Blisters strike fear into the heart of pilgrims on the Camino, but fear not gentle reader, they are not as bad as the internet makes them out to be. The word comes from the old medieval French word “blostre” which referred to a raised nodule of skin caused by leprosy. Back in medieval times, every skin complaint was considered leprosy. Eczema? Leprosy. Warts? Leprosy (with a probable case of witchcraft too). A big bubble of skin under the foot from walking more than you are used to? Unclean bell ringing leper.
Thankfully not everything is leprosy anymore. Yay for scientific progress! A blister on the Camino is actually a small dome of fluid caused by forceful rubbing of the skin when walking. It is the body’s way of helping you by instantly growing a skin plaster full of serum and plasma (or blood in Tony’s case) to heal a layer of skin underneath. It is just another example of what fascinating creatures we are.
Blisters are no bother once you follow your personal blister management plan. This is half the fun of a pre-organisation and during the Camino you’ll have plenty of time to see if your plan works or not. A personal blister management plan involves footwear choice, mental approach, choice of first aid supplies and blister treatment.
James – Hiking boots / tell blisters to feck off / Fitbit / pints of Estrella Galicia
Tony – Hiking boots / ignore pain / Lidl first aid kit / Bandage on compeed covering a blister plaster.
Gemma – Hiking boots / think happy thoughts / blister plasters / blister plasters
Tina – Hiking boots / military route marching research / compeed and blister plasters / hotspot management and Irish dancing step technique.
Ruth – Runners & sandals / complain nonstop about other pains / prophylactically taped feet and pain killers / helicopter to hospital if necessary.
Me – Trail runners & sandals / blister whisperer / blister plasters / bandages and foam doughnuts.
James and Ruth did not get blisters. For some reason, they were not creating enough physical pressure to shear the layers of the epidermis. Tina caught the precursors of blisters (hotspots) in time before the layers separated and would switch her normal gait to Irish dancing foot heel-to-toe step. The rest of us went for the authentic pilgrimage experience.
For the next 100 odd km, Donald (the name I gave to my blister), accompanied me each step of the way. Day 1 he was loud, puffed up full of gung-ho and singing long drawn out hymns about going on the crusades. I might have burst him there and then, drained him and watched him wither away like the last episode of Game of Thrones but I thought no, this is his Camino too. I felt like this was part of the deal. All of me was going to walk the Camino, blister and all. That was about as spiritual as I got.
I encased Donald in a doughnut-shaped piece of foam where he could rant to his heart’s content. Wrapped up in a bandage, I barely noticed him as the milestones began to slip by. Over the next few days, Donald talked himself out of steam and the dead white skin lost it’s deadness as it knitted itself back together into fresh new skin, like I was some sort of zombie miracle of science.
Each evening I would unwrap Donald, wash him gently and let the cool air of some strange foreign room work its magic on him. By the time I reached Santiago de Compostela, Donald had faded away as my body absorbed him back into the bloodstream. There was a barely noticeable mark on the ball of my foot, shaped like a deformed lemon. As I stood in the square surrounded by pilgrims from all over the world I thought I could hear Donald whispering goodbye. Or maybe that was the sound of the brakes of the tourist train as it pulled into the square avoiding pilgrims.
Next up, Day 2.
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