Walking the Camino always brings unexpected moments, and this time, it was the loss of my hat—a companion that’s been with me on two previous Caminos and countless adventures. This wasn’t just any hat. It had been through sun, rain, dust, and wind, carrying the memories of past journeys. I should have known it had a mind of its own; after all, it had pulled this trick on me once before.
The day started with streets and cobblestones but quickly gave way to a beautiful stretch of forest trails. The kind that immediately brought me back to previous Caminos—sunlight filtering through the trees, the sound of my boots on the on the trail, and that deep sense of peace you only get when walking. For a few hours, everything felt just right. But as the path transitioned back into a long, never-ending highway, I realized something was wrong—my head felt lighter. My hat was missing.
I frantically retraced my steps in my mind, the last time I remembered having it was at a café hours earlier. Panic set in. I wasn’t ready to part with this hat just yet, so I backtracked, even calling an Uber to take me back to the café. I scoured the area, but it was gone. With no luck finding it, I reluctantly Ubered back to where I’d started my search, determined to continue walking, no shortcuts here! 😤
By this point, I was mentally worn out, frustrated by the loss, and physically spent. The stunning forest trails had been replaced by the unchanging expanse of a highway—an endless stretch that turned the last hours into Tomar into a true test of endurance. Each minor setback felt like a personal affront from the universe.
Despite my exhaustion, I managed to stay present enough to notice a hot spot forming on my foot. It would’ve been easy to ignore, desperate as I was to finish the day, but instead, I stopped. I swapped socks, put on some Compeed, and saved myself from a blister that could’ve haunted me for days. A small act of self-care in a moment when I could’ve just pushed through. These are the moments the Camino teaches you to slow down, listen to your body, and be kind to yourself.
When I finally made it to Tomar, all I wanted was to check into my hostel and collapse. As I approached the desk, the receptionist asked me, “Did you lose a hat?” My heart skipped a beat. It turned out that some American pilgrims I had met earlier had found it further up the road from the café. We’d had a brief conversation about our journeys, and I mentioned where I was staying. They had then messaged ahead to the hostel letting them know “a Norwegian guy with a big beard is coming”…
Elated, I tried to get an Uber to meet them and retrieve my hat since they had made a stop in the town begofe Tomar, but luck wasn’t on my side this time. Every driver was busy, and my attempts failed. At that point, I took it as a sign. Maybe this was the Camino’s way of telling me to slow down, to take an extra day in Tomar and let them and my hat come to me. So, I made peace with the situation and decided to stay an extra day. More on why this was a most excellent decision in a later post.
This isn’t the first time my hat has disappeared on a Camino. During my Camino Primitivo, it vanished for a day or two, only to be returned by a group of pilgrims who asked if I had lost it. It seems my hat has a knack for going on its own adventures and finding its way back to me. I like to think of it as my personal, slightly smelly, Camino guide—a more weathered, road-weary version of the Sorting Hat from Hogwarts.
In the end, I reunited with my hat, but not before it taught me a lesson in patience and trust. The Camino always gives you what you need, even if it’s not what you expect. Whether it’s a lost hat or an unexpected rest day, I’ve learned to trust the journey—and the hat, too. After all, it’s got a few more adventures left in it yet.