Be Prepared!
- Martyn Dawes
- 6 days ago
- 3 min read
“Failing to prepare is preparing to fail” - Proverb
I laid out the contents of my rucksack on the bed and gave everything a proper once-over. The goal was simple: try to keep it under 9kg. Any more than that and the weight pressing down through the spine and hips would soon turn into aching joints, sore shoulders, or worse, blisters. The rule of thumb was clear enough: around 10% of body weight. For me, that gave a ceiling of roughly 8.8kg.
Time to work.
There is something oddly revealing about this kind of packing. It doesn’t feel like preparing for a walk so much as an audit of your entire sense of necessity. Every item sits there waiting to be justified, as if it is on trial.
Did I really need two pairs of trousers (one of which cleverly converted into shorts by unzipping at the knees), a separate pair of shorts, and swim shorts for a 40-day pilgrimage? Of course not. I held the shorts for a moment longer than necessary, as if they might argue back, before dropping them into the “no” pile. A small act of rebellion against my own instinct to be prepared for every possible version of myself.
On to shirts and tops. Out came the kitchen scales. I weighed each item as though I was preparing for some ultra-light expedition rather than a walk through Spain. The heavier shirts were rejected without ceremony. There is no sentimentality in grams. A shirt is either worth its weight or it isn’t.
Three pairs of socks and three pairs of underwear would have to do: one to be worn, one to be washed, and one drying. If things got desperate, there was always the inside-out option. Not elegant, but entirely in keeping with the Camino philosophy of “it’ll be fine.”
Next came the wash bag. Soap or travel-sized shaving gel? A ridiculous decision in any other context, yet here it felt strangely significant. Both weighed the same, but soap could do more. It could wash clothes and bodies, so the soap won. Anything that multitasks would earn its place.
Then I paused over my sleeping system. I had already upgraded to a recently purchased ultra-light sleeping bag weighing in at under 500 grams, ordered online with the optimism of someone who has not yet spent a night shivering in a Spanish dormitory. I justified it easily enough. If I got cold, I would simply sleep in more clothes. Problem solved, or at least postponed.
The real challenge is never the big items. It’s the accumulation of small ones. A charger here, a spare cable there. “Just in case” items that quietly multiply until suddenly your backpack is no longer light at all, just cleverly disguised weight.
Finally, I weighed the packed rucksack. 8.8kg. Just enough room for a litre of water. Perfect.
I stood there for a moment, surprised by how something so small could feel so decisive. Not the weight itself, but the clarity it brought. Everything now would have a consequence, a cost in effort. Everything would have to be carried.
When you pack for the Camino, everything you need for weeks fits into a single backpack. At first, that feels impossible bu then it starts to feel strangely liberating.
Every item earns its place. A second fleece means another half kilogram on every climb. Three books quickly become one, then none. “Nice to haves” quietly disappear, replaced by “must haves” and “why on earth am I carrying this?”
The decision-making is relentless.
Do I really need this? The surprising discovery is how often the answer is no.
Back home, our possessions quietly end up owning us. Cupboards overflow. Drawers refuse to close. We buy bigger houses to store things we rarely use, as if space itself might solve the problem.
On the Camino, the relationship reverses. The weight is always there, always honest, always reminding you of your choices with every step. There is no ignoring it. No bargaining. If you carry it, you feel it. If you don’t need it, you very quickly learn that truth.
And eventually, the lesson slips beyond the backpack.
If you can live happily with so little for several weeks, what exactly is all the rest for?
The Camino never tells you to own less. It simply lets you discover how little you actually need to feel enough.
All packed and ready. All I have to do now is walk 800 kilometres.
An extract from When The Camino Calls
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