Camino de Santiago Retreat: First Day’s Walk

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.

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