Tonight, for the first time in over two weeks, I have a room to myself. More than that, I have a bed with cotton sheets. It’s amazing how a life lived on the road makes you so grateful for something we take for granted in this day and age. That’s the magic of the Camino, I guess!
I was up before my alarm this morning, but only just. When it did go off, I was up and dressed in a matter of minutes. I did delay long enough to have my modest breakfast of a couple of pastries, a flat peach and a Cacaolat drink, but by 5.40 I was out the door, staff in hand, and determined to beat both guidebook and Google Maps’ suggestions for travel time. The former hypothesised a ludicrous 5 1/2 hours, whereas the latter recommended a more reasonable 4 hours and ten minutes from O Pedrouzo.
Setting off so early meant that for half the trek I was in the dark, but that doesn’t bother me. In fact, I’ve got so used to navigating my way home through woodland paths by night after late trains from London over the years that I’ve become quite comfortable moving around in the darkness. The snap of twigs or the call of some night creature cannot unsettle me like it once did. And so, once I’d got ahead of the five or six torch-wielding pilgrims on the road, it was just me, the night and the nightjars.
I had a lot of time to think on the Camino, and it’s these quiet early morning stretches that make you think the most. Today, perhaps more than ever with the end in sight, I felt the spirit of my grandfather walking by my side. It is for him that I walk this road, in his name that I say a prayer every day. Every step is a step closer to a man I never knew, and yet one who has been a guiding light all of my life. Naturally, it has me thinking a lot about my own mortality. The darkness will do that to you. Like my mother, I do not fear death. Suffering, pain, naturally. But not death. There’s a chance, however slight, that in death my spirit may join with those of my kin, in whose borrowed light I have walked all the days of my life. Death is just the start of the real Camino, just as pilgrims are always told the Camino starts when you return home with what you have learned. A further journey toward the light, then. That can’t be so bad.
The roar of a plane taking off overhead woke me from my reverie as I rounded Santiago’s airport, and with the rising sun, the birdsong carried away all thoughts of the other world as the blue dawn drew me on through hill and forest to the edge of the apostle’s city.
I set a ferocious pace this morning, stopping for nothing but the odd shoe in my sandals, with the result that by the time the twin spires of Santiago appeared on the horizon at Monte do Gozo, I had shaved a full hour off Google’s cautious estimate. In the end I made the nineteen kilometre trek in a little over three hours. Not bad for a morning’s work – and since I was in town before nine, I arrived bang on time to collect my compostela (the pilgrim’s certificate) as soon as the office opened on the hour.
There was a small queue already waiting, and some were there for the Finisterre credential (apparently that’s a thing), but as it’s a lower priority, they were shunted to one side. I was given the number eleven – auspicious, as it’s my birthday – and called to the desk within minutes. They must have been anticipating a tidal wave of pilgrims today, because they had pre-printed the forms and dispensed with the questions. Which is just as well, as I was prepared to defend my choice of name, but in the end I didn’t have to say a word.
With my compostela in hand, I lingered for a while in the Praza do Obradoiro, watching the pilgrims come and go. Most of the travelers with whom I shared the road earlier on should rock up tomorrow, though Simas got here yesterday, and I’m told Louis the Belgian was in town last night too.
After collecting one last stamp ahead of the four spaces saved for the Finisterre finish, I met up with Simas and we grabbed a bite to eat at Bar La Tita at the recommendation of a Georgian friend of his. And what a find! The tortilla is some of the best I’ve had on the Camino, it comes free with a drink, and keeps on coming with more drinks…! England, watch and learn!
I tried to make midday Mass, but missed out by literally two spaces, so I decided to come back later and head for the albergue instead. I was waylaid by an urban dance-a-thon which I shamelessly got involved with (they were playing Everybody Dance Now, Candy Shop and various other dance/hip hop classics, how could I say no?). Yes, I appreciated the irony of a tour guide explaining how in holy years a pilgrimage to Saint James’ tomb will cleanse the soul of all sins, while 50 Cent’s chant ‘if you be a nympho, I’ll be a nympho’ reverberated off the cathedral walls. But I had a good time!
I checked into the Seminario Menor and spent most of the early afternoon dozing off. Frankly, after averaging 28-30km a day every day for two weeks and more, I think I’d earned it.
I wandered into town for six, well ahead of the 7.30pm pilgrims’ mass, but ducked into the cathedral as soon as I reached it and took a seat near the front anyway. I killed time with my sketchbook, and from one moment to another the organ above was blaring and the priests of Santiago were processing in, arrayed in coats of black, white and red, the real tricolour of Spain. After weeks of spoken Mass, it was a welcome change to have sung Mass once again, and since they provided use with an order of device, I could finally follow along, too. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue came bellowing out of the organ to finish, and after saying one last prayer for my family, I took my leave of Santiago’s cathedral.
After skimping on lunch I figured I deserved a treat for making it here in record time – that, and a single communion wafer makes for a poor supper. So I popped into one of the bars on the busy Rúa do Franco and, eyeballing a good’un (O Barril), I ordered a surf and turf dish: zorza (Galician pork in pimentón) and zamburiñas (the iconic scallops of the Camino).
I finished the night on a little ritual with the scallops. They came in the perfect number: seven. One for each of the companions who have lit the road of the Camino for me like stars in the night sky.
I toasted each one in turn. First, my mother, who first introduced me to the Camino and walked most of the first leg with me. Second, to Paz, an Argentinian woman who was my first companion on the road over the Pyrenees in that first assault on the Camino four years ago. Third, to Simas, my final companion on the road, and the only recurring light this summer who could keep pace with me (and in so doing, ground my wandering thoughts for my own good). Fourth, fifth and sixth, to my three stalwart companions on the road this spring: Sophia, Mikkel and Lachlan, with whom I would have gladly walked this road to the end and back, and whom I have carried with me in my heart this summer. And last, but certainly not least in my thoughts, to José, my grandfather, without whom there would be no Camino.
Tomorrow is a new day. Santiago de Compostela glitters under a cloud of gentle rain, and my back is relieved to be free of its shell for two days. It’s time to explore this jewel of a city! BB x
The Book of Barnabas 