1 FEET2 PACK3 WALK4 RAIN5 SLEEP6 WASH & DRY7 SMALL THINGS8 READ & WRITE

The Shelf: gear for the Camino, and what buyers really say about it

We picked the gear. Buyers did the talking: we read their reviews, every star, so you don’t have to.

  1. 1Pick a number.
  2. 2See what buyers love, and what to know first.
  3. 3Check today’s price on Amazon.
Walking in 2027? Get the free Holy Year guide →Still deciding whether to go? Start with the book, not the shoes →
1

FEET

Tape is for before. Compeed is for after.

shoessockslinersLeukotapeCompeed
The anti-blister stackfour small things that work as one
1 · thin linertoes stop rubbing toes+2 · merino sockcushion, dry feet+3 · cushioned shoesized with room to swell+4 · tapeon the hot spot, before
A pilgrim tying cushioned trail shoes on the meseta
Feet · shoes

500 miles is about a million steps. Make them soft ones.

Somewhere around kilometer twenty, your feet start negotiating. They bring up the asphalt into Logroño. They mention the cobblestones. This is the hour this shoe was made for: a thick, soft sole between you and Spain, and a grip that doesn’t argue with the hills.

Speedgoat 7 · the current version

Speedgoat 6 · the previous version, often discounted

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A pilgrim resting in merino hiking socks outside an albergue
Feet · socks

Your shoes get the credit. Your socks do the work.

By the third albergue you’ll notice a small ritual: people peeling off their socks and inspecting them like a doctor reading an X-ray. Merino keeps a foot dry when the day is hot, warm when the morning isn’t, and cushioned for the hours in between.

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A pilgrim pulling on five-toe liner socks on a hostel bunk
Feet · liners

Toe blisters start where toes rub toes. Give each one its own room.

Ten toes, eight hours a day, all rubbing shoulders in the dark: that’s how a toe blister gets started. A toe-sock liner gives every toe a thin sleeve of its own, and your wool sock goes over the top. They look ridiculous. Nobody on the Camino has ever cared.

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A pilgrim putting a strip of tan tape on her heel beside the path
Feet · prevention

Tape is for before. That’s the whole trick.

A blister sends a warning first: a warm patch the size of a coin, somewhere around hour three. It’s tempting to keep walking. The pilgrims still smiling at dinner tend to be the ones who stopped, sat on a wall, and put a strip of tape over it.

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A pilgrim pressing a blister cushion onto her heel on a hostel bunk in the evening
Feet · after

Tape is for before. This is for after.

Some evenings the blister wins anyway. A hydrocolloid bandage is a small cushion of second skin: it goes on, the sting goes quiet for most buyers, and tomorrow’s stage looks possible again.

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2

PACK

Under 10% of you. That part is your job.

backpack
A pilgrim with a teal backpack and poles looking back over her shoulder among vineyards
Carry · backpack

The best pack is the one you stop noticing by lunchtime.

For as long as you walk, this is your wardrobe, your kitchen and your front door. A good pack sits on your hips, not your shoulders, keeps a breeze between the bag and your back, and gives everything a pocket so you stop unpacking your whole life to find the sunscreen. The 10% rule is still your job. The pack just makes it bearable.

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3

WALK

Four legs beat two.

poles
A pilgrim in a sun hat walking down a stony path with two trekking poles
Walk · poles (budget pick)

Four legs beat two. Especially downhill.

The climb out of a valley is honest work. It’s the way down that does the damage: two hours of steps, each one landing on your knees. Poles turn you into a four-legged animal for exactly those hours, and give your hands something to do besides swing.

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4

RAIN

You AND the pack.

poncho
A smiling pilgrim in a yellow poncho over her backpack on a wet stone path in Galicia
Rain · poncho

In Galicia it doesn’t rain. It just forgets to stop.

A rain jacket keeps you dry. A poncho keeps you, your pack, your hip belt and your shoulder straps dry, which matters around hour four. It goes on over everything in ten seconds, comes off in five, and dries on the back of a chair while you eat.

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5

SLEEP

Liner, earplugs, a red light.

silk linerearplugsheadlamp
A pilgrim on a hostel bunk pulling a thin blue silk liner out of a tiny pouch
Sleep · liner (budget pick)

Your own sheets, every night, in a bag the size of a fist.

Albergue beds come with a mattress, a pillow and a story you don’t want to know. A liner is your own clean layer between you and all of it: cool on a warm night, a little warmer under a blanket on a cold one, and light enough that your pack never notices.

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A pilgrim asleep on her side in a hostel bunk with a small beige foam earplug in her ear
Sleep · earplugs

The 2 a.m. snoring championship has a mute button.

Every albergue has a champion. You’ll know who by eleven. Foam earplugs don’t make the dormitory silent; they move the snoring three rooms away, which is all a tired pilgrim needs. They weigh nothing, cost very little, and earn their place in the pack on the very first night.

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A pilgrim kneeling by her bunk before dawn, packing socks into her backpack by the red light of a small headlamp while others sleep
Sleep · headlamp

Find your socks at 5 a.m. Wake nobody.

Nobody in an albergue thanks you for the overhead light at 5 a.m., and a white beam at dawn is a weapon pointed at your roommates’ faces. A headlamp on red is the polite answer: enough light to find your socks and your way to the door, not enough to wake the room. Then, outside, the same lamp on white walks you through the first dark hour until Spain switches the sun on.

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6

WASH & DRY

A quick-dry towel.

towel
A laughing pilgrim hanging a thin sage-green travel towel on a washing line in a stone courtyard, holding a second one rolled up small
Wash & dry · towel

A full-size towel. 6.4 ounces. Dry by morning.

A cotton towel on the Camino is a wet, heavy passenger that never quite dries, and soon smells like it. This one dries you, gets wrung out, hangs from your bunk by its loop, and is ready to go back in the pack while you’re still deciding about breakfast.

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7

SMALL THINGS

…that save you.

anti-chafe balmsafety pinsclothesline
A pilgrim with a backpack holding a small balm stick outside a stone hostel at sunrise
Skin · chafing

Blisters get the fame. Chafing does the quiet damage.

Nobody posts a photo of it, but by day three of a hot week everybody on the trail knows the feeling: thighs, the bra line, the place where the hip belt sits. A swipe of balm in the morning, where skin meets skin or strap, and the day goes back to being about the view.

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Small things · safety pins

Four safety pins. Always four.

From the book: “Wet socks pinned to the outside of the pack dry as you walk, in the wind and the sun, without any effort on your part.” And: “You will look like a walking clothesline. You will look exactly like an experienced pilgrim.”

Too simple for our usual review reading: any sturdy safety pins will do.

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Small things · clothesline

The clotheslines are always taken.

From the book: ten feet of light paracord. “String it between a bunk bed and a window, between two hooks, between anything standing far enough apart. Your socks dry. Your shirt dries. You fall asleep with the quiet satisfaction of a woman who has a system.”

Too simple for our usual review reading: any light cord of about ten feet will do.

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8

READ & WRITE

The book + the journals.

the bookthe journals
Cover of the book Not Too Old, Not Too Weak, Just Crazy Enough for the Camino
Read · the book

Too old? Too weak? Or just crazy enough?

Somewhere around forty, or fifty, or sixty, it genuinely doesn’t matter, a photograph of a mountain trail turns up on your screen and something inside says: I want that. This book is for the moment right after, when the sensible half of your head starts listing all the reasons you can’t.

Also on Amazon: UK · Canada · Australia · Germany · France · Italy · Spain

In Australia: Kindle edition only.

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Four covers of The Camino Journal: Planner, Storyteller, Pilgrim and Sketcher
Write · the journals

Some pilgrims remember the Camino. The rest of us have to write it down.

By Tuesday, Monday is already gone, and by Santiago the first week is one long, golden blur. The Camino Journal holds your training and your plans before you leave, a thin section for the road, and a thick, quiet part for afterward: the memories, the stamps, and the answer to “So… how was it?”

Also on Amazon: UK · Canada · Australia · Germany · France · Italy · Spain

Paperback journals. The country links open the Planner edition.

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