The morning wraps the village in dense fog. We have breakfast at the hotel café, and then I bid Argos farewell for the last time. Now each of us sets off on a different path. I’m on my own, in the world of pilgrims.

I leave without rushing. Everyone has already departed early. I walk slowly, searching for the yellow arrows that mark the way. A pilgrim appears through the mist and points me in the right direction. We chat as we walk. He tells me he’s from Brazil and is doing the Camino to fight anxiety. The village fades behind us, and we find ourselves crossing the dense forest that shields the village from the mountains. Oliver, the Brazilian, decides to stop and rest. I wish him a good Camino and continue. A few steps later, a tall girl, almost my height, with blonde hair and a fast pace, overtakes me.

I feel like the Camino is different now. I’m surrounded by pilgrims and walking at a different rhythm than yesterday with Argos. It feels like I’m starting over, activating muscles I hadn’t used until now, especially on the downhill stretches. The marks left by so much cycling gradually fade. The soreness in my inner thighs is almost gone, and my well-defined quadriceps fade into the background.

I watch cyclists pass by and remember the journey with Argos and how much I learned by his side. I walk for another two hours, and after a slope that forces me to remove my jacket, I decide to rest. My feet hurt terribly. I buy an ice cream and sit at a table outside a shop.

The next stretch is easier. My muscles are fully engaged now. I’m not sure if it was today, but I come across a man I greet in Galician. He responds cheerfully and, thinking I was born yesterday, “teaches” me a phrase in Galician and tells me to repeat it to the next person I see. I don’t understand the phrase, since I don’t speak Galician, but I’m pretty sure I heard a “carajo” in there somewhere.

The day goes on. I greet some Canadian women and then some Americans, chatting with them for a bit. There’s not much left to reach the next village. I stop to admire some cows, take a few photos, and continue until I find myself walking alongside a girl. She’s from China and barely speaks English, so we communicate through gestures. A bit further ahead, the same tall, blonde girl who passed me earlier joins the conversation, keeping her brisk pace. As we enter the village, she tells me she’s from Denmark and is doing the Camino after recently graduating from university.

We arrive in Triacastela. We say goodbye, and I look for a restaurant to have lunch. I order the pilgrim’s menu. For the starter, they serve me a pot of Galician stew with a ladle and a plate. It’s a generous portion, but I won’t leave leftovers and disrespect the locals. I help myself to three or four plates until I finally finish it, leaving barely any room for the second course. Days later, I would learn that no one is expected to finish the entire pot.

Dessert is cheesecake with honey from O Cebreiro. As I get up to pay, I realize my legs are at their limit. I feel muscles I didn’t know I had. I had planned to keep going, but I don’t think it’ll be possible.

I find a well-rated hostel. I leave my things in the room and sit on the bed, letting out a deep sigh. A man from the other side of the room, with a strong English accent, says:

—Long day, huh?

I reply that yes, it was intense. We chat for a bit, and he tells me he wants to grab something to eat. I want to watch the game, so we head to the same restaurant where I had lunch.

I spend the rest of the day wandering around the village, whose calm feels almost sacred. I pass by a church with a cemetery and stop to admire it. I return to the hostel with the last rays of sunlight. On my way, I pass by the restaurant of another hostel, and through the window, I see the Danish girl chatting with a group.

I think about how every small decision I make influences the course of the journey. If I had chosen that hostel, I’d probably be at that table, but I wouldn’t have met Gary, the Englishman, with whom I’d have an epic walk the next day.

A drizzle begins to fall, so I quicken my pace to grab the clothes I left hanging on the terrace.