Camino Finisterre, Part 2

Day 3.
Another stunning day.

Some fields and roads to start, but then the track heads up into a range of hills, climbing above the rushing river below.

Windmills turn, and turn, and turn.

Sunshine.

Rocky path.

Blue sky.
Solitude. 

Feeling intrepid.

Up to Hospital, where the path splits; I head left towards Finisterre, the blue haze of the sea at last the only thing on the horizon, far away beyond the hills.

Half-moon hanging above the pines.

Path rising and falling.

Sea playing peek-a-boo.

A perfect perch on a stone wall.

The sun climbs higher.

Red roofs of a village in the emerald-green valley far below, spilling down to the sea; the rocky coast beyond.

Cee, filling in around the curving coastline, is so close and yet so far, and as I watch my feet on the rocky descent, all I can think of is the cold shower I will have upon arrival. I walk into town with Marta, who I met on my very first Camino day. Things are beginning to come full circle. 

Day 4. Cape Finisterre. 9pm. 

The sea is molten mercury, shifting and flowing with the waves and wind, the sun on a dancing path to the foot of the cliffs.

A quartet of Texans say vespers.

A cross-legged man meditates with his face lifted to the sun.

The wind whirls and whistles on the cape, swirling in from two directions, threatening to lift my feet from their tenuous hold on the earth.

I just threw my stick off a cliff.

My only constant companion, my silent supporter.

I couldn’t bear for it to face an undignified end at a dingy RyanAir counter.

It was beautiful but flawed, and somewhere deep inside, I knew it was never meant for more than this.

Scattered among the rocks beyond the lighthouse are charred remains of pilgrim shoes and clothing, burned in (I imagine) equal parts triumph and practicality.

On the horizon, a line of clouds hovers, seemingly below the level where I am perched, waiting to receive the setting sun… but she is reluctant to sink.

****

This morning the arrows and scallop-shell tiles led me through a twisting maze of medieval streets, out of Cee and into Corcubin. Several times I almost missed the small blue tiles, hidden as they were among the clutter of city life. Down long curving streets, past churches, palms and stone crosses in quiet plazas… finally the path cut into a narrow gap between two walls – concrete and stone, old and new- and a giant yellow arrow had been placed as if to say “Yep. This way. Really.”

Up over a ridge, down along a quiet bay, up over another ridge. With the end now clearly in sight, it was with great relief that I slogged through the sand and dropped my pack at the edge of the water.

The water was so cold it made my feet ache, like after a cool summer rain when the backyard ditches ran ankle-deep. 

I tied my boots to my pack and walked the shoreline, deciding that it was fitting to end my Camino here, where I literally can not walk any farther West.

It was early when I arrived, so I wandered over to the ancient castle while waiting for my room to be ready.

A happy accidental reunion with a fellow pilgrim from days ago, beer and calamari and sharing of stories.

A slog to the other side of the peninsula, where the wind blew stronger and the waves broke harder.  I found a shady patch next to the cliffs and dozed, as beach-living hippies went about their daily lives and young people splashed in the waves. 

******
The sun finally touches the line of clouds on the horizon, slowly sinking into a golden pool, heat waves shimmering on the water. The wind is still whipping fiercely, now with a keen edge, sending shockwaves across the water.

The sky is shifting blues.

I can't help it, I wait for the fuschia to fade to violet before facing the wind and heading downhill.

The sky deepening, the stars twinkling, seagulls floating, ghosts in the blue.
Melancholy swirled with contentment, exhaustion and elation.
It's the end of this Camino, for me, for now.
But I will always be a pilgrim.

We are pilgrims on the earth and strangers; we have come from afar and we are going far.

(Vincent van Gogh)