Author: Margaretha Montagu

Claire’s Story

I wake to the gentle clatter of breakfast preparations at the farmhouse. There’s a reassuring hum of activity in the kitchen—our host trundling crates of rosy apples in, someone humming an old troubadour melody, the clink of butter knives on wooden boards. Thomas is already staking his claim on the biggest wedge of Colombiers, and I’m perfectly fine with that, as long as he saves me the crusts.

By the time I’ve slid on my walking shoes—broken‑in just so—I’m practically drooling at the farmhouse table. A crusty boule from the local boulangerie leans against mani‑pulés of tangy sheep’s milk cheese. There’s a riot of sun-ripened fruit: fuzzy peaches, sun‑blushed strawberries, sunset orange apricots. I pile my plate high, revelling in every bite like a gourmand on a mission. Truth is, I am on a mission: to fuel myself for an 11-kilometre walk through Gascony’s golden vineyards.

Sandwich duty calls next. We slice the remaining bread into generous rounds and build towers of cheese, ham, and a slather of tapenade so piquant it could start a revolution. I tuck the sandwiches into my pack—just in case we get hungry somewhere between Eauze and Manciet—and stash extra rounds of cheese in a cooler bag, which I will absolutely forget about until I’m halfway through the walk, at which point it will be the most welcome surprise.

“Are you ready?” our hostess calls from the yard, where her old Mini—Miraculous Maya, don’t ask—is idling like an eager puppy. We haul our packs in, and with a shudder and a puff of smoke, we’re off toward Eauze. I settle into the back seat, Thomas beside me, and we trade stories about who ate the weirdest thing on our last retreat (I’m still trying to un‑taste fermented anchovy paste).

In no time, Miraculous Maya glides into the shaded plaza at the foot of Eauze’s soaring cathedral. Its stone towers reach skyward, sun‑kissed and proud, like silent sentinels inviting us to begin. Thomas gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Best brunch ever?” he asks. I shrug with all the gravitas I can muster. “I’d walk an extra kilometre for just one more slice of that cheese.”

We pile out, stretching limbs that are used to the comforts of sofas and nothing more strenuous than gentle morning stretches. Our hostess swings Maya away, and we’re on our own. Twelve bells ring out from the cathedral—clear, jubilant peals that echo across cobblestones and ribbons of bright spring light. I listen to the last note dissolve into the sky, and that’s when I realise: I’m exactly where I want to be.

The path unfurls before us: a pale ribbon of compacted limestone and terracotta dust. We step off the plaza and into our vineyard idyll. Burrowed between the neat ranks of pruned vines, the air smells of fresh herbs—thyme, rosemary, French lavender—and something sweet, like honeyed afternoon sun. The vines stand sentinel, thin trunks coiled and spiky, buds just awakening with the promise of sap.

Thomas and I fall into easy conversation: the usual suspects—duck confit versus cassoulet, a childhood spent chasing fireflies—but it drifts inevitably toward the philosophical. “I think,” he says, kicking at a stray pebble, “we carry more weight in our heads than in our packs.” I chuckle and glance at the little pack I’ve arranged just so. “Speak for yourself,” I tease. “My pack could have been Mary Poppins’s bag.”

But he’s right. There’s a lightness in my step that no amount of cheese rounds could temper. I let my arms sway, my shoulders loosen, as we settle into one‑two, one‑two—fluent in the language of walking. Around us, the hills roll like gentle waves. Clay‑roofed farmhouses peek through cypress groves, and in the distance, cows graze, their languid chewing a pastoral lullaby.

At the halfway point, we stumble upon an ancient plane tree whose gnarled trunk is rough and cool to the touch. Below its dappled canopy, a stone bench waits like a wise old friend. We collapse onto it, peel off our packs, and unpack our picnic. I unscrew the cap of our thermos—water so cold it sings on contact with my lips—and for good measure, I produce a small flask of local Cotes de Gascogne rosé.

“Here’s to three hours spent walking,” I declare. I lift my glass; Thomas mirrors me. We sip, and the wine is crisp, floral, like spring itself distilled into liquid. We lean back and let a hush settle over us. Cicadas chirp in the undergrowth, a lazy soundtrack to our quiet reverie. Birds wheel overhead, and for a moment, the world contracts to this shaded clearing and these simple pleasures.

Revived, we rise and dust off. Thomas consults his map. “Four point eight kilometres to go,” he announces. I roll my eyes. “Maps,” I quip, “are for people who haven’t got apps on their phone.” He grins. “Lead the way, Mary Poppins.”

The trail climbs gently now, carrying us onto a broad plateau of vineyards that glisten gold under the afternoon sun. Each vine casts a delicate shadow, as if bowing to the day. I stop to point out a tiny wildflower. “Look,” I say softly, “it’s the universe in microcosm.” Thomas nods, struck by the same quiet wonder I feel.

We press on in companionable silence. There’s something beautiful in not filling every second with chatter—just the soft sound of footsteps and breath, the whisper of wind through leaves. It feels like an invitation to remember who we are when the world slows down, when we aren’t rushing from one thing to the next.

The descent into Manciet is a gentle slide through wildflower‑lined banks. Poppies flame red at the margins, ox‑eye daisies nod in the breeze, and somewhere close by, an orchard perfumes the air with the faint sweetness of blossoms. Ahead, the terracotta roofs of a village crouch beneath a church spire, and I realise my phone battery is dying on the prettiest scene of the day.

We soon find ourselves on the main street of Manciet. There’s a café with red‑check awnings and wicker chairs tucked under a plane tree. Thomas and I share a look. “Café crème?” he suggests. I nod emphatically—and watch in awe as the owner sets down two cups of a thick, creamy mixture in front of us.

The coffee tastes of sunbeams and secrets, and I close my eyes against the sweetness. “Perfection,” I pronounce, “in both flavour and location.” Thomas snorts in agreement, a coffee moustache on his upper lip.

Our hostess, ever punctual, arrives just then. Maya idles outside the gate, headlights warm like a welcoming smile. We climb in for the ride back to the farmhouse—Thomas dozing before the engine’s even starts ticking over, me lulled by the Mini’s gentle sway.

Dusk falls as we roll through shaded lanes; lanterns wink to life in cottage windows, rosemary and jasmine lining the roadside with evening perfume. I rest my head against the cool glass and let the day’s memories wash over me: the crunch of gravel, the hush under the plane tree, the riot of colour in Manciet.

Arriving back at the farmhouse, Maya finally exhaled her last contented puff for the day, a mechanical sigh after a journey surprisingly successfully completed. We tumbled out into the still sun-warmed courtyard, limbs pleasantly weary from the day’s adventures, the gravel crunching softly under our boots.

The lure of a steaming hot shower beckoned. Once inside the cool dimness of the bathroom, the ancient shower, with a protesting groan of pipes, roared to life. It wasn’t a harsh sound, though, more like a friendly dragon breathing warm, fragrant steam that quickly filled the small space. I gratefully stepped beneath the cascading water, letting it sluice over me, a liquid balm washing away the accumulated dust and grime of the day, coaxing the knots of tension from tight muscles. The simple act felt like a profound renewal.

Emerging from the steamy haven, enveloped in the soft embrace of clean clothes, I waddled towards the kitchen. From the very moment my bare feet touched the cool tiles of the hallway, a symphony of glorious aromas billowed around me, each scent a tantalising invitation. The sharp, savoury tang of garlic sizzling in golden olive oil danced with the sweet, mellow perfume of honey-kissed onions slowly caramelising in a well-worn pan. It was as if every good and comforting thing in the world had convened in this one rustic kitchen, a fragrant conspiracy designed solely to lure us in with promises of different types of nourishment.

I followed the intoxicating scent like a homing pigeon unerringly finding its way back to the loft. The weathered wooden table groaned under the weight of steaming dishes, each one radiating its own unique and irresistible fragrance. Soft candlelight flickered in the gentle dusk filtering through the open window, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Happy voices rose in a chorus of warm greetings, smiles crinkling around eyes that held genuine pleasure at our return. And soon, amidst the comforting clatter of cutlery and the murmur of contented conversation, dinner began – a feast for the senses and a celebration of simple togetherness.

If you’ve caught a whiff of these golden afternoons among the vines—and felt your heart quicken at the thought of laughter rippling through sun‑dappled forests—then I’d love to welcome you at your very own Camino de Santiago walking retreat here in Gascony, in the southwest of France. Here we trade crowded sidewalks for quiet limestone tracks, swap city sirens for the hum of bees in blossom, leave behind the rush, the relentless to-do lists, and make every meal an occasion (yes, even that picnic under the plane tree). If you’re craving a moment of mindful silence, my small‑group retreats promise a journey that nourishes body, mind, and soul.

If your soul is whispering “yes,” don’t ignore it. Book your Camino de Santiago walking retreat today.

It sometimes feels as if life consists of one transition after another – from career shifts and relocations to relationship changes, health challenges, or processing loss. These moments can feel overwhelming, yet with the right support, they can become tremendous growth opportunities.

As I mention in my article, Breaking the Cycle of Repeated Life Transitions, Changes and Challenges, simply enduring life transitions without extracting their meaning is the surest way to guarantee you’ll face the same fundamental challenges again… and again… and again.

That’s why I’m introducing a new daily, or on alternate days or at least weekly, practice to help you mine each life transition, so that you don’t have to repeat these transitions again and again:

I’m calling it the Mid-Chaos Memos, and I hope, in a very small way, I will help you cope with whatever crisis life has decided you need to “benefit” from at the moment.

“Change is situational. Transition, on the other hand, is psychological. It is not those events, but rather the inner reorientation or self-redefinition that you have to go through in order to incorporate any of those changes into your life. Without transition, a change is just a rearrangement of the furniture. Unless transition happens, the change won’t work, because it doesn’t take.” – William Bridges

You’ll find these touchpoints on both Instagram and LinkedIn, where you’ll also find my “Inspiring Quotes” series, to help you process your experiences.

My hope is that these moments of inspiration and reflection will become part of your support system, helping you through life’s various changes.

Mindful Miners vs Surface Skimmers

In the high-stakes world of professional achievement, we’ve mastered the art of the pivot. We navigate corporate restructuring, career changes, and industry disruptions with the composed exterior of seasoned veterans. We survive. We adapt. We move on.

Again and again.

I have, for a while now, been wondering why I seem to go through one life transition after another (and sometimes several at the same time) and I have realised that it’s because I focus so intensely on coping with the change(s), that I do not learn the lesson it’s there to teach me.

I need to pay more attention. To be more mindful and to look for the not-always-obvious-meaning embedded in the change.

The Illusion of Resilience

There’s a specific badge of honour we award ourselves when we weather life’s transitions—the promotion that demands relocation, the merger that transforms company culture, the entrepreneurial leap that redefines our identity. “I got through it,” we say, often with a hint of battle-worn pride.

Yet simply enduring life transitions without extracting their meaning is the surest way to guarantee you’ll face the same fundamental challenges again… and again… and again.

Consider the executive who changes companies every few years, always citing “toxic leadership” as the reason. Or the entrepreneur who launches business after business, each collapsing under the same communication breakdowns. Or perhaps the high-achiever who repeatedly builds success at the expense of personal relationships, only to find themselves achieving greater heights but with fewer people to celebrate with.

These aren’t examples of resilience—they’re examples of meaningless repetition. The tuition for life’s lessons isn’t cheap, mindlessly repeating the class is downright extravagant.

The Transition Trap: Why Super-smart People Mindlessly Repeat Painful Patterns

In my work with C-suite executives and founders, I’ve observed that the most accomplished among us often fall into what I call the “Transition Trap”—mistaking movement for progress and change for growth.

The trap works like this: When faced with a significant challenge or change, our sophisticated brains leap into tactical mode. We problem-solve the logistics. We manage the optics. We secure the outcomes. We apply frameworks and systems perfected through years of professional excellence.

What we rarely do is pause long enough to ask: “What is this transition trying to teach me about myself?”

Without this crucial reflection, we keep encountering the same fundamental challenges, just wearing different outfits each time:

• The visionary CEO who can’t keep a leadership team intact changes companies but never addresses their difficulty in sharing control
• The brilliant strategist who burns out every two years switches industries but never examines their relationship with perfectionism
• The serial entrepreneur who repeatedly reaches success then sabotages it never confronts their uncomfortable relationship with sustained achievement

The irony is stunning: Your greatest professional strengths—execution, efficiency, solution-orientation—can become your greatest obstacles to actual growth during life transitions.

From Survive-at-All-Cost to Meaningful Mining

So how do we break free from the costly cycle of meaningless transitions? The answer lies not in better transition management, but in a fundamentally different approach I call “Meaningful Mining.”

Meaningful Mining is the deliberate practice of extracting the essential lessons from life’s transitions rather than simply coping with them. It’s about viewing each transition not as an obstacle to overcome but as a message to decode.

Here’s how the practice works:

1. Recognise the Pattern, Not Just the Circumstances

When facing a transition, most accomplished professionals immediately ask “What needs to be done?” A meaningful miner instead begins by asking, “Have I seen this movie before?”

The circumstances may differ—a new job, relationship, or venture—but the underlying pattern often remains consistent. The key is to identify what feels fundamentally familiar about this transition.

Consider James, a brilliant technologist who had founded and sold three startups. Each venture followed the same trajectory: explosive growth, investor conflict, and eventually, a disappointing exit that left him wealthy but unfulfilled. When he came to me contemplating his fourth venture, I challenged him to identify the pattern.

“In each company,” he realised after reflection, “I eventually treated my investors like my overbearing father—someone to prove wrong rather than collaborate with.”

He added that this recognition was worth way more than any tactical advice on his new business model.

2. First, Acknowledge the Discomfort

Our professional training conditions us to eliminate discomfort through solutions – asap. But in transitions, discomfort isn’t an error message—it’s the signal we most need to hear.

Meaningful miners deliberately sit with the most uncomfortable aspects of their transitions, asking: “What about this situation makes me most uneasy, and what might that discomfort be trying to teach me?”

Sarah, a CFO who had changed companies three times in five years, always leaving after conflicts with marketing teams, discovered through this practice that her discomfort wasn’t about the marketing department’s “irresponsible spending.” It was about her fundamental belief that creativity and fiscal responsibility were inherently opposed—a belief rooted in her own abandoned artistic aspirations.

This revelation didn’t just change her next job search—it transformed how she approached collaboration across her organisation.

3. Extract the Essence, Not Just the Experience

Every transition contains within it an essence—a fundamental truth about who we are and how we relate to success, failure, control, vulnerability, and worth. Most of us collect experiences; meaningful miners extract essences.

The question becomes: “What essential truth about myself is this transition revealing that would be valuable in any context?”

For Michael, a successful executive facing a difficult midlife career transition, the essence wasn’t about which industry to move into next. It was the recognition that he had built his entire identity around being the youngest person to achieve each professional milestone—and now, at 45, that identity was no longer available to him.

The essential question wasn’t “what next?” but “who am I when I’m not the wunderkind?”

The Counterintuitive Economics of Meaningful Transitions

There’s a paradoxical efficiency to this seemingly “soft” approach to transitions. By taking longer upfront to extract meaning, you actually accelerate your long-term growth by avoiding the need to repeat essentially similar transitions.

Think of it as the difference between treating symptoms and curing the disease. Yes, symptom management brings immediate relief. But without addressing the underlying condition, you’re simply signing up for chronic treatment.

The economics are compelling:

• Time invested in meaning extraction pays dividends across all future transitions
• Emotional energy preserved by not repeatedly facing the same fundamental challenges
• Competitive advantage gained by evolving in ways your peers—still stuck in the cycle—cannot

Practical Steps: Becoming a Transition Alchemist

How do you transform from someone who survives transitions to someone who alchemises them into meaning? Here are three practices that my most successful clients have employed:

The Transition Journal

During any significant transition, commit to a daily practice of asking and answering these questions:

• What feels most familiar about this transition?
• What am I most tempted to immediately fix or solve?
• If this transition were trying to teach me something essential about myself, what might that be?

The key is consistency. The insights rarely arrive in dramatic epiphanies but rather accumulate through patient inquiry.

The Pattern Council

Form a small group of trusted peers who know you well enough to identify your patterns. Meet monthly to discuss transitions you’re navigating. The only rule: They can’t give advice on managing the transition; they can only reflect patterns they’ve observed in how you approach change.

This council serves as a mirror, reflecting what you often cannot see in yourself.

The Reverse Timeline

When facing a transition, don’t just plan forward—plan backward. Identify transitions you’ve navigated in the past that feel similar. Map the decisions, reactions, and outcomes. Then ask: “If there were a single thread connecting these experiences, what would it be?”

This practice reveals the script you’ve been unconsciously following and creates the opportunity to write a new one.

The Ultimate Competitive Advantage

In a world obsessed with disruption and pivots, there’s ironic power in consistency—not the consistency of circumstances, but the consistency of growth. While others repeatedly face the same fundamental challenges in new contexts, the meaningful miner evolves in ways that make previously difficult transitions increasingly navigable.

This is the ultimate competitive advantage: not just adapting to change but actually transcending the need to repeatedly learn the same lessons.

The next time you face a significant transition—whether professional or personal—remember that the true measure of your success won’t be how quickly you move through it, but whether you ever need to face this essential challenge again.

Because in the economy of a well-lived life, meaning is the only currency that never depreciates.

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Essential Tips from Experienced Travellers

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step—and a bit of preparation. Whether you’re joining one of my Camino de Santiago walking retreats or embarking on another adventure, the difference between a challenging ordeal and a transformative experience often lies in your approach. After decades of hosting retreats, I’ve gathered my retreat guests’ insights to help you travel not just with your feet, but with your heart and mind fully present:

Patience is an essential traveller’s virtue

When you are travelling, whether it is from London to Paris or London to Kathmandu, having loads of patience to trot out when needed can make your journey much more comfortable. Travelling calls for barrels full of patience, especially at this time of the year. If patience is not your thing, avoid travelling at peak times, as in over Christmas. We have given up trying to get to our family in the southern hemisphere for Christmas. We go a month later, during the worst of our winter, which means tickets are at half the price. If you do have to travel and things go wrong, take a deep breath and then tackle problems as creatively as possible.

Don’t take anything too seriously

The ability to laugh and to laugh at yourself while travelling can also make the whole experience more enjoyable. On the flight, watch the in-flight comedy. Or read a funny book. Think of a joke or a situation you found yourself in that made you laugh. Smile to yourself. Look at challenging events from the funny perspective. Nurture your sense of humour and keep it close at hand when travelling.

Keep your valuables safe while you travel

Losing your camera is one thing.

Losing your luggage is another.

Losing your wallet is annoying.

Losing your passport/driver’s license/health insurance card is seriously annoying.

Losing your phone is extremely annoying.

Losing your laptop, where you have scanned copies of all the above, is in a different league altogether.

To avoid losing your mind, keep tabs on your valuables while you are travelling. Back everything on your laptop/phone up (including emergency/contact phone numbers) on an external hard drive as well as online for easy access in case of need.

Hunt and capture memories

We now have digital cameras. Don’t forget to take lots of photos – you can always delete the less successful ones later. It is also a great way to keep a travelling diary, especially if you set the camera to imprint the date unobtrusively on each photo. Keep notes – a sentence or two will often suffice to re-ignite a memory later. As you may know, I am a great fan of journaling, and although while on holiday one may not have much time to write at length, a few sentences a day in a travelling journal can bring back memories as sharp as if it all happened yesterday many years later. Photos you can also share with others, especially useful if you are travelling alone and you want to reassure and share your experiences with loved ones at home. A picture often speaks more than a thousand words and it is important to stay in touch.

Always pack earplugs and keep them within easy reach

Essential for the phantom crying baby on the plane, for ignoring the noisily celebrating and completely drunk returning stag/hen party participants at the next restaurant table in the waiting lounge or the explosive snorer in the room four doors down the corridor, for excluding the deafening traffic noise while you are transferring from one airport to another, for obliterating the passenger in the seat next to you on the plane with verbal diarrhea…you get the idea.

Go out and meet the locals

Round here, a short stroll up the road will do the trick. You will come across Mme D’Angle mowing her front lawn, always ready to switch the machine off for a quick chat. Don’t worry if your French is limited, she is good at communicating with hand signals and body language. A bit further you will meet up with the vineyard workers having a quick restorative under a huge oak tree, always willing to share their tipple and talk about the state of agriculture in this country. Yet a bit further you may meet Mme Pontier, taking her dog for a walk to her husband’s grave in the village cemetery – if you want to know anything about the history (or the hottest village gossip) of the region, stop and ask after her health. Small but potent ways to enrich your holiday experience…and it provides the locals with new stories.

When travelling, keep an open mind

So they do things differently in this country (sometimes their way of doing resembles nothing you have ever come across in your life before). That’s OK. You are also here to learn from new experiences, and maybe even find a better way of doing something. If their way of doing seems completely idiotic to you, ask them why they are doing it this way. Ask nicely and then listen carefully. Put yourself in their shoes for a moment. Maybe from their perspective, their way of doing is perfectly natural, obvious and logical. You do not have to agree, just see if you can learn something. Leave your comfort zone and keep an open mind. Try new things, new ways of doing. Try new food. New wine. Chances are you will find new insight and understanding. New possibilities and opportunities. New friendships.

Be prepared for all eventualities

In the very first instance, look after yourself physically. Be careful of the sun, especially here in the south of France, when midsummer over midday you can get sunstroke from spending an hour or two outside. Wear sunglasses, wear a hat, drench yourself in suntan lotion. Make sure that the water from the tap is safe and if not, remember to keep your mouth closed when you are showering. Not all spring water is safe to drink either – I get our spring water tested once a year to make sure it is. DO bring all your regular medication with you and bring enough to last the whole holiday. Yes, there are two pharmacies in the village 3 km from here, but it may be difficult to get hold of the French alternative of what you are taking any time soon. Bring emergency meds: anti-heartburn, anti-diarrhea, anti-pain, anti-allergy stuff, that sort of thing. Last but not least, make sure you have appropriate travel insurance. If you are from the UK, an EHIC card is absolutely essential.

When you are on holiday, wake up early

You usually sleep in as late as possible on holiday to catch up on your well-deserved sleep. I perfectly understand and that is why if you are on one of my retreats, you do not have to be coffeed-up and corpus mentis before 10:00. If you could, though, maybe just one day during your stay, rise with sunrise you may discover a whole new world up to now unexplored. Grab your camera before you venture out, now is the best light for memory-firing pictures. Stand for a while by the horses, quietly munching on their hay, go for a brisk walk through the vineyards or maybe you would like to join the guests who are doing slow stretching exercises on the lawn…

When you are on holiday, help

Look at what is happening around you. Maybe there is something you can do to help? I know you paid for this holiday and that you fully intend to get full value for your money. Of course, that is important. Just entertain the thought for a while. Even when on holiday, when you give, you receive so much more. I never expect my guests to do anything, they are here to relax and enjoy their holiday. But the ones who have stolen my heart and became life-long friends were the ones who have offered to help clear the table, insisted on doing the washing up, got up early to help feed the horses, bought an extra bottle of wine for dinner when they go wine tasting…I have learnt this precious lesson from my guests and I now help whenever I can while I am on holiday. I have made many new friends this way and find it a very rewarding experience.

The Journey Continues Long After You Returned Home

The most valuable souvenirs from any journey aren’t the trinkets that gather dust on your shelves, but the moments that changed you—the sunrise that took your breath away, the unexpected kindness of a stranger, the challenge that revealed your own resilience.

These travel tips aren’t just about making your journey smoother (though they will), but about creating space for those transformative moments to happen. On the Camino de Santiago, as in life, the path itself teaches us as much as the destination. The blisters heal, the sunburn fades, but the stories and insights you gather along the way become part of who you are.

P.S. Ready to turn your next trip into a soul-stirring adventure?

If you’re craving more than just a change of scenery—if you’re longing for clarity, inspiration, and a deeper connection with yourself and with nature—join us on a Camino de Santiago walking retreat in the southwest of France – designed for thoughtful travellers ready to reflect, reset, and rediscover what really matters. Expect beautiful scenery, heartfelt conversations, personal breakthroughs, and plenty of space for introspection (and belly laughs).

Twice a month, March to December.
Small groups, big transformations.

Find out more.

5 Key Takeaways

1. The Camino can be walked year-round, with each season offering unique experiences. There’s no single “best” time to walk—it depends on your personal preferences, though spring (May-June) and fall (September-October) generally offer the most balanced conditions.
2. Summer (June-August) is the busiest season, with nearly half of all pilgrims arriving during these months. This creates a vibrant social atmosphere but also means crowded accommodations and restaurants, potentially requiring advance bookings.
3. Weather considerations significantly impact the experience. Summer can be hot, winter cold and sometimes wet, while spring and fall offer milder temperatures. Your tolerance for different weather conditions should guide your timing decision.
4. Guided retreat options provide solutions to common Camino challenges by offering consistent accommodations, transportation support, and the ability to walk with just a day pack—particularly valuable during peak seasons or challenging weather conditions.
5. Personal factors should guide your timing choice, including your preference for solitude versus community, heat tolerance, budget considerations (shoulder seasons are often more affordable), and specific interests like spring wildflowers or fall harvests.

The ancient pilgrimage route of the Camino de Santiago has captured the hearts and ‘soles’ of travellers for centuries. This spiritual journey across Spain (and parts of France and Portugal) offers not just a physical challenge, but often a transformative experience that stays with pilgrims long after their boots have been hung up. But when is the ideal time to embark on this adventure? Let’s explore the seasons of the Camino and find the perfect time for your journey.

The Year-Round Appeal of the Camino

One of the most wonderful aspects of the Camino de Santiago is that it isn’t limited to a specific season. Whether you’re dreaming of sun-dappled paths in summer or crisp, quiet trails in winter, the Camino welcomes pilgrims throughout the year.

If you’re considering one of my Camino de Santiago walking retreats in southwest France, you truly can walk ANY time of the year. Guests have trekked these paths in the depths of December and January, the heat of July and August, the bloom of March and April, and the golden months of September and October. Regardless of when they went, these pilgrims consistently described their experience as unforgettable and life-changing.

Summer on the Camino: The Bustling Season

Summer represents peak season on the Camino, with statistics from the Pilgrim’s Office in Santiago de Compostela revealing some eye-opening numbers. In 2019 (before pandemic disruptions), a whopping 347,578 pilgrims completed their journey to Santiago. Nearly half of these travellers—47% to be exact—arrived during the summer months of June (14%), July (15%), and August (18%).

This popularity creates a vibrant, social atmosphere on the trail. You’ll never feel alone and will have ample opportunity to connect with fellow pilgrims from around the world. Many lasting friendships have formed between people who first met while sharing a meal or helping each other with blisters along the way.

The Summer Squeeze: Accommodations and Dining

The summer crowds do come with challenges, however. The most pressing concern is finding a place to sleep. If you arrive at your destination late in the afternoon without a reservation, you might face a difficult choice: continue walking to the next town (when your feet are already screaming for rest) or pay premium prices for whatever beds remain available.

Similarly, restaurants and cafés along the route often burst at the seams during peak months. You might find yourself waiting for a table, only to hear the dreaded “Désolé, the kitchen is closed” as the clock strikes 2:00 pm.

Maria’s Summer Camino: An Illustrative Tale

Maria had always dreamed of walking the Camino. After months of training and preparation, she set off in early August, excited to experience the legendary pilgrimage during what she thought would be perfect weather.

Her first few days were magical—the paths were alive with fellow pilgrims, conversations flowed easily in multiple languages, and the summer sun shone brilliantly on the landscape. Maria loved the festive atmosphere in the towns she passed through, many celebrating their summer festivals with music, dance, and local delicacies.

By day five, however, she began to understand the challenges of summer pilgrimages. After a particularly difficult section that took longer than expected, Maria arrived at a popular stopping point at 4:30 pm, only to find every albergue (pilgrim hostel) displaying the dreaded “completo” (full) sign.

Exhausted and with darkening skies threatening rain, she began to panic. A kind local pointed her toward a bench in the town square where she could rest while calling ahead to towns further along the route. Three calls and an unexpected taxi ride later, Maria finally found accommodation—15 kilometers beyond her planned stopping point and at twice her budgeted cost.

The next day, determined to avoid a repeat situation, Maria began walking at 5:00 am with her headlamp cutting through the darkness. She wasn’t alone—dozens of other pilgrims had adopted the same strategy, creating an unexpected but magical experience of walking beneath the stars and witnessing the sunrise together.

By mid-morning, Maria had learned another summer pilgrim lesson. Stopping at a charming café around 1:30 pm, she was informed there would be at least an hour wait for a table. With her stomach growling and feet aching, she wished she had packed lunch as more experienced pilgrims had done.

That evening, Maria met Elena, a Camino veteran who was walking her fifth route. Over shared wine and tapas, Elena shared her wisdom: “The Camino in summer is beautiful, but crowded. Next time, come in May or late September—you’ll still have good weather, but you’ll also have space to breathe and truly connect with the path.”

Maria finished her Camino and treasured the experience, but when she returned three years later to walk a different route, she chose October—and found herself agreeing with Elena’s advice completely.

The Sweet Spots: Spring and Fall

Weather-wise, the ideal times to walk the Camino are during late spring (May and June) and early autumn (September and October). During these shoulder seasons, you’ll enjoy:

• Mild, comfortable temperatures ideal for walking
• Less crowded paths and accommodations
• Flowering landscapes in spring or harvest-rich scenery in fall
• More availability in restaurants and cafés
• Often better rates for accommodations

These months offer the perfect balance: good weather without extreme heat, enough fellow pilgrims to create community without overwhelming facilities, and nature at some of its most beautiful moments.

Winter Walking: A Different Kind of Magic

Can you walk the Camino during the winter holidays? Absolutely—especially if you’re looking at sections like Eauze to Manciet on the French Camino. Special short-break Camino retreats operate annually during this season, often attracting solo travellers seeking to escape holiday commercialism and do something meaningful instead.

Winter walking offers unique charms:

• Peaceful, nearly empty paths
• A more contemplative experience
• Cozy evenings by the fire after a day’s journey
• Clear, crisp air (when it’s not raining)
• A genuine sense of accomplishment

The trade-off, of course, is weather. Winter pilgrims must be prepared for cold, sometimes very cold, conditions. Rain and occasional snow are possibilities, particularly in mountainous sections. Fewer establishments remain open, requiring more careful planning.

The Benefits of Esprit Meraki Retreats

For those concerned about logistical challenges, my 5 or 7-day retreats offer solutions to many common Camino concerns, regardless of season:

• You sleep in the same comfortable bed each night
• No need to carry heavy backpacks—just daily essentials
• Transportation provided to and from each day’s section
• Hot showers and comfortable rest await after each day’s walk
• Opportunity for massage and proper recovery
• Expert guidance on how far to walk based on weather conditions

These arrangements are particularly valuable during peak summer months (avoiding accommodation scrambles) and winter (when comfort becomes essential after cold-weather walking).

Choosing Your Perfect Camino Season

When deciding on your ideal Camino season, consider:

1. Your heat tolerance: If you wilt in hot weather, avoid July and August
2. Your social preferences: Want maximum interaction? Summer is best. Seeking solitude? Consider winter
3. Your budget: Shoulder seasons typically offer better value
4. Your time constraints: School holidays might dictate summer travel for families
5. Your accommodation style: If you prefer certainty and comfort, consider guided options or book well ahead
6. Special interests: Spring offers wildflowers, fall provides harvest festivals, winter features Christmas markets

Preparation Tips for Any Season

Regardless of when you walk:

• Break in your shoes thoroughly before departing
• Train for the distances you’ll cover daily
• Consider the “pack sandwich” strategy: prepare lunch during breakfast to enjoy whenever and wherever you choose
• Research typical weather for your chosen time and pack accordingly
• Book accommodations ahead during busy periods
• Carry a water bottle and stay hydrated, especially in summer

Frequently Asked Questions About the Camino de Santiago

1. How long does it take to walk the Camino de Santiago?

This depends entirely on which route you choose and how much of it you plan to walk! The most popular route, the Camino Francés (French Way), stretches about 800 kilometers (500 miles) from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago. Walking the entire route typically takes 30-35 days, averaging 20-25 kilometers daily.

However, many pilgrims walk shorter sections or choose other routes like the Portuguese Way or the Northern Way. Some complete their Camino in stages over several years. The minimum distance required to receive a Compostela (certificate of completion) is 100 kilometers on foot or 200 kilometers by bicycle.

2. Do I need to be religious to walk the Camino?

Absolutely not! While the Camino originated as a Catholic pilgrimage to the shrine of the apostle Saint James, today it welcomes people of all faiths and those with no religious affiliation at all. According to statistics from the Pilgrim’s Office, pilgrims walk for religious, spiritual, cultural, sport, and many other personal reasons.

The beauty of the Camino is that it meets you where you are. Whether you’re seeking religious deepening, spiritual growth, physical challenge, cultural immersion, or simply time to reflect on life transitions, the Camino provides a supportive environment for your personal journey.

3. How physically fit do I need to be to walk the Camino?

People of all fitness levels and ages complete the Camino each year! That said, preparing physically will make your experience more enjoyable. The most important preparation is breaking in your footwear and training with some longer walks (ideally with your backpack) before departure.

The Camino’s terrain varies by route and section, but most paths involve a mix of gentle hills, some steeper climbs, and varying surfaces from pavement to dirt paths. Most people find that their fitness improves significantly during the first week of walking.

If you have health concerns, consider starting with a shorter route or section, walking fewer kilometers daily, or choosing a guided option where transportation support is available if needed.

4. What should I pack for the Camino?

The experienced pilgrim’s mantra is “pack light, then remove half!” Your backpack ideally shouldn’t exceed 10% of your body weight. Essentials include:

• 2-3 sets of quick-dry clothing (you’ll wash clothes regularly)
• Quality, broken-in walking shoes or boots
• Lightweight rain gear (regardless of season)
• Basic first aid supplies, especially blister prevention and treatment
• Refillable water bottle
• Pilgrim credential (passport) for collecting stamps
• Small toiletries
• Sleep sheet if staying in albergues
• Phone and charger
• Sunscreen and hat in summer; warm layers in winter

Many pilgrims send unnecessary items home after the first few days, so don’t stress about forgetting something—most supplies can be purchased along the way.

5. Is it safe to walk the Camino as a solo traveller?

The Camino is generally considered very safe, and thousands of solo travellers (including many women) walk it each year without incident. The path is well-marked, passes through populated areas regularly, and has a strong community of fellow pilgrims and locals who look out for one another.

During peak seasons, you’re rarely truly alone on the path. In winter or on less-travelled routes, you might have more solitary stretches but will still encounter others at accommodations.

Basic safety precautions apply as they would anywhere: be aware of your surroundings, trust your instincts, secure your valuables, and let someone know your general itinerary. Many solo travelers report that the Camino helped them discover new confidence and self-reliance while providing plenty of opportunities for community when desired.

The Camino’s Timeless Gift

Whether you walk under summer sun, autumn leaves, winter skies, or spring blossoms, the Camino offers its gifts to all who journey its ancient paths. Every season brings its challenges and its unique beauty.

The greatest gift of the Camino isn’t perfect weather or ideal conditions—it’s the journey itself. The path has a way of giving each pilgrim exactly what they need, often in unexpected ways. Summer crowds might lead to lifelong friendships, winter challenges might build inner strength, spring flowers might heal a grieving heart, and autumn harvests might inspire new beginnings.

Perhaps the true answer to “When is the best time to walk the Camino?” is simply this: The best time is when you feel called to walk. The Camino will be waiting, ready to unfold its mysteries in whatever season you arrive.

Whether you join the summer throngs sharing stories over communal dinners, walk quiet autumn paths through vineyards heavy with grapes, brave winter winds for moments of perfect solitude, or wander spring trails lined with wildflowers, your Camino will be uniquely yours—a journey that transcends the calendar and touches something timeless within.

Buen Camino, whenever you choose to begin.

Finding Your Way Back to Self-Trust

There’s a particular kind of silence that follows a professional setback. It’s the space between who you thought you were and who you fear you might be. If you’re reading this, chances are you know this silence intimately. Perhaps it arrived after a project failure, a job loss, a passed-over promotion, or simply the slow erosion of belief in your capabilities that accompanies burnout.

I see you. And more importantly, I want you to know that this space—this uncomfortable, often painful transition—is not just temporary but potentially transformative.

The Hidden Connection Between Setbacks, Burnout, and Imposter Syndrome

Professional setbacks rarely travel alone. They often bring unwelcome companions: burnout and imposter syndrome. These three forces create a perfect storm that can devastate your professional confidence.

When you’re burned out, your resources for resilience are depleted. Your cognitive bandwidth narrows. What once felt like a temporary setback now feels like confirmation of your deepest fears. And those fears? They’re the whispers of imposter syndrome—the persistent belief that you’re fundamentally inadequate, despite evidence to the contrary.

Lise, a former client who was a marketing executive, described it perfectly: “After my campaign failed spectacularly, I couldn’t separate the project’s failure from my identity. I was running on empty already, and this just confirmed what I secretly feared—that I’d been faking it all along.”

Sound familiar?

What makes this cycle so insidious is how these elements reinforce each other. Burnout weakens your defences against imposter thoughts. Imposter syndrome prevents you from accurately assessing setbacks. And each setback deepens both your exhaustion and your self-doubt.

The Truth About Professional Confidence

Before we talk about rebuilding, let’s challenge some myths about confidence:

Myth #1: Confident people don’t experience failure.

The truth is that meaningful work entails risk, and risk inevitably leads to occasional failure. The most confident professionals aren’t those who never fail; they’re those who have learned to metabolize failure as information rather than identity.

Myth #2: Confidence is a personality trait you either have or don’t.

Confidence isn’t a trait; it’s a skill built through specific practices and experiences. Like any skill, it can be developed, lost, and rebuilt—sometimes stronger than before.

Myth #3: Rebuilding confidence happens through positive thinking alone.

While mindset matters, sustainable confidence isn’t built through affirmations alone. It requires concrete experiences of competence, connection, and contribution.

The Four Pillars of Confidence Reconstruction

Through years of working with professionals navigating these difficult transitions, I’ve identified four essential pillars for rebuilding genuine confidence after setbacks:

1. Compassionate Accounting

When confidence collapses, our perception becomes distorted. We magnify failures while minimizing successes. Compassionate accounting is the practice of deliberately documenting your capabilities, contributions, and growth with the same attention to detail you’d give a balance sheet.

Practice: Create a “evidence portfolio” with three sections:

• Skills you’ve demonstrated (even during difficult periods)
• Positive impact you’ve had on people, projects, or organizations
• Challenges you’ve navigated successfully

Michael, a software developer who lost confidence after being let go during company restructuring, began tracking small daily wins: debugging a difficult section of code, explaining a concept clearly to a junior colleague, or finding an elegant solution to a problem. “It sounds simple,” he told me, “but seeing these daily entries accumulate helped me recognize that one setback hadn’t erased two decades of capability.”

2. Calibrated Challenges

Confidence is built through evidence, not rhetoric. After significant setbacks, you need calibrated challenges—experiences that stretch you just enough to demonstrate your capabilities without overwhelming your depleted resources.

Start with what I call “high probability successes”—tasks where success is likely but not guaranteed. As you accumulate these wins, gradually increase the difficulty and visibility of your challenges.

Practice: Identify three levels of challenges:

• Level 1: 90% confidence in success (build momentum)
• Level 2: 70% confidence (stretch comfort zone)
• Level 3: 50% confidence (meaningful growth opportunity)

Begin with Level 1 challenges until you’ve banked several successes before moving to Level 2.

3. Community Reflection

When our internal narrative becomes distorted by burnout and imposter syndrome, we need external mirrors—people who can reflect back our capabilities with more accuracy than we can access ourselves.

This isn’t about seeking flattery or reassurance. It’s about creating deliberate opportunities for accurate feedback and perspective from people who have seen you at your best and understand your journey.

Practice: Identify 3-5 trusted colleagues, mentors, or friends who:

• Have witnessed your professional capabilities
• Can be honest without being harsh
• Understand the context of your setback

Have structured conversations with them about your strengths, growth areas, and unique contributions. Listen for patterns across these conversations.

Sarah, a physician who lost confidence after a medical error, found that conversations with respected colleagues helped her contextualize her mistake within her otherwise exemplary career. “I needed their perspective to see that this error, while serious, wasn’t representative of my overall competence and care.”

4. Contribution Focus

When confidence is shaken, we become self-focused—hyperaware of our performance, others’ judgments, and potential failures. This inward focus actually intensifies imposter feelings and burnout.

The antidote is contribution focus—deliberately shifting attention to how your work serves others, advances meaningful causes, or creates value beyond yourself.

Practice: Each morning, set an intention that centres on contribution:

• “Today my focus is on supporting my team’s growth through thoughtful feedback.”
• “Today my focus is on solving problems that make our clients’ lives easier.”
• “Today my focus is on bringing clarity to this complex challenge.”

Notice how this shift from self-evaluation to contribution changes your experience of work and restores a sense of purpose and agency.

The Deeper Work: Transforming Your Relationship with Failure

As you rebuild confidence through these four pillars, a deeper transformation becomes possible—one that can make you more resilient to future setbacks.

This transformation involves recognizing that your value isn’t determined by uninterrupted success but by how you engage with the full spectrum of professional experiences, including failure.

Jason, a former client who led a failed startup before rebuilding his career, reflected: “I used to see failure as evidence that I didn’t belong. Now I see it as the price of attempting meaningful work. The question isn’t whether I’ll fail sometimes—I will. The question is what I’ll learn and how I’ll respond when I do.”

This perspective shift doesn’t happen overnight. It emerges gradually as you practice the four pillars and begin accumulating evidence that you can withstand setbacks without being defined by them.

Beginning Your Confidence Reconstruction

If you’re in that difficult space between setback and renewal, consider these starting points:

1. Acknowledge the reality of your experience. Burnout and imposter syndrome thrive in silence and isolation. Name what you’re experiencing without judgment.
2. Start small but consistent. Choose one practice from the four pillars that resonates most, and commit to it for two weeks before adding another.
3. Expect non-linear progress. Some days will feel like two steps forward, others like one step back. This is normal and necessary in rebuilding authentic confidence.
4. Consider working with a guide. Whether a therapist, coach, or mentor, having someone who understands this territory can make the journey less isolating and more efficient.

Remember that rebuilding confidence after setbacks isn’t just about returning to who you were before. It’s about becoming someone new—someone with greater self-awareness, empathy, and resilience. Someone who understands that your worth isn’t contingent on uninterrupted success but on how you engage with the full spectrum of professional experience.

The silence after setback can feel like an ending. But with the right approach, it can become a beginning—the space where a more grounded, authentic sense of professional confidence takes root.

You’ve been through difficult transitions before. This one, painful as it may be, can lead to newfound strength if you’re willing to engage with it deliberately. I believe in your capacity to not just recover from this setback, but to be transformed by it.

The path back to confidence begins with a single step. Are you ready to take that step?

“Books should go where they will be most appreciated, and not sit unread, gathering dust on a forgotten shelf, don’t you agree?” —Christopher Paolini

Introduction: The Gentle Art of Getting Lost (in a Book)

When was the last time you truly lost yourself in a book?

Not skimmed an article. Not flicked through the first chapter of that self-help book currently moonlighting as a coaster on your nightstand. I mean really disappeared into the pages of a story so delicious, so luminous, so gently soul-stirring that you forgot what time it was, where you were, or whether your phone had buzzed (spoiler: it had, but you didn’t care)?

If it’s been a while, you’re not alone. In our over-caffeinated, over-committed, hyper-connected world, reading has been demoted—shoved down the to-do list somewhere between “buy bin bags” and “reply to that email from 3 weeks ago.”

But I’m here to tell you (with understanding and a gentle nudge): your Camino de Santiago walking retreat is the perfect time to reclaim your reader’s soul.

Yes, you’ll be walking ancient paths, meeting lovely people, having deep conversations, journaling, perhaps losing yourself in front of a sunrise or two—standard Camino magic. But between those sacred moments of movement and stillness, I invite you to do something gloriously old-fashioned and wildly rebellious:

Pick up a book. Sit down. Read.

Not because you should (goodness no—we’ve all had enough of shoulds to last a lifetime), but because reading is one of the most powerful, portable, and pleasurable tools of transformation we humans have ever invented.

It nourishes the soul. It fills the heart. It gives your mind a holiday while quietly rearranging the furniture of your inner world.

And during your time on this retreat—when life slows down, when nature envelops you, when you remember who you are beyond the noise—reading can become a sacred ritual of return. A quiet companion on your pilgrimage inward. A trusted guide on your way home to yourself.

In the paragraphs that follow (and I do hope you’ll read them), I’ll share why carving out time to read while you’re here is not only deeply worthwhile—it might just be one of the most healing, inspiring, and surprising parts of your Camino journey.

II. The Transformational Magic of Reading

Let’s get something straight right from the start: reading on retreat is not some optional extra, like those tiny soaps in fancy hotel bathrooms. It’s not a guilty pleasure. It’s not a pastime. And it’s definitely not “something to do if the wi-fi’s dodgy.”

Reading—on retreat, especially—is soul work in disguise.

It’s a quiet revolution.
It’s therapy in paperback.
It’s a way of slipping past your inner critic and sitting down with your inner sage.

A. Reading as a Gateway to Inner Knowledge

Books have this sneaky way of holding up mirrors when we least expect it. One minute, you’re reading a gentle novel about an Irish woman opening a second-hand bookshop (as one does), and the next minute, you’re crying into your tea because a fictional character just described exactly how you felt the day your life changed forever.

How? Why? Because books speak the language of the soul.
They bypass small talk. They go in-depth, fast.
They help us access truths we didn’t know we were ready to hear—until we read them on the page.

When you’re walking the Camino or sitting in stillness beneath an ancient oak tree in the French countryside, you’re already peeling back layers. Your body moves forward, but your inner life slows down. Reading becomes the bridge between the two.

Sometimes, the words you need to hear most aren’t the ones you write in your journal or say out loud in a group circle—they’re the ones whispered by a character who doesn’t exist but feels truer than half your Facebook friends.

And let me say this with my whole heart: you don’t need a “literary” book to unlock that kind of power. It could be a novel. A memoir. A slim volume of poetry that makes you cry on page 3. Or that scrappy old book you threw in your rucksack at the last minute because something told you to bring it.

Books are breadcrumbs. Follow them.

B. The Science and Art of a Good Book

Now, if you’re a brainy sort (and I know many of you are), you might be wondering, “Is there actual science behind this or are we just romanticizing reading like it’s 19th-century Paris?”

Well, as it turns out, both.
(And what a delightful combination.)

Neuroscience tells us that reading lights up multiple areas of the brain at once—language, memory, imagination, empathy. It’s like a spa day for your neurons. Studies even show that people who read fiction regularly are more empathetic, more resilient, and—get this—more adaptable to change. Which, let’s face it, is the unofficial theme of every Camino and every life transition ever.

Even your heart rate slows when you read. Your stress hormones drop. Your breath deepens.

Tell me that doesn’t sound like the ultimate retreat experience in a nutshell.

Reading trains your brain to stay present. Not present in the bossy “you should be more mindful” kind of way, but in the delicious, immersive “I forgot what day it was” kind of way.

And unlike scrolling on your phone (which mostly activates guilt and FOMO), reading activates imagination and wonder. The parts of you that believe in magic. The parts of you that remember what it’s like to feel deeply.

C. How Stories Enrich Our Personal Journeys

Here’s the truth I’ve seen time and time again: stories help us make sense of our own.

Whether you’re navigating a divorce, grieving a loss, changing careers, wrestling with burnout, or simply recalibrating after a global pandemic and ten years of low-level exhaustion (hello, modern life)—there’s a book out there that can offer you companionship, clarity, or comfort. Sometimes all three.

And when you’re in a sacred space like this Camino retreat—away from your regular routines, away from roles and responsibilities and all the tiny “shoulds” that clutter your daily life—stories land differently. They don’t just entertain. They awaken.

They help you recognize that your life, too, is a story in progress.
That the chapter you’re in—however messy or uncertain—is not the end.
That healing is possible. That reinvention is allowed.
That grace shows up in all sorts of disguises: a sunrise, a stranger’s smile, or the perfect sentence on page 74.

I must let you in on a secret: there’s a bit of book magic that tends to happen on retreat.

You might think you chose the book. You packed it carefully, thought it might be useful, maybe even meaningful. But more often than not, it turns out the book chose you.

Maybe it falls off the communal shelf when you walk past. Maybe a fellow retreat guest presses it into your hands with misty eyes and says, “Trust me.” Maybe it’s one you packed on a whim and forgot about until you found yourself reaching for it at exactly the right moment.

This is not a coincidence. This is literary serendipity at work.
Lean in. Let the book speak.

Sometimes a single line, a single paragraph, can feel like someone has taken your inner monologue, brushed its hair, and read it back to you with better punctuation.

Let that be part of your pilgrimage.

III. What to Read (And What to Leave Behind)

Now, before you panic and start googling “Top 10 spiritual books for my Camino retreat” or texting your well-meaning cousin who once recommended a 900-page tome on transcendental philosophy (with footnotes), let me stop you right there.

This is not a required reading list.
This is not school. There is no pop quiz.
And the only report card you’ll get is from your soul—and she just wants you to feel alive again.

So breathe. Let’s talk about what really belongs in your retreat reading pile.

A. Don’t Just Pack the Worthy Books

You know the ones I mean.

Those dusty, earnest volumes you’ve been “meaning to get to.” The self-help bestsellers that guilt-trip you with every unopened chapter. The novels everyone raved about but which secretly make you feel like a literary impostor.

Leave them.

Retreat reading is not the time for guilt, obligation, or performance. It’s the time for permission.

Permission to read what delights you. What comforts you. What cracks you open or makes you giggle-snort into your coffee.

You can absolutely read something profound and soul-shifting—but let it find you naturally. Don’t force it. Don’t carry 2kg of intellectual guilt in your backpack.

Sometimes the deepest healing comes from a story that simply makes you feel human again.

B. The Camino-Soul-Soothing Starter Kit (aka: Suggestions, Not Prescriptions)

If you’re looking for some gentle inspiration, here’s a loose collection of categories that tend to pair well with long walks, quiet afternoons, and the occasional existential unraveling:

• Novels with heart. Think of characters who grow, journeys that heal, and endings that offer hope without tying everything up in a bow. Authors like Rachel Joyce, Matt Haig, Elizabeth Berg, or Sue Monk Kidd are balm for the soul.
• Memoirs of reinvention. Real-life tales of people who’ve burned it down and built something better. Bonus points if they’ve done it with grace, grit, and good humor. (Think Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, but feel free to go gentler.)
• Poetry. Especially if you’re short on attention span or energy. A single Mary Oliver poem might be all you need for the day. A few lines from David Whyte can anchor you better than an hour of therapy.
• Spiritual-but-not-pushy books. Something that whispers to your soul rather than shouts at your beliefs. Try Mark Nepo, Anne Lamott, or anything that feels like a wise friend holding your hand.
• Something purely for joy. Yes, really. A cozy mystery. A rom-com. A book about French pastries or travel mishaps. Joy heals. Fun matters. Your inner child will thank you.

The most important thing? Choose books that match your inner pace, not your outer expectations.

Book Recommendations for Camino de Santiago Walkers

Reading on retreat is not just about improving yourself. It’s about returning to yourself.

IV. How Reading and Walking Work Together

There’s a curious magic that happens when you alternate walking with reading. It’s a bit like breathing: inhale the world with your feet, and exhale it through the pages. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Either way, something sacred happens in the rhythm between steps and sentences.

Let’s explore how these two acts—reading and walking—aren’t separate retreats within your retreat… but partners in a beautiful, inward waltz.

A. Movement Unlocks the Mind, Books Whisper to the Soul

You’ve probably noticed it already. Something about walking loosens things.
The tight knots in your shoulders. The tangles in your thoughts.
Grief softens. Fear shrinks. Insight sidles in unannounced, like a cat who lives three doors down but likes your vibe.

It’s no accident. Movement literally shifts your mental state—clearing the mental fog, inviting creativity, unclogging old emotion. The Camino, in all its ancient glory, holds that sacred space for you.

Now enter: the book.

When your body has walked enough for the day and you sink into a chair or curl up on a quilt, your mind is soft, open, curious. Receptive. That’s when the words on the page sneak past the usual filters and head straight for the heart.

It’s as if the walking prepared the soil, and now the story plants the seed.

Some of my guests have described it like this: “I’d read something in the morning, go out and walk for hours… and then—bam!—the meaning would hit me mid-step, like the book was echoing in my body.”

And it is.

B. Reading Deepens the Integration

Retreats, especially walking retreats, stir up a lot.

They dredge up memories you forgot you had. Emotions you thought were neatly archived. Hopes you were secretly afraid to name. And sometimes, let’s be honest, you feel a little raw—like your soul’s been exfoliated.

This is where the right book can become a balm. A guide. A companion.

Reading after walking helps you integrate. It offers language for the things you’re just beginning to understand. It mirrors your journey, offers metaphor, frames the unspoken.

A poem might give shape to your grief.
A novel might whisper hope into your heartache.
A memoir might remind you: You’re not the only one who’s ever felt this way. You’re not alone.

The walking stirs the waters.
The reading helps you see what’s swimming beneath.

C. Walking + Reading = Soul Composting

Yes, you read that right. Compost.

Because sometimes what we carry—the heartbreak, the confusion, the not-knowing-what’s-next—feels like spiritual debris. Heavy. Mucky. Unusable.

But when we walk, we aerate it. When we read, we enrich it. And together, something alchemical happens.

We don’t discard our old stories. We compost them.
We let them break down into something rich and fertile.
We let our pain become nourishment.
We let our questions soften into curiosity.

And from that compost, something new begins to grow.
Clarity. Courage. Calling.
Whatever your next chapter is, it starts from that soil.

V. Common Blocks (And How to Bypass Them Gracefully)

Ah, the noble art of resistance.

You’ve journeyed all this way. You’ve packed the books. You’ve found the cozy corner. You’re practically glowing with the potential to dive in…

…and yet you hesitate.

Maybe you feel an itch to be “doing” something more productive. Maybe you feel guilty resting. Maybe you’re worried that if you slow down enough to read, you’ll feel something you’ve been avoiding.

Congratulations. You’re human.

Let’s address some of the most common blocks—lovingly, humorously, and with the grace of someone who’s met these voices herself (hi, it’s me).

A. “I Should Be Out Walking, Not Sitting Around Reading”

Ah yes, the Camino guilt. As if your retreat has a pedometer strapped to your soul, judging you for every minute not spent in motion.

Here’s the truth: the outer Camino is only half the story.
The other half is inner pilgrimage.
And that? Sometimes it happens when you’re perfectly still.

You came here for transformation, not a fitness tracker medal.

Reading is part of the pilgrimage. It’s where your feet get to rest and your heart gets to stretch.

Balance your movement with meaning. One footstep, one page, one breath at a time.

B. “I Can’t Seem to Focus”

Retreats stir the emotional pot. That’s a feature, not a bug.

It’s completely normal to sit down with a book and find your mind bouncing between yesterday’s conversation, tomorrow’s walk, and whether or not your hiking boots are slowly killing your little toes.

Don’t worry.

This isn’t about powering through chapters like it’s a college assignment. It’s about settling in. Try this:

• Start with poetry or short essays. Bite-sized beauty is less intimidating.
• Read slowly. Reread. Read aloud, even.
• Let the rhythm of the words re-regulate your nervous system.
• And if all else fails? Let the book rest on your chest. Close your eyes. Let it be an energetic exchange.

Even if you only read a paragraph, let it land. That counts.

C. “This Book Doesn’t ‘Match’ My Camino Journey”

We all have a fantasy of the perfect Camino book. The one that speaks to exactly what we’re feeling in the exact moment we’re feeling it. Bonus points if it was written by a wise old hermit who once walked the entire Camino backwards.

But here’s the plot twist: sometimes the “wrong” book ends up being exactly the right one.

That seemingly fluffy novel? It may sneak in a truth bomb that takes your breath away.
That oddball essay collection? It might crack open your heart in the quietest, most unexpected way.

Don’t dismiss the detour. Sometimes your soul reads between the lines.

D. “I Feel Guilty Taking Time for Myself”

This is a big one.

Many of my guests arrive carrying invisible ledgers of obligation. Caregivers. Professionals. Perpetual givers. Somewhere along the line, someone told you that rest must be earned. That joy is indulgent. That if you’re not serving, you’re somehow wasting.

Let’s rewrite that story right now.

You are not selfish for claiming space.
You are not lazy for laying down the load.
You are not unproductive—you are replenishing.
You are healing the healer. Watering the well. Re-membering yourself.

Every time you pick up a book instead of picking up responsibility, you’re choosing wholeness over hustle.

Your worth does not depend on how much you carry.
It lives in how deeply you live—and reading is one of the deepest ways of being.

VII. Stories Heal. Stories Reveal. Stories Rebuild.

We live in stories.

Not just the ones in books, but the ones we tell ourselves.
The ones about who we are.
Where we’ve been.
What we deserve.
How much joy we’re allowed.
Whether or not we get a second act.

These stories—conscious or not—shape everything.
And when you’re in a life transition, a season of loss, a threshold moment like the kind that brings you to a Camino retreat… your story can start to feel shaky. Or broken. Or unfinished.

This is where books come in, not just as companions but as midwives to your becoming.

A. Stories Heal

A good story doesn’t fix you.

It meets you.

It says, “Hey, me too.”
It whispers, “Look, someone else has stood where you’re standing, and they made it to the other side.”
It reminds you that your pain is not proof of your failure. It’s part of your becoming.

There’s deep, ancient medicine in hearing your feelings mirrored in someone else’s narrative—whether it’s a character in a novel, a line in a poem, or a lived truth in a memoir.

Healing doesn’t always look like a grand epiphany.
Sometimes it looks like reading a sentence that sits quietly beside your sadness, not trying to fix it—just holding space.

That’s healing too.

B. Stories Reveal

Reading slows you down enough to notice what’s true.

Sometimes, you don’t know you feel a certain way until a passage names it for you.

You highlight a line and your chest tightens: There it is. The thing I couldn’t articulate.

Books become mirrors. Not because they show you your reflection, but because they reveal what’s moving beneath the surface.

The right story—at the right time—can peel back the curtain on a belief you didn’t realize was shaping your life.

Maybe you thought you had to stay small.
Maybe you thought your best years were behind you.
Maybe you thought it was too late to rewrite your story.

And then a book taps you on the shoulder and says, “What if that’s not true?”

This isn’t passive consumption.
This is deep reflection.
This is soul excavation.

Reading doesn’t just entertain. It uncovers.

C. Stories Rebuild

When your life has been turned upside down—by grief, change, burnout, loss, a LifeQuake of any kind—you need more than a Band-Aid.

You need a blueprint for rebuilding.
And stories can be that blueprint.

They remind you that the mess in the middle is not the end. That transformation is rarely tidy. That broken hearts can still beat beautifully.

When you read a story where a character finds resilience in their rubble, you begin to imagine that you might, too.
When you see someone start again—awkwardly, bravely, imperfectly—you begin to believe that maybe your new beginning is just waiting for you to claim it.

And when you read something that moves you so deeply it takes your breath away?
You tuck that moment into your soul’s pocket.
You carry it with you.
And whether you realize it or not, it becomes part of your story too.

Books are not just words on paper.
They are blueprints. Bridges. Bread crumbs home.

Buen Camino!

Because someday, Future You will thank Present You for remembering what Past You went through on this walk…

Listen, I get it. You’re already carrying blister plasters, protein bars, and a pebble from your garden to drop on the way… and now I’m suggesting bringing a journal too? If you’re already feeling a bit overwhelmed with what to pack for your Camino de Santiago walking retreat here in the southwest of France—should you bring a second pair of socks or sacrifice them for that ‘just-in-case’ rain poncho—adding a notebook might feel like one more thing to carry. I hear you.

This isn’t about writing the next Eat, Pray, Walk. This isn’t even about being “good at writing.” It’s about creating a space where the outer journey and the inner journey get to have a quiet conversation. Where the dust of the day, the ache in your legs, and that moment with the wild horses all get to sit together on the page and say: “Something real happened today.”

You don’t need to write daily sonnets. You just need a space to catch the thoughts that might otherwise slip away—like breadcrumbs on your personal pilgrimage.

A journal is not homework. It’s not pressure. It’s a companion. A soft place to land at the end of a long walk, where you can take off your metaphorical backpack and unpack the emotional bits.

Because whether you walk five kilometres or five hundred, something will shift inside you. And your journal? That’s the place where you’ll see it happening in real time.

The Heart of the Matter: Why Journal on the Camino?

It’s not about the writing. It’s about remembering, reflecting, and rediscovering.

Let’s be honest: the Camino doesn’t ask for much. A good pair of shoes. A vague sense of direction. And a willingness to show up, day after day, in all your sweaty, sun-kissed glory.

But beneath the surface of each step lies something quietly meaningful: a process of remembering who you are beneath the noise, the busyness, the to-do lists. And that’s exactly why journaling matters.

Because you think you’ll remember it all—the conversations, the sights, the best ratatouille you have ever tasted—but the days blur, and the mind edits. A journal catches the details before they disappear: the smell of eucalyptus after the rain, the stranger who gave you a pear when your energy tanked, the way you felt walking into a tiny church just as the light hit the stained glass.

And then there’s the deeper stuff—the emotional compost of your pilgrimage. The realizations that sneak up on you mid-step. The long-buried griefs that bubble up after three hours of silence. The moment you realize you’re no longer afraid of being alone.

Writing it down helps your heart keep up with your feet.

More than that, a journal is a sacred witness. It lets you process your transformation as it happens. It gives you space to ask questions, explore answers, or just sigh dramatically on paper when the hill feels too steep—both literal and metaphorical.

This isn’t just a travel log. It’s an archive of your unfolding. And years from now, when life gets loud again, you’ll flip through those pages and remember: Ah yes. This is who I became on the Way.

The Reluctant Journaler: Stephan’s Story

When Stephan signed up for the 7-day walking retreat, he was clear on two things:

1. He needed a break from his life.
2. He absolutely, categorically, without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt was not going to keep a journal.

“This is not a therapy retreat, right?” he’d asked on a call, brows furrowed, backpack already brimming with scepticism (and high-performance socks). “I’m here to walk. Clear my head. Not unpack my feelings.”

“Of course,” I said, with your signature smile and a twinkle in my eye that suggested I might well know better.

The first day, Stephan walked in silence—stoic, solid, as if he were personally responsible for holding up the Pyrenees. He answered questions with polite shrugs and spent the evening staring into his coffee like it might offer answers.

When I handed him journals after dinner, he accepted it like it was a mildly offensive party favour. “I don’t really do journaling,” he muttered. “Tried it once in college. Ended up writing about my breakfast for three days.”

“Then write about your walk,” you said. “Or your boots. Or the stone that tripped you. Just write what’s real.”

That night, he didn’t open it. Or so he claimed.

But on day two, something shifted.

Maybe it was the conversation with a fellow pilgrim about a shared loss. Maybe it was the sudden rain that soaked everyone to the bone and forced a shared moment of laughter under a tree. Or maybe it was the moment at the ancient Roman bridge, when Stephan stood quietly for longer than necessary, staring into the water like it reflected something he’d forgotten.

That night, he opened the journal.

He wrote awkwardly at first. Bullet points. Fragments. A sketch of the tree. A list titled Things I Haven’t Thought About in Years.

And then something broke open. Or maybe cracked gently.

By the final evening, Stephan was the last one left at the dinner table, pen still moving across the page, face soft, eyes less guarded. When someone asked what had changed, he looked up and said, “I don’t know. It’s like… my thoughts need somewhere to go. And the page doesn’t interrupt.”

On the morning we said goodbye, Stephan tucked his journal into the top of his pack with care. Like something precious.

“Guess I’m a journaler now,” he grinned. “Didn’t see that coming.”

And no, he hadn’t unpacked his whole life on paper. But he’d begun. He’d made space. For questions. For memories. For what was waiting to be heard beneath all the walking.

And that? That was the magic.

How to Journal Without Getting Intimidated or Bored

(Or: How to Trick Yourself Into Falling in Love With Your Own Story)

So now you’re convinced. You’re packing the journal. Maybe even a pen that won’t leak on your sleeping bag. But there’s still that little voice inside saying, “Okay, but what exactly do I write?”

Here’s the good news: there are no rules. And if there were rules, the first one would be: Break them with flair.

Your Camino journal does not need to be a poetic travelogue or a chronicle of every stone and sandwich along the route. It can be bullet points, grocery lists of emotions, random doodles of scallop shells and sore feet. It can be a single word that says everything (“Enough.”). Or a whole rant about how your bunkmate snores like a tractor in a thunderstorm.

The key is this: keep it simple, keep it sacred, keep it yours.

If the blank page makes you freeze, try a few gentle prompts:

• What surprised me today?
• Where did I feel most alive?
• What am I starting to let go of?
• Who did I meet, and what did they teach me?
• What is the Camino reflecting back at me?

You don’t have to answer all of them. You don’t have to answer any of them. But let them sit with you like good Camino companions—quiet, curious, and always a little wiser than they seem.

Another idea? Let your senses do the writing.
Describe the way the sun hit the trail. The smell of garlic drifting from a farmhouse. The sound of your own breathing in the forest. These are the details that will bring your journey back to life when you’re home again, wondering if it was all a dream.

And please, give yourself permission to be messy. Tear-streaked pages. Smudged ink. Postcards taped in sideways. None of that ruins your journal—it makes it.

Remember: you are not writing a masterpiece. You are recording a miracle in progress. Let it be unfiltered. Let it be real. Let it be you.

The Wayward Magic of the Journal

It’s more than a memory—it’s a metamorphosis in ink.

There’s something quietly alchemical about journaling on the Camino. You start out thinking it’s just a place to jot down your thoughts—and somewhere along the way, you realize you’re writing yourself into a whole new chapter of life.

Because here’s the truth: transformation doesn’t always come with trumpets. Sometimes, it arrives in whispers—scrawled in barely legible handwriting while you sit on a stone wall, watching the light fade.

Your journal becomes a sacred witness to those shifts.

The way you begin to speak more gently to yourself. The way silence no longer feels awkward. The way you start asking different questions—not “What’s wrong with me?” but “What do I really want now?”

These aren’t just musings. They’re breadcrumbs back to your truest self.

And one day, weeks or months or years from now, you’ll open your journal and find a version of yourself staring back with dusty boots and bright eyes, reminding you what it felt like to be fully alive. To walk with intention. To trust your next step—even when you couldn’t see the whole path.

There’s a kind of magic that only happens when memory meets meaning.

Photos will show you where you went.
Your journal will show you who you became.

It may even become something more: the seed of a memoir, the start of a new creative spark, a private gospel of grace and grit. It might inspire you to change your life. Or it might simply sit on your shelf, quietly glowing with the energy of all you discovered when you took the time to write things down.

Either way, it’s not just paper and ink.
It’s a compass.
It’s a mirror.
It’s a gift to the future version of you—the one who will one day need reminding that yes, you walked this far. And yes, you found something worth keeping.

Just Pack the Journal

Because your soul deserves a suitcase too.

By now, you’ve probably noticed that this whole article isn’t really about journaling.

It’s about you.
Your story. Your growth. Your becoming.

It’s about making space—not just in your rucksack, but in your life—to notice what’s changing, what’s healing, and what’s quietly calling for your attention beneath the noise of everyday life.

So yes. Pack the journal. Even if it adds 100 grams to your bag. Even if you’re not sure you’ll write every day. Even if you secretly suspect you’ll chicken out and end up just doodling tiny Camino arrows in the margins (which, by the way, still counts).

Because the truth is, this walk will shift something inside you. You may not see it right away—but one day, long after your boots are back in the cupboard and your legs have stopped aching, you’ll open those pages and feel the sun on your face again. You’ll read your own words and remember who you were before the walk—and who you were becoming while you took each step.

That’s worth carrying.

So go ahead—choose a journal that feels good in your hands. Soft leather or recycled paper. Lined or unlined. Frilly, funky, or plain. There’s no wrong choice, except not having one.

Tuck in a pen that doesn’t explode under pressure (life tip: the same goes for people). Maybe throw in a glue stick for ticket stubs or wildflower petals. Maybe don’t. This is your Camino, your way.

And just like the road itself, your journal won’t always be neat or predictable. But it will be real. Raw. Honest. A little holy.
Just like you.

Buen Camino, brave soul.
Write it all down.
You’re not just walking across France—you’re walking into a story only you can tell.