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)

Camino Finisterre, Part 1

Yes, a few months too long in writing, but here is my journey beyond Santiago de Compostela, to the end of the earth: Finisterre. 

Day 1

A slow start, taking advantage of a gorgeous breakfast, finding the set of yellow arrows leading away from the cathedral, casting one last gaze upon its spires.

A lovely forest stretch gives way to a boring city stretch, which gives way to a wooded uphill that is unexpected and seemingly never-ending.  It does, of course, end, and I let the downhill on the other side carry me to the bridge at Maceira.

Here I nestle myself into the roots of a sturdy tree, lean back against the rough bark, enjoy the cool shade and the sounds of the rushing river.  Having bought myself a book at last, I spend a few hours happily immersed. When my eyes start drifting closed, I move to a sunny rock in the river’s flow for a nap, before tackling the final hour into Negeira.

 Day 2

Eager for the road, I leave without coffee. 

A beautiful church on the way out of town; neighing horses and conversation with two Spanish women, some uphill through eucalyptus. 

But no coffee.

Approaching a small village, I spy a line of figures on a bench, leaning against the stone wall behind them, faces lifted to the sun, as a water font trickled.

A bus stop?

Nope. A line of peregrinos taking their morning break, sharing segments of juicy oranges. 

I say hello. I express my desire for coffee in the very near future.

I carry on.

Still uphill, but now there are moments of paths through fields of newly planted corn.

The breeze is lively, the windmills are turning, the views are expanding.

But there is still no coffee.

The group of not-bus-riders catches up with me as I take a quick break for a snack and to shed a layer in the warming sun. I fall in with them as we turn onto the road; conversation begins to flow.

I soon find out that this group of 8 men are Austrians, completing the final stage of their Camino… from Austria to Finisterre.

Over the past 10 years, they traversed the Camino from Austria, through Switzerland, Lichtenstein, France, and Spain on the Camino Norte. Leaving their wives and children behind, they set off every summer, for a few days or a few weeks. A few of them speak English. We talk of children and Tokyo and Camino experiences, until (finally) happening upon a bar with an inviting, sun-filled porch.

It is 11 am.

I desperately order coffee. 

The Austrians get beer.

Singing a toast, they clink glasses. 

A plastic chair is proffered, so I join them in a pleasant whirlwind of German and English and Spanish.

They depart, I loiter, chatting with two young people at the next table over, before picking up my stick and carrying on down the road.

And it is a lovely road, undulating through fields and villages, the breeze is fresh and clean, creating that perfect balance with the warmth of the sun, windmills humming on the background.

Soon the way branches off onto dirt tracks through grassy fields rippling in the wind, birches and pines and oaks whispering… and with no other pilgrims in sight, I am content to stride and sing and twirl my stick, feeling as if I could carry on like this forever.

Eventually, the plateau evens out, and there are some small villages to pass through and a river to cross, before I happen upon a small park that invites me in with a cushion of grass in the shade.

As the afternoon is waning I reach the bus stop in the middle of nowhere that is to be my pickup location for my accommodation for the night.

So out come the journal and the pen, as I perch on the awkward bench and wait.

And then a van arrives, and I hop in.

Within moments I am feeling nauseous.

The van feels as if it is traveling at tremendous speed.

After moving at an average pace of 4 kph for the last 16 days, the 60 kph feels like a bullet train.

Or a roller coaster. 

It is a bullet-train roller coaster.

The hotel was a little off the beaten path, but the dinner and breakfast were delicious, and I was delivered back to the same little bus stop the next morning to continue my journey.

The Arrival

 My final day of the Camino Frances did not begin on an auspicious note.

Cranky and dazed after the mass exodus at 5am by a room full of (understandably?) excited young people, who made very little effort leave quietly, I packed up slowly and headed out the door, making sure it was closed behind me, already looking ahead to my café con leche.

1 step.....2 steps… 3 steps… 4 steps…

Sh*t. 

My STICK.

Leaning right where I left it. 

Right inside the (very locked) front door. 

The thought of tackling that last day without my trusty companion was simply not acceptable.

Waiting around for hours until someone arrived to clean was simply not appealing.

Then I remembered the window in the laundry room… open… and though the window ledge was above my head, there was a lip halfway up that was enough to hold my desperate feet… and I scrambled in.

Relief. This stick would take me to the end of the earth. 

But first it took me to coffee. 

The mood felt solemn as I entered the woods beyond town, pilgrims lost in their thoughts as Santiago grew closer and closer.

Up Mt. Gozo, then a brief descent, and suddenly I was within the city limits, reluctant and eager in equal measure, feeling the importance of the moment.

Santiago is a lovely city, parks and winding streets, and then… there was the old quarter, cathedral towers spiking up above twisting lines of red-roofed whitewash.

Diving in, I followed signs and loaded backpacks deeper into the maze.

And there it was. 

I followed bagpipe sounds through a tunnel and emerged into the main square, squinting against the sun to gaze up at the façade, finding Saint James presiding over the open expanse of cobblestones. 

I spent a few moments gazing, soaking it up… people milled this way and that, or lounged against pillars, or simply laid down in the middle of the square, rested their heads on their packs and enjoyed the moment of arrival.

I decided to circle around and take in the entire thing before entering. As I paused by the horse-head fountain, I saw Irma and Ivan, who I thought I'd lost days ago... but when I realized the time, I bid them farewell and  made my way up the steps and into the cathedral. 

It was 12:05, and I knew the service had started already, but I knew I shouldn’t squander this chance to experience the pilgrim mass, so I dropped my bag by a pillar and ventured inside, drawn by the sea of humanity and the sound of hymns.

The cathedral soared above our heads, colors faded into gray and white; the main aisle was hidden from my view, but I could feel the the vast size of it lurking around the corner.  The mass was in Spanish, of course, so I absorbed little of the actual content, but as the sweat cooled on my back I let my mind wander back to the journey that had taken me here. 

And as the botafumeiro soared along with the music, releasing its sweet smoke, I walked the line between elation and sorrow, glad I had another few days of walking ahead to process it all. 

After spilling back outside on the tide of worshippers, I headed to the Pilgrim Office for my Compostela, proudly stating that yes, indeed, I had walked every step for the last 306 kilometers. 

 After finding my absolutely lovely hotel and cleaning up, I headed back out to wander the twisting streets, and explore the cathedral under less-crowded conditions. 

Taking my turn at the statue of saint James, presiding over the altar, I took a moment to place my hand on the scallop shell glinting just below the nape of his neck, and say a silent "Thank You." Then I headed below to gaze upon his (supposed) remains, enshrined in a shiny silver box. 

Wandering about in the early evening, I was not really surprised that, even here in this relatively large city, I encountered pilgrim friends from the road, enjoying one last chance to connect and share the Camino experience.

The whole day was at the same time both momentous and ordinary.... but sitting in the cooling evening, I felt the overwhelming sense of being a part of something amazing... something so much bigger than myself.

Sarria to Arca - getting close now...

Sarria to Arca

(Days 10-13)

These four days brought rolling hills and increased company, as many pilgrims joined the Way for the last 100 kilometers, the required distance to receive the Compostela, the official certificate of completing the Camino. 

Portomarin is a white-washed town on the banks of a wide and slow-moving river, visable from above long before it is reachable. As I approached, a group of musicians played their not-quite-bagpipes, sending music out across the water, drawing pilgrims across the bridge. 

Groups of young people added their chatter to the stretch from Portomarin to Palas de Rai, and when it started to border on annoying, I would simply drop back and admire the sweeping views - deep green pine forests, rolling fields, stone walls - and let them pass. 

 One group caught my attention with their midwestern accents, and I had the pleasure of meeting a group of young people from a church in Michigan, who planned and financed the trip themselves; they kept me going through a rather boring stretch of road-side walking.

In Palais de Rai, I cleaned up and headed out into the breezy sunshine. A nap in a churchyard, stretched out on the grass, left me feeling relaxed as I wandered down the streets, looking for signs of pilgrim life. I spotted one of the lovely Irish ladies in the main square, and joined her for a few hours of soaking up the sun, filled with the contentment that comes from living the moment you are in, and moving only to amble across the road for a round of cider or to escape the creeping shadows as the afternoon began to wane.  Sharing the sunshine was a group of pilgrims who were meant to be napping, as they planned to set out at dusk, to walk by the light of the full moon and the fires of the festival of Saint Jean. I had a fleeting desire to join them, as I imagined it will be clear and cold and lovely. 

I left Palais de Rai with the sun rising on peaceful lanes and the full moon hanging in the sky. Delivery vans were lined  up outside the bakery, ready to race off along country roads and deliver fresh-baked goodness to hungry farmers, office workers, and pilgrims. 

Eucalyptus trees became more common, adding a dry-leaved rustle to the soundtrack that also included the rippling waters of multiple river crossings. 

The small villages shifted back to red-tile roofs and whitewashed concrete.

Crosses and fountains.

Fields and cows.

One last incline before my lovely alburgue, just over a river where young people are soaking their tired feet.

A nap under flapping laundry. 

Sampling local specialties (pulpo - grilled octopus - and grilled sweet peppers) with some lovely folks at dinner. 

 After Ribadaiso, there were green groves and rustling eucalyptus, a few small rivers, and one village where the path dodged erratically, under arbors and past crumbling walls.

Arca de Pedrouzo isn't all that impressive, but it has the distinction of being only 20 kilometers from Santiago de Compostela.  Here I had the chance to have dinner with a fellow Minnesotan I'd met along the way, a beautiful and brave woman named Anne. She was one of only 3 other pilgrims in the alburgue that were not part of the large group of young people who made sleeping a bit of a challenge that night... and who I partly blame for the fact that I started my final day on the Camino Frances by breaking and entering.... 

Camino: O'Cebreiro and Sarria

(Warning: this is a long one!)

Day 8: I hit the half-way point between Leon and Santiago, and cross from Leon into Galicia.....

I leave at 7, slipping out along the river, weaving through what there is to see of Las Herrerias, as cowbells stir and roosters crow.  I know I face a climb, and as I head up, I am in conquering mode, with one goal:

Get. 

It. 

Over. 

With.

A wooded track cuts into the dark earth, ferns and trees growing precariously out of its banks, and after more than an hour of following it, twisting uphill, a beautiful valley unfolds, and more views are forthcoming in all directions, even one glimpse of the mountain range crossed days ago. Ahead, the way is cloud-covered, and the wind chills my ears, but it’s perfect for uphill exertion… 

Passing through one last Leon village, the cows milling out of the barn are quite vocal, dogs barking and adding to the ruckus, as I dodge cow pies on the path.

As I pass into Galicia, I take a last look back… but the bells in O’Cebreiro are tolling, calling me on, so I pass into the mist… to my left is oblivion, so I am grateful for the stone wall to my right, leading me into the celtic hamlet. The warmth of the church embraces me, but after a sello I must answer the more urgent need for food. And caffeine.

A fresh-made tortilla and a piping hot café con leche, a beautiful rest, and I force myself back out into the chilling breeze and loitering clouds, knowing I still have 23 kilometers left to travel.

As I leave through twisted pines, the sun does its work, and blue skies prevail; views roll out: a patchwork of green fields dotted with yellow flowers.  

The next few hours blur together.... a sun-drenched stone wall outside a country church. An incline that ends with the handshake of a local brown-robed priest.  Grazing cattle and invisible streams of trickling, life-giving water… and cow sh*t. Everywhere.

Friday, June 21 (day 9)

Sarria, 10:42 pm

The sun just set over Sarria, casting a pink-and-gold glow as the full moon rose on the summer solstice.

Today was a roller-coaster, and there were a few times I would have loved to get off.

As I sipped my coffee this morning, and crunched my crunchy toast, I took a moment to acknowledge my crankiness.

It was threatening rain.

I swear my just-washed clothes got damper overnight.

The room was cold and the mattress hard.

I slept badly.

And other first-world complaints…

 But reality was my legs were sluggish and my brain, like the hills, was foggy.

And when facing a fork in the road, I opted for the longer, but flatter, route, assuming that the extra kilometers were a reasonable exchange for the lack of incline.

I have to say that once I started, I felt better.

The air cool was and damp, and even though I was forced onto the shoulder of the road, I tried to focus on the sounds of the river and the more gentle sounds of rivulets of water seeping from the cut rock faces. I was thrilled when I left the road for a dirt rack shaded by vine-covered trees that followed the river Obrio as it rushed, fell, murmured and meandered. Purple bell-shaped flowers shone with dewdrops and just begged to be brushed with a fingertip.

In a small village, the river met a small stream, and the buildings of the village made no attempt to avoid the cacophony – either abutting or straddling the water, which provided, I imagined,  a constant background noise for daily life.

After an uphill push, the monastery of Samos could be seen, commandeering the valley below. 

Seeing as how the next tour was only 20 minutes away, I figured it would be best to see the inside… 

There were several aspects of the monastery that grabbed my attention, and if I had time and access without a guide, could have held it for quite awhile:

The babbling fountains in the central courtyard gardens. 

The mural wrapping around the second floor hallway: an epic struggle involving monks, nuns, angels, and demons. The scenes incorporated the necessary breaks in the wall: cloaked figures perched above a doorway, a struggling angel clinging desperately to the corner of a window. 

The light slanting through the 3rd floor windows, casting stripes on tiled floors. 

A cathedral, full of echoes and a quiet sense of magnitude.

The scenery remained beautiful – lanes winding through villages, face-to-face encounters with herds of cows, delightful groves of trees, burbling brooks, yellow flowers sending petals drifting into my path... clearing skies and a pleasant temperates.

But, alas, I was an ungrateful pilgrim.

My earlier crankiness returned with a vengence, and I barely registered the beauty around me, seen as it was through a thick veil of negativity. My pack felt awkward and unnaturally heavy, my shoulders aching… the only saving grace was that my legs felt fine.

Finally, the routes merged, and after a quick stop, I (glumly) trudged the last hour into Sarria, and arrived in a dehydrated, cranky state that left the ground shifting under my feet, although I was standing still.

As I berated myself for not doing so earlier, I cared for myself: water, food, shower, sleep; and around 6:00 I was much happier and ready for a wander about town.

 Keeping an eye out for the perfect place to sit and write, I made my way up the cobblestoned streets of the old quarter. As I reached the last set of umbrellas and faced a decision, I noticed Emma and Sarah, the Irish duo from Herrerias, chatting with another american – another Sarah, who walked form SJPP to Portomarin before being sidelined and sent back by an ankle injury. 

We settle in a restaurant at a shady outdoor table, the owner smiling and making comments in spanish that were not directly translated but were clearly welcoming. We had a lovely dinner as an increasingly large crowd gathered… and it soon became clear that something was about to happen in this small square, as microphones were tested; adorably-dressed small children and instrument-toting teenagers began to appear, as did groups of men and smartly-dressed ladies.

Not willing to give up our prime seats, we ate our dessert of Santiago tart slowly, piecing together the fact that today was the festival of San Juan and that the festivities were most likely related to this event. 

Curiously, we watched as bagpipe-type instruments began to play and a parade of large paper-mache figures paraded past… one or two that looked saintly, and another few that looked like the stuff of nightmares. 

The adorably-dressed small children danced in a suitably adorable way, then speeches began from the balcony. I understood about one word in ten, but the crowd-watching kept me entertained when I’d lost the thread completely. (that, and we were firmly entrenched, so getting up and leaving could have resulted in dirty looks - or a rush on our chairs).

Finally, a single firework was lit from the balcony, the teenagers played some sort of anthem, and we slipped out, after the waiter flawlessly remembered our multiple orders and delivered the bill.

Down to the street fair, which was a rather unimpressive row of shopping and carnival food and games, save some hippie jewelry by the river. But it was nice to be out and about in a town with the locals, feeling like a part of not only this pilgrimage, but also the daily goings-on of spanish life.

Saying goodnight and heading back to my hotel, I realized that the day’s earlier exertions were all but forgotten, and I feel refreshed and renewed.  

(Which was important, as it allowed me to merely smile as I realized that some sort of all-night rock fest was happening on my side of town, and my open window was letting in the hazy guitar riffs in all their glory).