We left Sarria in the pre-dawn darkness and were soon dodging crowds of newly arrived pilgrims whose Camino was just begnning while ours was drawing to an end. Their exuberant mood was in marked contrast to our own, and the overcast days that followed mirrored the gloom we both felt at reaching the final days of what had been an astounding adventure.
Galicia’s position at the foot of the Bay of Biscay makes it one of the wettest areas of Spain, with the resultant landscape dotted with misty hills and thick forests of chestnut, coastal oak and eucalyptus. The journey to the small town of Portomarin was uneventful and hardly strenuous, the town being most remarkable for a ill-advised damning of a local river by General Franco decades before that resulted in the flooding of a medieval village, traces of which can still be seen below the water. As is almost always the case in Spain, the town is dominated by a large public square full of outdoor cafes and bar, and the requisite imposing Gothic cathedral.
After an excellent meal of Cantabrian anchovies with blue cheese and truffles at the Osteria Italiano we headed off to bed for another pre-another dawn start with a 16 mile trek ahead of us to Palas de Rei. There’s not much to recommend this charmless town apart from the Pulperia de Nossa Terra, where I enjoyed the best octopus not just of the trip, but which I have ever eaten. The preferred preparation in Galicia is ‘a feira’ (fair style), wherein the chef boils it and serves with olive oil, salt and paprika. Deceptively simple but the result is a succulent cephalapod which goes down like butter – especially with a bottle of the excellent dry local white wine Godello.
But if Palas de Rei was dull, it made our next destination look like Las Vegas. Arzua is a further 18 miles down the road and is essentially one long street lined with shops, office buildings and restaurants culminating in a traffic-blighted square. To make things worse we braved a howling win with rain showers for the last two hours of the day before finding our apartment for the night.
Our penultimate stop was O Pedrouzo, and far more charming town another 18m down a series of country lanes and dirt roads usually groaning with fallen chestnuts from the adjoining trees. The town’s atmosphere was quite giddy, with pilgrims outside all the bars and restaurants celebrating their penultimate night on the road. Since many of them seem to have started just three nights previously their giddiness made little sense to me, but then I can be a curmudgeon.
We rose at dawn the following day, dressing quietly and packing our bags. We were both quietly mourning the end of the road and few words passed between us en route to Santiago, just 12 miles distant.
As always the path was marked by myriad milestones, street signs, plaques and simple yellow arrows spray painted on the curb. Before we knew it the dirt roads, woods and fields gave way to paved roads, suburbs and then urban sprawl for the last hour or two as we approached Santiago, capital of Galicia and (allegedly) home to the bones of St James. The word bittersweet could have been coined for our mood as slowly we entered the old town and made a quick circuit round to the Praza de Obradoiro, where a lone bagpiper piped us in as we made our final few steps towards the gates of the Cathedral of St James. Journey’s end for us. As it was for dozens of other pilgrims around us, who hugged, posed for selfies, facetimed with loved ones but mostly just laid down on the stone, gazing at the cathedral or pondering the Galician skies, processing what they had just done.
We left our pondering for another day. We had a hotel to check into, showers to take and clean clothes to don. We stayed in Santiago for several days more, attending a very moving Pilgrim’s Mass at the Cathedral, bumping into friends we had made along the way, passing the time quaffing vino and devouring tapas at the outdoor bars, just trying to milk the last few moments of an unforgettable journey. We returned to California just in time to vote in the Presidential Election.
For some folk the Camino is a life changing experience, and the road calls back to them, so they return, year after year. We met a pilgrim from Silver Lake with eight caminos under his belt. For some the devotion to the experience is so strong they buy hotels or albergues on the road and become full time hospitaleros. A month on, we are still processing what the Camino meant to us. But its lessons are simple and timeless. The Camino is a metaphor for life. And a simple one at that. Carry only what you need. Leave your missteps and detours in the past. Focus on where you are now. Enjoy the people you meet along the way. And live in the moment, because before you know it will be over.
