I woke early. It was still dark outside but Roberto, the Spaniard from Asturias in the bunk across from me, was already up and packing his bag. I slid out of bed, still fully clothed from the night before, and moved my belongings to the main room of the albergue to pack, mindful about disturbing the others who were all still sleeping.

The benefit to traveling with a backpack is that there’s precious little to pack. I use these little handy lightweight travel bags that keep all your things in one spot; one for clothes, one for toiletries and one for electronic stuff (cords, chargers, etc.) It makes it easier to find what you’re looking for. Since I was already dressed I only had to wash my face and brush my teeth and I was ready to go. I pulled out my remaining piece of cold mushroom empanada from the night before, dropped 5 euro into the communal Nespresso machine and then sat down for a quick bite to eat. Roberto on the other hand, was sitting at the table taking notes, consulting his map and eating copious amounts of sugar for breakfast; candy bars, cookies and the like. “Did I want some?” he asked in Spanish. “No gracias,” I answered, grateful for my Spanish skills, limited as they are.

We slipped out the door shortly thereafter. The streets were still dark but there were people milling about (this is Spain after all). A group of young women passed us, drunk on the night’s festivities and Roberto urged them to be careful. They were celebrating their friends impending wedding, they said, and walked off into the darkness giggling.

The path out of Oviedo was a bit confusing, and I was glad to have Roberto to walk with. He was an odd guy, mid sixties, tall, with flowing grey hair and a face that was wrinkle free, completely devoid of evidence of his age. He was dressed from head to toe in Camino garb, with yellow shells adorning both shoulders. A blue Camino scarf with the cross of Saint James and, like me, the requisite shell hanging from his pack. He walked quickly through town, pointing out key points of interest. He’d done this route several times before and noted the changes in the route since the last time he’d walked. He paused at the first Camino marker, raising his walking pole and pointing to the blue tile shell at the top. “You follow the bottom of the shell through most of Spain,” he said as if he were talking to a newbie. I mean, I’ve done this before, I thought. “That is, until you get to Galicia when you follow the top.”

What? I thought to myself. This was not my first rodeo (Camino). How on earth did I walk an entire Camino Frances and not know that? I mean, I knew you followed the shells, but you were supposed to actually read the shells a particular way? Mind blowing.

Roberto walked quickly. I worked to match his speed. Shortly after leaving town he left the marked path, opting for the roadway as we began the climb out of Oviedo. (One of the things you learn about walking these long distance routes is that most of the time, the way out of town is almost always up.) The Camino path wound around, he explained, and would meet up with this road eventually so there was no point in going the extra distance. We charged ahead on the asphalt. He was right. The path did, in fact, meet up with the road within a few minutes.

Soon however, Roberto’s pace was too much for me, and I began to lag behind. For a while I watched his blue clad body in the distance until at some point it disappeared and I found myself alone.

Hours passed. On the first Camino I learned that I actually like walking alone. It was one of the things I was afraid of initially, but it turns out it’s a good thing. You hear the birds singing. Feel the sun (or in this case, the cool of many overcast days) on your skin and find yourself smiling at the clanging of the bells that hang around the cows. More cowbell please. It’s really nothing to be afraid of.

By the time I arrived in Grado, my feet hurt. This is a major theme about long distance walking. Your feet do hurt. Anyone that tells you they don’t is lying. I found my way to my albergue and went through the requisite movements. Pull out the sleep sheet and lay it on the bed. Grab my toiletries and head to the shower. Wash my laundry and hang it out to dry.

I was hungry so I checked my Tripadviser app and found that there was a pulperia around the corner. Pulpo. (Octopus) Yum. You don’t have to ask me twice. Off I went. The restaurant was packed. Could they take me at the bar? I asked. Even better. They put me at a small table atop a wine barrel and brought me a plate of the most amazing pulpo I’d ever eaten and a bottle of crisp Asturian sidra (cider) in a neat little contraption that pours it and aerates it at the same time. Dinner was a win.

Back at the albergue however, I was feeling lonely. I hadn’t met anyone to this point that spoke English and I was really wanting someone to talk to. I sat alone in the garden for a while, pretending to read my guidebook and feeling just a tad sorry for myself. My first Camino had been so filled with people. With a Camino family that grew and grew. With Debbie and Pat and Oklahoma and so many others. But this Camino was already feeling different. Other than Roberto, I’d walked all day and hadn’t seen another person. Where would I find my Camino family?

Eventually I put on my big girl pants and walked up to a man sitting alone at a nearby table. “Do you speak English?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. Bingo.

Roger was from Portugal. This was his 6th Camino. He was walking with a group of friends who’d walked all of them together. He was a gruff guy. Short and stocky, his glasses perched firmly on the bridge of his nose. He’d walked the Portugues multiple times. The Frances and the Primitivo as well. This, I would soon learn, was standard on the Primitivo. Like me, it was not a first Camino for most people.

Back in the room the beds were now filled. I started up a conversation with a beautiful young woman from Switzerland, a body worker who’d brought with her a muscle massage gun and was giving massages to the women in the room. She offered. I said yes. Who was I to argue?

I lay in bed that night with a smile on my face. The magic of the Camino had begun. I was going to be OK.