 3 p.m. after 33 km. My tibia is holding—still painful, still black and blue. Christina found a sports doctor in Astorga who agreed to see me at 4:30 p.m. If this is a stress fracture, I need to know now.
More on that tomorrow. For now, we’re racing to the appointment, then dinner, then bed.
Thank you, as always, for the support.
Cheers,
David.
