The 83-year-old woman has been opening her home to pilgrims since before I was born.

Currently, she is bustling around her house, gathering fresh towels and soaps for us. We are standing in her doorway, drenched, cold, and looking about as content as wet Himalayan cats.

She speaks no English. But my six semesters of college Español courses are coming back to me. I am finally able to have Spanish conversations without stuttering or urinating in my pants.

Caring for pilgrims, I am learning, is a holy endeavor in Spain. Not just a hobby. Not just something you do on weekends.

From what I glean, the woman’s husband is dead. She has been aiding pilgrims since she was a young woman, because she feels this is her life’s purpose. Her children are grown now, and they also help pilgrims.

We shed our muddy boots at the woman’s behest. The woman’s son is soon on his knees, stuffing newspaper into our wet, stinky boots. His bare hands are deep inside our gross, massive stink factories.

I tell him this is not necessary, he smiles and tells me it is necessary—the newspaper will help dry the boots.

I am humbled. This man is dealing with our mud-splattered, sweaty shoes without flinching.

Caring for pilgrims is their trade. In a way, their family business. Which is only an example of how seriously locals treat the pilgrimage. This is not a mere profession for, but a “vocación.” A calling.

Thank God for this calling. Literally. Because tonight all nearby hostels were full. There was no room at the proverbial inn. The proverbial Mary and Joseph would’ve been compelled to keep hiking onward until they hit proverbial East-Bumble Timbuktu.

The old lady took pity on us. She first spotted us as we trudged through the rain-soaked village, clutching our packs, wearing the same agonizing looks of those who have just lost the SEC National Championship.

“Ven aquí!” the woman said, motioning for us to come to inside.

And so now we are warm. And we evidently hit the jackpot. Because the woman tells us we can take showers lasting as long as veterinary school.

Which is why I hug the woman.

We are in our stocking feet, dripping in her hallway. We are filthy. And yet the elderly woman is not hesitant when I hug her. For this is Spain, she says. They hug fifty times before breakfast. This woman is no shrinking violet. This woman is animated, affectionate, demonstrative, and unashamedly loud. Sort of like my Southern Baptist ancestors, only mentally stable.

The old woman returns my hug with surprising strength. Then she quickly releases me.

“Apestas, mijo,” she says, which can be translated as: “You stink, boy.”

The shower is searingly hot. Almost obscenely wonderful. We wash our filthy clothes in the shower, using shampoo for detergent.

The upper level of the woman’s house has been transformed into an apartment expressly for pilgrims. Complete with full kitchen, bean bag chairs, sofas, flatscreen, and an elliptical exercise machine. (God help the deranged pilgrim who requested an elliptical machine.)

Before supper, Jamie and I walk into town accompanied by fellow pilgrim, Christina, who is from the Netherlands, also staying here tonight. We are on the hunt for a market or a store or anywhere, really. Somewhere to buy food so we might cook our own supper and not die of starvation.

No luck.

There is but one mercado in town. And it is apparently closed, although the hours on the sign state they are open. The doors are locked. Lights off. So we knock.

Nobody answers.

“Not good,” says one of us ominously.

Knock, knock, knock!

Still no answer.

REALLY not good.

Namely, because our stomachs are growling. We haven’t eaten since last night. Moreover, there are no places to eat in this backwater village. No TGI Fridays. No Wendy’s. This market represents the deciding factor between feasting or fasting tonight.

Knock, knock!

But nobody is coming. Game over. We all turn to leave with hangdog looks and crestfallen faces.

Back through the rain we shall walk. We shall go to bed hungry. Worse things have happened, of course. This is not the end of the world. But this definitely doth sucketh.

And so it came to pass, that our two heroes were about to leaveth when a small, older Basque woman came to the mercado door. She too spaketh no English. Ni una jota.

I inquired of the woman whether her store were open. She sighed, then shook her head at us the same way a mother shakes her head at a little boy who has been caught eating glue—not that I have ever done this.

“Entra,” the woman says.

Entra. Entra.

Oh, if there is a more beautiful word in this wonderful language than “entra,” I have yet to hear it.

Her market is the size of a walk-in closet. Inside she has everything. Fresh cheeses, handmade breads, cured meats, fine chocolates, wine, beer, pastries.

She prepares all baked goods herself. The sheep cheeses come from the farmer next door. The wine is made just down the road. We fill our packs with enough food to feed the People’s Liberation Army.

After our sales transaction, I am so overcome, I hug my wife, who steps backward, makes a sour face, and plugs her nose.

“Apestas, mijo,” she says.

Which may be true. But someone is looking out for me.

Author, artist, columnist, storyteller, accordion player, musician and lover of Mayberry, peanuts and dogs Sean Dietrich is better known as Sean of the South. He can be reached through SeanDietrich.com.