My Princess Feet, The Shoes, and My Biggest Camino Mistake

“What would you do differently?”

I get this question a lot when I talk about my Camino walk. And I have a quick answer.

The shoes.

I don’t know how it happened. I spent months (literally) researching just the right merino wool shirts, the right lightweight hiking pants, even the quick-dry underwear. I carefully considered the weight of my SOCKS. I had a travel watch with an alarm, and a bag of safety pins, and plenty of water.

But when it came to shoes—arguably THE MOST IMPORTANT PIECE OF EQUIPMENT a person can have when they’re about to walk a THOUSAND MILES, I choked.

I read all of the debates and opinions, which basically came down to two competing opinions:

Argument A: This is a long-distance backpacking trip, and so (duh) you need to have sturdy, waterproof hiking boots to trek over mountains and through mud.

Argument B: The Camino is a well-groomed trail that doesn’t require heavy boots, which will just cause hundreds of painful blisters. For the heat and dust you need lightweight, breathable sneakers/running shoes.

The latter seemed to be the more common suggestion among American pilgrims, and I read a fair number of stories about pilgrims who ended up chucking their shoes altogether and walking the Camino in sandals.

I was swayed by the counter-intuitive idea. After all, I run in zero-drop, fairly minimal shoes. I wear sandals as often as I can. And let’s be honest: thinking of the Camino as a stroll I could do in the same shoes I wear to walk across town made it far less intimidating.

The salesperson at REI backed me up. When I went in to talk about the Camino, he jumped right in and handed me Merrell’s Bare Access trail runner. “This is what people who are walking the Pacific Crest Trail are wearing,” he assured me.

They were (slightly) more substantial than what I was used to. So without even trying anything else on, I bought the shoes.

My Merrells at the end of a muddy week. Great trail running shoes. Terrible (for me) backpacking choice.

In the REI guy’s defense, there were a few things I didn’t tell him:

  • I have extremely high arches.
  • Those arches (and a bunch of other bad feet habits) leave me prone to plantar fascitis and shin splints.
  • I’m not really a long-distance girl. Running the occasional 5k is not the same as being on my feet for 10 or 20 miles.
  • I had absolutely ZERO backpacking experience.

And, oh yeah, there was also the tendon injury in my foot that had me in physical therapy and basically grounded until two weeks before we left. So while other pilgrims were doing these training hikes, or at least walking around, I was on my butt. The first time I put on my loaded pack was on the way to the airport.

So I flew to France tender footed and out of shape, with nothing but a pair of minimalist trail runners between me and the French countryside.

I didn’t even have arch support inserts.

It was a disaster.

I was generally okay for the first couple of hours every day, but after that my feet would SCREAM in pain. Every step felt like I was putting all my weight on a giant bruise. Every pebble, every angle in the road was agony.

We started calling my feet The Princesses. And The Princesses could not handle the peas.

At first I figured I just needed a few days to toughen up. But I watched everyone else work out their kinks, build up their callouses, and get stronger. I never did.

Every morning I would wake up thinking that things would get better. Every afternoon I would limp and stumble into town, beyond miserable. We kept cutting back our daily distances, because anything more than 25km left me in tears. Even then, when we arrived I would practically crawl to my assigned bunk and have to lie there for half an hour before I could stand long enough to take a shower. I could rarely explore a town, or take a scenic route. Every step had to be carefully considered.

Finally Eric—who was mostly tolerant of my whining and wimping out—suggested that it was time to acknowledge that this problem wasn’t going to fix itself. We were three weeks, and maybe 300 miles, in. There was still a long way to go. And those Merrells and I weren’t going to make it over the Pyrenees.

Of course, in rural France, deciding to chuck your shoes and start over is easier said than done. We were in a region of particularly small towns and smaller stores. The Via Podiensis, while the most walked of the four French Camino routes, has only a fraction of the pilgrims as Spain, and so also has only a fraction of the pilgrim-serving tourist economy–which I really appreciated when I wanted to experience a place. It wasn’t so wonderful when I wanted to find shoes.

In one town, we went to the Office of Tourism and asked where we could buy hiking shoes. They gave us directions to a store across town, and even circled it on a map for us. I limped and gimped over, only to stand, somewhat baffled, outside a garden supply store. Determined or desperate, I went in, wandered past mulch and trowels, and at the back I found one sad rack of gardening shoes and a few pairs of men’s boots.

We walked on.

Finally, after four or five days of picturesque villages that were barely big enough to have a market, we reached Aire Sur L’Adour. Once again, we went to the Tourism Office (pilgrim tip: if you’re traveling through France, and English is your first—and mostly only—language, the Office of Tourism will save you time after time. That is, if it’s open). This time, they directed us to a sporting goods store…three kilometers out of town, by the highway, and of course in the wrong direction.

Which is how I ended up in a modern strip mall, with a taxi waiting outside, trying to buy new shoes in European sizes, from a man who spoke only a handful of English words, and I spoke only a handful of French.

I actually don’t know specifically what shoes I wore for most the Camino. I know they were Salomons. And that they had twice the amount of structure and padding that my old shoes did. And when I put in the fancy insoles that were almost as expensive as the shoes, my feet practically sighed in happiness.

seriously. these horses do not care.
The horses’ feet were definitely tougher than mine. But by this point, my Salomons had solved the worst of the problems.

I could tell a difference within a day.

I still had Princess feet, but they were now supported. Cushioned. And safe.

I walked the rest of the way across France, over the Pyrenees, and across Spain in those shoes. They weren’t perfect, and they had holes by the end, and they smelled atrocious. I threw them away in a Paris trash can the night before we left. But they saved my Camino.

When I go back, hopefully next year, I’ll take the same pants, and the same pack, and the same sleeping bag. But next time, I’m going to also get some good boots to protect the Princesses.
Caveat: These are my experiences, and they won’t be yours. Eric walked the whole way from Le Puy to Finisterre in minimal Altra Superior 2s that made my Merrells look enormous, and he was fine. I met lots of people who were walking in Merrells, and in sandals, and they were happy. The lesson here is NOT “don’t go minimal.” It’s “know yourself and what works for you.”

Published by beth jusino

Editor. Writer. Teacher. Pilgrim. At home in the Pacific Northwest.

25 thoughts on “My Princess Feet, The Shoes, and My Biggest Camino Mistake

    1. Suffering? I guess. But the flip side is that I could fix it. I think everyone has some kind of “what was I THINKING?” Camino mistake. Part of the experience is learning how to adjust or overcome it. (Having said that, yes, definitely focus on footwear. 🙂 Buen Camino!


  1. I feel your pain! I had a similar experience walking across Vancouver Island. I just wore the shoes I had (an old pair of skates) and my feet fell apart. Only instead of the princess’s, I called my feet Frodo and Sam to encourage them lol

    Liked by 1 person

  2. You really hit the nail on the head. People spend SO much time asking other people what to wear on their feet. The time would be so much better spent finding their OWN best footwear. No two walkers, feet or routes are the same. What works for me won’t necessarily work for you. Some people do all the “wrong” things and never suffer a blister – I do all the “right” things and get blisters every time I go. I understand what it is like when every, single step is painful. And yet I’ve been back four times. And will go again. As will you. Buen Camino.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I echo this pain… loudly. I had practiced in my Ahnu boots but I had no idea I should have put inserts into them. The crawling into your bunk part, I can identify with. Pain. And I did have shin splints the month or so before but I managed to get that back to normal. Silly that I am, how could I have not thought to ask someone about what I should put in my shoes to AVOID this?

    I had weak ankles the first time around but after the past four years of hiking from my first Camino until now and my next in April, I have learned few things. Inserts and hikers wool are my friend. Cushiony sigh soft and blissful, my feet are still in some pain at the end of a long trail but much less so. I’ll be wearing lighter shoes this time around, and not up and over my ankle now that they’re stronger but oh, I will never hike without my inserts ever again.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. No kidding. While I think that the shoes I bought helped, the inserts are what really made the difference. What kind of inserts are you using now? Are they custom or off-the-shelf?


      1. These are failing miserably right now or it could be the shoes. I just reinjured after a 16k. I fear I may need orthotics in the left foot before the next run through Spain. I was training with the brand that preceded SuperFeet but I got those in PDX and haven’t been down there to get another pair. So, it looks like I’ll be getting some high impact ones at REI and going back to the tried and true Ahnu boots (thicker heels) before I set foot on a trail again.

        Liked by 1 person

  4. Mais oui! Superfeet inserts are absolutely super! People, you know, online people, told me my Asolo leather boots were “too much” for the camino-even the Norte. Those people weren’t scampering up hillsides with me. Good for you not believing the merde that suffering is required on modern pilgrimage.


  5. I have new orthotics which I have a month to adjust to but my question is: does one need to go a half size larger in shoe? And sox!? The Wright sox (double layered) was highly recommended by REI guy, who has walked the Camino. I tried and hated them. So far some styles of SmartWool and Darn Tough seem to work. For me. We leave in 3 weeks.


    1. You’ll get different opinions about this. I look for shoes that have plenty of room for my toes to move around, and I learned to re-lace them to create more space for the height of my foot (high arches), but the shoes themselves are my normal size. As for socks, find what you like, not what the REI guy likes. I’ve walked Caminos with both SmartWool (the thicker, padded kind) and Darn Tough, and both were good for me.


  6. Until I was properly fitted by REI, I wore half a size too small than I should have worn. I wore Keens, which are great, but instead of my usual size 8, I needed an 8.5 for hiking. I didn’t realize my size was wrong until I mentioned to REI that my middle toe nails always fell off. The first REI guy put me in 9s and had me get a Salomon. I hate them! They weren’t comfortable during a hike, plus I got blood blisters on my feet. I exchanged them and talked to a woman at REI. She suggested the Oboz in an 8.5. Now, I wear the Oboz, which has a deep heel cup and arch support for my flat feet and I love them! I have both a high ankle boot pair and a low boot (which I got for Christmas and have already broken in within a month). I also only wear wool blend socks, so I haven’t gotten a blister while hiking in the past three years (knock on wood that it continues).


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