A Pilgrim’s Journey; starts in Andalucia.

[macasas]

Depending on which guide you read, today’s walk was either 28 or 36 km. Personally I wouldn’t bother arguing it either way, the distance wasn’t that important, well not until the last hour. Today we would walk over the highest point on the Via de la Plata at 1345m and then back down to 700m, don’t fool yourself that the down bit is any easier than the up, it really isn’t. Different muscles that probably haven’t been used for a while start screaming at you, your toes bunch up at the front of your boots and after an hour of non-stop downhill walking, trying to keep your footing and slipping every other step, you would pay a substantial amount for some flat land.

By 10 o’clock we had reached Requejo, a small village just like all the others, but it was the last village before we started the climb that would take nearly all day. We could see numerous routes tracking up the mountain and as we discussed which one would be preferable I have to admit that none of them looked inviting, and at the speed Conxi walked I was beginning to wish I had walked this day on my own, at my speed and resting when I needed to. On reflection however we had somehow clicked into each others rhythm, except on the steep hills, and before I knew it, it was 10:30 and we were off, and we didn’t stop until 3 o’clock, it was uphill all the way, with the track changing surface on a regular basis, but it was mainly stones, just the wrong thing for blisters and ingrown toenails, but after a while the pain merges with the aches and the aches merge with numbness that expands out of your thighs and down towards your feet. There is no piece of gymnasium equipment or aerobic class that can match the stress your legs are going through, and there is no point in pressing the stop button, there isn’t one. When I stop the relief is soon lost the moment I start walking again, when the next 10 minutes are spent hobbling along whilst your muscles loosen up again, I almost don’t want to stop. The only thing that will take away the aching and allow the legs to relax is getting to the top; there is no other option.

By the time we reached Lubián I had completely had enough. I dumped my rucksack next to a wall with the only bit of shade I could see within falling distance and sat down. I thought about taking my boots off but just knew that I would have to put them on again to get to wherever we would end up for the night; and besides I didn’t have the energy. Conxi went off to find the Albergue owner, but we ended up under the front porch of someones house. Out came a bowl of salt water for me, and bottle of Fanta Lemon and some ice and we sat there for some time, Conxi talking to the woman and me just listening and nodding in all the wrong places. I have no idea who the woman was, but nothing was too much trouble for her, and over the next half hour she brought me back to life. Another woman appeared and everyone else seemed to be expecting her, except me. Ten minutes later we were installed in a large multi-roomed basement with a private bathroom and this was ours for the night, apparently salt-bowl woman didn’t like the way Albergue man treated peregrinos, and this was her friends house, we had to pay, but it was a palace in comparison to the Albergue; I slept like a baby, through the evening, the night and right through breakfast!

[macasas]

For 2 days the walking seemed to merge into a blur, end the end of each day I was so tired I just stuck my feet up on the bed head and nodded off. I have made some notes but in the main cannot remember much of interest. My lack of sleep had really caught up with me big time and my body was calling the shots.


Altough the countryside had already drastically changed some days before, just after Lubián we had crossed the border and were now truly in Galicia. There were a lot more trees, more vegetation generally and of course, more hills.



There was the time we reached a river and decided to go back and take a detour only to be met by a farmer who assured us, no he actually took us down the path to show us that it was okay. He took Conxi’s Hi-Tec walking stick with all its memories of 3 previous Camino Frances’s and snapped it thrashing away at the undergrowth on the side of the camino. He was just brute force plain and simple, and to him it was just a piece of wood, there was plenty of that about, but to Conxi it was something special bought by her brother and carried for thousands of miles. The farmer took my swiss army knife to cut another for her, and did his best to b***** it up as well, it is now blunt, and no longer closes properly. He did say sorry, and then left us in an old river bed that was pretending to be a camino.

In A Gudiña the camino divided into two; one went via left to Verin, the other went right to Laza, Verin was flat and long, Laza was hilly and short. We turned right!

The camino seemed to wander over rolling hills and across flat plains that just went on and on and on. Just after getting into rhythm on a stretch of road it would send us off onto the roughest road covered in stones and then down an old river bed, filled with new water. It was constantly changing, the only thing that never varied with the length, the next town was always over the next crest, another hour, another pair of socks.

[macasas]

Let me take you on a journey! It’s 7 o’clock in the morning, there is a fine mist over the hills and as you look up the mountains the tops just disappear into the mist. Your rucksack lands on your shoulders, its heavy, and you nod at the person stood next to you. Both of you have seen the map provided by the local police station, and you know what is coming. You may have already climbed the hill before Almanden, the one that nearly killed you, you have just climbed all day out of the valley after Puebla de Sanabria, but today is something new altogether. It goes almost as high as the highest point on the camino, its’ steepness is shown as 15%, and the weather forecast just happened to mention that it would be hot, very hot. You have a full load of fruit, water and plasters, probably another 2 or 3kg sitting on your shoulders; well what else were you going to do today, let’s go!

The climbing starts straight away, it’s a gentle slope but it’s definitely building up to something. By 8 o’clock the sun is already heating up and your shadow is strong and long in front of you, you can feel the backs of your knees already drying out even with the earlier handful of sun cream, your sweatband is soaked and your bandana is dripping sweat into your eyes. Your walking stick taps the ground with every stride keeping your rhythm.

Up and up you go, the camino is doing it’s best to slow you down with every step, stones roll under your feet and threaten to twist the tendons right out of your ankle, the walking stick helps a bit but slides on the rocks that form natural steps in the earth, steps that are slightly too high for a natural stride.

The camino is also teasing you today, at the crest of every hill is another stretch of uphill track disappearing into the distance, the mist has gone, the distance looks a long way away, but just like the last one, and the one before, it is all uphill. The camino is getting narrower, the trees are creeping in from both sides, the wind is being kept out and the heat is being kept in. It is now hot enough for a sauna, but there is no door to leave. The closeness of the trees obscures the present view, your past progress, and your future section of the camino, all you have is right here and now. You try to remember how far it was to the next hill crest the last time there was a sight of it, there is always the hope that it is the top, but chances are it isn’t. The thought makes your legs heavy!

Suddenly your legs go light, there is a small section of flat track, the sensation is one of floating, but it is short lived as the track takes a sharp turn downwards; the ground is loose with stones and solid with marble, every step is a precise placement to prevent you falling on your *beep*, or worse. Your feet shoot forward in your boots and you toes plead for more room, they will have to wait! It’s a list of priorities and right at the top is staying upright, your thighs have most of your attention, followed by your calves and then your feet. You curl your toes in an attempt to relieve some pressure but it doesn’t go, it just moves to another position, you might as well leave them to it, so you do.

The track turns another corner, and the pressure is gone, the track is flat, but only for 20 meters or so as it prepares for the next uphill section, you take a deep breath and sigh as your left foot lands on rolling stone. Your leg is going sideways and so are you but you land on solid ground once again; this is no place for a twisted ankle, no place at all! You hardly lost your rhythm.



You have been climbing now for 3 hours, the 15% quoted earlier is very doubtful, at times this is almost rock climbing with a rucksack. The heat has reached well over 40 and the wind has died to nothing. Your hope and disappointment at reaching the top has come and gone with a rhythm all its own. You are completely dripping with sweat, your legs are hanging off and your feet are burning like little fires all their own, and all you can see is yet another hill in front of you; sure it looks like the top but then so did all the others. How do you feel? not physically, you’re completely gone physically so much so you have forgotten you even have blisters! How do you feel inside, how do you feel about this next hill, do you keep going, do you stop and have a rest, do you stop and suffer the restart or do you stop and wait for help? Your walking partner is 30 meters in front and still climbing, you think you know your limits and you still have it in you, okay the weights tied around your ankles weren’t there at the start, but then nor was the inner feeling of reaching the top. When you reach the crest your walking partner is stood next to a sign saying “Bar, 500m”, and she has a big smile on her face. Now, so do you!

Just behind the sign is a road, with tarmac! You trek down it for over a kilometre but don’t care that the sign said 500m. In front of you is a small village and in it somewhere is a bar. That will do for now, but your day has only just began for out of 36km you have only done 12.5km, you have climbed over 500m, how do you feel now?

[macasas]

Ourense was now within my sights, from Xunqueida it was only 20km away, there was a small hill out of the town and then it was downhill all the way to Ourense which stood at 200m. That’s a lot of downhill, and a lot of pressure for your feet and toes. The small hill out of town turned out to be a bit bigger than the description, it took a bit longer than my expectations but it finally ran out of steam and started to slope downhill. The pueblos were closer together now but the sun had not changed. We arrived in Ourense 2 hours after are expected arrival time, it just goes to show that you should never expect anything from the camino, because it will always do something different, and what started out as an easy day turned into a 6 hour walk.

Ourense is big, once again I was knackered and as soon as my head hit the pillow I created a new meaning for the word ‘siesta’. The hot roman baths would have to wait.

It was a shame that I spent so much time sleeping, because tomorrow Conxi would continue on towards Santiago and I would take my planned rest days here. My feet really needed it. We spent our last few hours in the main plaza sipping a cool drink and watching the world go by. I thought I would enjoy the solitude of walking on my own, and I did, but I also enjoyed the 7 or 8 days we had walked together, her talking and me listening and gibbering away in Spanglish. Sure she took the mickey, but she never got tired of my poor attempts at her language and was always with a smile on her face. She had looked after me, organised much of our overnight stops and never expected anything in return. Without knowing it she pushed me to new limits that I would not have gone to if I had been on my own, we had walked 250km together, most of it side by side, she had always been there waiting for me at the top of the hill with a smile on her face and a word of encouragement; she was my Camino Angel, and soon she would be gone, heading off to finish her own Camino de Santiago! Buen Camino Conxi, Buen Camino!

[macasas]

I am left with an empty hollow feeling that comes with an enormous weight. It could be my tired body telling me to lie down, or it could be an intense feeling of loss, it could be a bit of both. Within hours I am already missing her and wishing I had carried on but this is her camino too and I think she needed to arrive on her own, to finish what she had started. Only after a long sleep through the afternoon and most of the next morning did I realise what an intense time it had been together, so close, walking side by side hour after hour, I hear her voice everytime someone says “Hola”, I hear her footsteps behind me, but she is never there.

Daniel and Petra have arrived in Ourense and have booked into the hotel next to mine. We had a few hours together in the café talking about our experiences of the camino and agreeing it will be very difficult to explain all the aspects and how they have affected us. Physically it is easy, I can see my legs are stronger and my stomach a little bit flatter. I am having trouble distinguishing mental, spiritual and emotional aspects as they seem to be merged and blurred. I feel my mind is calmer, not so worried about what will happen in the future, and not so bothered about what has happened in the past. I have started to recognise when my thoughts are attacking me, comparing right now with back then, or hoping that in days to come things will be better. What can be better than right now, nothing at all, so I am learning to accept and enjoy right now whatever it is, and wherever I am, and I fully recommend it. I am no longer concerned with expressing my thoughts and feelings to others, and reliving some of the moments from the previous weeks as I write is causing plenty of tears. Self knowledge is building as new limits surpass the old, without knowing it Conxi has shown me what I am capable of doing both physically and mentally; there were plenty of times I would have stopped had I been walking alone. Her smile alone could remove the pain and replenish the spent energy in my legs and another friendly word of encouragement would drive me on for another hour, endurance is all in my mind, it depends on me and how I am thinking; right now my thoughts are extremely clear and focused!

[macasas]

Just like talking about poo at the dinner table I have shown my blisters to a few people and each time they recoiled as if poked in the eye with a sharp stick. Pain is also a very personal thing, and what is unbearable for one is a level of comfort for others, where my pain threshold sits in relation to yours is immeasurable.

My right foot.
The heel has a 30cm raw patch, courtesy of Compeed, with a 5mm hole I the centre that goes deeper into the heel. The compeed was applied during a days walking and by the end of the day only the middle bit, over the blister had stuck, the rest was hanging free and had to be removed. During the process the whole blister peeled off leaving 2 weeks of pain.

The ball has 3 blisters running from the arch to the big toe. These are now hard and solid.

The outside edge just in front of the heel has had a deep blister that will not release the fluid no matter how deep the needle goes. It ran about 20mm along the side and only today has it started to go down.

The small toes started with a blister underneath, the size of the toe. This exploded on the way into Galisteo, the end of the toe died, went black and has been falling off ever since. It is now rock hard skin which goes soft after hours of walking and screams especially hard on downhill sections. The nail is black and just about to fall off, I hope, and the rest of the toes is a dark maroon colour.

My left foot joined in the fun late.
I have a 10 pence blister underneath between the big toe and the next. The ball is similar to the right, stretching on down to the big toe. The small toe is following the right only not so bad at the moment, but the scream is still there and so is the nail, but not for long.

All the advice available suggests a good pair of walking boots. If you have a good pair already I will not suggest that you change, but every Spaniard will tell you the same thing; unless it is springtime and raining a lot, where trainers, the sort of off-road track running type of trainers. In every Albergue you could tell the Spanish from the Italians, the Germans and the others by the type of footwear outside their doors. All the Spanish had trainers, none of them had blisters.

Obviously having to buy a new pair of boots halfway through didn’t help at all, and most of my blisters started at this time, but that isn’t to say I didn’t have any before. Comfort is everything, and what feels comfortable when I put my boots on certainly isn’t after 6 hours of walking, especially considering the terrain, the surface and the heat. There are pictures of Roman soldiers wearing plain sandals, I have no idea how they could walk so far in them. In Xunqueida I had a foot massage, and have pressure pain under the arches of my feet due to changing the way I normally walk to compensate for blister pain in other areas. This happens unconsciously as you walk, and over 30 days can cause severe problems, luckily for me my blisters are well spread out and my compensating has been equally spread out, the body is a master of adjustment.

The mind is a master of thinking as well, and I have learned to live and walk with my feet, in whatever condition they are in, and this changes throughout the day. With just over 100km to go there is no way I am stopping now, not for blisters, not for anything!

[macasas]

Okay, earlier today at the last post I didn’t have my camera with me and I didn’t realise people would be so interested in my feet. I don’t have any pictures of them at their worst, and I don’t have any of them wrapped up in plasters and bandages ready for a days walking. This is what they look like today, so you can make up your own minds just how painful they were when they were in their prime. Their prime was the day after Salamanca, how long ago was that, Day 22, and if I had stopped then where would I be now, the journey would have been very different!


The dark bit is now rock hard but you can see the size of it originally.


Nail not ready to break free but discoloured and on its way. Can just see top of old blister that extended under complete little toe.


Three blisters from ball to big toe, these buggers hurt with every step, not easy to place your foot any other way.


Originally 3 separate blisters that joined up thanks to Compeed's ability to fall off and then pull off the skin to a raw state. Been with me since Day 1 of new boots, Salamanca Day 22.


The nail is loose and about to come off, but then I have been saying that for a few days now. Started with old boots.

[Deborah]

Hi Macasas, you are nearly there. Animo!

I arrived with the students on Saturday after 5 days walk with them (125km). They coped well. Even played football after our days walk! Get a breath. Kids!

We left Santiago today. Next destination Fatima. Then tomorrow they depart from Lisbon Airport
homeward bound, Memphis. Me, back home to Malaga.

Enjoy Santiago.

[macasas]

I am sitting on the banks of the river Miña, a grand old river that runs through Ourense and feeds it with life. There are rapids playing with canoeists in tiny bathbats; they try their luck, and it’s impressive to watch as the goal becomes one of survival for the longest time rather than outright winners against a force of nature that will always outlast them. I have come to treat my feet to a few hours of thermal relaxation; it is quite an incredible place.

As the noddy train bus crawled its way along a bumpy road we just pulled up next to some man-made rock pools cut into the riverbank, there were no cars, no hustle or bustle, no-one collecting money at a ticket booth, and no park keeper running around telling you what you couldn’t do, no kids running around out of control, I certainly wasn’t in England. If I had been there would be a commercial operation going on with every effort to take as much of my money as possible, whilst providing the worst service and experience for me that they could. Here, everyone just knew that you had a shower and then got in whichever rock pool you fancied, and just sank in.

The water was extremely hot, but extremely bearable at the same time; it wrapped itself around my feet, crawled up my legs and begged me to lie down and relax; so I obliged. After an eternity I sat up feeling like I had been massaged from head to toe, the view was fantastic, and made me realise how much I love being close to water. I have sat here for an age just staring into the flow of water passing to the west, it must be 100m wide, and it is taking my thoughts with it, and unlike yesterday they are not so clear anymore!

I feel like I am sitting at the edge of a frontier of some kind. It’s not physical like the old wild west, but somewhere up ahead there is something waiting for me, I can feel it, but I don’t know what it is. Santiago is only days away and the closer I get the more I want to slow down so that this journey, this experience, doesn’t come to an end. It’s like a good book, I can’t put it down but I don’t want it to end either. My best guess right now is that it is another lesson, a master class in the heart versus the mind, feelings versus thoughts, senses versus logic. My heart is telling me that I should have continued with Conxi, to have ended the walk together. I sent a text wishing her well, she has replied saying she had wanted to arrive in Santiago hand in hand, my hand. Was it a language misunderstanding or was I just crap at reading the situation? It didn’t matter now, what mattered was it was too late. I had made the decision to stay in Ourense, to let her go on without me, and all because her real life was waiting to meet her there and I didn’t think I could be a part of that real life. My head was telling me it was over, I would never see my camino angel again and my heart had no answer with which fight back. Something inside me desperately wanted my heart to stand up and declare the fight was back on, to at least stay the course like a canoeist fighting the rapids. The logic in my head felt like an overwhelming force of nature and battered my feelings until they didn’t know which way was north, until they accepted she was probably already on her way back home, the camino and all that meant already behind her, not forgotten, still a memory, but then memories are a thing of the past. Yes, that makes sense! I am woken by the sound of the noddy train bus arriving and gather my things to leave. With one last glance behind me I see the last of my thoughts disappear around the bend in the river on its way out to sea; I need to find north again, I may have walked more than 900km but I have not yet mastered my thoughts, they still lead in matters of the heart, and somehow that has to change!

Despite the raging thoughts in my head I manage to get a few hours siesta. I wake to the 4 o’clock bells in the cathedral calling to the faithful. I leave the hotel to recharge my phone and collect my emails, the sign outside tells me it is 41 degrees, but it feels much cooler. Perhaps my earlier estimations have been slightly under, perhaps I didn’t realise just how hot is was during those long walks without shade. They seemed like an age ago, like they had happened in another lifetime. As I reached the top of the hill and turned into the paseo I fell in behind a religious padre of some kind, dressed all in black; he must be hot! As I followed in his footsteps a man called out ‘padre’, and crossed from the other side of the street some 30 meters, taking his hat off as he went, just to pat him on the shoulder and wish him ‘buenas tardes’. The padre didn’t miss a step, he didn’t acknowledge the man in anyway, and the man sloped off like a schoolboy ignored by his peers. For some reason this didn’t surprise me, I have met other so-called religious believers and none of them have ever shown much compassion towards others. I don’t understand why, isn’t that what they preach? Perhaps he was thinking too much and had not yet had the lesson I believed was coming to me. I hoped I would learn mine well!

[Matty]

Macasas, if your heart and rythem is of Conxi, I take it by receiving a txt from her then you have her number. Can you not finish your journey and then be hand in hand with her soon? Maybe another adventure and challenge is not thatfar away, after all you arenowfree and have no ties.

Maybe she is the reason that you did this walk, not that you knew at the start but now your near the end your angel does not have to be lost.

I remember that it was you that saved me and my emotional spiral to hell, without you and your thoughts I doubt if My soul and body would be alive.

Never forgetting what you have done for me and my life. You should be praised as a saint and rewarded with ultimate happiness.

Good luck with the last bit and look forward to seeing you back in blighty.

[StoneyM]

Macacas:
- Your forum today was very moving; your writing flows with a great, natural talent. I hope you put this to very good use in your future, that's waiting for you.
Yes emotions can be more powerful than logic and feel more intense than physical pain - keep strong for the last stretch. Who knows what's waiting for you in your next chapter.

[Don]

Macacas:
- keep strong for the last stretch. Who knows what's waiting for you in your next chapter.

I think many if not all readers of this thread would support that.
I do. Well said.

[Kathy]

Good luck on the final stretch!

[macasas]

For 40 days and 40 nights the sky has been clear, by day the sun has maintained a constant watch on the back of my neck and by night the stars have twinkled their message in a code known only to themselves. Today, the thunder rolled and the rain came down, the poncho was called into action and I experienced walking in the rain, Gellego style.

The rain was not important, it just felt extremely good to be back on the camino after so many days resting and most important of all, my feet felt great, none of the usual aches or pains, and it had only taken 3 plasters to get ready for my boots.

The camino out of Ourense splits two ways, both are equally steep, and both are the same distance to Villas Novas. I took the left hand route, not by choice, but because I didn’t find the junction where they apparently divide, it was my first day back and I would have to get my navigation skills back on track.

I had angels on my mind most of the day. I had been waiting for a text reply since Saturday but decided I would sleep better with the phone off, less expectation! I only know a few things about angels. The first is they are not real, they are figments of are imagination, they appear to fill a need, to help us over a hurdle and then they leave. The second thing I know is that they have wings, these help them arrive, but they also help them leave. Conxi had arrived after a 55km day, she breezed into the Albergue at Tábara as if she had walked around the corner, perhaps she had flown in, and now she had flown away. I’ve had no reply since the one telling me she could not call me, couldn’t, didn’t want to, are they the same thing? I had to get used to the idea that as good as it was, it was now over; my angel had flown!

The hills out of Ourense stood up to their reputation, they were long, steep and in keeping with most others so far, deceptive at every bend. Walking in a poncho is a sweaty affair and after a few hours I was as wet on the inside as I was on the outside. The camino felt familiar although I had never past this way before and once out of Ourense and the cars had died to one every hour, there was a silence that told me I was really back on track. It was good to be back, there were only days to go!

I arrived in Cea early for me, it was an easy day to get the legs going again, in fact the whole week was planned to be an easier time all around. In comparison to the past week it would be a stroll into Santiago, there was no rush, in fact I didn’t want it to end so the slower the better. The Albergue looked quite clean, it was big with probably 40 beds, a kitchen, a washing area and large balcony. Within the hour it was full of people, there were over 10 walkers going through their routines. Some things never change, there would be very little sleep tonight, everything about the camino was coming back with a passion.

At 7 that evening I got a text message from Conxi, she had tried to call 3 times last night, but my phone was off, I had not answered. She was just about to call again! I went outside for some peace and quiet, its hard enough understanding Spanish on the phone without people talking behind you. When the phone rang my heart missed a beat, and my world stood still. It was good to hear my voice she said, hers sounded strange, like when someone has called and even though the voice is familiar you are not sure who they are; how were my feet, I had forgotten about my feet but yeah they are great; she was missing me too, had been thinking about us too but she had her life in Madrid and wasn’t sure what to do. She was at work, she would phone again later! The angel had not flown far, and was still hovering, there was now no chance of any sleep for the foreseeable future!

The chorus of pig noises started almost immediately they all returned from their evening meal; except pigs made less noise! The whale sleeping 2 beds away from me made so much noise I could hear him over the music I had pumping into my earphones, unbelievable! If this sounds like a bitter piece of writing, it is because it is 2:30 in the morning and I am once again sitting in the kitchen in the dark. I have tried sleeping on the sofa bed but the snoring is just pouring down the staircase and into my head; I have tried outside on the balcony and briefly enjoyed watching the clouds silently slide overhead whilst listening to whale-man through the 2 foot wall, the dogs barking and someone playing crap music far too loud for this time of night. Not only that, it was getting cold and I had still not seen a shooting star! I went back inside, got my laptop and went back to the kitchen sofa, James Blunt would have to keep me sane for the next few hours or I might go and smother someone with a pillow.

Why was I the only person unable to sleep? There must be fifteen people in the room upstairs, two woman and the rest doing pig impressions. Obviously some of them couldn’t hear the snoring over the noise they were making themselves, but there were others that seemed quite happy to sleep through the storm, how was that possible, was there something wrong with me, perhaps my ears were too clean, perhaps I was still too stressed or not stressed enough. Each time I looked at the clock it hadn’t moved, it was still ticking but the hands weren’t moving in the direction of it becoming light outside, light enough to leave without getting lost in the darkness. I would check the route before leaving because I didn’t want to end up in the same place as this lot for another night, or there really would be trouble.

[macasas]

Within the last two days I have once again climbed back up to 800m, and for some reason this time the continual climbing on rough rocks pretending to be paths is being felt in the legs and the shoulders. Galicia is a lot like England and the further I go the more I feel my green surroundings, oak trees of varying sizes and continual stone walls laid by hand lining the camino remind me of different parts of the UK. It rains a lot more here, just like the UK.

By 9 o’clock the Cistercian monastery at Oseira had come into view and like something out of a Sean Connery movie the dark walls and sunken windows presented an eerie spectacle. It could have been used for Hogwarts in Harry Potter, its tall bell towers fronting a fortress which in modern times makes money from pilgrims, making eucalyptus licor which of course is good for the health and charging for guided tours by the coach load; and if the size of the car park is anything to go by they do okay. The café overlooking the front façade was open but there was no-one about. I helped my self to a pan au chocolate before calling out ‘hola’ for the fifth time, and finally getting a distant response and then a cup of mint tea to wash it down.

An hour later in the back end of no-where the camino narrowed to a single width. As I made my way down into a bog I could here cow bells approaching. I was forced to retreat as a herd of cows was shepherded past me, each cow in turn stopping to check me out and make sure I wasn’t a threat before passing in a little hurried trot. At the rear the shepherd was an elderly woman, we said hello, she asked where I was from, English! ‘I lived in Essex for 14 years’ she said in broken but understandable English and the conversation flowed between the two languages as I asked about local hotels, albergues and village fiestas to mark the Santiago fiesta and she told me about her family, her dead mother and dying father and the reason she was back looking after the family animals. The house on the hill over there she said, they live in England too, they are young, don’t want to live in the country but they are coming back for August, for the holidays, if I had stayed any longer I would have been invited to meet them in person.

The camino criss-crossed the roads and other tracks as it made its way over the hills. As I approached one section of track the road was completely blocked by a flock of the dirtiest looking sheep I had ever seen. Once again an elderly woman in Wellington boots brought up the rear and backed-up by two silent dogs encouraged the slow progress of the flock towards their home. She was friendly and chatty, said she could speak a bit of French if I wanted, I didn’t, and she continually tapped her stick on the ground and the backs of the slowest sheep. I joined in with my stick, and she laughed at my attempts to be a shepherd for a minute. The slowest looked like they were struggling because of their long toes nails; they looked like they were wearing a pair of Arabian pointed toe shoes, and the shepherd confirmed that they need to have their toenails cut. In the next instant the camino went right and the sheep had gone left, buen viaje came the familiar voice, gracias!

For the second day in a row the poncho was put to good use. It wasn’t continuous and for some time the rucksack waterproof protector was used to stop the contents getting wet, and to stop me having to wear the sweatbox poncho. As Castro Dozón came into view the approach road became a game of dodging lorries to avoid the spray and the cold wind that followed. As I passed the bus stop I met a German couple who had been in the Albergue the night before, she was struggling with her feet, they were waiting for the bus, this really was a test of stamina and determination, not to be treated lightly, and although my feet felt a lot better this was no time to feel complacent, I too needed to keep looking after my best asset.

A mid-afternoon siesta was top of the priority list and as soon as the Albergue was opened I was straight into bed. I decided the weather wasn’t good enough to wash and dry my clothes by the morning so I left them out to air, washing just the socks and pants. Sure enough, within a few hours I have woken with a chill and for the first time since this adventure began I am searching the bottom of my rucksack for the fleece I have been carrying all this time, saved at every purging session when reducing weight was the priority, because somehow I just knew this day would come, and here it was. When the man from the Albergue opens his office later today, I would ask him for one of the blankets I could see on the shelf behind his desk. Just like England!

[macasas]

The day started with the feeling of being in a caravan, swaying from side to side with the sound of rattling and loose panels as a torrent of wind and rain swept over the hills and down into the unprotected valley in which the Albergue, and the village of Cea was situated. The clouds were so low it didn’t get light until past 7 o’clock, so the possibility of getting lost and missing the camino was high, so I stayed in bed an extra hour; it was a camino lie-in.

When I finally left the atmosphere was misty and merky, the grey skies were dark and low, a lot like England. The rain was intermittent but when it came it was hard, and when it left the air remained wet, the poncho didn’t know whether it was needed or not being constantly put on and taken off.

Galicia is all uphill, even the downhill sections are uphill. I know it sounds weird but there is very little rest bite and the muscles in my legs are in a state of constant use. The camino was changing just as much, the pueblos were passing me by at the rate of 2 or 3 an hour as their closeness to each other varied between 1 and 4 km. As I passed Xesta the landscape changed as I repeatedly met the winding scar of a new road, and then a new railway being built. Both projects, probably being paid for by European Union money, were driving their way through the countryside and forcing aside village life and years of living with a beautiful view and replacing it with a tear in the landscape. The scar was deep and wide, the mud wet and sticky, the new bridges 100m high as they jumped from hill crest to hill crest in one leep, blocking the view of centuries and replacing it with modern progress that isn’t such a wonderful thing! I wonder if the locals know that their lives will never be the same, once they cannot sleep at night because of the noise, and are woken every hour by the high speed train travelling from Ourense to Santiago. My walk will take 5 days, no doubt the train only takes 5 minutes!

I crossed another river where the water was so dark it looked black, up the other side and came face to face with chicken wire fence decorated with twigs arranged in the shape of crosses; there must have been 30 or 40 lining what was the fence at the side of the main road. I have no explanation for these crosses, it’s the first time I have seen anything like it on the camino; perhaps one person did it, and then like the sheep in the fields, others have followed and copied the idea; it was certainly something different!

Prada is a small pueblo about 8km short of the days final destination in Silleda. I was beginning to realise that almost everything was closed and the reason may well been that it was the fiesta of Santiago. A small bodega on the corner of the crossroads saved the day by providing a good size lunch, with drinks for the vast sum of 3 euros. Where in the UK could you match that, nowhere is the answer you are looking for, nowhere!

As I approached Taboada I crossed another Gellego bridge similar to roman bridges before; the river was so black it could be 1000 feet deep, but probably wasn’t; I am not sure what makes it look so black. From a distance I could hear gunshots, but they were getting closer, and louder, and more frequent until I realised that it couldn’t be gunshots at the rate they were firing unless there was about 20 of them out hunting. In the same instant I realised that it had to be fireworks, and saw the explosions in the air about a mile away. As I got closer I could see the people leaving the church service and firework display and crossing the road to the temporary stage where a band tried to get locals dressed in suits and local traditional costumes alike to dance to some good old Gellego dance music. Four songs in and they all sounded the same, just like a drum and bass festival, the same bass line and almost the same vocal drone. Spanish fiestas could be so much fun but this one faded into the past as I headed off towards Silleda and a bed for the night; it was a bigger town with more facilities, surely they would have their own fiesta, they didn’t, and all the shops were closed for the holiday, food shopping for tomorrow was once again a problem.

As my head hit the pillow for a well needed siesta a continual banging noise kept me awake. The men in the bar below were playing cards, and every time a card was presented on the table it was accompanied by a slamming of the hand on the table. It is a sort of bravado come determination statement that may well be a part of the game, but at 11 o’clock when I was trying to get an early night, the continual chatter, shouting and banging was really getting on my nerves; and it was a holiday so it would probably go on all bloody night!

[macasas]

I woke up to breakfast in bed, the only problem was it wasn’t me enjoying fruit and yoghurt or tea and toast; it was something small and annoying snacking on me. The back of my neck and the bingo-wings under my left arm were covered in bites; did the bed have fleas, bugs or did I sleep with a mosquito? I had a look around for something small, fat and full of my blood struggling to move so I could squash it against the wall, after a feast this big he, or she, would be fat and slow and after I caught it, it would be dead! I couldn’t find it!

The weather had been poor overnight and my clothes, left out to dry, had not, and were still wet. I replaced what I could with dry clothes from my rucksack and gingerly put on the rest in the state it was in; it wouldn’t feel like that for long, it would dry as I went.

The old woman had already opened the bar downstairs so I decided to have a mint tea before leaving. She was really chatty, her daughter was an English teacher, her second a music teacher, and both her sons were Guardia Civil, so I had better pay my bill. She wished me ‘buen viaje’ and I was on my way, the penultimate day had begun, I didn’t know how I was feeling towards being so close to the end of my journey, I just knew I had another 20km plus day in store and although it wasn’t hot, it wasn’t raining either, it was a good day for walking.

By 10 o’clock I had reached Chapa, a small town with plenty of shops and bars. This time however I chose a bakery café and was rewarded with the best mint tea and chocolate croissant since I had crossed into Galicia; not your usual pan au chocolate, oh no, this had chocolate outside as well as in, and it was hard not soft, hmmmmm! Not only that, I pulled out my laptop and did a search for a WIFI network, and there was the name of the café right up there at 100%. I got the password from the woman behind the counter and another cup of tea; I would be here some time. I passed on another croissant, but it was a close run thing! I bought a lovely loaf of bread for my lunch and the bill came to 3.80 euros, and I am still not sure how this is possible.

For most of the walk today I was passing through small woodlands and smaller villages, mostly distinguishable by the smell of eucalyptus trees and pig farms respectively. The roadsides were decorated with wild hydrangeas mixed with overhead vines hanging half sized grapes. The vines moonlighted as shade for whatever purpose the owner wanted, including huge marble tables where I could almost see the whole family sitting down to an extended meal, with grandparents fixed to their seats and children running riot around the garden. Maize, or sweet corn as it was called when the Green Cross Code Man ruled, was growing everywhere, even a local football pitch was under threat of being used in the off-season as every piece of land was utilised to grow something that could feed the population.

For my lunch stop I opted for a roadside restaurant instead of the loaf of bread and tin of fish I had carried all day. At this point I suspected that I had only 5 or 6 km to go today, but although I had kept to the camino I had not seen any signs or village names for some time and wasn’t exactly sure. The waiter assured me I had 7km to go, 2 hours, but after walking for 30 minutes I reached Seixo, where RENFE, the national railway company, the one responsible for the landscape scars I had seen the day before, had set up a diversion for the camino; the scar had caught up! The diversion was all downhill and after another 30 minutes the thighs were begging forgiveness for something they hadn’t done. The valley in front of me had houses dotted all over, I couldn’t pick out a town of any size, least of all a town the size of Ponte Ulla which had provided a suitable crossing point for the river Ulla for centuries. The river was wide enough to be on the map, but all the signs of a river were not obvious until I was almost upon it. The river was very wide and dark, the old road bridge ran alongside a more modern, ugly replacement. Further up the valley the old railway bridge, a beautiful single span arched design, was waiting to be superseded by the march of RENFE progress, no doubt it would be high speed and highly offensive!

As I crossed the old bridge and entered the village I was presented with a bar/restaurant with rooms above. I showered and laid on the bed, and then realised that this was my last night on the camino, for tomorrow I would arrive in Santiago about midday, and by the mid-afternoon the camino de Santiago would be over, and all that would be left is to organise my journey back to the UK. Never mind how I would feel tomorrow, how did I feel right now, now that I was so close to the end, I did not know for sure, perhaps it would become clearer when I arrived. Part of me was looking forward to finishing over a month of hard days and sleepless nights. My feet were looking forward to catching the bus, or even driving a car somewhere. I was satisfied to be finishing something in its entirety, because normally in my world of headless chickens so many things get only half finished. I had started with a hope of clearing my mind, of slowing down and living in the moment, I feel that I have learnt a lot about my thoughts and the way they affect my moods and my behaviour. I have learnt about myself and my self-imposed limits that have been stretched and broken, extended and reset. I have seen for myself that I can do more, can focus more closely and concentrate more fully on whatever I am doing; it’s all in the mind, it’s all in my mind! Hasta mañana!

[macasas]

What wasn’t in my mind was a firework display that went on for more than an hour, followed by a party in the bar below my room, which ended about, oh I don’t know, about 5 in the morning. Not only was it the weekend, tomorrow was Sunday, Santiago Sunday and the fireworks and the fiesta that followed were all part of the Spanish celebration for their patron saint, so I couldn’t really blame them.

I slept on and off, more off than on, and not surprisingly woke slightly later than expected to a misty morning. The hill out of Ponte Ulla, hopefully the last of the camino, was shrouded in clouds and looked down menacingly as I first peered out the window in search of current weather conditions and party-goers on their way home. Of course I knew it would not be the last hill, but it had to be climbed anyway. On the track out of town their was a sign that read ‘Beware of the dogs’, it was a bit late for the warning, Sevilla might have been a better place, and it was in Gallego, but the noise translated everything you needed to know.

Breakfast was taken on a roadside emita, a small cross with Jesus on the cross one side and Santiago and his walking stick the other. Above me was the highest point around, Pico Sacro, where legend says lived the wolf queen Reina Lupa, who sent two disciples, looking for a final resting place for Santiago, to a place full of wild bulls in the hope they would be killed, instead the bulls calmed down and let them pass, and the wolf queen converted to Christianity. Breakfast had moved on from just simple sunrises! Behind a row of houses I could hear the local church service, the special Santiago Sunday service, being relayed over the countryside via the loudspeakers installed in the bell tower. The droning of the voice followed me for an hour, I was in the next village before it finally faded away.

As expected the hills kept coming as I made my way towards my goal; there was always time for another hill on the camino! The path wound its way through the woodlands and valleys and I half expected to break out into a clearing and see Santiago with its arms outstretched, welcoming me into its embrace. With only 3km to go, according to my guide, Santiago still hadn’t appeared, but it had to be close, I could feel it, my pace had quickened and so had my pulse, it couldn’t be far now, it just couldn’t!



My guide book mentioned a small church by a river, a good place for a final rest it said before reaching my goal. It was right! I sat beside the flowing river and lay on the grass. I stared up at the leaves of the overhanging tree and dozed to the sway of the branches and the sound of the water passing under the bridge. I was as close as I could be without actually being there, I still didn’t feel any different, I just wanted to get there and know that I had finished, and I just wanted to stay exactly where I was, and enjoy the calmness of the river and the softness of the trees. There was a lot of things about this place that reminded me of the camino, except there were no ants crawling all over my food, and the church bells remained silent.

Eventually I packed my rucksack for the last time and headed off on the very last leg. Once again a hill of sorts extended in front of me, but it didn’t feel like a hill anymore, my pace was high, my rhythm keeping up with the clicking of my stick, by halfway I had sweat running down my cheeks, there were locals looking down the road from where I had come, I greeted them but I wasn’t stopping, my stick kept the pace, my breathing had settled into a rhymic, deep sweeping motion that followed the clicking, the road levelled out slightly and then widened and then there is was, through the houses and the trees, a view of the domed tower, there was the Cathedral, there was the end of over 40 days and 40 nights, there was the end of the camino.

The road swooped down into Santiago and then after crossing a small river the camino threw in a short steep hill just for good measure; I didn’t feel a thing, and before I knew it I was at the top looking for a direct route to the cathedral. In all the excitement, in the desire to just get where I was going I lost the camino markings and ended up asking for directions through the maze of streets that made up the old-town. There were pilgrims everywhere, on foot and on bikes, backpacks and walking sticks made up the vast majority of the population. I passed the old meat and fish market, I passed the soup kitchens, my pace increasing all the time, I could no longer see the towers of my goal, but I could feel it was just around the next corner. And sure enough, to the sound of a Spanish guitar busker I walked through an archway and out into the Plaza del Obradoiro, the cathedral was to my left and so tall I had to keep walking out into the plaza to get a good view of what I had come so far to see. The plaza was filled with peregrinos and tourists alike, groups all hugging each other, some singing, some jumping up and down, all happy to have reached their destination. When I was far enough into the plaza I stopped and turned to get a good view of the front face of the cathedral, and it was a grand sight. I was no longer aware of any aches or pains, I had a calmness in my mind and a smile on my face.



Almost immediately I wanted to go inside; and the internal architecture was as grand as the external detail. As tradition dictated, I went to the high altar where you get to walk behind a huge seated gold Santiago. Tradition says I should have hugged him but I found myself giving him a neck massage and muttering something about him looking like he needed one, perhaps it was me who needed one. From behind his shoulders I looked out at the people sitting in the pews, quietly thinking about whatever was in their heads. I went on down to see the crypt where the remains of Santiago and 2 disciples are kept. A young man of about 20 still wearing his rucksack and smelling worse than me was so struck by the sight of this gold cask that he fell to his knees in front of me, clasped his hands and started praying. I was struck motionless by this strength of feeling surging through his body, the faith, his outright belief in something unknown, unproved and un-provable, was I feeling interest, intrigue, envy or was I just surprised; I really don’t know but I couldn’t help wondering what it must feel like to be so overcome by something so important.

Later that evening, after finding my pre-booked hotel to be a 15 minutes taxi ride from the centre of town, I returned to the cathedral and met up with Petra and Daniel on the steps outside. They asked if I had my certificate, what certificate? In the Peregrino Office, what Peregrino Office? My guide didn’t mention anything about a certificate. The German guidebook had come out on top again. They took me to the office and after having my camino passport checked I was asked for only the second time why I had walked the camino, but this time the only two options were Religious or Non Religious, I had to go for Non, for which I was given a different certificate to all the religious peregrinos. The next peregrino mass in the cathedral was at 12 tomorrow; they read out all the starting points for the peregrinos, I would be on the list.

We all went to diner and sat eating tapas in the square, it was good to see them again and chat about our journeys, I asked Petra how she felt, sad, she agreed it was like a good book. It is so hard to explain how I feel, I was slightly relieved it wasn’t just me having problems expressing what all this meant. Then as we were saying our final goodbyes Petra looked at Daniel and said ‘shall we tell him’, tell me what? and then she announced that they had gotten married. I couldn’t belief it, and after 9 years together Petra probably couldn’t believe it either. Daniel had a grin on his face, and I remembered the time on the road when I had asked him why they had never gotten married, his answer had been vague, had he been planning it? And that was that, it was now all over, all that was left was to go home.

[macasas]

I arrived at Mass with 10 minutes to spare, the cathedral was already full. People were sitting on the floor, standing around the outside and hugging the arches, their were groups of peregrinos all wearing the same clothes or tee-shirts; the botafumeiro or incense burner, weighing 80kg, was hanging in the centre ready for action.

A nun was already reading out the starting point and quantities of peregrinos who had arrived since yesterdays mass. She said the name of the town, then how many people from each country or city in Spain had started their camino from this place. When Sevilla was mentioned there was no-one from England, because I had said it was spiritual I had been given a different certificate and was not recognised by the church as having completed the camino, this was a closed club and I wasn’t in it!

As the service continued a priest came and opened a confessional to my right, straight away teenagers from a group of walkers were on their knees and crossing their chests. A teenager sitting in a group just in front of me checked out his friends and with a shrug got to his feet, his friends all looked at each other as if to say, what’s he done that’s so bad, and watched as he approached the confessional and fell to his knees. The friends’ attention returned to the front, he would be back shortly.

A elderly couple sitting to the side were fighting over an umbrella that had fallen over and both had the best idea of where to put it to stop it falling over again, in the fight that followed neither would let go and the kid in front got stabbed with the point; neither noticed. Within minutes she was on her knees praying with the rest, and he was left fiddling with his camera lens, apparently uninterested in the finer details of why he was supposed to be there.

The service was constantly changing speaker, and switching from talking to singing, and each time something happened everyone stood on the kneeling platform of the pew in front, it was a bit like being at a football match, everyone going higher and higher in an attempt to see what was going on.



I was stood at the back of the last row, feeling like I was watching some kind of show, a show that I wasn’t a part of, a show I didn’t quite understand, and I didn’t have an invitation to join in; I wasn’t sure I wanted to! I didn’t feel bitter about being excluded from this huge group of similar minded people, all of them knew the words to the songs, where to say Amen, and when the stand and when to kneel; I had no idea and was struggling to understand most of what was dribbling from the nearest loudspeaker because of the hum drum of noise.

As I stood watching the actions and reactions of those around me I felt a personal inner strength, a personal conviction, growing inside. I might be alone right here and now, I may not even be a peregrino in the true sense of the word, but I was not alone in this world, I had family and friends and most of all I had me. The people in this cathedral might not know about me, they had not acknowledged what I had done, only what their own had done, but that didn’t matter, I knew! My belief in me had grown throughout the camino, I felt I had left a large chunk of self doubt behind me somewhere, I felt determination for the future and a contentment for the past. There was no need for acknowledgement from strangers, whoever they were, there was no need for fanfare and back slapping because this was only the start, I had found the path for me, I had seen my own angels and they had shown me who I was and what I was capable of doing, it was only a start, the fanfare would wait until the end!

A gust of wind swept through the cathedral as the huge doors were opened either end. I thought that perhaps it was a sign that the service was over and it felt like it was time to leave, but no-one else moved, in fact even more people came into the crowded area behind me. Everyone wanted to see the final spectacle of the 80kg silver incense burner swinging from side to side, controlled by 8 priests hanging onto the rope system. The wind outside was blowing straight through and the faithful were getting cold but the sight of this Botafumeiro swinging right above our heads and then high up into the ceiling was a rousing end to a long and tiring service.



As I walked out of the huge doors and into the bright sunshine I took a breath of fresh air, it was a beautiful day, and I was in a very relaxed state of mind. I found a bar, sat down and thought about what had happened, how I was feeling and what I wanted to do now. I felt very happy, calm and in no hurry to do anything. The phone rang, it was Conxi, she wanted to know everything about the end of my camino, we chatted about stuff we had done together, and I was reliving the memories. Most of all she wanted to see me. I was on my way to Madrid to see where angels lived, at the very least to say our goodbyes on even ground, both having completed our own caminos. The rest, the rest is just rhythm and details, who knows whether the rhythm will be right this time around, it may all get lost in the details, I will just have to wait and see! Adios!

[Chrissie]

Congratulations macasas - not just on completing the pilgrimage but on giving us so much pleasure in the reading of your very personal experiences. It was a privilege to be allowed to share your journey. Gracias por todo.