7. Arriving
The second of October and following a slow start, I finally get walking at 8:00 am just as it is getting light on my twenty-second day on the camino. A good sleep and a breakfast of strong coffee and plenty of sweet buns sets me up for the day. The first town today is the beautiful Portomarín and I make the necessary diversion up the hill into the main square. Though this deflection from the way is not sign-posted, the guidebook provides clear advice on when to leave the main path and then you simply walk uphill towards the church tower while remembering what the way down will look like.
I sit outside by the colonnades with a coffee (and another bun) overlooking the church while I wait for it to open at 9:40 am so I can get a stamp. There is another solo walker at the table next to me and talk turns to the arrival in Santiago and plans to return home. The nervous excitement I had encountered on the bus to St Jean Pied de Port - in me as much as my fellow travellers - has been replaced by a quiet confidence; the people I speak to are comfortable in their own company and appear content within themselves. Because of this I get the sense that those people who have journeyed with a purpose have found what they were looking for however abstract that may be. As people are away for around five weeks embarking on what can be a challenging journey, it is common that people have defined plans for the finish. That may be meeting people in Santiago itself or plans to travel on to meet family or friends. Though rarer, some pilgrims who are walking for religious reasons may even arrange a farewell before their camino possibly including a blessing for their travels from their local church. We have all witnessed the elation that comes with finishing a twenty-six mile marathon, and the arrival in Santiago gets built-up in people's minds. There are traditions to uphold such as visiting the cathedral where you must hug a statue of St. James the apostle and then visit the casket that contains his relics. There is administration to do in obtaining the certificate from the nearby pilgrim office; the compostela requires the pilgrim passport properly stamped, confirmation of Christian faith, and confirmation that the pilgrimage was performed with religious or spiritual intent. Your daily stamps from your start point allows the pilgrim office officials to certify the distance you covered. I worry slightly that there will be quizzing on the exact nature of my spiritual intent; maybe a one-thousand word essay on the various interpretations of spirituality. However, unlike a marathon there is no finish line, no finishers photo, and no medal handed out so it has the potential to be an anti-climax. How would my arrival in Santiago be any different to my arrival here in Portomarín? My companion at that cafe for ten minutes is impatient to be on the move and deciding not to wait for the church to open she heads back to the way; I am happy to pause; perhaps I am slowly learning to slow down. I recall my camino research and preparation, which had consisted of a that 1957 travelogue, a 1999 research thesis (in readable book form) and the guidebook that was always tucked away in my rucksack. I had failed to read any of the many "My Camino and Me" type books or blogs where people tell their camino story, usually with more than just a dash of humour. I was impatient when it came to trying to extract any sense of what to expect from the various online forums. Two nuggets of information did however fall in my lap unprompted. I'd had a second hand account of someone who had done the camino and their one-line view was that 'walking the camino is easy; walking Hadrian's wall is much harder'. Yes, I could see that the challenging terrain and the lack of accommodation and food would make Hadrian's wall a tough walk. I even knew someone who lived a stone's throw from Hadrian's wall and they had occasion to pick up weary walkers and give them food and a bed for the night much as the Spanish supported pilgrims in the past. The second piece of advice to reach me was totally contrary and somewhat worrying. Whilst at a dinner party that included two Spanish teenagers who were in the UK to improve their English, my impending camino came up in conversation. Over 145,000 Spaniards gained the Compostela in 2019 and the two Spanish girls knew about the camino and their reaction, with feeling, was 'Oh, that's hard!'. This news, coming two weeks before my departure, did dent my confidence somewhat, but I was now fully committed. Of course, both sentiments while seemingly conflicting were true. At 84 miles Hadrian's wall is a taxing walk compared to the flat and gentle hills of the camino. Over the full 500 miles I had endured sore feet, aching legs, excruciating leg cramps at night and shoulder pain from the rucksack; though it was the emotional turmoil that made the camino tough.
As I spent fifteen years sailing, I have a few sailing heroes who shared a remarkable and unshakeable determination to succeed in their quest to achieve their chosen goal. I recall reading in full, the journal of a round the world yachtswoman who I greatly admire, and whose daily diary entries during her single-handed voyage followed a familiar pattern along the lines of 'yesterday was tough and today was even tougher'. This made sense as however adventurous, inspiring, challenging and heroic the endeavour, the day-to-day is one of repetition and struggle. Though not anywhere close to her elite achievement, I was beginning to understand the repetition. It is only a lack of journal pages that has prevented me recording a daily account of the development and destruction of my blisters, the pain level and duration of night-time leg cramps, and the pain tunnelling its way slowly into the depths of my shoulders. Though my blisters had not been too much trouble I still grumbled about the heel structure of my boots which went from hard lower heel to soft upper heal support and the transition point was my source of blisters. This grumbling reminded me of my second hero who, having specified the design of the boat he would sail single-handed round the world, seemed to delight in complaining about his boat builders at every available opportunity; if anything did not work to his exacting standards it was because the builders had not correctly interpreted his design ideas. The only trait I shared with this intrepid adventurer was sea-sickness; as an inland sailor used to lakes, rivers and reservoirs my first proper sea event was at Shoreham-by-Sea between Brighton and Worthing on the south coast where we were met with six foot waves. Modest waves for big boats but for a fourteen foot sail boat I felt like a cork being effortlessly played with by the waves. For those unfamiliar with dinghy sailing, you use one hand to control the rudder, the other to handle the rope that controls the sail; you sit on the edge of the boat and use your feet to prevent you falling out. If you are seasick, as I was, it gets very messy very quickly. Though I would have to endure a second day of light swell to complete this two-day event I wonder at the passion that led my seasick hero to sail round the world. I suffered mal de débarquement (literally sickness of disembarkment) for a full week after my two-day sailing off Shoreham-by-Sea and wondered what my post-camino experience would feel like; it must surely be hard to get back to normal life after a month and a week in the camino bubble. My third sailing hero started sailing in the same manner as I had started my camino, clueless. In his early years he would launch his small sail boat on his local patch of water, the wind would blow him downwind to the far shore, and a rescue party would bring him back again. Twelve years later he won an Olympic silver at the Atlanta games while still a teenager, and then a further four gold medals at successive Olympic games culminating in the 2012 games where I has the good luck and fortune to see his win down in Weymouth where I was stood out on the pier close to the finish area.
Having received my stamp at the church in Portomarín I re-trace my steps to the way, and continue on what would be a long walking day. As I did not start my day from Sarria, I am happily out of sync with those pilgrims starting there so the early mornings and later in the day are still quiet but the way is busy 10:00 am to 13:00 pm. I have a few pages left in my pilgrim passport, so today I go all out to fill up on stamps and manage a modest six. There is an optional detour to a church and I take that. It is a straight path out and back across lanes and tracks. After what feels like a long hot tramp I start to doubt my directions until, after one and a half miles, I finally reach the Ingrexa San Salvador in the small hamlet of Vilar de Donas. This noteworthy Romanesque church is worth the extra miles and there is a helpful attendant who is happy to explain the highlights in English for me. On the return trip I get people asking 'Is it much further and is it worth it?'. This is just what I had been thinking on the way out. I had done the extra miles and I wasn't about to give anyone else a break. 'Oh it's not far and it is a beautiful church that is not to be missed.' The eagle eyed will have noticed that the local language for church (ingrexa) has changed, we are in Galicia where they speak the Galego language.
Unusually, I stop for a cheese and ham empanada at one of the many roadside cafes that now serve the growing number of pilgrims. By the busy entrance I am mid-way through the process of sliding my rucksack off my shoulders and onto the ground when I stop abruptly. I had certainly lost a lot of weight over the last three weeks as you don't really feel like eating much when you know you will be cinching up the rucksack waist strap, and now the only thing keeping my shorts up was a strap from my rucksack tied around a belt loop in the shorts. This worked fine until I wanted to take my rucksack off. Dropping my rucksack to the ground without untying my jury rigging would result in my shorts and all dropping to the ground. This state of affairs was of course a risk to the general public, but a risk I was prepared to accept on their behalf. I take my time to untie the strap holding my shorts up and slowly slide my rucksack to the ground.
I now notice more Brits who I assume have come from Sarria. In the official statistics UK residents make up about 2.5% of pilgrims attaining the compostela which is on a par with South Korea, though I am only really noticing them on these later stages. I take a guess that the last one hundred kilometres makes a good walking holiday or a camino 'try before you buy' before embarking on the full eight hundred kilometres. Walking on, and I pass straight through the bright lights of Palas de Rei with its many albergues in favour of something quieter and I am rewarded with a late afternoon walk through woodland with its stillness, calm and dappled shade.
It is cool in the woods and because the sensible people had stopped at Palas de Rei, I have the path to myself until it curves round to the left and dips down towards a bridge over a brook running through the woods. Ahead of me I see there is a small folding table by the bridge with simple biscuits, a stamp for your pilgrim passport and a donation tin; clear signs that I have stumbled on some enterprising person's business. I approach the table and just as I think I am alone, I see someone climbing up the slope from the brook. They are dressed in homespun clothes, long red hair swept back and a twelve-inch long plaited beard. I mean no disrespect when I say the image recalls a dwarf (of human proportions) from J. R. R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. This gentle man greats me and offers biscuits and a stamp before moving on to his favourite subject. He usually travels the camino with his friend who - unusually - is currently sojourning in Hungary, their home country. He clearly misses his friend and apologises that I did not get to meet him, as if the friend's sojourn in Hungary means I have missed meeting a minor celebrity. There is something odd in the dialogue and things only get clearer when I inspect my new stamp and realise that his friend, Rocinante, is a donkey named after Don Quixote's slow but faithful horse. I am in no rush, and wait while the donkey's representative on the camino sings Rocinante's praises before I move on to find a bed for the night. As I walk I am still confused by the encounter and the absence of Rocinante the donkey. I won't sleep until I have worked out a viable reason for the absent donkey. I decide that Spanish tax law is somehow involved, limiting the number of days donkeys can conduct business on Spanish soil before incurring escalating tax on earnings. I know what you are thinking. However, the donkey is clearly the main draw and earner in their business venture, and I expect the man (Roland) working alone as he is now would never reach the earnings threshold to be liable for tax. The stamp reveals that like any celebrity pairing they have merged their names and provides a link to their joint blog at rolandante.blog.hu.
The first accommodation option had been a plush looking pension with no published prices and I walk on. The second looked idyllic though when I enquire I am not surprised to hear 'completo', full. Walking on, and shortly after my non-encounter with Rocinante, the excitingly named hamlet of Casanova has a basic albergue and a nearby cafe-bar. It is now 5:00 pm and I stop after a day comprising eight hours walking and one hour resting. This is an albergue municipal, or more accurately, an albergue xunta as this is Galicia. After a short wait for the hospitalero (man responsible for the running of the albergue), for the standard six euros I get the usual super-clean basic facilities. The bed choice is either a top bunk with a small partition separating me from my adjoining neighbour, or the bottom bunk with no partition though no neighbour as yet; two bunks are shunted together making a double bunk arrangement. It has been another long foot slog of a day and I cannot face the climb up so I take the bottom bunk on the assumption that it is unlikely that anyone else will arrive at this hour and if they did, then they would probably be a Julia Roberts look-alike which would be acceptable. I go through the usual shower and laundry routine though I omit the laundry part as I am close to Santiago where I have luxurious plans for a full service wash of all my clothes while I walk around town in waterproofs and little else.
For food I head over to the small cafe-bar and order soup with freshly baked bread, followed by chicken escalope with garlic and chips all to be washed down with red wine. The simple life and time for journal writing and quiet reflection as I get drawn closer and closer to my goal of Santiago. The garlic is strong and I order a set cottage cheese with honey for dessert as a courtesy to my bunk neighbour, Julia Roberts, who I think I saw passing the cafe-bar window heading to the albergue.
The third of October and unless anything goes wrong this is my penultimate day on the Camino Francés. It must be the best supported five hundred mile walk you can undertake as the way-marking, accommodation and food is amazing and readily available even if accommodation can get tight in the summer months of July and August. Even more importantly, the help and support you receive from all the people you encounter is staggering. The companionship from fellow walkers has been special and personal. The friendly support of the albergue and cafe owners has gone far beyond the commercial side. Some of this I was expecting, though I had not guessed at the overwhelming consistency of the kindly support that was provided. What I had not expected at all was the warmth given out by the local population; people out for a short walk would greet you with 'Ola, buen camino' even though they must observe a constant flow of pilgrim traffic. They were the race marshals cheering on the weary legged walkers. Having lost the French group, and having not spoken much Spanish I realise that I have been eavesdropping and picking up on some of the Spanish around me. Despite my earlier misgivings that time spent watching Spanish soaps did help me, just being able to understand some words and phrases helped me get more from the journey through Spain. With less than two days to go I am naturally reflecting on the experience and feel I have seen the things I wanted to, by which I mean I have visited enough churches, and I have absorbed the wonderful Spanish countryside in at least some of its many forms. I had undertaken the walk with time and space to keep my mother in mind. I had worried that I walked too quickly and too far each day, though in truth I had just walked my own walk which is as much as any of us can do. I managed to leave motorised transport behind and walk at a human pace enjoying the physical challenge and only occasionally pushing myself.
But I have jumped ahead and some readers will want to know the end of the Julia Roberts saga. Last night the albergue was shut and the lights went out at 10:00 pm. Julia had not turned up and I can only assume the Spanish press got to know she was in Spain and that the ensuing press conferences derailed her plans. Such is life and my camino had taught me to take things as they come.
After a poor night's sleep I leave the hostel at 7:20 am. It is pitch-black with the few street lights only managing to highlight the morning mist so I took up an offer from the previous night for a light breakfast at the cafe-bar a few doors down and wait for sufficient visibility to allow safe passage. This makes for an atmospheric start to the day, walking along winding country lanes and tracks beneath the tree canopy with the sun just starting to break through the gaps in the branches overhead. The early clear blue sky soon clouds over and provides a few spots of rain on a fairly quiet day that only got busy around midday. Again, staying in a smaller village I am out of step with the main body of walkers. The people I do encounter are a mix of Americans, Canadians and British and they all seem to be talking about issues back home either because they have not been away long enough to break free or they are anxious to return; or maybe - unlike me - they had the foresight to bring a phone and stay connected. I look forward to a few days of rest and recuperation in Santiago before I push on to the coast which has now I realise become my new goal. For many walkers the coast can be a more natural and satisfying end point compared to Santiago itself; reaching the coast and the abrupt end of the earth has a certain attraction and a definite 'finish line' finality. Today I walk twenty-six miles to Pedrouzo Arca which means a relaxed twelve miles on to Santiago on the last day.
In Pedrouzo Arca I make my way to a modern albergue but because I arrive at 5:00 pm I am allocated the hated top bunk. However, I think this is a ruse as the hospitalera (woman responsible for the running of the albergue) waits for me to unpack and get in the shower before she tracks me down to say that a bottom bunk has suddenly - and quite unexpectedly - become available.
The fourth of October. At 7:30 am I am sat in the communal area having a breakfast of vending machine pastry, and coffee from a plastic cup. The smart thing to do would be to get walking and arrive in Santiago in time to find accommodation. My original (smarter) plan had been to stop just outside Santiago and arrive in the early dawn; I had all the detailed logistics written down before my departure from the UK. However, the plan is well and truly out of the window and having got so close to Santiago, I am almost reluctant to finish. The other person in the communal area is Spanish; she looks over and exclaims enthusiastically 'Hoy Santiago! Hoy Santiago! Hoy Santiago!'. Today Santiago. This is the traditional rallying call as people complete their final day and it succeeds in rallying me. That final day walking the Camino Francés is coloured by the thought that I will have three nights and two days in Santiago to enjoy the city and get some rest, then I will have time to walk out to the coast. More of a pit stop than a final end. Naturally, this pit stop shrunk to two nights and one day as I was to be impatient to be moving again! I have worked out my timings and I can spend between seven and nine days walking out to Finisterre and back to Santiago. Most sensible people take the bus from Finisterre (or Muxía) back to Santiago but that is three hours of winding roads so the three to four day walk back sounds preferable to me. The final day feels like a walk along a busy hiking route with Santiago being the only goal. There is a person with a stall providing stamps for the pilgrim passport and he has a tin full of small trinkets (hearts, stars, scallop shells and other small objects) which he glues to the pilgrim passport. He spends much time sifting through his tin to select - I assume - the icon he feels is appropriate for me. When I walk on and inspect my passport I am delighted to see a small scallop shell glued in place. Further on there is a fairly large complex of stalls dispensing drinks, snacks and camino memorabilia which I pass quickly though it is not busy. The route wraps around the airport and on to the hill that overlooks Santiago, Monte del Gozo. I get to see the albergue that would have been my last night on the camino and I am relieved that I let the way set the pace. Though I accept it is very practical to have a large albergue on the outskirts of Santiago to support the large number of pilgrims over the summer, the complex of single story blocks looks like an army barracks and is not inviting.
The entrance into Santiago is tedious for me, and the actual arrival is an anti-climax. This is not really a surprise as I finish alone and I need to get on with the various tasks of finishing; it will take some days for the end to sink in. After making my way to the main square by the cathedral I pause just long enough to reflect that I have now completed my camino, then make my way to the pilgrim office. On the ground floor there is a long counter with multiple numbered stations where compostelas are issued by volunteers. Walking through to the rear of the building I go down the steps to the garden and the basement where you collect a ticket for your place in the queue like you might in a busy shoe shop. I am ticket 0883 and that means a three to four hour wait so I am lucky to have received a ticket today. There is a mobile app that lets you track your position in the queue though of course, being clueless, I have no mobile phone. Next on my list is a bed for the night. After trying a few hotels (completo) I settle for an albergue where I am in the attic with splendid views of the city and its cathedral. The albergue is all creaking wooden staircases.
Next on my list as I start to familiarise myself with Santiago is to buy a guidebook for the next walk out to Finisterre; I opt for the same author as my Camino Francés book so the format is familiar. There was no rush to buy the book and it is perhaps telling that I'd bought the book for the next walk before getting my compostela (finishers certificate) for this one. I get to sit down for a proper meal and some time to start to let my arrival sink in. I had already seen a few people I recognised such as a father and daughter who were cycling and I had bumped into Colette when I had picked up my ticket at the pilgrim office. I should not have been surprised as we had always walked the same distances and I had failed to slow up as I had intended. She is quick to quiz me on why I am here so soon when I said I'd be walking more slowly and I realise I had prepared for this question. 'Ah. J'ai vu les montagnes et ...', I let the sentence tail off as this was apparently as far as my preparation had gone. By way of farewell she gave her usual cheery 'hasta lungo', see you later, though of course this must surely be the last farewell.
After some time familiarising myself with Santiago I am back at the pilgrim office and wait for my ticket to be called. There are tables in the basement, vending machines, and a screen showing the numbers. It is a long wait and one of the patient people who volunteer in a room upstairs comes and says a few words. I see the benefit of volunteers to help people 'finish' their camino but I need time to gather my thoughts and I am not very forthcoming. There is also a chapel on the ground floor and a short video on loop to help people close their camino. After a lengthy wait in the basement the screen informs me that I can go upstairs to join the 'nearly there' queue. Eventually, when my number comes up on the display I go to the counter and hand over my pilgrim passport feeling tired and not overly excited at this stage in the finishing process. It feels like another chore. After a quick check of stamps and dates I am given a Compostela with my name written in Latin and for a small fee a certificate of the distance covered. This distance certificate is available to anyone irrespective of religion or their reasons for undertaking the camino provided you have the pilgrim passport evidence. When I take hold of the certificates for the first time I get an overwhelming sense of achievement; finally, I am proud of my journey.
Though I would meet new people in my next adventure, and even meet an old acquaintance, I had surely left the Camino Francés behind me now and as the curtain falls it is time to say goodbye to the cast of characters.
The fifth of October and by 8:30 am I find myself in the queue for the cathedral which opens at 9:00 am. It is 2019 and the cathedral is mid-way through a major refurbishment with the exterior and interior clad in scaffolding. The aim is for completion ready for the next Holy Year which is 2021; the Holy Years are years when the Saint's day (25 July) falls on a Sunday and these occur on a recurring sequence of six, five, six and eleven years. The Holy Year is also referred to as a Jubilee year when the church can grant pilgrims forgiveness for their sins (a plenary indulgence); pilgrim numbers peak in Holy Years accordingly. The Cathedral de Santiago de Compostela is the latest church to be built over the tomb of St James the Greater which was discovered in the first half of the ninth century. Looking beyond the scaffolding you can see that the original Romanesque architecture is now overlaid with Gothic and Baroque elements.
The first priority as I enter the cathedral is to get in line to 'hug the apostle' and the queue outside snakes inside to form a queue to the statue of St James. This is a tradition of the camino and one that some treat as one of the important end points of the journey, alongside kneeling by the casket holding St James' remains, and attending the noon pilgrim mass. Observing the people ahead of me I see some treat it is a special moment and take their time, with some finding it to be a moving moment and others - I guess - a disappointment. Still others treat it as a tick box on their camino experience and just a few as a photo opportunity or Instagram moment. I am there to carry a prayer from a friend who had made a request, and as another way to mark the end my camino. After I have hugged the apostle, I move on to the queue to the casket holding his relics and the process is repeated. Here I note some find it a more moving moment. For me this is a simple punctuation mark denoting the end of one passage of my journey as there was more to come.
When the builders are not in residence, the cathedral hosts a daily pilgrim mass at noon with attendance being part of the tradition of the camino irrespective of religion. However, the builders are in residence, and the mass is held in the local Iglesia de San Francisco. I arrive at 11:30 am to secure a seat in what I know will be a packed house. Here, with time to reflect, I get to soak in the atmosphere as fellow pilgrims fill the church and the mass progresses. In contrast to the cursory duties performed in the cathedral this feels like a better way to end my five hundred mile journey. The service is thoughtful and includes readings from pilgrim representatives of different countries and languages and even more than the other masses I have attended reaches out to the pilgrims present.
This is my day-off and I spend it wandering the ancient streets of Santiago, eating and planning my next steps. After twenty-four days tramping the road Santiago is a shock, even off season, so it is time to move on.
I sit outside by the colonnades with a coffee (and another bun) overlooking the church while I wait for it to open at 9:40 am so I can get a stamp. There is another solo walker at the table next to me and talk turns to the arrival in Santiago and plans to return home. The nervous excitement I had encountered on the bus to St Jean Pied de Port - in me as much as my fellow travellers - has been replaced by a quiet confidence; the people I speak to are comfortable in their own company and appear content within themselves. Because of this I get the sense that those people who have journeyed with a purpose have found what they were looking for however abstract that may be. As people are away for around five weeks embarking on what can be a challenging journey, it is common that people have defined plans for the finish. That may be meeting people in Santiago itself or plans to travel on to meet family or friends. Though rarer, some pilgrims who are walking for religious reasons may even arrange a farewell before their camino possibly including a blessing for their travels from their local church. We have all witnessed the elation that comes with finishing a twenty-six mile marathon, and the arrival in Santiago gets built-up in people's minds. There are traditions to uphold such as visiting the cathedral where you must hug a statue of St. James the apostle and then visit the casket that contains his relics. There is administration to do in obtaining the certificate from the nearby pilgrim office; the compostela requires the pilgrim passport properly stamped, confirmation of Christian faith, and confirmation that the pilgrimage was performed with religious or spiritual intent. Your daily stamps from your start point allows the pilgrim office officials to certify the distance you covered. I worry slightly that there will be quizzing on the exact nature of my spiritual intent; maybe a one-thousand word essay on the various interpretations of spirituality. However, unlike a marathon there is no finish line, no finishers photo, and no medal handed out so it has the potential to be an anti-climax. How would my arrival in Santiago be any different to my arrival here in Portomarín? My companion at that cafe for ten minutes is impatient to be on the move and deciding not to wait for the church to open she heads back to the way; I am happy to pause; perhaps I am slowly learning to slow down. I recall my camino research and preparation, which had consisted of a that 1957 travelogue, a 1999 research thesis (in readable book form) and the guidebook that was always tucked away in my rucksack. I had failed to read any of the many "My Camino and Me" type books or blogs where people tell their camino story, usually with more than just a dash of humour. I was impatient when it came to trying to extract any sense of what to expect from the various online forums. Two nuggets of information did however fall in my lap unprompted. I'd had a second hand account of someone who had done the camino and their one-line view was that 'walking the camino is easy; walking Hadrian's wall is much harder'. Yes, I could see that the challenging terrain and the lack of accommodation and food would make Hadrian's wall a tough walk. I even knew someone who lived a stone's throw from Hadrian's wall and they had occasion to pick up weary walkers and give them food and a bed for the night much as the Spanish supported pilgrims in the past. The second piece of advice to reach me was totally contrary and somewhat worrying. Whilst at a dinner party that included two Spanish teenagers who were in the UK to improve their English, my impending camino came up in conversation. Over 145,000 Spaniards gained the Compostela in 2019 and the two Spanish girls knew about the camino and their reaction, with feeling, was 'Oh, that's hard!'. This news, coming two weeks before my departure, did dent my confidence somewhat, but I was now fully committed. Of course, both sentiments while seemingly conflicting were true. At 84 miles Hadrian's wall is a taxing walk compared to the flat and gentle hills of the camino. Over the full 500 miles I had endured sore feet, aching legs, excruciating leg cramps at night and shoulder pain from the rucksack; though it was the emotional turmoil that made the camino tough.
As I spent fifteen years sailing, I have a few sailing heroes who shared a remarkable and unshakeable determination to succeed in their quest to achieve their chosen goal. I recall reading in full, the journal of a round the world yachtswoman who I greatly admire, and whose daily diary entries during her single-handed voyage followed a familiar pattern along the lines of 'yesterday was tough and today was even tougher'. This made sense as however adventurous, inspiring, challenging and heroic the endeavour, the day-to-day is one of repetition and struggle. Though not anywhere close to her elite achievement, I was beginning to understand the repetition. It is only a lack of journal pages that has prevented me recording a daily account of the development and destruction of my blisters, the pain level and duration of night-time leg cramps, and the pain tunnelling its way slowly into the depths of my shoulders. Though my blisters had not been too much trouble I still grumbled about the heel structure of my boots which went from hard lower heel to soft upper heal support and the transition point was my source of blisters. This grumbling reminded me of my second hero who, having specified the design of the boat he would sail single-handed round the world, seemed to delight in complaining about his boat builders at every available opportunity; if anything did not work to his exacting standards it was because the builders had not correctly interpreted his design ideas. The only trait I shared with this intrepid adventurer was sea-sickness; as an inland sailor used to lakes, rivers and reservoirs my first proper sea event was at Shoreham-by-Sea between Brighton and Worthing on the south coast where we were met with six foot waves. Modest waves for big boats but for a fourteen foot sail boat I felt like a cork being effortlessly played with by the waves. For those unfamiliar with dinghy sailing, you use one hand to control the rudder, the other to handle the rope that controls the sail; you sit on the edge of the boat and use your feet to prevent you falling out. If you are seasick, as I was, it gets very messy very quickly. Though I would have to endure a second day of light swell to complete this two-day event I wonder at the passion that led my seasick hero to sail round the world. I suffered mal de débarquement (literally sickness of disembarkment) for a full week after my two-day sailing off Shoreham-by-Sea and wondered what my post-camino experience would feel like; it must surely be hard to get back to normal life after a month and a week in the camino bubble. My third sailing hero started sailing in the same manner as I had started my camino, clueless. In his early years he would launch his small sail boat on his local patch of water, the wind would blow him downwind to the far shore, and a rescue party would bring him back again. Twelve years later he won an Olympic silver at the Atlanta games while still a teenager, and then a further four gold medals at successive Olympic games culminating in the 2012 games where I has the good luck and fortune to see his win down in Weymouth where I was stood out on the pier close to the finish area.
Having received my stamp at the church in Portomarín I re-trace my steps to the way, and continue on what would be a long walking day. As I did not start my day from Sarria, I am happily out of sync with those pilgrims starting there so the early mornings and later in the day are still quiet but the way is busy 10:00 am to 13:00 pm. I have a few pages left in my pilgrim passport, so today I go all out to fill up on stamps and manage a modest six. There is an optional detour to a church and I take that. It is a straight path out and back across lanes and tracks. After what feels like a long hot tramp I start to doubt my directions until, after one and a half miles, I finally reach the Ingrexa San Salvador in the small hamlet of Vilar de Donas. This noteworthy Romanesque church is worth the extra miles and there is a helpful attendant who is happy to explain the highlights in English for me. On the return trip I get people asking 'Is it much further and is it worth it?'. This is just what I had been thinking on the way out. I had done the extra miles and I wasn't about to give anyone else a break. 'Oh it's not far and it is a beautiful church that is not to be missed.' The eagle eyed will have noticed that the local language for church (ingrexa) has changed, we are in Galicia where they speak the Galego language.
Unusually, I stop for a cheese and ham empanada at one of the many roadside cafes that now serve the growing number of pilgrims. By the busy entrance I am mid-way through the process of sliding my rucksack off my shoulders and onto the ground when I stop abruptly. I had certainly lost a lot of weight over the last three weeks as you don't really feel like eating much when you know you will be cinching up the rucksack waist strap, and now the only thing keeping my shorts up was a strap from my rucksack tied around a belt loop in the shorts. This worked fine until I wanted to take my rucksack off. Dropping my rucksack to the ground without untying my jury rigging would result in my shorts and all dropping to the ground. This state of affairs was of course a risk to the general public, but a risk I was prepared to accept on their behalf. I take my time to untie the strap holding my shorts up and slowly slide my rucksack to the ground.
I now notice more Brits who I assume have come from Sarria. In the official statistics UK residents make up about 2.5% of pilgrims attaining the compostela which is on a par with South Korea, though I am only really noticing them on these later stages. I take a guess that the last one hundred kilometres makes a good walking holiday or a camino 'try before you buy' before embarking on the full eight hundred kilometres. Walking on, and I pass straight through the bright lights of Palas de Rei with its many albergues in favour of something quieter and I am rewarded with a late afternoon walk through woodland with its stillness, calm and dappled shade.
It is cool in the woods and because the sensible people had stopped at Palas de Rei, I have the path to myself until it curves round to the left and dips down towards a bridge over a brook running through the woods. Ahead of me I see there is a small folding table by the bridge with simple biscuits, a stamp for your pilgrim passport and a donation tin; clear signs that I have stumbled on some enterprising person's business. I approach the table and just as I think I am alone, I see someone climbing up the slope from the brook. They are dressed in homespun clothes, long red hair swept back and a twelve-inch long plaited beard. I mean no disrespect when I say the image recalls a dwarf (of human proportions) from J. R. R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. This gentle man greats me and offers biscuits and a stamp before moving on to his favourite subject. He usually travels the camino with his friend who - unusually - is currently sojourning in Hungary, their home country. He clearly misses his friend and apologises that I did not get to meet him, as if the friend's sojourn in Hungary means I have missed meeting a minor celebrity. There is something odd in the dialogue and things only get clearer when I inspect my new stamp and realise that his friend, Rocinante, is a donkey named after Don Quixote's slow but faithful horse. I am in no rush, and wait while the donkey's representative on the camino sings Rocinante's praises before I move on to find a bed for the night. As I walk I am still confused by the encounter and the absence of Rocinante the donkey. I won't sleep until I have worked out a viable reason for the absent donkey. I decide that Spanish tax law is somehow involved, limiting the number of days donkeys can conduct business on Spanish soil before incurring escalating tax on earnings. I know what you are thinking. However, the donkey is clearly the main draw and earner in their business venture, and I expect the man (Roland) working alone as he is now would never reach the earnings threshold to be liable for tax. The stamp reveals that like any celebrity pairing they have merged their names and provides a link to their joint blog at rolandante.blog.hu.
The first accommodation option had been a plush looking pension with no published prices and I walk on. The second looked idyllic though when I enquire I am not surprised to hear 'completo', full. Walking on, and shortly after my non-encounter with Rocinante, the excitingly named hamlet of Casanova has a basic albergue and a nearby cafe-bar. It is now 5:00 pm and I stop after a day comprising eight hours walking and one hour resting. This is an albergue municipal, or more accurately, an albergue xunta as this is Galicia. After a short wait for the hospitalero (man responsible for the running of the albergue), for the standard six euros I get the usual super-clean basic facilities. The bed choice is either a top bunk with a small partition separating me from my adjoining neighbour, or the bottom bunk with no partition though no neighbour as yet; two bunks are shunted together making a double bunk arrangement. It has been another long foot slog of a day and I cannot face the climb up so I take the bottom bunk on the assumption that it is unlikely that anyone else will arrive at this hour and if they did, then they would probably be a Julia Roberts look-alike which would be acceptable. I go through the usual shower and laundry routine though I omit the laundry part as I am close to Santiago where I have luxurious plans for a full service wash of all my clothes while I walk around town in waterproofs and little else.
For food I head over to the small cafe-bar and order soup with freshly baked bread, followed by chicken escalope with garlic and chips all to be washed down with red wine. The simple life and time for journal writing and quiet reflection as I get drawn closer and closer to my goal of Santiago. The garlic is strong and I order a set cottage cheese with honey for dessert as a courtesy to my bunk neighbour, Julia Roberts, who I think I saw passing the cafe-bar window heading to the albergue.
The third of October and unless anything goes wrong this is my penultimate day on the Camino Francés. It must be the best supported five hundred mile walk you can undertake as the way-marking, accommodation and food is amazing and readily available even if accommodation can get tight in the summer months of July and August. Even more importantly, the help and support you receive from all the people you encounter is staggering. The companionship from fellow walkers has been special and personal. The friendly support of the albergue and cafe owners has gone far beyond the commercial side. Some of this I was expecting, though I had not guessed at the overwhelming consistency of the kindly support that was provided. What I had not expected at all was the warmth given out by the local population; people out for a short walk would greet you with 'Ola, buen camino' even though they must observe a constant flow of pilgrim traffic. They were the race marshals cheering on the weary legged walkers. Having lost the French group, and having not spoken much Spanish I realise that I have been eavesdropping and picking up on some of the Spanish around me. Despite my earlier misgivings that time spent watching Spanish soaps did help me, just being able to understand some words and phrases helped me get more from the journey through Spain. With less than two days to go I am naturally reflecting on the experience and feel I have seen the things I wanted to, by which I mean I have visited enough churches, and I have absorbed the wonderful Spanish countryside in at least some of its many forms. I had undertaken the walk with time and space to keep my mother in mind. I had worried that I walked too quickly and too far each day, though in truth I had just walked my own walk which is as much as any of us can do. I managed to leave motorised transport behind and walk at a human pace enjoying the physical challenge and only occasionally pushing myself.
But I have jumped ahead and some readers will want to know the end of the Julia Roberts saga. Last night the albergue was shut and the lights went out at 10:00 pm. Julia had not turned up and I can only assume the Spanish press got to know she was in Spain and that the ensuing press conferences derailed her plans. Such is life and my camino had taught me to take things as they come.
After a poor night's sleep I leave the hostel at 7:20 am. It is pitch-black with the few street lights only managing to highlight the morning mist so I took up an offer from the previous night for a light breakfast at the cafe-bar a few doors down and wait for sufficient visibility to allow safe passage. This makes for an atmospheric start to the day, walking along winding country lanes and tracks beneath the tree canopy with the sun just starting to break through the gaps in the branches overhead. The early clear blue sky soon clouds over and provides a few spots of rain on a fairly quiet day that only got busy around midday. Again, staying in a smaller village I am out of step with the main body of walkers. The people I do encounter are a mix of Americans, Canadians and British and they all seem to be talking about issues back home either because they have not been away long enough to break free or they are anxious to return; or maybe - unlike me - they had the foresight to bring a phone and stay connected. I look forward to a few days of rest and recuperation in Santiago before I push on to the coast which has now I realise become my new goal. For many walkers the coast can be a more natural and satisfying end point compared to Santiago itself; reaching the coast and the abrupt end of the earth has a certain attraction and a definite 'finish line' finality. Today I walk twenty-six miles to Pedrouzo Arca which means a relaxed twelve miles on to Santiago on the last day.
In Pedrouzo Arca I make my way to a modern albergue but because I arrive at 5:00 pm I am allocated the hated top bunk. However, I think this is a ruse as the hospitalera (woman responsible for the running of the albergue) waits for me to unpack and get in the shower before she tracks me down to say that a bottom bunk has suddenly - and quite unexpectedly - become available.
The fourth of October. At 7:30 am I am sat in the communal area having a breakfast of vending machine pastry, and coffee from a plastic cup. The smart thing to do would be to get walking and arrive in Santiago in time to find accommodation. My original (smarter) plan had been to stop just outside Santiago and arrive in the early dawn; I had all the detailed logistics written down before my departure from the UK. However, the plan is well and truly out of the window and having got so close to Santiago, I am almost reluctant to finish. The other person in the communal area is Spanish; she looks over and exclaims enthusiastically 'Hoy Santiago! Hoy Santiago! Hoy Santiago!'. Today Santiago. This is the traditional rallying call as people complete their final day and it succeeds in rallying me. That final day walking the Camino Francés is coloured by the thought that I will have three nights and two days in Santiago to enjoy the city and get some rest, then I will have time to walk out to the coast. More of a pit stop than a final end. Naturally, this pit stop shrunk to two nights and one day as I was to be impatient to be moving again! I have worked out my timings and I can spend between seven and nine days walking out to Finisterre and back to Santiago. Most sensible people take the bus from Finisterre (or Muxía) back to Santiago but that is three hours of winding roads so the three to four day walk back sounds preferable to me. The final day feels like a walk along a busy hiking route with Santiago being the only goal. There is a person with a stall providing stamps for the pilgrim passport and he has a tin full of small trinkets (hearts, stars, scallop shells and other small objects) which he glues to the pilgrim passport. He spends much time sifting through his tin to select - I assume - the icon he feels is appropriate for me. When I walk on and inspect my passport I am delighted to see a small scallop shell glued in place. Further on there is a fairly large complex of stalls dispensing drinks, snacks and camino memorabilia which I pass quickly though it is not busy. The route wraps around the airport and on to the hill that overlooks Santiago, Monte del Gozo. I get to see the albergue that would have been my last night on the camino and I am relieved that I let the way set the pace. Though I accept it is very practical to have a large albergue on the outskirts of Santiago to support the large number of pilgrims over the summer, the complex of single story blocks looks like an army barracks and is not inviting.
The entrance into Santiago is tedious for me, and the actual arrival is an anti-climax. This is not really a surprise as I finish alone and I need to get on with the various tasks of finishing; it will take some days for the end to sink in. After making my way to the main square by the cathedral I pause just long enough to reflect that I have now completed my camino, then make my way to the pilgrim office. On the ground floor there is a long counter with multiple numbered stations where compostelas are issued by volunteers. Walking through to the rear of the building I go down the steps to the garden and the basement where you collect a ticket for your place in the queue like you might in a busy shoe shop. I am ticket 0883 and that means a three to four hour wait so I am lucky to have received a ticket today. There is a mobile app that lets you track your position in the queue though of course, being clueless, I have no mobile phone. Next on my list is a bed for the night. After trying a few hotels (completo) I settle for an albergue where I am in the attic with splendid views of the city and its cathedral. The albergue is all creaking wooden staircases.
Next on my list as I start to familiarise myself with Santiago is to buy a guidebook for the next walk out to Finisterre; I opt for the same author as my Camino Francés book so the format is familiar. There was no rush to buy the book and it is perhaps telling that I'd bought the book for the next walk before getting my compostela (finishers certificate) for this one. I get to sit down for a proper meal and some time to start to let my arrival sink in. I had already seen a few people I recognised such as a father and daughter who were cycling and I had bumped into Colette when I had picked up my ticket at the pilgrim office. I should not have been surprised as we had always walked the same distances and I had failed to slow up as I had intended. She is quick to quiz me on why I am here so soon when I said I'd be walking more slowly and I realise I had prepared for this question. 'Ah. J'ai vu les montagnes et ...', I let the sentence tail off as this was apparently as far as my preparation had gone. By way of farewell she gave her usual cheery 'hasta lungo', see you later, though of course this must surely be the last farewell.
After some time familiarising myself with Santiago I am back at the pilgrim office and wait for my ticket to be called. There are tables in the basement, vending machines, and a screen showing the numbers. It is a long wait and one of the patient people who volunteer in a room upstairs comes and says a few words. I see the benefit of volunteers to help people 'finish' their camino but I need time to gather my thoughts and I am not very forthcoming. There is also a chapel on the ground floor and a short video on loop to help people close their camino. After a lengthy wait in the basement the screen informs me that I can go upstairs to join the 'nearly there' queue. Eventually, when my number comes up on the display I go to the counter and hand over my pilgrim passport feeling tired and not overly excited at this stage in the finishing process. It feels like another chore. After a quick check of stamps and dates I am given a Compostela with my name written in Latin and for a small fee a certificate of the distance covered. This distance certificate is available to anyone irrespective of religion or their reasons for undertaking the camino provided you have the pilgrim passport evidence. When I take hold of the certificates for the first time I get an overwhelming sense of achievement; finally, I am proud of my journey.
Though I would meet new people in my next adventure, and even meet an old acquaintance, I had surely left the Camino Francés behind me now and as the curtain falls it is time to say goodbye to the cast of characters.
- Unsung hero; this goes to my wife who had originally suggested the camino and provided the opportunity for me to travel unencumbered while she fielded the daily question; 'how is he?'
- Youthful maturity; I met a number of people between study and work and they all had quiet confidence and understanding beyond their years. The quiet Italian man who kept striding past me. The German woman who applauded Germany's commitment to free education. However, the award goes to the young American woman who would sit with the older walkers and I will always remember her polite exclamation one day, 'I can barely keep up with these [old] guys', where she had managed to prevent herself saying 'old' with only the slightest pause.
- Laugh out load; the camino is not a comedy club though Charles would have made a good comedy club host. For the ability to laugh out loud - and at length - the award must go to Lucille. Maybe I am biased as she laughed at my bad joke (in French) at the expense of her husband. Though maybe she was just laughing at my (laughable) attempts to speak French.
- Best home cook; this goes jointly to Mariaje and Ana for their memorable home cooked food.
- Musicality; to the South Korean taegum player who popped up every night for a short while.
- Most notable no-show; goes jointly to Rocinante the donkey, and yes, Julia Roberts. I still puzzle over Rocinante. As regards Julia, as I came with no mobile phone or means by which people could contact me I have only myself to blame.
- Best Gimli impersonator; Roland (Rocinante the donkey's friend) deserves a respectful mention as he managed to bring to mind the J. R. R. Tolkien dwarf so vividly and was such a charming and delightful character.
- Sprite impersonator; The South Korean woman in her multi-coloured attire darting from blackberry bush to blackberry bush. She showed me what slowing down might look like, and it didn't look too bad.
- The good witch; despite her reluctance to speak English or tolerate my limited and poor French for long, this goes to Colette. She was always dressed immaculately in black, was both very old but seemingly ageless, could appear and disappear at will, and could extract anything from her impossibly small bag.
- Most Courage; Kara the Australian whose husband had died two years ago. She had found a way to work through her challenges and to articulate her situation.
- Brainiest; The French-Canadian Pierre, knew the benefit of a simple life and in a few words managed to upgrade me from clueless camino to a camino of simplicity. Later, in early 2020 when a coronavirus pandemic was to change peoples lives the 'simple life' was to serve me well.
- Most Heart; this goes to Charles who showed so much heart in bringing his various camino families together and entertained.
I have learnt some basic lessons on the Camino's long and winding road and have been able to see what a simpler life may look like. As time for lights out at the albergue draws near, I close my eyes and say farewell to my first camino.
The first priority as I enter the cathedral is to get in line to 'hug the apostle' and the queue outside snakes inside to form a queue to the statue of St James. This is a tradition of the camino and one that some treat as one of the important end points of the journey, alongside kneeling by the casket holding St James' remains, and attending the noon pilgrim mass. Observing the people ahead of me I see some treat it is a special moment and take their time, with some finding it to be a moving moment and others - I guess - a disappointment. Still others treat it as a tick box on their camino experience and just a few as a photo opportunity or Instagram moment. I am there to carry a prayer from a friend who had made a request, and as another way to mark the end my camino. After I have hugged the apostle, I move on to the queue to the casket holding his relics and the process is repeated. Here I note some find it a more moving moment. For me this is a simple punctuation mark denoting the end of one passage of my journey as there was more to come.
When the builders are not in residence, the cathedral hosts a daily pilgrim mass at noon with attendance being part of the tradition of the camino irrespective of religion. However, the builders are in residence, and the mass is held in the local Iglesia de San Francisco. I arrive at 11:30 am to secure a seat in what I know will be a packed house. Here, with time to reflect, I get to soak in the atmosphere as fellow pilgrims fill the church and the mass progresses. In contrast to the cursory duties performed in the cathedral this feels like a better way to end my five hundred mile journey. The service is thoughtful and includes readings from pilgrim representatives of different countries and languages and even more than the other masses I have attended reaches out to the pilgrims present.
This is my day-off and I spend it wandering the ancient streets of Santiago, eating and planning my next steps. After twenty-four days tramping the road Santiago is a shock, even off season, so it is time to move on.