“That poor donkey–being forced to walk all this way,” said a fellow pilgrim on Spain’s Camino de Santiago. I watched the donkey saunter past. He didn’t seem tired. No one was pulling him along. In fact, it wasn’t clear who actually owned him.

Knowing nothing about donkeys, I asked the woman, “Are they not good at walking long distances?”

“I just can’t imagine it’s good for him,” she said.

In other words, she knew nothing about donkeys either.

I learned some time ago to not judge without knowledge–that there is often another side, if not twelve, to every story.

So when I befriended the donkey’s owner some time later, I told him of the woman’s comment.

He laughed.

“Clearly she’s never had a donkey,” he said.

Serge had owned Pipa for 12 years. “Donkeys don’t move unless they want to. There’s no way to force them to do anything. You have to build a relationship with them and only then will they do what you want–and only if they want to.”

So no, Pipa was not a “poor donkey” being “forced” to walk from Belgium to Spain. She and Serge had spent two years training for this journey. He only holds her lead in towns. The rest of the time she just follows him at her own pace.

So this morning, when Pipa refused to leave our driveway, I was a little worried.

Why was Pipa in our driveway?

Well, the Camino de Santiago consists of a network of trails. Five weeks ago, Dad and I met Serge and Pipa on the Camino Francés just outside of Astorga, Spain. Serge and Pipa had left their home in Belgium back in April.

These days, most people walk to Santiago de Compostela and then hop a plane, train, or bus back home.

But not if you’re walking with a donkey.

“Are you walking the same route back?” I asked.

“No–we’re going to walk the Camino del Norte.”

“I live on the Camino del Norte!”

And so it was that Serge and Pipa walked up to my house on Monday evening.

Michael, Serge, and I had dinner on our patio overlooking the mountains while Pipa dined on the grasses that surround our house.

The three of us spent hours asking, listening, and sharing.

The joys of the Camino had come to my house.

Serge and Pipa took a rest day here and were about to leave on Wednesday morning.

But Pipa wasn’t moving.

And that’s when I saw them.

I’d seen proof of their existence–upturned mounds of our lawn at the base of the orange tree–but I had yet to see them.

Neighbors warned me that if I did, I should stay far away. “They’re vicious.”

Michael had seen them in the field above our house early one morning.

But in the four months we’ve lived in this house, I had yet to see them.

Until yesterday morning. When two wild boars trotted across the street and then scrambled up the wooded hillside.

“Pipa sensed them,” Serge explained. “That’s why she wouldn’t move.”

Then a third one trotted across the road.

“There’s a whole family of them here,” our neighbor, who’d come to meet our donkey guest, told us.

“So will more be coming?” I asked.

“Probably not. But I’ll start walking down the hill–they won’t come out once they hear us. Then Pipa will see it’s safe and follow me.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

I’m so happy I took the time to get the full story when Pipa wandered by five weeks ago. “Be curious, not judgmental,” I used to tell my students.

Thanks to my curiosity, I learned a bit about donkeys and about a man who quit his job to spend six months walking from his home to Santiago de Compostela (and back again!).

I think of that pilgrim and wonder: did she go home and tell people about the “poor donkey” being “forced” to walk the Camino?

Who knows.

I’m not here to judge.

But . . I think my story is better than hers.