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Last post

We set off in the dark for the last time, head torch to the ready. I try to compose my thoughts but it’s not the most inspiring scenery through the suburbs of Santiago. We toil up to the Croce de Gozo where we can gaze down on journey’s end. It’s difficult to pick out the Cathedral from the unremarkable cityscape and the hill is adorned with a rather minimally attractive monument dedicated to the visit of Pope John Paul II. It’s traditional to cast off something on one’s approach but honestly, one’s hard loved shoes do look like so much junk piled up en masses at the base of this brutalist lump of iron and concrete. We are heading for midday mass so don’t have time to wave more than a brief greeting to the surprisingly many folk we recognise from along the way. John is waiting, camera in hand to catch our arrival. It’s all too exciting and it’s recorded from behind his finger. No matter. We are here. We have survived and live to enjoy telling the tale. Louisa has joined us too for the last 2 days to make up the Murray cheer leaders.

We queue up for mass. The Cathedral is filled with every nook and cranny; pilgrim, faithful, tourists. There is seating for a thousand but many more find perches on the column bases, confession boxes or just stand, like us. It is a beautiful service, topped off with the magnificent drama of the incense swinging.

First a dramatic clash of the organ on super loud announces the ceremony of the botafumerio. Almost in the manner of bell ringers, 8 men, in deep scarlet robes, form up to grasp a cats cradle of thickly braided rope. I ask John for his nautical opinion as to the viability of the quadruple knot attaching the arrangement via some distinctly Victorian metalwork to a pulley in the dome. Suspended in Damoclesean fashion is a huge silver brazier. This is a serious beast.. with great heft and flourish the tiraboleiros launch it skywards, up to the high vaulted ceiling. Clouds of incense follow its trajectory as it thunders back over the altar at a great pace in a huge arc, swinging up again into the obverse transcript. There is a series of dramatic passes rather in the manner of an eagle swooping down on its prey. The men crouch respectfully below as it skims just above their heads. Lethal weapon indeed in the wrong hands. Once upon a time, it’s function was to purify the pilgrims and cleanse their potentially disease ridden sweaty bodies. In the height of summer today, similar benefits might be appreciated by the densely packed congregation.

The cacophony and general bustle of so many people shifting to settle in their awkward perches doesn’t really allow for quiet contemplation.

It’s hard to articulate how it feels to have finished our great walk. There’s of course a sense of achievement that we have successfully nurtured and cajoled aged frames that are ill used to the relentless toil of putting one foot in front of the other for almost six weeks, clocking up 500 miles. Perhaps it’s the sign of a good journey that the arrival is not the climax. The big crowds and noisy commercial hubbub is less welcome than the peaceful pace and quiet spaces of the way.

The twin towers of the Cathedral heavily embellished with turrets, curlicues, saintly statues and other baubles rise above the square, brilliantly floodlit at night or silhouetted against the pink dawn. We are staying at the ultimate pilgrims hostel, inaugurated by Ferdinand and Isabella over five hundred years ago for the care of those early pelligrinos. Within is a labyrinthine series of courtyards and fountains, grand salons with slightly shabby, high backed furniture, and as it is government run, a mildly Stalin era feel to the décor and municipal, British rail crockery. The eye watering price tag of the rooms (birthday treat) reflects its location and history rather than anything to do with star rating. But where else could you enter through such magnificent portals, watched over by saints, representing humility and fortitude and an astrologer to point the route of the stars.

A last task is to get our Credencial signed and award of Compostella given. We line up in a longish queue at Oficina del Pellegrino, slightly gratified as it immediately doubles behind us. The people at the back will have to wait over an hour. One can only imagine what it must be like at the height of the summer season. I present my, by now slightly tattered booklet, in which I have been diligently collecting stamps for the last six weeks. I am asked a few questions and then the recorder inscribes my certificate with my name in Latin, whacks on a couple of stamps and I’m done. Sophy is getting a much harder time a few booths up. There are a few gaps in the dates- ‘rest days’ she protests. Obviously she is a dodgy looking type. I’ve already paid for her certification and am sure she can make her case. I go out to wait in the garden but it’s a longish time before she emerges, brandishing the cherished certificate. ‘Only doing her job, but she was very thorough.’ Can’t have any old hoi polio entered into the records.

Well, this is it folks, as they say. The Cathedral Bells are toiling. Time for tea, my last earl grey tea bag ready to be deployed. Finally I want to pay tribute to Sophy, a great companion, always cheerful, resolute and thoughtful and never betraying one moment of irritation. Quite some feat. Saint indeed.

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Journey ‘s end. The Santiago Parador; The World’s oldest hotel. We enter through the portal flanked by Adam and Eve, parents of humanity but bearers of original sin. One to keep contemplating on.

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Well here we are

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video tester yesterday on our way into Santiago

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Penultimate sunrise

Some last reflections

Well after John’s spectacular coup in well and truly surprising me, it’s been hard to come off cloud nine. I normally pride myself in knowing exactly what he is up to, and would think I would rumble that he was having an affair even before he did himself. Well now I’m not so sure! Still, it was a lovely, brilliantly executed, ambush. One to remember. Sophy played her conspiratorial part too with poker like reserve. She would have made a good SOE operative parachuted into France – never letting on a word under gestapo interrogation. I would have been hopeless and let the cat out of the bag.

Well, today has been our last full day. The usual routine of packing backpacks and scrounging around for some sort of breakfast- today a young German volunteer, Toby, also staying at the hostel, offered us some chocolate granola. Not my preferred cereal of choice, but one can’t be picky on a dark morning. He was very sweet as, having to share with us and two French ladies, also of a certain age, diplomatically went out to have a fag whilst we dressed. No doubt he preferred to pass on the sight of saggy boobs, boomeranging around, as we try to slip discreetly between night and day wear.

So, it feels very much like the end of term. Lots of cafes and guest houses look closed up. The Camino season comes, in the main, to a close at the end of October apart from a few hardy souls. You would certainly have all the peace and tranquility you desire- but that would be to miss the great camaraderie and warm embracing spirit of one’s fellow travellers.

It’s with equal measure that I look forward to, and lament, the finish. The knees and ankles are much in need of a rest. Sophy’s feet are swollen and sore. There has not been a break since León and that was about 2 weeks ago. Against this though I know that this ability to be focused and single minded, and with a clear objective, is hard to recreate back in normal life. ‘Stuff’ intrudes. However hard one resolves to ‘make time’ and ‘be more constructive’ and use ones resources wisely, it is just really difficult. Just taking a little bit of the Camino spirit forward with me will be my aspiration I guess.

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19th Century farming practices. I’m chopping beets for my pigs

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Birthday Surprises

The first is somewhat unwelcome. About one in the morning, turning over somewhat fitfully, I get that extraordinary sinking feeling and find myself wedged between floor and radiator. The bed has collapsed on one side and I am lying at 45 degrees. Not good. I put on my phone torch and examine the options. Can I effect some repair without waking Sophy? The legs are on the dodgy side and unlikely to take my weight again even if I can twist them back into the vertical. And I thought I’d lost a few lbs in n this trip. Evidently not. The room is on the skimpy side, with little option for dragging out the collapsed frame without hauling it over Sophy’s bed. If it wasn’t one in the morning, it would be hilarious.

Nothing for it. ‘Are you awake,’ I ask quietly. Fortunately she is although she hadn’t heard anything of the bed’s sudden subsidence. We manhandle pretty efficiently the beast into the corridor, as if nocturnal furniture removing was all in the course of a might’s work, and I spend a really perfectly comfortable remainder of the night on the floor.

In the morning I regale the barmaid with my best impersonations, acting out the collapsed souffl�� effect. Everyone is in gales of laughter. ‘Madre Mia!’ she exclaims, clutching her chest and insists on photographing the picture on my phone.

‘Good thing I wasn’t a bunk bed’ says one wag. Well, especially for Sophy. She would have been well and truly squashed. We get free breakfast on the house.

One would have thought that was enough surprises for one day. I’d actually forgotten it was my birthday but get a text from Francesca, which reminds me. Little did I realise there’s been a conspiracy going on behind my back.

Pottering along I am in deep discussion with a charming New Zealand lady about HR and how companies use algorithms to weed out job applicants – she has a background in employment law – a typical random sort of Camino experience. When suddenly before me, as if by magic, there is John coming up the path. I am completely discombobulated and you could have knocked me over with a feather. I had absolutely no idea.

There are some rather undignified squeaks of excitement. Sophy has been in on the whole thing and succeeded in not saying a word. What dark horses. John had flown out the day before at some ungodly hour and got the bus at an equally ungodly hour this morning to the nearest town – and then walked against the flow of Pilgrims anxious not to miss us. Loads and loads of brownie points I say.

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Reflections on a misty dawn

This part of Spain is barely functioning economically in the 20th C let alone the 21st. We can enjoy it’s rural charms, little fields and pretty villages, pondering romantically on the many ruins optimistically ‘a vendre’ But it’s a stark reminder how, bumping along the bottom, significant parts of the Southern and Eastern European ways of life truly are. Anyone who does have a job works very long hours in tiny family concerns that have never seen a bar code. We grumble in UK about low levels of investment and poor productivity but we occupy stratospherically different levels of functionality. Still, it’s not to say our lives are any better or happier. As always, being able to walk through at a slow pace, rather than whizzing by between tourist ‘must sees’ allows one to take the temperature a little more accurately.

Very long walk today at over 16 miles. The forecast was for it to rain by 4pm so this concentrated the minds and sees us bustle off into the misty gloom at an early hour. I usually like to spend the first hour or two letting my mind wander, hoping some significant or meaningful thoughts will waft into the vastly empty vaults. But, usually the vacuous chambers bounce back and forth in unremarkable echoes. ‘Is anybody there?’

One thing I have reconciled myself to is that for me, any God only exists in the imagination. I’ve had my door open receptively for the last five weeks, sat in exquisite tiny churches and vast ornate Cathedrals but there is only a beautiful silence. I’ve seen so many glorious dawns, from naked scarlet to pearl soft pink to silver hued mistiness which speak of promise that another day is there for the living. For this I am truly grateful. On The Camino one can take lessons in humility, patience and fortitude but faith cannot be learned. Still, I will end this journey with great contentment that it has been a huge privilege to have been able to do it.

NB - miracles of the weather forecast. We arrive with 20 minutes to spare as, at 10 past 4, safely indoors, the rain duly comes lashing down

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his is our last day before the famed 100km to go. We are assured it will get very busy. Today’s traipse through tiny farms, quiet byways and a fair amount of mud is hugely peaceful. But, no doubt the last twist will bring its values and interest. The book warns us not to be impatient with new pilgrims, newly joined, who haven’t been silly, or lucky enough, to have trudged over the last 700km. A timely reminder.

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It’s amazing what a good breakfast can do. On google recommendation I suggest we pass up on the rather dreary and tired looking offerings in our decidedly seedy old pension and put our faith in the hotel out of town. This is always a bit of a gamble as several establishments have proven to be closed, derelict or otherwise evaporated. If this is the case, pegging ten minutes back into town or going without breakfast for 10km will not constitute the perfect start to our last week. S rather fancies the idea of bacon and eggs to set her up for the day. Weather is not really very promising so a leisurely start and the tantalising potential of a good fry up is worth the risk.

We set off in our best version of the Camino shuffle, morning limbs deeply reluctant to ease in. Like two old ladies on Zimmer frames we hobble along, nursing tendons, recalcitrant knees and delicate insteps. It will pass, but the first km or two is always a joke. Fortunately its still pretty dark so no one can laugh at our ‘gait ancienne.’

Luck is with us as, materialising out of the gloom, is said hotel with, by Spanish standards, a jolly decent breakfast; no fry up but such delights as muesli and yoghurt and local honey and lashings of coffee. So good for morale apart from anything else. It’s all in the psychology I feel. We walk 10 miles to Sarria without stopping.

It’s the scenic version of the scenic route. Our path seems to go through copious farmyards in a state of total collapso. We chat to one old man, straw poking out of his grizzled beard. There is a total incomprehension on both sides, apart from the one word I have gleaned, ‘toro’ or bull. He puts down his pitchfork and invites us to peer over a broken down wall to admire his prize herd. Below, under crumbling beams, half collapsed slate roofs and a huge haystack, several cows peer anxiously out at us. Honestly, one shift of a spider’s web and the whole lot must surely come crashing down and crush the lot of them. We make appreciative signals. Our farming friend must have great faith in inner strength as, wishing us ‘Buen camino’ he heartily claps me on the shoulder with huge enthusiasm. I succeed in staying upright against the natural laws of physics.

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The rain in Spain does not fall mainly on The Plain

We must have caught the edge of the storm that lashed Portugal. Lots of blustery winds and heavy rain in the night. We awoke to classic Galician fog. There had been much warning of this likelihood in the literature but it hardly makes donning every available defence and setting forth into the chilly, distinctly Scottish gloom a prospect of much cheer. Still a bit of Sunday morning penance never did a pilgrim any harm. Having adjusted clothing and fished out the gloves, I was reasonable happy that the ingress of water would be tolerable. The trusty brolly, somewhat now in it’s seventh age, was persuaded ‘up’ to see off the heavy rain that began to fall.

Imagine my horror when, having stuffed it in my pocket during a brief respite, that it had somehow fallen out unnoticed. What ridiculous carelessness as it had been doing a sterling job, considering it was a decidedly rickety £2.99 job. Imagine my even greater amazement, and sudden inclination that perhaps there was something in this miracle business after all, when 10 minutes later, 3 French gentlemen caught up with us and presented me with the errant brolly. Well I’m the least deserving recipient of a miracle but thanks are sincerely due. It thoroughly kept the worst of the rain off for the remainder of the day.

There may have been a significant deterioration in the weather but this has been matched by vast improvement in the diet since entering Galicia. They understand the meaning and cheery benefits of soup. We’ve had Galacian soup, pilgrim soup, fish soup - all excellent and good for morale in the face of some pretty soggy conditions. Drying boots now is the chief challenge. I filch the unread supplement sections of yesterday’s paper from the bar. As I screw up the inside page I’m amused to see it’s a spread on Eugenie’s wedding. What an excellently fitting use I feel.

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Addendum to the food grousing.

At least Chinese food is revolting in an interesting sort of a way. Learning not to freak out at the chicken’s beaks bobbing around in the soup or the evilly hot, chilly infested noodles that leave you gasping for breath as ones throat muscles contract and gag at the demon brew has a certain frisson associated with foreign travel that we all expect. Spanish food is mostly filthy due to lazy cooking; either undercooked pasta or overcooked soggy rice or cabbage. The standard is marooned somewhere in the 1950s. And theres a certain chutzpah as to just what one can get away with when it comes to captive, fairly exhausted pilgrims who can’t stagger a step further in search of a better meal. Attempts to disguise this inadequacy of fare with tinned red sauce and giving it an interesting sounding title like ‘Cuban rice’ really makes for the genuinely inedible. Sadly, my inadequacy in Spanish leaves me floundering for a pithy comment as to what element of the dog’s dinner served up bears any relationship to any Cuban recipe ever invented. Bah!

Great excitement today as we move into Galicia and see a way-marker: 160km to Santiago- That’s a 100 miles in old money. There’s a change in the scenery; crumbling stone walls covered in moss and lichen, steep hills and little green fields. The wind is up and the air cool. I’m sure I can smell the faintest of salt in the air as the Atlantic westerlies roll in. This journey suddenly has a sense of approaching its end phase. We begin to fantasise about ritual burning of Lycra and going on a shopping spree in Santiago. I’m relying on Sophy to lead me astray.

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Matters gastronomic- or not.

Food remains somewhat problematic. Setting off on a 15 mile hike with nothing more nourishing than some jaw-cracking stale bread, covered for modesty with a smear of plastic jam, is less than ideal. We do try and carry some emergency rations in case there is simply no food at all. One night recently we set off in high hopes of finding something agreeable in our tiny picturesque little village. We had been lulled into a false sense of security from the previous spot that sported a good choice. The pension lady pushed us out of the house with some vague directions. Scouring the village and following signs to a bar that proved very permanently closed, we asked a few old folks who were passing the time of day by the village fountain. Lots of shrugging of shoulders and general negative muttering. We wrack our minds as to what we might rustle up from our backpacks. Thin fare from memory. But then by pure chance we stumbled on a small, privately run, rather fly ridden albergue and Le patron agrees to do us some spaghetti in an hour. All we can do is sit on the wall in the fading evening sun and wait. At least it’s an advance on the few crackers and nuts we would have run to.

One lunchtime S bravely decides to try the much hyped local fayre - the tourist board literature has gone into overdrive describing the ‘not to be missed’ local delicacies. It’s raining so we stop at a promising looking restaurant decked out in heavy Spanish, vaguely regal looking, furniture. An impressive menu is flourished in front of us with a sweetly smiling waitress. The trap is well and truly laid. S bravely chooses the local specialty of marinated pork ribs and sausage combination. At least she takes the precaution of ordering only a half portion.

Never have I been more glad of being a vegetarian as the beast arrives. It is an angry red concoction of bloated, assorted bits of gristle nestling on a bed of grey, boiled to death flabby cabbage. The accompanying chickpeas are splattered with much paprika. I giggle as she manfully twists the plate round, wondering from which angle it would be best to tackle this veritable diabolo of an offering. Dante’s inferno couldn’t serve up better. My thin, mud hued, cabbage and bean soup has the mild advantage of being not actively unpleasant but the fact that the meal has cost us nearly €40 is less digestible.

In the evening I ensure a satisfactory G&T for S by the purchasing of decent tonic in the supermarket and pointing to the Bombay gin in the bar. ‘Do you only want gin?’ she asks in surprise. I reply in the affirmative and do not demur as she almost fills the glass.

‘You might want to check the strength of that,’ I suggest. Still suffering from sore feet, S doesn’t appear to be much worried by small details. There’s room for a little tonic at the top.

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First cludgy of the trip. Surprisingly clean with plenty of carbolic

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Glorious Mountains

The Meseta firmly behind us we find ourselves climbing up into the Montes de Leon. The villages take on a mountain charm and although still with bright sunshine and electric blue skies, the air temperature is sharp. We could hug the landlady who promises to put the heating on for us. When the sun goes down, the temperature is going to drop like a stone. Thank goodness S is now the proud possessor of a slinky pair of leggings- strictly to be worn, out of sight under trousers, one must understand.

The mountain path with its gentle ascent through bracken, thyme and heather suits our Scottish honed legs and we pass many ‘gaspers’ unused to hills. The dawn is particularly special with pale rosy salmon hues lighting up the whitened grasses in the most delicate hues. Mists linger in the hollows. Near the top is the Cruz de Ferro, an impressive iron cross that seems to attract votive offerings of all manner of bits and bobs. All religions seem to share this need for offerings; to leave some mark or tribute. It reminds me of Buddhist shrines in China. Shrines of a different sort also abound on the Camino – to those boots, trusty or otherwise that have come to the end of their journey. Many a concrete route marker is topped off with a boot or two. Perhaps the soles have parted company, the blister inducing rub too vicious or a ritual leave taking. One pair yesterday I spotted ingeniously slung from the overhead electric line some 20m up. Good shot!

Getting to our bed for the night usually involves a pretty similar element of ritual. Boots off, socks peeled down and inspections made for damage. Achilles’ tendons rubbed, the impressive golf ball that is/was my ankle prodded. I can’t decide if one of the pins from an old plate (skiing injury) is working its way loose. It only has to hold out another ten days or so. Then to the necessary excitement of the laundry. On entering a room, my first thought is usually where to rig up the little washing line. Imagine my disgust that the excellent little balcony in Astorga is declared off limits for ‘smalls’ due to city regulations. Today no such problem but the shower, usually very handy for wash/rinse underfoot, is the size and shape of a ‘beam me up Scotty’ transfiguration tube. Nowhere for soap or shampoo or even the vaguest possibility of bending down to rescue such without one’s bottom becoming impossibly wedged against the tightly curved plastic door. Most unsatisfactory.

Anyway, domestic chores completed, depending on how late we have arrived, allows time for a little snooze prior to the all important evening’s medicinals. Avoiding the Menu Pellegrino and filthy gut rot vino tinto (S) are vague aspirations- sadly not always achieved. But ‘onwards and upwards’ is the motto.

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Luca’s oasis for weary pilgrims

Fresh beginnings

After a shaky few days it’s good to feel again up to the challenge and setting out with reasonable enthusiasm, rather that a slight sense of lumbering dread of the last few days. We are not silly enough to think our spiritual journey will be incomplete unless we trudge through the unappealing industrial detritus of León and, most agreeably, decide a bus can take the strain. Of course being Saturday the schedule is not as suggested by the nice lady on reception. We have no difficulty switching to the taxi solution. For €10 we are swept along in grand style and deposited at the edge of town. Leon has been a great meeting up point and reconnecting with lots of people we have become acquainted with along the way. Great to meet up again with our tame Viking; a glorious young Adonis with fine pale skin and long ash blond curly locks. He should be Scandinavian but hails- incredibly from Alaska. I’m not fussy. He’s drop dead gorgeous, speaks good Spanish and is very friendly. We end up playing the ‘who am I’ game with a pretty representational polyglot of nationals; German, American , Italian. The Italian can’t recall members of our British Royal Family – chosen by the German girl; Candida? he wonders, when being told it is Prince William’s wife. I couldn’t remember Nixon – even with the hint it is America’s most ‘notorious’ President. They are a charming and interesting mix of young; both the german girl and thr Italian speak impeccable English. The following morning the Italian, to my surprise, reinforces Sophy’s longing for a good bacon and eggs start to the day as, yet again, we are kicked out into the cold with a note on the kitchen door. ‘No breakfast on Sunday.’

‘Oh I spent 2 years in Manchester he admits. ‘Shit place.’

A lot of people on the walk seem to be at some sort of crossroads in their lives; either retired or having gone through a breakup or, with the young, searching for some sort of direction or meaning. I wonder how many will have found a resolution to their questions by journey’s end – or a whole new set to contemplate. Some people seem very interested in one’s motivations and question keenly, perhaps hoping for some insight or connections to their own thoughts. What I will come away with I think is that there’s no damascene moment- that would be too easy. The absolute joy for me is the freedom from the trivial irritation of modern living and day to day distractions that clutter our lives. Getting off the treadmill is a luxury; the people round one contribute to a common sense of purpose. There is sufficient real rigour to make one inordinately grateful for the little luxuries that do come ones way. Yesterday we ended up walking through a dust storm, compounded by a bush fire, the road still stretching endlessly ahead in an unending straight line. That’s at least an hour and a half and probably then some. Finally at the end is a very small town. Menu P all that s on offer. This is the worst yet, and it’s hard to believe it can sink any further. My veggie spaghetti consists of semi cooked pasta, no oil and some red sauce straight from a tube. My own fault for being vegetarian and unable to look another omelette in the face. Ah well, it wasn’t meant to be a gastronomic orgy…

We are now in Astorga. Stocking up on some warmer clothes is an imperative as, in the mornings especially, the temperature has dropped into the vicious zone. Making the best of things, Sophy suffers with good grace the indignity of donning my much loved, but admittedly less than glorious, cycling shorts to wear as make do bloomers. The perfect excuse too for a late start as, Spanish hours, nothing will open til 10.

Today, in the middle of nowhere, we come across another hermit stop. We’ve stumbled across several of these places. A sort of hippie establishment; Hammocks, Afghan rugs, stone patterns set in the dust and a fine rose garden, carefully tended by the patron, the long haired and bearded Luca. He dispenses peace and love, freshly squeezed water melon and a comfy perch. ‘Don’t drop crumbs on my cushions,’ he admonishes us in a wearily patient way, scurrying for a plate. I promise to do a drawing of him to make up. He clearly survives on donations, living gypsy fashion, half hermit here in the wild, and enjoys serving the Camino pilgrims as they pass through. Not such a bad life really.