8. Departing again

The sixth of October and this is the first day of my walk to Finisterre, with the option of the a day walk up the coast to Muxía and then back to Santiago. Though the St James Way pilgrimage is to Santiago via many different routes, it is common practice for pilgrims to continue out to Finisterre, the end of the earth, to add a certain finality to their journey. When people don't have the time or inclination to walk it, many will take the bus. This is a path well traveled and if you walk to Finisterre you can also receive a certificate (the Fisterrá) from the tourist information office in Finisterre provided you have the pilgrim passport evidence. I had picked up a new blank pilgrim passport from the pilgrim office in Santiago and at 8:00 am I walked out into the dark and mist of Santiago, heading west again. After a day off in busy Santiago following my twenty-four day camino walk, it felt good to be on the road again.

The Pilgrim Passport or Credencial for the walk to Finisterre or Muxía

As I walked beyond the street light the path tunnels its way through a small wood plunging me into gloomy darkness until my eyes adjust. A German woman catches me up and is grateful of some company while we both wait for the sun to rise. She is entering her final year at university and keen to chat about life choices, careers and is proud to share the news that Germany still provides largely free higher education with, if I recall correctly, few limitations on doing extra studies at little cost. In common with all the Germans I have spoken to, including the older generations, she has impeccable spoken English and is not afraid to use it. When the sun is up she stops to adjust something and I take this as the unspoken code for 'I want to be alone now', and I walk on. This is a day of winding country lanes, farmsteads and quiet hamlets; after the intensity of Santiago it is a welcome relief for me and I am pleased to have this prolongacíon to the St James Way.

As Santiago de Compostela is the capital of the autonomous community (region) of Galicia they have invested in the camino signage and concrete bollards abound with the number of kilometres to go usually marked out. There is no excuse for getting lost though I do notice that the signage is one way, directed away from Santiago, and I wonder at how I will fare on the the return trip.

Leaving Finisterre for Muxía

Stopping at noon in the small town of Negeira this is a short day. The albergue is ten metres from the path and I wait in the reception for someone to arrive and check me in. Being first at an albergue is a new experience for me and I have the sheer luxury of the much sought after lower bunk away from doorways and bathrooms. After a short walk around town I have a pilgrim meal in the albergue's sister business over the road. For nine euros that means soup, followed by pork cutlet, chips and red peppers with wine, and a chocolate pot to follow. My three and a half week walk (and the lunch time vino tinto) catches up with me and for the first time I take an afternoon nap. By 6:30 pm I am out again looking for food and for the first time I have taken the guide book advice and head for the recommended restaurant. Of course it is still early and most places are now closed until much later so I feel lucky to find a cafe-bar that provide a Platos Combinados, a combination plate include meat or fish of your choice with chips and salad.

The seventh of October and with a 7:45 am start to the walking day I soon find myself walking with a small group for around an hour then by 10:45 am I encounter a suitable place for brunch which is a bocadillo de tortilla francesa, a satisfying french omelette in a warm, soft baguette. I make no apologies for my blow by blow account of my food intake as it is food that, along with fellow pilgrims, provides the punctuation marks on my solitary tramp across Spain. Equally, I make no apologies for mentioning in this journal that I am walking across Spain because, if I am honest, I still haven't quite come to terms with the journey and feel the need to repeat the fact to make it more real. The morning has taken me through classic Galician verdant countryside with woodlands, ferns, gorse, heather and the agriculture typical of the region which includes lush grassland with grazing animals and fields of sweetcorn. Galicia also has its distinctive grain stores and these appear in most villages and hamlets. These are very occasionally in a state of disrepair, some are newly built, and whilst most appeared empty I noticed in one village the season's sweetcorn was starting to be stored.

Grain store; traditional horreo

Another early finish and by 1:00 pm I am checking into an albergue in the hamlet of Santa Marina which provides food all day downstairs and accommodation upstairs. Refreshed, I follow the guide book advice and walk out a mile and a half to see some standing stones. The camino is always changing and when I reach the stones I see the field they are in is now surrounded with electrified wire. Luckily, I had picked up a snack at the small panadería on the way so I sit and relax on a grassy bank marveling at the peace and tranquility munching on a tuna pasty. I wander back to the hamlet and while walking over to a nearby tree to scrump an apple I see two apples fall off the tree simultaneously; in my mind this warrants a plausible and practical explanation and I assume a bird has triggered the fall. After a tasty apple I inspect the local sweetcorn crop which is part way through being harvested. The sweetcorn here is grown as fodder for the cattle, and when harvested it is shredded into half inch chunks before being placed in large silage clamps to be used throughout the year. I notice that the local farm is expanding its cattle sheds and silage clamps; as dairy is big business in Galicia it is not surprising to see veal (a bi-product of the dairy industry) on many menus. This is perhaps an opportune time to mention the smell, which despite being all pervading had not come up in the guidebooks for some inexplicable reason. Galicia is beautiful, however, the combination of silage, cattle in sheds, and the resulting slurry, all combine to provide a certain aroma that is quite overwhelming near the farms and seeps out into the wider countryside. I grew up on a  farm with pigs and cattle in sheds close to the farmhouse so I am no stranger to farmyard smells, however, Galicia had managed to take the farmyard pong to a different level of intensity and pervasiveness. In the evening it is a traditional pilgrim meal and some conversation with a Canadian mother and daughter.

The eighth of October, and following a grey and drizzly start along winding lanes, the route takes a path away from the asphalt and when we finally crest a hill the grey has given way to smoky blue skies and with the Atlantic ocean suddenly visible I am blessed with the sense of an arrival I never felt on entering Santiago. I love the long walk and I also love playing the long game; in years to come when the opportunity arises, this walk to Finisterre will let me say to my wife that I'd walk to the end of the earth for her and, oh yes, I did. Though we have reached the coast the first town is Cee and the walk down with the blue ocean below and blue sky above is idyllic with the destination town of Finisterre visible in the distance.

From France, across Spain, to the Atlantic Ocean

In keeping with my plan to finally slow down I intend on staying over at Cee though when I arrive no albergue screams at me to stop and the one albergue I try to stop at appears to be shut up so I walk on out of Cee hoping there will be room at the small fourteen-bed albergue up the hill on the other side of Cee. When I arrive I notice half a dozen people relaxing in the unkempt grounds in front of the albergue with their rucksacks forming an orderly queue by the door. It doesn't open until 4:00 pm so I wait.

At 4:00 pm prompt the hospitalera arrives and sets up the check-in desk. Everyone joins their respective rucksack in the queue and we are duly processed. As you will have gathered by now each albergue is run as a separate enterprise and arrangements and facilities differ. This one is a rare donativo and was built using restoration funds from the Prestige oil tanker disaster in 2002 which had devastating effects on the Galician coastline, wildlife and tourism. The spacious ground floor has two large communal rooms and a kitchen with the single dormitory upstairs. A French women comes and asks me if there are still beds available and if so when is diner and when is breakfast. I use my recently revised basic French to reply and she promptly departs. When I have checked-in the same French woman asks if I can translate her French to the hospitalera's Spanish; I take a guess that the conversation will go beyond my limited language skills and respectfully decline. She disappears again.

Today is a shared bathroom and as I find a bed all I can hear is an Australian woman concerned about the bathroom arrangements. 'There is no privacy in the shower!' is her rallying call which she repeats incessantly until one of the men arrange a crude bathroom rota; women first, men second. I recognised the Australian from the albergue in Santiago and from occasional stops along the way from her need to be vocalising whatever happens to be on her mind. When I get to shower I find the usual shared bathroom arrangement of having to juggle soap, towel, dirty and clean clothes in a cramped shower cubicle but nothing that is not common to many albergues. Maybe the Australian just wanted something to give voice to.

There is time to rest before the evening meal and I get to meet a woman from Cambridge, the Australian and a stoic American lady who seems to have formed a loose camino walking group. The hospitalera was also cook for the night and with the help of another volunteer she prepared a feast of mushroom croquetas with salad and bread to start, veal cutlets with curry flavoured rice for the main course and fruit for desert with the usual wine and water on the table. There are ten of us and enough English speakers and translators to make for a relaxed diner conversation. The French woman is there with her charge who is a young man aged sixteen. They are together but appear to have a puzzling distant relationship. After the meal the hospitalera invites us to join her for a round table chat on our motives for the camino, after we have helped wash up of course. I clearly get too close to the sink as the hospitalera ties a pinny on me thereby effectively tying me to the sink until everything is clean.

Free from kitchen duties we all assemble in a circle made up of the available sofas and chairs and the feeling of a group therapy meeting emerges. The Australian, usually quick to speak, sees what is happening, feigns fatigue and beats a hasty retreat to her bunk. She is followed by the French woman who I guess has a considered reason for exiting as she purposefully leaves her young charge. The Spanish hospitalera opens proceedings by describing her motives for volunteering and supporting the camino. In one regard the camino can be described as a therapy road and she wishes to support that aspect. Luckily there is someone happy to translate the hospitalera's Spanish to the largely English speaking group. People are forthcoming on their motives and there is the full range. One young Spaniard comes and does the camino following a relationship breakup which to my mind appear a little too frequently, though it means he does plenty of walking and is fit and healthy. Another repeat pilgrim does a one or two week stretch each year as a way to get some personal space and time for reflection following a marriage breakdown two decades ago. The language barrier appears to help in this setting as people keep their stories simple enough to allow translation. The French woman's young charge talks openly about his motives. He is English but born and raised in France. He had got into trouble and the juvenile court system in France had provided two options. Detainment, or walk the camino for a month followed by five months away from home, family and friends with no phone as part of a rehabilitation programme. He would severe all contact with his old life and spend five months working in a restaurant in Spain to start the process of building his new life. I assume the French woman was there to accompany him as part of the French state's duty of care. He was very open, lucid and had a confidence which I assumed was either built on his natural intelligence and innate abilities, or, built on his early life of crime. There are questions from the group and the interpreter on this night does a good job of both translating and moderating the conversation. When my turn came I'd had time to rehearse something to say. I have never found it easy talking about my mother's death when I was a child because when I approach the subject with any feeling I invariably end up in a fog of grief and confusion. I usually get round this by some well rehearsed distancing; I manage a short, factual and emotionless description of my motives. After me, the last person due to speak is the stoic American who is now in tears and sensibly declines to say anything. An impromptu round table therapy session was always going to be a dangerous affair and though I did not doubt that it was run with the best intentions I could see the potential pitfalls. There was a sense of relief as the session came to an end and people dispersed.

The ninth of October and the breakfast table is heaving with boiled eggs, toast, pastries, yoghurt, jams and strong black coffee. This is a treat and as it is only a short walk to Finisterre no one is in a hurry to leave. In contrast to the large municipal albergues these small donativo hostels often instill an intimate feel and provided me with some familiar faces and occasional company for the next few days. No one wants to leave and we linger over our coffee before finally helping out with the clearing up where I get the pinny tied on me again and am duly rewarded with a hug from the hospitalera as I depart. Despite the late departure by 11:00 am I am sat in a beach cafe overlooking the four hundred metre long sandy bay that leads into Finisterre town. The bay is a golden arc and from my viewpoint I watch the waves washing up on the soft sand, the blue sky and puffy white clouds; this provides me with my second sense of arrival and completion as I walk the beach to town. Finisterre itself feels more like an arrivals/departures lounge than a destination in itself, as the former fishing port has morphed into a practical town supporting those who want to walk the last few kilometres out to the lighthouse. With so many people taking the bus, the state run municipal hostel makes clear it is only for walkers. Being uncommonly early I queue with the other disheveled travelers and when the doors open I notice they are turning away anyone without the credential evidence of having walked from Santiago. Checked-in, I go and get my Finisterre certificate in the tourist information office on the attractive main square and enjoy a rare treat of the local Pulpo Galego (Galician style octopus) with sliced potatoes in olive oil.

The walk into Finisterre

By chance I meet the English woman from the previous night down by the docks and she checks that I am going to the lighthouse in the evening as it is the custom to go and watch the sun set. I had known about the tradition of getting out to the lighthouse and the (now frowned upon) tradition of throwing your boots (or similar item) into the ocean, or burning something, but the setting sun ritual had passed me by. A safe fire pit had been built but even that is now not used and acts to highlight how the camino changes. One of the most rewarding aspects of my pilgrimage was the ability to set aside everything and just walk. A downside is that I would occasionally miss out though as was the case now, more often than not someone would appear and steer me in the right direction and it was more rewarding for not being planned. The English woman, the American and Australian had chosen a different albergue as the municipal with its queue of unshaven scruffy men (including me!) had looked like a seaman's mission and more than a bit dodgy; I could see that.

I make my way on the final two miles out to the lighthouse in the warmth of the evening sun to complete my east to west walk across Spain. I find a suitable seat to watch the spectacle of the setting sun, by which I mean the least uncomfortable rock I can find in a sheltered location as it was getting cooler and I had not thought to bring something warm. There is a false sunset as the sun 'sets' behind some clouds and I wait for the anticipated colour display as the sun finally sets over the horizon. As I sit on my increasingly uncomfortable rock a woman comes and sits to the side of me four feet away. Before long she is sobbing and sniffling quietly to herself and I decide, somewhat uncertainly, that the correct social protocol in the circumstances is to stay where I am, say nothing, and will the sun to get on with the business of setting so I can get away and get warm. After a full fifteen minutes of sniffling and quiet signing to herself she pulls out a bag of monkey nuts (peanuts in their shells). She proffers a handful with the explanation that she was here last time with a friend and that they had shared their peanuts then, eleven years ago. I accept the offering and slowly eat them. The sun is in no hurry to set and I endure another fifteen minutes of sobbing, soft singing and nut eating before the woman decides the job is done and she can move on to writing her journal. As I type up my journal I wonder if she has made a side-note on the unfeeling nature of the English, or of men generally. The sun decides I have endured enough on my rock and finally sets in a blaze of colour and as my nut eating duties are complete I make my exit with an attempt at a farewell nod.

The Lighthouse

As I pass the lighthouse I notice the French woman and her ward happily taking photos. A cheery "bonsoir" from me solicits an enthusiastic response once their surprise turns to recognition.

Despite it being a short day of walking it feels like a long day and on the walk back into Finisterre town I am hit by a deeper realisation that I have accidentally walked across the full width of Spain, east to west. This is something I had not intended to do when I set out from St Jean Pied de Port. The camino has given me time for reflection and has helped me move from a world of work to a world of freedom in retirement. My camino had been a planned but somewhat clueless and haphazard one and the same could be said of my career. I had made an early and random jump from ploughman in Yorkshire to Research Assistant in Oxford in my early years following studies in London. My only reason for being in Oxford was that it wasn't London. The job was a means to leave London, an accident and poorly paid, but looking back it was the one job that provided the most reward and satisfaction. I have called this my clueless camino and in my first job I was equally clueless as highlighted by a story I still enjoy telling. I had come back to work after a two-week holiday and my supervisor in the Department of Oceanic and Atmospheric Physics wanted to see me urgently. He was all apologies, hoped I didn't mind, but deadlines and everything, and he would have normally consulted and so on. When he finally got to the point, it transpired I had unknowingly co-authored an academic paper that was now published. I had not been aware that I had been collaborating on a paper. No one had thought to tell me so how was I to know; this would be a theme throughout my working life. In the evening at my lodgings in Oxford I had time to read the paper and sure enough my recent work on heating rates due to ozone in the atmosphere (it was the 1980s and the ozone hole was big news) was sat there center stage.

The tenth of October and I leave the albergue, cross the road to a cafe and enjoy a coffee and croissant ready to start walking at 8:30 am in daylight. As I navigate my way out of Finisterre I am re-assured by the clear bollard.

To Muxía

It is a beautiful walk up the coast to Muxía. Following the coast about half a mile inland it is mostly forest and tree plantations so it is not surprising that I pass a sawmill among the trees. The ancient sawmills are under an open tin roofed barn and are all buried under a deep bed of wood chippings. Signage continues to be good and there is an equal flow of pilgrims in both directions as you can walk the loop in either direction. On entering Muxía I remember that someone had recommended a modern and luxurious albergue and there it is, conveniently located on the road in to Muxía. They have a bed for me and I take the opportunity to get some laundry done for a small fee; it always feels like such a treat to have properly clean clothes from a washing machine than the usual cursory hand-wash.

Walking into town the first stop is a supermarket lunch then on round the peninsular that Muxía sits on and to the main harbour where the seafood restaurants look out to the ocean. I join the woman from Cambridge and the Spaniard from the albergue at Cee for a beer. It is noticeable that now I am walking normal distances each day I am seeing more people I recognise and its a welcome bonus that the language is English. Unsurprisingly, the Australian and the stoic American from Cee soon join us then to my amazement Pierre comes up and says hello; Pierre is the French Canadian who I first met on my third day by the monumento peregrino and who brought together that loose French group. After introductions and small talk, Pierre and I wander off to look for food and enjoy a relaxed meal reflecting on our respective journeys over plates of the local speciality of stuffed squid.

The eleventh of October and after a very good nights sleep I start my walk back to Santiago. The route is marked though as all the formal signs point out from Santiago to Finisterre and Muxía you are reliant on hand-written signs, typically yellow paint on rocks by the road side with the initials "SC" signifying Santiago de Compostela. I take a wrong turn and enjoy a pleasant enough walk to the coast through cool woodland before retracing my steps where I quickly see the word "Santiago" and an arrow emblazoned in red on the road. Back on track and I walk on still only paying a passing interest in directions though I know I should veer left somewhere. I see two pilgrims ahead of me on the road and march on along the main road. As I draw near I discover that the two sisters from the Wirral in North West England are studying the map as they too have missed that left turn. We wander on together, and pick up the path later as the guide book sketch maps and the signage is enough to keep you on course. Tonight's stop is Dumbria and the municipal albergue is purpose build, modern and colourful. 

Galician countryside near Dumbria

There is no one to great me and a notice informs pilgrims to come in, find a bed and pay later. The facilities are good and I decide to cook something hot for a change. The local store supplies fresh tomatoes, tinned mussels and a jar of chickpeas which I supplement with pasta found in the albergue's kitchen to make a stew. I am joined in the kitchen by an Italian and an Irishman who seem to have teamed up. They are cooking and they get on with the task with an air of Fanny and Johnny Craddock who, for anyone under the age of 55, were early TV chefs. There is lots of bossing around, harassment and confusion. I had loaned them my trusty sharp knife and in return I am rewarded with a  glass of wine to go with my food. The two sisters from the Wirral are there as well and as they are eating out they leave me with the remains of their wine. It was such a lovely walk today. The pilgrimage to Santiago is done. The walk out to Finisterre is also done, so I find I can slow down and fully enjoy the simplicity of the walk. As I am still walking round the loop and have yet to rejoin the path into Santiago the guidebook does provide useful "take a left when you see the gravel track" prompts which keeps me on track if I choose to pay attention. The early excited hustle and excited noise of the albergues in Navarre have given way to quiet dormitories and I was again to enjoy a good night's sleep.

The twelfth  of October and day seven of this second leg to my tramping across Spain. Against my overall time allocation I still have days in hand and I could push on and make up some time to then take the train from Santiago up to A Coruna to walk the Camino Inglés back to Santiago. The Camino Inglés is the English way used by English pilgrims who would take the boat to Ferrol or A Coruna on Spain's north coast. Despite the plan being to slow down I am feeling like walking so walk from Dumbria to Piaxe A Pena; this was partly prompted by my dormitory that opted en-mass for an early start and the risk of rain in the coming days. Awake, I reluctantly start walking in the dark when I would have preferred to wait for daylight as there is navigation to do and faint signs to locate. Onward I go relying on the guidebook directions and street light to help me. It isn't long before I lose the street light, cannot read the directions in the dark and don't know where to go. There are dogs howling in the distance and it is pitch black under the tree canopy. What to do. I try the illumination of my watch to read but that doesn't work. I decide to sit down dejectedly and wait for daylight. Looking for a suitable rock to perch on I find one and approaching see that it has a faint writing on it. "SC", Santiago de Compostela. On I go. Following a short climb I reach the brow of a hill and can see factory smoke in the distance ahead. I remember from reading the guidebook the previous night that the iron ore plant would come in to view so my spirits are lifted and I march on more confidently.

The iron ore plant marks the point where the Finisterre/Muxía loop rejoins the path back into Santiago. It is at this point that despite the signage being less visible, the guidebook decides that the walker - having successfully navigated out of Santiago - can easily find their way back along nearly 40 miles of paths, tracks and minor roads. It is still dark when I 'close the loop' and rejoin the path leading to Santiago.

The fork in the way for the Finisterre/Muxía loop

After a short breakfast stop I am feeling revived and strong so I  take full advantage of the fair weather and the beautiful Galician countryside. That evening I get a bed in a private albergue that has a small bar and provides a pilgrim meal. This mean lentil soup, basic pasta, cake and unlimited wine that for once I take full advantage of. For the meal I am sat next to a chatty German man who had walked from Bayonne to Pamplona, then picked up the camino Francés. Tonight over dinner a couple arrive late and he has a sign round his neck with the words "Yo soy en silencio", I am silent. It is rare, but some pilgrims - possibly frustrated by the mandatory "Buen Camino" greetings and need to be sociable - sometimes do this to get some peace and solitude. That would be natural if you were alone. However, he was with his partner and her body language carried the heavy suggestion that she was not impressed.

The thirteenth of October and with limited accommodation options it is a short two hour walk to Negreira as I have decided not to try and fit in the Camino Inglés. This short day was also prompted by the light rain that set in. In one hamlet a take the wrong fork in the road and a local calls out to redirect me. I am again reminded how welcoming and helpful the Spanish are. Due to the logistics I am passing all the pilgrims who had left Negreira that morning heading out to the coast. A couple of people ask  - genuinely - if I am going the right way as few people bother to walk back to Santiago. Arriving back in Negreira and it is Sunday just as it was when I last passed through. The Sunday market is setting up and I enjoy some freshly fried churros as a late breakfast.

For variety, I choose a different albergue and as this one has a decent kitchen (and it is Sunday) I choose to cook. A large stew of onions, peppers, tomatoes, paprika and chorizo with some good bread and wine covers both lunch and dinner.

The fourteenth of October and I set out early to finish the twelve miles back to Santiago in time to get my certificate. After the pace and highlights of the Camino Francés the Finisterre route has been very different. It has been surprisingly busy overall though without the big towns; it has a much quieter and reflective feel. Early on I don my rain coat as the light drizzle builds to good old regular rain, what my dad would refer to as "wet rain", the type that keeps coming and seeps in everywhere. I lose the signs and get my guidebook out trying to get out of the rain and into street light. The book is of limited help and after a wrong turn I somehow manage to wend my way back onto the path. As I am walking 'the wrong way' I know it will be a couple of hours before I start to pass the pilgrims leaving Santiago for the coast. It is a wet day as the rain is persistent though I am buoyed by the smiling faces and cheery waves of the other pilgrims coming out of Santiago; no one likes the rain but no one wants to submit to it so everyone is extra cheery. before I reach the outskirts of Santiago I stop for a coffee and frittata and the obligatory pilgrim passport stamp. The cafe in the small village is crammed with artifacts such as an old organ making it cramped and steamy as other other pilgrims sit hunched in their wet ponchos sipping hot drinks. The rain eases and a watery sun is trying to push its way through the thin cloud. As I leave a wooded area I come out into the open to be greeted by the twin towers of Santiago's cathedral. This is the sense of a grand arrival into Santiago I has missed on the Camino Francés. I am entering Santiago from the quiet countryside with few people and can almost sneak in the side door to the city.

Walking back to Santiago

I have been unnecessarily undecided about what to do with my remaining days, where to stay in Santiago, and whether to walk more. Naturally, the wet day makes the decision for me. I head back to the familiar roots & boots albergue, shower, take laundry down to reception and go and get my queue ticket for the compostela. It looks like a 5 hour wait so I explore Santiago and find a trendy coffee bar in which to enjoy coffee and frittata, then more coffee and some cake. This hipster style bar is all steel and natural wood with seat pads made from old coffee sacks. I am feeling better about Santiago as a tourist city and look forward to visiting its sights and maybe a day trip to A Coruna as I have a few days to spare.

My four hours in the rain tells me that I was not really kitted out for the wet though I would have fared better if I'd have the sense to put on my waterproof trousers. The rain cover on my rucksack was ineffectual and though my rain jacket was good it provided limited protection. My rucksack was happy to absorb any water that came into contact with it though less happy to let the water run out preferring to hold a small pool in the bottom. The recommendation of a large coverall poncho is the norm and I now understood why. My feet were sodden from water running down my legs and into my boots. Later in the day I go to the pilgrim office to pick up my second compostela.

The fifteenth of October and this is day one of a full four days in Santiago after which I travel to Madrid, stay the night, then take the night train to Lisbon, Portugal. I soon buy a copy of the book by the German comedian Hape Kerkeling. His book (I'm Off Then) describes his camino and would perhaps have been better preparation than my 1957 travelogue; it does however become the perfect way for me to reflect on, understand, and unravel my own camino. The days quickly turn to groundhog days as I refine my daily routine. Why do so many of us fall back on routine?

• Coffee and toast/croissant at the albergue.
• A walk across to the other side of town to the churrerier at the outer end of Rua de San Pedro for freshly fried churros and thick hot chocolate.
• A slow walk around town to arrive at the church for the pilgrim mass arriving early enough to get a seat before the midday mass begins. 
• Pilgrim meal (set menu) at the modern and smart Melonges.
• Afternoon sightseeing such as the park, the pilgrim museum and the market.
• Avoiding the rain which has ruled out any vague plan of further walking or day trips.
• Read in the albergue common room and chat to others who were completing their journeys.

After thirty-three days of walking, it is near the end of my stay in Santiago that I neglect my feet; they had got wet on that last day of walking, dried out, then the heels cracked painfully. A practical lesson learnt that nudges me back to reality. During my stay in Santiago I get to further reflect on my walk and slowly transition back to the real world though in practice that would take a few more weeks. 

I have benefited from the solitude that the camino provides while still have people to talk to; simply having like-minded people around has meant I have never been lonely. The simplicity of the camino and living life with the few possessions you carry on your back has allowed me to step off the day to day treadmill and properly lose the remnants of the world of work.

I have enjoyed the beauty of nature whilst tramping across Spain with all its many landscapes and sights including the simple pleasure to be found in the act of walking. I have discovered a specific form of freedom that walking provides, especially with no fixed schedule. The architecture and the built environment has been an eye opener as has been the simplicity and quality of the food and drink. Layered over this it has been a real privilege to be part of a truly international community giving and receiving support on a shared yet private journey.

I believe it is the overall solitude of the camino that takes you out of the real world and allows you to explore yourself. On my last day of walking I had taken a photo of a message I had seen a few times on my pilgrimage and only now did I understand it. DON'T FORGET TO GO HOME. As I boarded my train for Madrid I knew it was time to go home.

It was time to go home

Chapter 9. Review