A genial old Buddhist recommended walking the Camino after a meditation class in which I’d struggled to still my monkey mind.
My presence at the Jamyang Buddhist Centre in Kennington was part of a broader plan to reduce the ravages of a lifetime of insomnia. But while I savoured the peaceful atmosphere, the petty gripes, cricket averages, and mischievous imps of my imagination still bubbled up through the reverie despite the gentle encouragement of the tutors to let them drift away into the ether. An ideal state of tranquillity felt some years over the horizon, but I liked the two men – more Thames Estuary than Himalayas in provenance – who patiently suggested an alternative to the sturm und drang of my city life. The pilgrimage to the medieval city of Santiago de Compostela was invariably a life-affirming experience the sensai told me.
Some 10 years later, I finally paid heed to his advice – the idea had re-emerged during the slow cautious lift of lockdown. I had form in such ventures. Kilimanjaro and Machu Picchu to name two, while I ran a 24-mile charity walk multiple times as a youth – sometimes tethered to my team-mates. So, my habit of covering large distances on foot hails back four decades to when swiftly running many miles felt like a personal superpower once I’d conveniently forgotten the years of slog and grind through the cold muddy challenges of British winters. With less pliant knees, I now huff and hobble about the great outdoors in more age-appropriate fashion while enjoying the time and space to air my dusty thoughts.
My ambition to travel overland to Spain felt both romantic and ecologically responsible but was thwarted by the apparent impossibility of booking a ferry ticket as a solo walk-on passenger. Several efforts over several hours failed to glean any response or information from my inquiries. So instead, I saved time and money on a polluting plane. Sadly easy.
I plumped to leave on the cusp of seasonal change in early October, hoping to avoid the extremes of heat, cold, rain, and humans. I fancied the last leg of the Portuguese Camino which begins just across the Spanish border from the walled cathedral city of Tuy. From here, I’d embark carrying little more than a small rucksack and shod in dangerously new hiking boots. Between me and my destination lay 117km of Galician countryside.
First Port of call
Travelling to Porto killed two birds with one stone. The Portuguese Camino is the second most popular. The first crosses the Pyrenees from France and then hugs the northern coast of Spain. Taking any of the half-dozen or so routes felt like an original venture until I met a friend of a friend at a party several weeks before my planned departure, who’d recently travelled the French way. Logistics required, he said, taking a return flight to Santiago before leaving it on a train and then returning on foot. This didn’t feel right. I’m an A to B man so this A to B to C to B routine didn’t work for me at all.
Nonetheless, he was a valuable source of information – notably about footwear – and echoed the oft-quoted claim about the Camino being an experience of a lifetime, one that chimed with my experiences of climbing mountains or ancient trails. I went to great pains to order the same hiking shoes he’d worn, but couldn’t find them in any of the multiple superstores in London. The cheap ones I bought locally were very comfortable during the 10m trial along the shop floor.
Along with a more logical itinerary, the Portugal route allowed me to crowbar in a city break to Porto, which I’d heard was redolent with cosmopolitan coastal charm. (The older I get, the more I double up on my activities, and the less I use the expression ‘Next time’. With dark realism, I accept the probability that there won’t be one.) Portugal’s insistence on speaking its own language – so like Spanish in written form and yet, in delivery, so very different, was a serious obstacle for one who likes to chat with the locals. I hoped to overcome it by learning as many simple and important words and phrases as possible while otherwise speaking Spanish with a local accent. For my two days in Portugal, the formula crudely functioned – indeed my efforts often elicited sensible and relevant responses. An exception was the receptionist at my rather stately guesthouse. She used Google translate for all conversation beyond an opening ‘Ola’ before I realised her native tongue was Arabic.
O Porto proved a winning hand. ‘The Port’ as it’s known rather prosaically in that language is attractive, atmospheric, and easy to negotiate in distance and layout. I’d like to describe it as a Mediterranean city, but it just has the feel of one without the location. But for all the charm of its narrow winding streets, it was the architecture of sun-baked flesh that made the deepest impression. Several beautiful Portuguese women I know in Britain now make aesthetic sense having seen their sisters, cousins, and aunts in their natural setting. The men too were often handsome and healthy looking – modelling a natural and elegant poise that complemented the womenfolk. The gentle warmth of the natives was matched by the weather which remained pitch perfect for the duration of the trip. If this was autumn, it was my new favourite season.
Despite these manifold attractions, the streets of the relatively small centre were largely empty and my pre-dinner circumambulation of the north bank rustled up little until I wandered into a square of bars and restaurants busy with students. The menus were similar – all the marked difference being in the décor. I chose one that looked small and smart. My entry briefly silenced the diners much as if I was rudely interrupting a catered family event, but they soon settled down and left me to my phrase book. My trip’s largely fishy diet kicked off with a delicious fried cod and chickpea dish. When I ordered a glass of the city’s famous fortified wine, the elderly waiter hung about tensely while waiting for my approval. To my untutored palette, it was fine, but I bluffed it was wonderful, and we parted on friendly terms. Amid largely deserted streets, I took a pleasant post-prandial stroll back to my hotel via the diversion of its historic old centre.
With a tight schedule, I threw myself into an American-style whirl of tourism the next morning, rising and falling with the steep hills that lead down to the Douro river. If some houses in this world heritage site lacked a lick of paint, the old and new felt harmonised rather than separate. Brightly painted murals complemented the finely chiselled features of ancient churches highlighted with soft modern lighting. A left-wing national government was a novelty anywhere but more so here for the apparent absence of tribal blood-letting with its conservative rivals. Neither the headlines in the papers nor the graffiti on the walls screamed with hate or hysteria. Portugal felt like a nation at peace with itself.
Bathed in bright autumnal sun, a spectacular tableau of slate-roofed buildings was liberally scattered upon the river’s steep banks – larger smudges of grey marking out those belonging to the government or wine industry. I viewed the river from above and below – firstly from the pathways at the edge of its still blue waters and then when climbing back up to find the top level of the Ponte Luis 1 – a double-deck metal arch bridge that from above caters for a light train line and pedestrians. Regular traffic runs across its shorter 172m span 45m below. By the time I’d walked across, my schedule called me back over. The interiors of the churches, cellars, and libraries were fated to wait for the unlikely next time.
Nonetheless, the splendid Saô Bento train station showcased beautiful murals befitting a museum exhibit that extended my unofficial tourist visa. More came to view the murals of Jose Colaco than catch the trains. Historic and pastoral scenes are captured on 20,000 white and blue tiles. A less welcome old-school theme was the long snaking queue to a ticket office that spanned through and past several rooms. Machines built for such purpose were conspicuous by their absence. While I enjoyed the artwork, and was pleased to buy my ticket north using the vernacular, I was less thrilled to miss a train – by five minutes – that would have taken me straight to my destination. After a wait, three separate hourly journeys brought me to Nine, Viana do Castelo, and finally Valença on the border with Spain. Generous intervals were built-in between each.
From here, the timetable suggested a further 17 hours to cross the border to Tui in Spain. When I asked several fellow passengers about it, they stared as if I was insane before walking silently away. It turned out there wasn’t a direct train to Tui – for that you went via Madrid. So, I was delighted to find Tui was accessible by a cheap taxi ride right now. Without evidence, I’d imagined the border crossing might be a significant obstacle to my plans – an eccentric symptom of the discombobulation of lockdown I was yet to overcome. I’d even resigned myself to the prospect of a night on the Portuguese side. Five minutes later, I was miffed to realise I could’ve taken a pleasant walk across the bridge dividing the countries without a cursory waft of my passport.
Cusp of the Camino
Tuy – as Tui had now become in Spanish – was a pleasant old and sleepy town to spend my final night before setting off. The trouble I had finding a room – let alone an affordable one – was a salutary warning for the rest of my lightly organised trip. Obviously, I didn’t heed it.
Finally, I alighted on a rather brutalist and monolithic hotel that appeared from nowhere on a road I’d visited without joy an hour before. The space and cost exceeded my plans by around 50 per cent. I dined on the main drag, which despite the detritus of a dwindling festival maintained an air of small-town calm and the likelihood that most passing faces were life-long denizens on first-name terms. Brexit, let alone the 21st century, felt far from these peaceful medieval streets. After a largely foodless day, I wolfed down pizza and ice-cream in the safe knowledge that I’d be burning off a surfeit of calories in the week to come.
I gained my first Camino stamp in a book provided by the cathedral shortly after it opened at 10am. I’d’ve left earlier but the town was largely deserted for breakfast options as if I’d accidently set my watch three hours forward. Eventually, I found a local haunt opposite the hotel I’d left an hour earlier where I ordered a huge ham and cheese stuffed croissant. It was the street that kept giving, but only on a second visit. I’m sure some sententious Camino motto might be fashioned out of this unusual capacity. The stuffed croissant became a staple of my diet. It cost me three Euros along with the orange juice and café con leche.
From the cathedral, the route was unclear. I was not alone – a dozen or so others were similarly misplaced. Between us, we made several darting false starts about the ancient cobbled streets, before forming a nervous body in which we remained within sight of each other while also maintaining a social distance that followed normal international standards. It was an ad hoc hive mind that dispersed with relief into its natural constituent parts the moment we found the right way. Those of us not using the Camino app (see Habits of Young People) found excuses to stop and admire the view so someone else could lead the way.
Soon the concrete posts began to appear with their motif of a yellow indigenous scallop shell on a blue background. They marked the route and digitally register how many kilometres remain till Santiago. The lines on the shell are said to represent the nine routes of pilgrimage. The signs are supported – and occasionally contradicted – by arrows painted on trees, walls or any other semi-permanent object lining the route.
The original pilgrims – or peregrinos – often survived arduous journeys through the charity of churches sporadically lining the routes springing up across Western Europe. The needs of today’s visitors are better supplied by modern commerce, and the all-seeing mobile phones with which to book their lodgings and avoid straying from the path. Those, like me, briefly escaping the grind of responsibilities, limit themselves to walking the last 100km – the minimum expected to earn one’s certificate of pilgrimage. Some without pressing schedules trek much further. The 117km from Tuy made it a popular starting point while the full Portuguese trail along the Atlantic coast begins 619km away in Lisbon.
Santiago de Compostela is said to be the final resting point of the bones of the apostle Saint James. From the 9th century, the city became the destination for pilgrims following what became known as El Camino. It was encouraged by Spain’s rulers largely to stir up religious and national fervour against the Islamic moors occupying the south of the country.
Over 300,000 now make the journey each year along its various routes across Europe.
First steps
For six days, my predictable home routine was upturned. Apart from walking and sleeping, I ate when hunger converged with a convenient restaurant and stopped when I needed rest. When there was no room at the inn, I took to the road again until I found one.
Stopping for coffee after six or seven kilometres, I noted: ‘this is not a competition’ in my diary, while also noting those getting a head-start on me, and that I’d already passed 25 or so others. While it’s almost 40 years since my competitive running career ended… I still pretend it’s the Olympic final when the moment takes me. (I don’t always win, but I usually medal.)
Stamps were available here – the marks of progress needed to prove we’ve completed the Camino. (When I first saw them advertised, I figured traditional letter writing must still be a popular pastime in Spain.) Ultimately, it wasn’t an exacting requirement – a few daily stamps would satisfy the gentle inquisitors of Santiago.
Most people I passed sounded Portuguese – unsurprising considering the route, before I realised that the accents and the distinctly un-Spanish signage were probably Galician. Another region favouring independence over patriotism. In mild temperatures under another clear blue sky, I was seduced by the lush verdant country – a refreshing contrast to the arid interior I’d once bisected by train in Almeria where Sergio Leone shot his Spaghetti Western classics. Happily, the rainfall that created this tableau was unseasonably missing and my sensibly-packed waterproof went unused. Initially, the countryside resembled East Anglia in the spring; flat, green and pleasant, while interspersed too with small forests of pine. In one such wood, a bald and poker-faced policeman sat grimly alongside the path in his squad car. He avoided eye contact. With our possessions strapped to our backs, what rich pickings we pilgrims might represent to an opportunistic thief in this unknown hinterland. As I crossed an ancient stone bridge, I pondered the hazards faced in pilgrimages centuries earlier. No mobile phones and credit cards, plenty more wolves and robbers. Nowadays, the well-heeled often have their possessions trucked between their comfortable hotels. It explained the pushy emails from agencies peddling inexplicably pricey packages.
Further on, I passed my least favourite form of musician, a bagpiper, wearing the customary grimace of fury to complement his cacophony. But following a karmic impulse to meet evil with good, I lobbed some coins into a case swimming with larger denominations. They sunk without trace or a smiling response. His nearby car was modern and plush.
A few hours hence, I took my first right/wrong turning when the path uncompromisingly divided into two signed routes heading in opposing directions. A garrulous old fellow was earnestly assuring several confused walkers of the correct way, while behind him a younger middle-aged native shook his head at me and tapped his forehead while indicating the other path. To my cost, I underestimated the wisdom of age. The elder’s suggestion was the scenic route but not in the normal sense of the expression – it was the same distance but just more scenic. I chose the one that headed interminably through the midday sun around vast deserted industrial estates. It felt far longer than its half dozen kilometres. Its ending was marked by an insalubrious graffiti-laden bridge that overhung a major highway. I lunched with beer in a roadside café to forget as much as sustain myself.
My lightly organised instincts suited the vagueness of how many kilometres I was willing to hike after the late afternoon shadows began to lengthen. An example was the mid-sized town I strolled into that felt insufficiently tranquil or far enough to be my first night’s resting place. Incongruously, without seeing it, I heard a brass band here playing YMCA – the strangest and campest of possible mirages. Conferring on suspect signage, I fell in briefly with a Colombian woman, but our relationship was snuffed out by my disinclination to lunch with her in favour of making tracks. The dice rolled another combination and instead she sat down to eat with someone else seeking rest and fodder. We never saw each other again, while pure chance threw me in with scores of others.
After guessing a pathway back into the reassuringly enclosing woods, I guided in a genial young Brazilian man and several others in danger of missing the turning. His affable companionship deserved better than chance allowed – he found me in a restaurant the following evening dining alone, but our paths crossed no more. Here too I met Bruno, a Portuguese man in his early 30s – away from his wife, young children and corporate job with Adidas. We swapped details of our lives while he told me about his home country and the politics of where we roamed. He gave the impression of finding me winningly eccentric.
Somewhere else, I circumvented a giant quarry – motionless and empty as a moonscape – before I caught up again with the same two men as we wound up to our likely encampment for the night. It was a welcoming strip of bars and restaurants whose entire existence seemed to revolve around the trade in ramblers. I saw no vehicles and its connecting roads were more suited to walking. It seemed a perfect spot to eat and drink well with some of my new companions and reflect on a satisfactory first day covering around 20km.
Here, I made possibly the biggest mistake of my Camino by not following my new friends into the hostel dormitories but instead wandering off to the strip to find a room of my own. None were available from the couple of possible venues and when I returned to the hostel it too was now full. Thanks to its young receptionist – a kind and pure soul if ever there was – I settled on slogging another six or seven kilometres – largely steeply uphill – to the next hostel where she’d rung ahead to book its one remaining bed. I set off quickly trying not to stew on the missed opportunity caused by my fussiness over sharing rooms – a situation I was now settling for anyway. I also turned down a shared taxi with a German who couldn’t contemplate another step towards the same hostel. It felt ‘like cheating’ I thought aloud. Later, she reported how stung she was by my apparent judgment!
It was an arduous schlep. During it, I surprised some teens by passing them twice – having briefly wandered off course at an ambivalent point. Usually, a vague sign would materialise on second glance, up a tree or on the wrong side of a pillar, but they were easy to miss when thoughts were distracted by day dreams. I worried particularly about missing the hostel and spending a night in the cooling forest without a sleeping bag. Under a cloudless sky, it was now sufficiently cold to make it a seminally unpleasant experience with one.
A literally growing concern were the blisters blooming beneath the base of my toes. My new boots were snug – too snug as experience showed – and my ignorance of how to avoid blisters came back to haunt me. Chuntering all the way, I finally stumbled upon the O Corisco hostel half-way down a precipitous hill. After entering its bar on pigeon toes, I ruminated over the last few sobering hours with a large beer.
In the shower, I gingerly inspected the damage. A throbbing white blister around 3cm by 2 lay below the second and third toes of each foot along with several underlings around the toes. Nothing a good night’s sleep would remotely help. These additions to my physique set an ominous tone for a trek that should have been a cake walk.
The sliding doors of fate threw me in with an alternative group. I found myself sharing beer and omelettes with the taxi-taking German, several of her compatriots, and two middle-aged Portuguese friends – he a lawyer still taking serious work calls, while she worked in Algarve tourism. The next evening, I found the young Germans again where we crossed the Rubicon of swapping names – a major step in this journey of random meetings.
A Slovenian widow in her 70s was bedded down next to me. She was 1,200km into her 13th Camino. The road was more home to her than her far-flung apartment, the peregrinos an ever-evolving family. Two adult daughters occasionally met her along the way, her husband having died long ago. Thinkers and artists she’d known in her youth were described with a passion that hinted at more than casual friendship. Her long time on the road restricted her to €20 hostels, but like many – regardless of income – she relished the company of pilgrims.
I came to better appreciate the purity of this communal experience but it was also kept in check by tales of sleepless nights among farting snoring room-mates. I resolved to challenge this ‘need’ for personal space, but it didn’t stop me booking a hotel room for the next evening. Traditionally, the Camino offered basic sleeping facilities in large church halls, but I didn’t see any. These were used by the characters in the film The Camino starring Martin Sheen who follows in the footsteps of his estranged son who died during the trip.
To avoid the insomnia of the shared room, I read outside it on a sofa until my eyes drooped and the sleeping tablet took its course. The long-winded whispering of two young women across the doorway to my room, and the constant to-ing and fro-ing from dorms to bathroom supported the argument for separate rooms for all but the heaviest sleepers.
Path of pain
We entered the dark lanes well before dawn. When the elaborate coffee machine failed to deliver, we had no reason to remain.
I left alone to avoid committing to companionships that might become harder to break the longer we kept apace. This dilemma had occurred comically the evening before when striking off on my final slog. After chatting with a young Spanish couple, walking slightly slower than suited me, I wished them a Buen Camino before inching ahead of them for the next half hour. They’d have needed 20 minutes before I was far enough away to discuss whether I was being rude. I pondered a farewell wave when the distance between us hit 50m.
My tentative movement in the dark was less about not seeing the path than the pain of every step. Walking around the sole of the foot rather than on it was not viable – more than half a century of walking conventionally was not a good foundation for suddenly learning a new method. I fumed at the injustice of now being the slowest walker on the circuit. Scores of pilgrims/bastards passed me by. My grumpiness festered over breakfast at a bakery. It curdled over late morning coffee. Sometime that morning, one of the large blisters burst. It was announced by a sharp flash of wet pain.
By lunch, I entered a quaint old town of Roman origins built around a small lake. A hundred or so jolly souls – mainly Irish of a certain age – gathered on the far side of a river brooked by an ancient arched bridge. I hailed a Spaniard from the previous night’s hostel who completely misunderstood me and moved away awkwardly. The confidence drained out of my language skills and I limped along alone and self-pityingly. I pondered how no-one seemed friendly today and how instrumental my mood was in this change. People were now much more annoying than full of genial promise. Even the Portuguese couple, whom I’d met again over a coffee and pastry were tight-lipped when I passed them en route. Ashen-faced, he was fiddling with his shoes – the fact I was passing them reminded me I probably wasn’t the only one suffering.
For several hours, the path looped around a woodland section that felt like the natural habitat for hobbits or fauns. On any other day, I’d have found it idyllic. No other walkers were glimpsed on its interminable meandering route and I became paranoid about wandering off piste or in circles. I fantasised about sleeping in a sandy grove around the pebble-strewn rivulet where I might bathe my feet better. It was probably the longest 24km of my life.
The sun was barely waning when I arrived in Pontevedra. The three Germans waved from a railway station bar. The feet of one were similarly afflicted, but together we spent a cheerful beery few hours before heading off to our respective hotels. Mine was only a few hundred metres away. It was a surreal affair – a totally automated hotel without a physical member of staff. When I tried to buzz myself in – a disembodied human, based elsewhere, confirmed my booking – for seven days hence. Seems I’d selected the wrong date with a misdirected finger in the gloom of my hostel room. Thankfully, I could also book a room for tonight, which was perhaps not surprising as the 4-storey building had no more guests than staff. But from the empty foyer, a second disembodied voice offered me no assurance of a refund for the first booking. In fact, her agency had a clear no-refund policy for the digitally challenged. One night here could thus prove eight times more expensive than my friendly little hostel. I’d love to say the shower and bed were eight times better, but they were not.
The least I could do was enjoy a slap-up dinner at a sparsely filled Argentinean restaurant. I helped two gruff Texans order the largest steaks in town. I took the third and washed it down with red wine. Eating an Argentinean meal in Galicia, I could hardly complain about its meat and no veg composition or that it didn’t taste as good as a steak in Argentina. While I pondered dessert, the smiling face of the Brazilian pressed up against my window. He came in to chat and we made a vague and unsuccessful plan to meet along the way. His gentle and sweet manner contrasted with the Texans, who talked tough and straight of bitter divorces, big cars, and lusty women. I’d been relieved not to be invited over.
In bed, I started reading Man’s Search for Meaning by the psychiatrist and concentration camp survivor Victor Krankl. Another perspective was useful. I was on holiday goddammit.
Walking therapy
My hope of a good night’s sleep was dashed between midnight and 3am by what sounded like a TV news team broadcasting next door – the first sign of other humans. The volume on the telly was turned up full. Banging on the wall achieved nothing nor did several visits to the door on which my initial polite raps had – by my third visit – risen to clubbing blows that provided the bass line to the frantic machine-gun speech of the Spanish newsreaders. Nothing. Earplugs worked only in a decorational sense. In the morning, I flipped their Do Not Disturb sign.
Initially, I was prepared to vigorously argue my case over the twice-booked room. Several recent bad experiences with budget airlines had left me feeling the corporate world really was out to get me. But today, in the spirit of my venture, I elected to find goodness in others by personally modelling – if not quite feeling – it. So, I explained what had happened to the three-dimensional human – in this case, a full-sized fleshy young woman. Without hesitation, she cancelled my second night while charging me the lower rate for the first. Just like that. Despite the non-refundable talk. The refund duly turned up on my bank balance.
Extraordinary.
Faith in humanity restored, I mentioned my disturbed night’s sleep as if it was an amusing story. ‘Oh her, she’s very old,’ she replied, ‘practically deaf.’ Not what I envisioned. In my head, a drunk middle-aged male was projecting his hatred of a rejecting world onto whoever crossed his path. How sexist and ageist of me. But I didn’t feel guilty for switching the sign. Being old is not an excuse for behaving like an arsehole.
I returned to the train station café for another huge ham and cheese croissant and several coffees to line my stomach for the travails ahead. Soon after, I left the pleasant cobbled streets on the regular morning activity of reconnecting with the trail. I enjoyed this part of the day where the flow of the broader streams of the community were met before the channel narrowed again to a steady persistent trickle of international marchers. The locals usually showed a benign face towards the ever-changing interlopers – not least for the budget business we stimulated. It was a time to soak up the ambience, pause and explore… I mounted a steep column of steps on which an ancient church stood awkwardly as if wondering where all its old friends had slipped away. Outside its mighty doors, a couple of battered and beleagured souls were grateful for my low denomination coins. Fewer worshippers stood inside its dim and lavish interior.
I befriended a 21-year-old Bavarian woman, who had dogged my footsteps while we were seeking the scent of the elusive trail. Laura related dark stories from her childhood, heavy decisions weighing on her future, and how she’d barely spoken to her parents in a year. She had walked from Porto. With those she communed, she sought wisdom and answers to the big questions – the Camino was not an escape or distraction but a place to seek elusive truths; the strangers a better substitute for the disappointment of family.
While old enough to be her estranged father, I was soon telling her about my own false steps and youthful folly, which she mulled over with a wisdom beyond her years. Perhaps her lack of secure attachments gave her an ageless air –the other walkers just fellow travellers further down the path of life. She chided me for wanting a single room rather than a hostel dorm, but I invoked the right of seniority to pay more for what I wanted. She suggested my blisters were par for the Camino course, which I assented to with a grimace, while thinking how easy that would be to say without them. We parted in a little village where she stopped for lunch. I admired her maturity in suggesting we break our bond. Of course, I may have just become tedious company.
Earlier, I had amused her by transforming my ‘magic trousers’ into shorts by removing the bottom halves at the zips around the knees. I was relieved when they later reconnected – they were the only long strides I’d brought. My small rucksack was sparsely packed to be within the carry-on limit – almost every item had at least two uses aside from the three (slim) books and the bulky camera I regretted bringing. With such perfect shooting conditions, my photos were adequately framed by a smartphone serving as camera and computer. What I lacked was an app to stop me getting lost. Apparently, the developer had just died, and with it the upgrade for users of my model. This became an issue several hours hence…
When parting with Laura, I had stridden decisively up a steep stretch of hill pursuing the same direction. No sign was glimpsed around its crossroads. It proved my biggest diversion. I soon found myself on a motorway denuded of walkers and occupied only by a hurtling tonnage of steel and freight. A different – and more prominent – form of signage confirmed I was still heading towards Santiago. The high-speed vehicles returned me to the modern age – not least the idea that in normal life I’d reach my destination within the hour rather than the three days I now hoped were enough.
I stopped at a roadside café for coffee, rest from the sun-soaked road, and to regain my bearings. The atmosphere was half-friendly. A small local clientele passed through as part of a daily ritual while I – a foreigner wandering in lost from a major road – came from a separate flow of humanity that stopped briefly if at all. The bartender reassured me the Camino was close but clearly not just over yonder… I left with vague instructions where to re-join it – something that needed several more kilometres, an hour or so, and more inquiries. Inevitably, my feet were getting worse and I winced at every penalty metre.
I gave up trying to make sense of contradictory and vague directions and instead walked in a straight line across all terrain until I crossed the path. After all, I thought, the road was pointing towards Santiago so the parallel walking route couldn’t defy geometric logic too far. I climbed a steep hill and across several paths until with a whoop of delight, I glimpsed the long-lost friend of a yellow and blue marking on a stubby concrete post. The post marked a hamlet in which several tethered horses outside a wooden homestead gave an impression that I was passing through a rural outpost of the 17th Century. It was much nicer than I expected.
From here, almost any refuge would do. After passing through a vineyard, I spied one possible oasis in the opposite direction from the road – but figured the 400m diversion would be worth the reward. But it was closed for an obscure festival and I wandered back disconsolately. Three or four times, I entered idyllic lodgings with no vacancies – the disappointment redoubled by the friendly welcome I received from receptionists thinking I’d booked ahead. Confronted with such regular mirages, I struggled to reconcile myself to the full march to Caldas de Reis.
Most set off earlier to avoid the afternoon sun. For the mad dogs remaining, the symptoms often showed in the dark haunted demeanours of those too long under its baleful spell. I reeled in a trio of Korean women deliriously singing what sounded like songs of praise. One giggled with embarrassment to be so found mid-song, while the lead vocal warbled on obliviously as if consumed by holy hooch. The day earlier, a platoon of their country folk had been the only pilgrims I’d seen visibly proclaiming the faith.
Later, far too much later, with the sun sinking low, I reached the town, 20 more kilometres behind me and a further 45 to Santiago. To complete the emerging mathematical pattern (27-24-20), I’d need more than the three further days I’d budgeted. My feet alone would need that long to recover.
At the first roadside inn, a woman resembling a youthful Juliette Binoche offered me a basic room with shared bathroom for 18 Euros. If I possibly wanted to pay that much. Where a young Bavarian might have passed on by, I ordered a large beer and settled down in the bar outside. On the next table, a wiry and energetic old gent with undertones of central Europe greeted me with gestures and words of unbridled joy. For several minutes, we spoke happy gibberish in languages that did not overlap at any point. His wife, a possible influence on his enthusiasm for the company of others, remained studiously aloof.
And on the fourth day he rested
I elected to hole out in Caldas de Reis on the sensible basis that I couldn’t walk a step without wincing in pain. A day off wasn’t enough to heal any blisters, but gave me time to belatedly buy some proper walking socks, which might diminish the on-going damage along with – more importantly – some powerful painkillers to help me ignore them. The town is known for its hot springs – information I was sadly missing at the time.
I enjoyed the company at my pied a tierre – the worldly charms of the Spanish receptionist were complemented by those of her male counterpart – a rugged bearded man who’d insisted I kept his lighter as well as the cigarette I’d cadged off him. He also complimented my Spanish – always a good route to my heart – in the conversation following one where he clearly hadn’t understood me. I liked these people. I also booked a second night without issue – the facilities and pricing being pitched at exactly my level. The only discord occurred later that night when what sounded like a long drunken harangue emanated from somewhere below. In the morning, the languid smiles of the staff suggested sleep rather than bloodshed had brought the incident to a close.
I whiled away the afternoon in a narrow woody park that bordered the wide Rio Umia – the channels of which spread about the town. I read, sketched the scene, and rearranged my posture on park benches and riverside steps without ever getting comfortable. Only one small portion of my body wanted rest and every slight movement was interrupting it. The rest of me was desperate to make tracks so I brooded over the enforced idleness.
More positively, I mused how the schoolkids who wandered by in the late afternoon sun had an enviable environment in which to grow up – perhaps one pleasant enough to resist the lure of city lights. Unable to wander at leisure in my usual looping manner about the unknown streets, I was limited to the straightest line between my room at one end of town and my eating and shopping expeditions in its sleepy centre.
The lost day necessitated two full walks in the next two to avoid cutting my schedule too fine. I wondered about taking a taxi to the next town as it would cut out 15km but still give a total over 100km… But then I re-read the protocol stating that the last 100km should be walked. The end of that smart idea. I considered procuring some crutches and wondered how painful armpit blisters would be because clearly, I’d get the wrong size crutches.
On both nights, I dined at a pleasant and busy restaurant alongside a shallow fast-flowing rivulet running beneath the bridge in the centre of town. On the first night, a large party of tourists socialised noisily outside. For the duration of my meal, one woman’s insane laughter cut through the hum like a jagged knife. If she was my friend, I’d probably have felt protective about the querying stares she’d inevitably attract, but I was dining alone so found her rather annoying. But part of me envied the group fun. En famille, for example, it’s unlikely I’d settle for a single beer and glass of wine, and the setting and time would allow conversations public and private of all shades and weights. But then again, I relished the hours and days, alone and removed from a more habitual automated existence.
Back in my large empty room, I wondered if I’d sleep through the stinging from my trotters, but thanks to the physical travails off the preceding days, I was out like a light.
Return of the Mad Dog
Awake at 5am, I felt emboldened for the big push. I swallowed the first of my 3g painkillers and carefully bandaged my feet. With the natural support of adrenalin, I felt no pain strolling through the deserted town amid the splashes of streetlights which helped me navigate about the shadows. Soon, I was plunged into a wood that smothered me in total darkness.
Beyond the town, there was no light for eyes to adjust to. Luckily, somewhere ahead, a walker travelled by the torch on her phone and I followed her slowly and doggedly for the next few hours while the sun slept lazily on. Invigorated and determined, I couldn’t help passing the trio who emerged audibly ahead around the beacon of light. I greeted them eerily – one dark shadow looming towards several others, and put my trust in the rising sun.
Soon after its coming, I breakfasted in the garden of a pleasant path-side café. The seats were wet with dew or rain – the only evidence of the season’s ambivalence. It gave me the chance to thank the trio of light-bearing women when they arrived. They smiled back warmly. Things are rarely sinister when they have stepped out of the concealing shadows.
Peaceful hamlets lined the hilly route for much of the morning. My pace was fast and steady, the painkillers stifling all dissent from below – the kilometres passed with satisfying regularity. Fifteen clicks were eaten up before noon. I lunched in Padron, town of the famed peppers where I strolled beneath a tree-shaded promenade alongside a river and Romanesque bridge. From here, I traversed open fields and winding narrow paths through medieval-looking villages hewn from ancient blocks of stone around which barely employed street cats paraded while peering smugly at fenced and fated chickens.
Connected again in spirit with my fellow walkers, my revitalised and energetic striding nonetheless allowed no dawdling. My smile found and fed other smiles. A friendly American woman and I got chatting for a while. Her adult husband refused to join in until he found a reason to make her stop with him. Perhaps he was in that place I’d been. At one stage, I passed several dismounted cyclists who’d overtaken me an hour or so earlier. They stonily ignored my greeting. Later, a mobile bike mechanic eyed me strangely. I wondered if the tribal hatred embraced towards different transport users existed on the trail, but I was in a fine mood so took their ambivalence as a compliment.
By mid-afternoon, a natural fatigue was creeping up as the residue of adrenalin and analgesic ebbed away. Weary but happy, I persevered to find the right place rather than any one – every hundred metres more would be less to travel tomorrow. The route began to follow the roads converging on Santiago – the countryside was running out of itself. An atmospheric old hotel boasting better days loomed tantalisingly ahead on one confluence of road and path, but I elected to keep moving despite its magnetic promise of eccentricity.
A little further on, a roadside inn off a busy road hinted at cosy charm. First, I stopped off in a neighbouring store – possibly the set of a Spanish version of Deliverance. It sold almost literally everything including, I imagined, the shrunken heads of peregrinos. The cashier was shaken by my presence and talk of e-cigarettes – so much so he left the room to call the senior partner – possibly the smarter brother – to better deal with my difficult questions.
My instincts were right about the inn – the room was large and comfortable, all for €20, and I reclined contentedly within it – mightily pleased with the lack of further damage to my numbed feet from the 26km behind me. The only diner, I enjoyed an excellent Pomfret with a rich tomato sauce and a complement of the region’s jealously guarded vegetables. The maternal waitress was so touched by my compliments that she brought out the chef and the pair – possibly related by marriage such was their affectionate bond – seemed tickled by my presence and compliments. With a wink, he drenched my tarta de abuela in brandy.
Santiago de Compestela
For my final day’s trekking, I left at a respectable hour though it was still dark as I dropped off my key for the sleeping hosts. The last 19km flowed easily past. With the total in the teens, I felt nostalgic about the rapid countdown. And to think I’d worried about not finishing. Ha! It felt like the stadium lap at a marathon’s end, but 50 times longer so it extended my celebration enough to fix it in my memory. Several coffee stops allowed me to savour it further, but with the competing pull of finishing the task, I didn’t tarry long.
Painkillers were needed more than ever – the cumulative damage flourished in all its vile visual glory however much the screams of the pain receptors were muted. But with the window of recovery opening in a handful of hours, it no longer mattered.
The countryside flattened out towards the urban centre by my late morning arrival into the suburbs where townies and converging walkers mingled. The signage became more elusive and I latched onto clusters of peregrinos homing in on the quarry at its centre. With the adrenalin running dry, fatigue crept up and demanded its overdue claim.
Finally, around half one, I entered the narrow-cobbled streets of the old town above which peered the cathedral spires. From one, I entered the brightness of a sunlit plaza filled with hundreds of jubilant pilgrims gathered at last in groups that were no longer strung out and silent. I wondered about the procedure, some final marking of my card, but that technical formality could wait, wherever that took place, and part of me questioned the need for a bureaucratical blessing anyway. For a while, I settled back on my haunches and took some snaps, relieved and free of pressing thoughts. I had no others with whom to exchange congratulations so digitally announced my arrival to some far-flung friends.
I delayed the inevitable and tiresome task of finding somewhere to sleep. But a room surely preceded the promised joys of food and drink so finally I followed my usual method of veering off in ever increasing circles. The first candidate lay close by in an alley off the square. All mod cons in the compact structure of a Parisian studio flat with free ice-cream gifted from the shop fronting it. It wasn’t cheap at €60 or so, but the nice young man on the desk suggested I seize my chance. It was only available for one night, so I headed off briefly for an alternative, but it was soon clear there was none. I reminded myself that the jubilation of the walkers in the square was repeated daily, and by people who booked ahead.
Later, I queued for my certificate and almost gave up after being sent to the back for some procedural error. A sweet old man, a volunteer marshal of the lines, sensed injustice and led me to the front. He’d just been roundly abused by a grumpy old git standing ahead of me for not being Hispanic. Possibly the only clear gesture of unkindness I witnessed that week. I conveyed my gratitude, and commiserations for his ill-treatment, but regretted not rounding on the perpetrator of meanness. A few questions from a smiling woman were more amiable than inquisitorial. My certificate was created in a few brief seconds. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting.
Much of the waning day was spent limping around for the next day’s lodgings. Wise locals assured me nothing was available. The internet told me to leave town. Happily, mindless optimism was rewarded by a room coming free in my very own micro hotel. For slightly more money, a larger room with a street view. The lost hours hobbling from door to door I edited out. At one point, I’d requested a room from the same man twice in 20 minutes.
Despite this good fortune, my constrained movement brought on the grumps. My customary lazy stroll around the neighbourhood to find the perfect dining spot did not complement my swollen beleaguered feet. So inevitably the one I settled on without due diligence came with a sullen waiter and a menu that left me unsated. The cuttlefish was pleasant, but very alone.
My evening’s frustrations infiltrated my dreams. In one, I behaved appallingly at a family party held in my honour where I threatened a close friend with an ashtray. Demonic but painfully aware of my fall from angelic grace.
For my final day, I debated visiting Finisterre – the wave-crashed cliffs marking the edge of the known world before Columbus blundered into the Americas. For many, it rounds off the Camino itinerary. But I followed my unconscious promptings and wrote it off as a gimmick. After all, it was devalued when the edge of the world was discovered instead to be just off the coast of Ireland. Perhaps not even there if this round earth theory holds up.
Instead, I visited a museum for pilgrims. It was surprisingly objective in its discussions on the religious beliefs that underlay the Camino. I recalled a similar take in a documentary on the Vatican where the authorities were open to discovering alien life – so much so they sought it from its official observatory. Small consolation for Galileo, perhaps, but it shows how reasonable people can be when no longer holding all the cards of power.
The cathedral was awash with gold, presumably purloined from drastic misadventures in Latin America. I visited the reputed tomb of Saint James – the gentle apostle washing up a long way from home. He was transposed into a warrior – a figurehead to inspire the Spanish empire to plunder the New World and commit genocide upon tens of million. Saint James was celebrated with a bloody moniker – Mataindios – killer of Indians. Not very New Testament.
By nightfall, I’d regained the serenity that kept breaking through the pain. I found a pleasant spot in which to be contentedly immobile drinking copas of vino tinto after a breaded beef Napoletana. Two Dutchmen in the early years of retirement bought me another drink when I made space for them on my table. These affable old work mates represented a different type of peregrino – perhaps less pure in the eyes of some for the sin of paying an agency to lodge them comfortably each night. The only book they followed was self-penned, grounded, and eminently sensible. They’d had a lovely time and didn’t need a certificate to prove it. Their experience clarified how much easier mine might have been. This 56-year-old was struck by just how grown up they seemed.
The journey home was a breeze and completed my recovery from post-lockdown hodophobia – that’s fear of travelling says Google. The local bus took me to the airport without any nefarious tricks and the clean, sparsely populated airport operated like a slick, friendly machine. The flight was a breeze and no-one commented on the odour of my clothes. Even the train strike caused barely a ripple of inconvenience with a bus – albeit a very slow one – bringing me close to home without me having to lift a foot.
Within three days, I was walking normally. The skin was still shedding from my feet a fortnight later. The memories remain strong enough to plan another. My first action will be to donate my haunted walking boots.