A Camino Dance
Having passed through the city of Sarria the previous night, we were set on our plan. Just under two weeks ago, I did not know the girl that I’d now agreed to walk the last leg of the Camino - from Sarria onwards - with in one push.
Frida, a Danish girl the same age as I, had walked a couple of Caminos before. The Portuguese from Porto to Santiago, a few years prior with her family, and the Notre, or Northern, joining the Primitivo in Oviedo the year before. Compared to me, she was a veteran in the European Camino game - myself having never set foot on European soil with the intention of following an entire Camino. Yes, I’d walked a section of the Portuguese Way across four days at the beginning of last year - linking the picturesque, old university city of Coimbra and Porto - however, it being late January at the time, I saw perhaps a handful of pilgrims while walking. To add to this, being slap bang in the middle of the ‘off-season’ for pilgrims meant that the Albergues - these being the hostels scattered along most Caminos - were closed. Not that I knew much about them anyway, as I’d merely stumbled upon the route as a convenient way of getting to Porto from where I was volunteering at the time.
So, roll on a year and a half, I was nearing the end of my first go at doing a Camino in the traditional style - walking in precession to Santiago, following the blue and yellow path markers, staying at Albergues, and meeting hoards and hoards of pilgrims from all over the world every day. For Frida, perhaps it was third time lucky - not that she’d not had any luck during her first two Caminos. In fact, they sounded blissful to say the least! But she was, for all intents and purposes, an expert in comparison - not that she’d admit this.
Roll back a couple of weeks, having just slogged for a couple of hours through the blistering Spanish mid-day heat, I was sitting on the floor shirtless outside the Albergue, enjoying some nuts and olive oil straight from the bottle - much to the surrounding Italians’ disdain. Then, as the line of pilgrims stood up as the doors finally opened at midday, I spotted a pilgrim clad in funky-coloured clothing walking with two others coming towards us. Likely as keen as the rest of us were to find an Albergue to begin their daily post-walk rituals, they scouted around to find a place. At first, they crossed the bridge, El Puente Romano de Estella, over the river Ega, likely looking for a hostel that I’d scouted out before settling on this one - it not opening until 1 pm. However, a few moments later, they returned and sussed out the Albergue that I’d chosen before quickly settling on it, clearly deciding that the big group of Italians wasn’t too much.
Estella was a beautiful place - the narrow streets, lined with tall, traditional Spanish-style buildings, which backed onto the banks of the river Ega, certainly made me feel like I was somewhere authentic. So, I was excited to spend the afternoon roaming around, taking a dip in the river, and meeting more pilgrims at the Albergue, which was moderately large, sleeping nearly a hundred pilgrims. Anyway, I first needed to check in, so I joined the queue, tactically plonking myself near the three amigos that had just arrived.
Andrew was a soldier from the UK, Max a shop manager, and Frida a student - the latter two from Denmark. First talking to the whole group, Frida and I quickly clicked, talking in the strange way that pilgrims talk when they first meet, alternating between highly trivial and mundane matters, like where we’d walked from today, to relatively niche ones, like the area of mathematics Frida was currently studying for a Master’s in. I always found any first interaction with someone interesting - it’s as though you’re drip-feeding them information, but the drip that that information is fed from changes from context to context. We were both young, nerdy, and outdoorsy, so these set the basis for our respective drips.
We continued talking as I navigated checking into the Albergue without a phone, having decided that I’d go as long as possible at the start without it. Taking my time, Frida vanished to undertake her post-walk admin - this looked the same for everyone: shower, laundry, clothes hanging, supermarket shop, collapse, siesta, eat - while I held up the queue of pilgrims behind, now boiling over in the heat. Being one of thousands of pilgrims I’d meet and converse with along the way, the coming and going of pilgrims now felt natural. However, I was keen to get to know this small group of pilgrims a little more, so when I bumped into them later that evening, I asked whether I could walk with them the following day. Despite having been bumping into a fantastic moving party - I mean, a literal party - of Italians at the Albergues every night for the past handful of days, I mostly walked alone, so some company for a day would be a nice change.
Waking up early, but not as early as those that felt the need to leave at 3:30 am to avoid any heat - cmon, we were in Spain, and you’d chosen to be here - we set off around 7 am, walking together for the morning. It was all going swimmingly, other than the fact that we’d lost Max along the way as he pushed on in a different direction at a fork in the route. But then my right leg decided to stop working properly. An infection that I’d developed on my heel from the rookie, yet unavoidable error - given the state of my old shoes that had clocked 2500 km + - of taking a new pair of shoes on a long walk had led to my lymph nodes, particularly my right one, being very swollen. I mean like golf ball-sized kind of swollen. So, after Andrew and Frida stopped for a mid-morning coffee, myself practicing the harmonica outside, I told them to continue on without me. As I plodded the last couple of hours into Los Arcos, I accepted that I’d never see the others again - that it was another of these transitory moments in life.
On the plus side, I couldn’t get away from the Italians, amongst whom was a great German guy called Mario who kindly took up the role of doctor for the afternoon, helping square what was wrong with my groin. He’s the one who joined up the dots - the infection, the lymph nodes - that I couldn’t. Who needed to go to the pharmacy when Mario was at hand.
That night, as was custom at least every other day, our big group - predominated by Italians - came together once more as Dino, the guy who always seemed to be in charge, walked around asking for five euros from anyone who wanted to join the communal dinner that they’d chef up that night. Then, like magic, and certainly a testament to what teamwork and trust can achieve, we were seated only a few hours later beside tables that we’d pulled together to seat a group of forty-odd. As we enjoyed some delicious Bolognaise and salad that the Italians had prepared, I was deeply happy and grateful for being there - everyone talking, sharing stories, learning about different cultures, and even singing. The Italians certainly knew how to party, but, most importantly, they knew how not to take life too seriously. I believe that this is one of their secrets, that there are no secrets!
Having continued yo-yoing the Italian group for a couple of days, one day their unofficial tour guide - a lovely pilgrim called Elena - had found an Albergue with a swimming pool that she decided they’d stay at, meaning that they had a very short day to do. My lymph node on the mend, and enjoying the walking, I decided that it was a good time to part ways with the lovely group of Italians, so I pushed on by myself. Accidently ending up doing a big push - having arrived at the Albergue that I’d found on my paper list only to find it permanently closed - I eventually arrived at a place to sleep early in the evening.
After enjoying a cold salad for dinner in the Albergue’s garden, joining - or should I say, participating from the outskirts - an incredibly jolly and lively group of pilgrims who’d formed what seemed like a close alliance along the way, I headed for a stroll down the road into the village. And who was sitting there outside the village’s only restaurant, but Andrew, sandwiched between the two Danes. I wasn’t too surprised, as I knew that they were staying in the same Albergue as me, having been informed rather quickly of the presence of another Brit by the other pilgrims. You couldn’t hide on the Camino…
Joining them around the table, I explained that I was staying in the same place as them, and they said that there was a spare bed or two in their dorm, so I decided that I’d play it safe and move in with them, not fancying risking sleeping amongst some loud snorers. We soon headed back to get a good night’s rest so that we’d be ready to go again the next morning.
As the sun rose, we set off again as a group, thinking that this was just another one-off day of walking together. However, somewhere along the way, what had started out as a coincidental recombining ended up with Frida and I walking together all the way to Sarria, apart from the one day where I was sure that the situation wasn’t in keeping with the traditional Camino experience. Lets just say that I quickly disregarded that thought, helped by Frida explaining that there’s no right or wrong way to walk a Camino - everyone’s journey along the Way is different.
Now that we were very much walking together, somewhere, sometime, along the way, Frida explained that, the year before, she had wanted to walk the last hundred or so kilometers in one push, having heard about the inauthentic vibe of the last section. With pilgrims only being required to walk the last hundred kilometers to receive the Compostella - this being the credential for ‘completing’ a Camino -, it had resulted in this section becoming disproportionately and almost suffocatingly full of merchandise, souvenir, and attire stores, and everything else under the sun just to make more money from rosy-eyed pilgrims. As one approached the end, the price of a coffee or tortilla rose in proportion to the increase in touristic appeal, and Frida knew that I’d not enjoy such superfluities.
Last year, Frida both couldn’t find someone crazy and silly enough to attempt such a thing and had also bumped into a nice group of pilgrims near the end that she decided to walk with to Santiago. But, this time - Max having darted ahead on a one-man mission and Andrew having veered onto the San Salvador towards Oviedo - the stage was set for a big finale. Without hesitation, I said that I was keen, so long as she was too. We’d already established that we were on the same page, having spent the night sleeping under the stars with no sleeping kit a few days prior - a good plan, until we were forced to start walking at 4 am as we became too cold.
And that’s how we ended up landing in an Albergue just a couple of kilometers west of Sarria. A touch over 110 km from Santiago, we planned to wake up the following morning and go all the way in one push. Or perhaps push is the wrong way of putting it - celebration would likely be more appropriate.
Having just enjoyed a dip in the pool, we sat on the terrace outside the Albergue - which felt more like a fancy family holiday resort than the basic, yet pleasant, nonetheless, places that we’d enjoyed staying at up to this point. As we ate our whopping salad’s that we’d prepared in the plastic tupperwares that we carried with us, the tables around us started filling up one by one, until the restaurant was full and bustling with pilgrims. Sitting there minding our own business, content with our dinner and the food that we were preparing for tomorrow, a Czech pilgrim that had joined us then said “do you not feel rude eating here?”. Until then, I hadn’t considered what we were doing as rude, given that this was the only place for pilgrims to eat around a table at the Albergue, but he made Frida and I feel a little uncomfortable. And he didn’t stop there. As we prepared our snacks for our big push - throwing oats, dates, peanut butter, chocolate, coconut flakes, and seeds into one tupperware - he felt the need to comment, multiple times, on how the quantities of food before him made him feel sick. I agreed that, yes, it was a lot of food, but we had at least 24 hours of continuous walking to do tomorrow, and he knew this - we needed it!
Trying our best to ignore the Czech guy, we instead enjoyed the company of a lovely Italian lady called Fransesca, whose interest in nutrition and food led her to ask genuinely curious questions about what we were preparing - why the nuts and seeds, why the chia seeds in the overnight oats. We liked Francesca - she was beautiful, both inwardly and outwardly.
Just as we were about to head to bed, wanting to sleep a little before our 5 am start, two Korean pilgrims that we’d passed earlier whilst walking under a motorway bridge appeared and stood together facing the mass of pilgrims, the man holding a small speaker in front of him. We’d been serenaded by these two pilgrims earlier, stopping to listen to them sing Opera under the bridge. Yes, you read that right. And when I say sing, I mean SING. They were incredible; the emotion in their voices moving us as we listened. Clearly, they enjoyed sharing their talents with other pilgrims, and they begun their own rendition of a Spanish song relating to the Camino in front of us all. As before, it was moving - we were set up well for tomorrow.
At 5:00 am, the alarm sounded, and Frida and I hopped out of the bunk, quietly getting our stuff together outside the dorm as not to wake up other pilgrims. Frida asked how I’d slept, and I said that I couldn’t sleep much as I was so excited. She later told me that she was confused by this - why would someone be so excited to walk with just one person for over a day on a bad night’s sleep? I guess these are just the types of things that I love - adventures. It was just a cherry on top being able to share the experience with someone else.
Despite waking up to head off early, other pilgrims were also getting ready to leave at this early hour - perhaps it was their honeymoon-phase enthusiasm, or a fear that the Albergues up ahead would fill up early in the day. As you near the end, apparently, this is not an uncommon occurrence, as masses of pilgrims arrive before lunch to secure a bunk, often creating queues that lined the length of the streets outside. It not being peak season, perhaps these early risers would be lucky, but Frida and I needn’t worry, as we planned not to sleep tonight.
Leaving the small village of Vilei, dimly lit streets quickly gave way to dark country lanes, requiring us to walk under the light of our headtorch for some time. As we passed in and out of small, quaint Spanish villages, I told Frida that it felt cool to be walking past the Albergues so early - on the start of our big push towards Santiago, but no one else any the wiser. The day started off slow and easy as we let our bodies find a gentle flow, but it was already warm and stuffy, both of us soon slipping off most of our layers to stay cool.
Given that we’d prepared some overnight oats for breakfast and some snacks for the road, our bags were a little heavier than usual, so - combined with the fact that I couldn’t wait to tuck in any longer - we decided that we’d stop an hour or so into the day to enjoy our breakfast somewhere quiet along the way. Soon, we stopped and perched beside a farmhouse entrance to eat. I must say that I’d felt fresher at this point into a long walk. Having had aches and pains in various places during the Camino, the most recent was some soreness in my left hip and Achilles tendon. Luckily, walking was relatively untaxing on the body, and I knew that having Frida as company would help a lot.
Enjoying our breakfast, we soon heard the chit-chatting of other pilgrims in their stride towards us - a few groups passing us as we took a rest. We laughed about how we’d only walked a handful of kilometers before taking a long break, but agreed that it made more sense to stop to eat while still dark, walking a little more once it was light. Ingenious stuff, right… Finishing off our breakfast - the delicious soaked oats mixed with nuts, seeds, peanut butter, peach and chocolate hitting the spot - we were on our feet and moving again, feeling lighter, despite having only shifted the food from our bags to our stomachs.
A couple of hours into our day, we soon hit the 100 km to go mark. The enormity of what still lay ahead hit us both, as we talked about how far that really was. However, having both walked this distance before, we knew that the key was to take it one step at a time and not to get overwhelmed by the big goal.
Before meeting Frida, I was unaware of a certain type of endurance walk undertaken by many people in Denmark, as well as in other European countries. Known as vandreture in Danish, these long marches were essentially big walks lined with food and drink stations, similar to those seen in ultramarathons; however, people did not sign up to race, but instead, just to finish within a certain time - for example 24 hours for a 100 km. Still an incredible feat of endurance, but without the potential competitiveness intrinsically embedded in anything labelled a race, where participants are given a position, a rank, if you like. Social, fun and inclusive, I loved the sound of these marches and wished that more such things existed in the UK. Along with others - her mother included - Frida, had completed a hundred-kilometer march a year prior, and had come to Spain having just partaken in an event covering 300 km over six days. Anyway, I digress - Frida had managed to convince me that she was more than capable of closing off the crazy plan that she’d devised, not that I doubted her beforehand.
Taking a photo of one another in front of the stone marker indicating 100 km to go, we pressed ahead, the sun having now risen. As we weaved between small roads, farm tracks and wide trails, the frequency of stone distance markers increased. Every couple hundred meters or so now, we’d be reminded of how far we still had to go. 99.624 km… 99.326 km… 99.002 km. I told Frida that these signs would make it interesting psychologically, as I certainly held the belief that it is often better not to know how far you have left and to just keep plodding along. Now that we were being constantly reminded of how far we had left, I was already noticing the subtle effect this had in my mind.
As we ticked off the small villages and towns one by one, cresting a hill adjoining a wide valley, we were soon greeted by the sight of Portomarín. Dropping down towards the Minho River, we crossed Ponte Nova de Portomarín, and I observed how low the water level was - whether this was due to the unseasonal, extreme heat that Spain had experienced this summer, I do not know, but it struck a chord inside me and stuck with me, nonetheless. Our ecosystems and ecological landscapes were changing - shifting, degenerating, collapsing under the pressure of anthropogenic-induced change. Not wanting to add any negativity to the mood, however, I decided against kickstarting a talk related to climate change, having already given Frida enough of that spiel over the past couple of weeks. She didn’t need any more of it!
Climate change wasn’t the only concern I had crossing the bridge - I’d also started to feel quite some pain in my left hip on the way down the valley’s slopes. The remaining twenty hours or so would be challenging, but I could still walk and did not feel like I was causing any long-term damage - that’s all that mattered. Frida, on the other hand, was plodding along complaining not at all, looking fresh as ever, her only issue being that she hadn’t yet had her once-per-morning coffee. From my point of view, coffee every day is silly and unnecessary if you are energised anyway, but, for Frida, it was more of a ritual in the morning - a pause that I’d also come to enjoy and appreciate as we walked together.
Having crossed the bridge, we were greeted by a long set of stairs climbing up towards Portomarín. Assuming that that was where the Camino went - for which route would not traverse such grand stairs? - we climbed up, my legs feeling surprisingly fresh at last, apart from the hip. We passed a pair of American pilgrims - a daughter and son - who, like us, had also walked all the way from Saint-Jean-Pied-du-Port in France, this being the starting point of the Camino Francés. Looking for a cafe, we glanced over a few that looked far too fancy before landing on one in a nearby square.
Coffee in hand, Frida enjoyed sipping it as we scoured my paper list of Albergues in Santiago to find a place to stay the following night. The last thing we wanted was to have nowhere to rest after our big push. Ending up opting for my usual tactic, we booked two bunks at the cheap municipal Albergue just on the outskirts of the city - still bunks, but it would do the job. Waiting for Frida to finish her coffee, I kept nibbling away at the super snack that we’d prepared in one of our tupperwares. Not hungry, I did not know why I kept eating the questionably palatable concoction - perhaps it was the nerves setting in, or my body telling me that I’d walked too far the past few weeks.
Wanting to groove again, we retraced our steps out of Portomarín - it transpired that the Camino did not, in fact, traverse the long set of stairs - and continued westward towards Santiago. Crossing a tributary along the Minho river, we climbed uphill with a newfound energy from our break. Frida had lent me her poles to try to take some weight off my hip, and I felt like I was flying all of a sudden. Knowing that she liked using them, having used them up most hills up to now, I asked whether she was sure she didn’t want them. She said she wanted me to use them, but I knew that she was just being kind.
Feeling a swing in our step, we soaked in the morning sun. So far, the weather had been on our side, and we hoped that it would stay that way until Santiago. But with every step we took, we neared the coast, so we knew that the likelihood of rain would be higher. As we yo-yoed other pilgrims, who were now growing in numbers as we passed the Albergues that had housed them last night, we’d occasionally be asked where we were headed. Not wanting to be dishonest, we explained that we didn’t know where we’d be sleeping tonight. However, I often fell into weakness and felt the need to disclose our mission to other pilgrims, knowing that this was unnecessary. I was aware of the danger of declaring and talking about a lofty goal too much, as it had the psychological effect of living the experience out in your mind many times before it happens in actuality. I wanted our walk to be organic and face whatever came as it came. I knew that it would mean more that way, so I told Frida that I’d hold off sharing our plan if any more pilgrims asked - keeping it vague, instead.
Attitude shifted; somewhere along the way we bumped into a woman from China. The first question I asked was ‘Nihonjin desu ka? Are you Japanese?’, to which she replied ‘no’. Having been in Japan - walking a pilgrimage there, too - at the beginning of the year, I learned some of the language before heading out and picked up a fair bit while there, so I was keen to practice a little. However, I’d not met a single Japanese person along the Camino. Perhaps this was because of the difficulty in getting a long period off work as a professional in Japan, or the fact that they had a famous pilgrimage on home soil - the Shikoku Henro. Nonetheless, I was still sad that I couldn’t practice the language back home.
The Chinese pilgrim was in her late thirties and had recently left a job that had left her broken. Similar to many people her age, over the course of the decade-and-counting that she’d been in her last job, it had slowly become all-encompassing- the culture, environment, and pressure had all become too much. Naturally, I was unsurprised to hear that it was a job in finance, which on the surface was a ‘good’ job aligning with the distorted status quo definition of success. Luckily for her, she’d finally realised that the life that she was leading was not serving her, so she bravely left the role with nothing lined up afterwards. Shanghai, amongst most other Chinese megacities, had a toxic work culture, she explained - tremendously long days and an unquestionable people-pleasing attitude arising merely from the pressure applied from above. Interestingly, when I asked whether she liked living there, she said she loved it and planned to stay there. Why? I asked. Because Shanghai was a far more progressive and inclusive city than others in China.
Same sex marriage is still illegal in China, and being part of the LGBTQ+ community is still generally frowned upon; people identifying as such are often ostracised. From as early as during the Mongol Empire, where Genghis Khan made male homosexuality punishable by death, to later on during Maoist China, where it was seen as a “form of degeneracy originating in capitalist societies” 1, LGBTQ+ people in China continue to face unique legal and social challenges. It was both sad and interesting to hear about the disparity in progressiveness between different societies - how can a country so technologically advanced be so cognitively unprogressive?
Not all is bad in the East, however. One thing that they did do well was covering up their skin to protect it from the sun. The precise reasoning for this may not be well-meaning and pure - for I’d been told that to have a tanned complexion was also frowned upon in China - however, I still took a page from their book. I walked covered head to toe in a sun hoodie and some tattered joggers I’d picked up from the “free clothes” box at an Albergue, having stupidly lost my only spare pair of shorts on day one. But even the Chinese woman was surprised, asking how I didn’t feel too hot in all my layers. I said that it was to protect my skin and, regardless, when the temperatures rose above 30 degrees, I felt like it helped keep me cool.
Hitting a hill, we parted ways with the Chinese lady as she told us to go ahead, so I pulled out my harmonica that I carried in my rucksack waist pocket to play some music. Despite having no experience playing the instrument, I enjoyed messing around with it from time to time. Frida even said it sounded good, to which I said it isn’t that difficult, given that it was all in the key of C - all you had to do was blow in the right holes.
As we neared Palas del Rei, we passed a group of Spanish school friends who’d started their pilgrimage in Pontferrada, around a hundred miles from Santiago. The inevitable question of how many days we planned to take to reach Santiago soon arose, and their unhappiness towards our vagueness required us to spill the beans and tell them that we hoped to push to the finish today. Looking at us in disbelief and shock, talking amongst one another, we told them that this was not as uncommon as they thought, it all being relative - we certainly had pilgrim legs after three weeks of long walking. We wished them luck and continued on, soon hitting Palas del Rei.
Being forty-five or so kilometers into the walk, having seventy odd to go, we thought it was about time to stop for a late lunch. It was already 3 pm, so we needed to get some good food in us so that we could continue on our mission. Heading to the small supermarket around the corner, we passed pilgrims already settled, enjoying pints outside the bars. You’d think we’d be envious, but it felt cool to be on our own little quest. Instead of pints, we picked up some bread, avocado, and tomatoes form the shop to make a nice sandwich, as well as some fruit and yogurt for dessert.
Having spotted it earlier, we headed to Iglesia de San Turso to sit on the grassy terrace overlooking the town. As was custom, we sat on the grass and laid out our food to prepare our lunchtime feast. We loaded the sandwiches up with some cheese we’d brought the previous night, called Titilla - getting it’s name from the fact that it looked like a woman’s breast, or ‘tit’. It was delicious, and just as creamy, sweet, tangy, and soft as the cycling pilgrim who recommended it to us a few days prior had said. Crazily, Frida had also bumped into the same pilgrim on his bike at an Albergue along the Notre last year. It’s fair to say they were both in disbelief when they eventually recognised each other, Frida having asked whether he stayed at the same place as her. Luck must be on our side, I thought - such low odds for this to happen!
Our enjoyment was soon interrupted as the critical Czech man whom we hoped not to cross paths with again appeared. He kept catching us at the wrong times, when we were indulging in huge quantities of food - but this was our first meal since our 6 am breakfast. Oh well, we didn’t care.
As pilgrims finished for the day, the Czech guy included, we watched them enter the small church like bees to a hive to collect their stamps. Despite being on the Camino, we felt out of place wearing dirty clothes and sporting a weathered look, but neither of us would have wanted it any other way. Luckily, the Czech guy had to dash to find his Albergue, only to pass by a few moments later saying that it was already full. Considering offering for him to join us, we didn’t fancy carrying him - and his unnecessary criticism - along with us to Santiago, so we decided not to risk it.
Feeling full of beans again, Frida and I continued on our way towards Melide, where we planned to have our final stop for the evening to fill up on some food and buy snacks before going into the night. Most pilgrims having stopped for the day - other than one lady who we kept bumping into, riding a bike and clad head to toe in sun protection clothing - we enjoyed the quietness of the way. However, unlike all other days, since many pilgrims had likely prebooked their accommodation up the road, we passed groups sat outside cafes and bars enjoying some late afternoon drinks.
As pilgrims finished up for the day, we were still feeling fresh and moving well. My hip issue had settled down; the only thing now bothering me was my heel, but I’d manage. As the sun lowered in the sky, our shadows elongating behind us, we soon hit the suburbs of Melide. Before arriving, we’d decided two things: one, we’d find a local cafe and order two double espressos to help push us through the night and, two, we’d buy a crazy amount of chocolate to keep us fuelled.
Having passed a couple of tempting-looking places that we again decided were too fancy for us, we pressed ahead into the centre so we could soak in the atmosphere. Hitting Avenue Lugo - the main road dissecting Melide - we bumped into a group of Americans. Nothing special, except they were all wearing Huarache sandals - the sandals that I’d been carrying with me and wearing in the evening and banged on and on to Frida about how much I loved them. Seeing three women walking down the street in them made my day.
Passing the touristic bars lining the high street, we spotted a small local cafe called Cafeteria Marian hiding behind the Capela de San Roque. Heading inside, it was exactly what we needed - a basic yet authentic Spanish cafe, where locals lined the bar, drinking coffee at 7:30 pm, talking over beers and smoking cigarettes outside. Sitting at the bar, we ordered two double espressos and some croquettes, nodding when he asked, ‘grande?’ - the stronger the better! As we sipped on our coffees and tried not to burn our mouths eating the croquettes, we thought about how crazy and amazing this all was - that we were doing such a fun thing together despite only bumping into each other two weeks prior. Taking our time, enjoying talking with a local sat beside us and listening to the music playing from the television at the backside of the cafe, I found it incredible how the whole cafe seemed to be run by just one man. He’d take orders, man the bar, prepare food, help customers, all in one seemingly seamless act. It was strangely inspiring and admirable - nothing fancy, just keeping it simple and doing a good job.
Unfortunately, we couldn’t stay there all night, needing to crack on if there was any hope of us reaching Santiago. Popping across the square to a small Eroski, we raided the chocolate and nuts shelves to top up on snacks, and I grabbed a huge bottle of chocolate milk, too. I’d restrained myself from buying one the whole trip, wanting to leave it until the end. Now seemed like the perfect time, and when we sat outside the church to do some feet admin, I quickly glugged the milk - it was amazing!
Preparing some final bits before heading into the night, we were approached by an American pilgrim. Confused as to what we were up to, we explained that we were going to walk to Santiago tonight. Incredulous, he then kindly asked whether he could say a blessing for us. We agreed and sat with him as he wished us good luck, faith, and safety on our mission before a hoard of people proceeded to come out of the chapel. It turns out we’d just missed the evening pilgrim mass. Oh well, we didn’t know that it was on!
Full of caffeine and chocolate - which also contains caffeine, I guess, oops! - we headed out of Melide as the sun dipped below the horizon. Golden hour upon us, we climbed past the beautiful church of Igreta de Santa Maria de Melide and enjoyed the clear skies as we plodded along the quiet tracks - the sky turning from shades of blue, to reds and oranges, and finally to black with specks of light from the stars above.
Holding off for as long as we could, we were soon forced to use a headtorch so as not to trip over. I tried mine; however, its pathetically dim light helped very little as soon as we entered any wooded area, so we opted for Frida’s tiny super-headtorch instead. We were the only ones walking now, and we knew that things would get tougher now that it was dark, but we were excited for the challenges and fun that the night would bring.
As we passed in and out of dense forests, we decided to start playing some music for motivation, kicking things off with some Dire Straits. Swinging along to Sultans of Swing, we soon hit the end of the album and opted for a variety of throwback classics to keep us grooving. However, as I’d learned in the past, music could only provide temporary alleviation and distraction, and after an hour or so, I started to tire, and,my mind started playing games with me. I became emotional as I recollected past times that were difficult during my life and, as is often the case, felt a strong feeling of care and love towards the people I cared about back home. As I tried to contain my emotions, it became too much, and I let some tears out as Frida consoled me.
Emotional moment over, I picked myself up again as we continued deep into the night. I’d always realised the power and value of having somebody beside you during the lows in any long walk or run, and I was once again grateful. As we alternated between country roads and wide tracks - far wider than the start of the Camino to accommodate the far greater number of pilgrims close to the end - we passed the odd private Albergue with lights still on, some pilgrims enjoying talking late into the night.
Crossing Ponte Medieval de Rubadiso, I really needed the loo. Luckily for me, the local restaurant just off the path was closing for the night, so I walked in to ask if I could use the toilet, the waiter not even double taking the fact that a pilgrim was still walking at 11:30 pm. Perhaps this was a normal thing to do, after all? Opposite the restaurant, we sat on a street side bench, taking a break to eat some chocolate and rest our legs. Our energy was certainly fading, but this was to be expected.
As we hit the road again, we soon crossed a motorway - the N-547. Entirely carless and silent, almost like a road through ghost country, I felt as if we were crossing some sort of wild ravine. We could well have been; the lightless dual carriageway not suggesting otherwise and leading me to use my imagination - if this depression in the land was in fact natural, until recently, it would have been wild and untouched, right?
Running out of things to talk about, I started blabbering on about my pilgrimage in Japan once again. However, the next moment, we were walking into the city of Arzúa, and I turned to Frida to ask how we’d arrived here, not remembering walking in. She said that we’d just walked through the city’s suburbs - clearly, I’d just been half sleep-walking for the past ten minutes or so. Still in a drowsy state, amazed that I’d just floated along without awareness of doing so, I told Frida that I should find some caffeine to stop me from going any loopier. She told me to stop, and proceeded to pull out a tube of caffeine filled electrolyte tablets from her bag, handing them to me. Reading the label, four tablets equated to 300 mg of caffeine, so I threw four into a litre water bottle and glugged half of its contents in a matter of a few seconds. Surely that would do the trick.
Awaiting the inevitable caffeine kick, we passed through Arzúa as the late-night bars closed. But perhaps the caffeine never kicked in, as the next few hours after midnight were all a bit of a blur for me - my recollection of those hours vague and disjointed. I remember sitting down on a bench just outside of one of the towns along the way and playing one of my favourite artists, Fabrizio Paterlini, as we took a moment to pause and to appreciate how fortunate we were. We were tremendously privileged to be able to have walked the Camino and to spend the night walking. We knew this, and did not want to take it for granted. This emotional pause was juxtaposed by us finishing off the super snack that had lasted until then. As we were half-falling asleep, I soon turned to Frida, saying that we should crack on.
Sometime around 3 am, having zig-zagged across a main road countless times, thinking that we were closer than we were to a nearby town that Frida had passed through the previous year, we hung a right onto a side road only to bump into some youngsters sat outside a cafe. Confused, I asked what they were doing. They said they were just enjoying some drinks. Maybe this was normal. It was certainly more normal than what we were doing, so I felt silly for asking them as we continued walking on.
Touching on the twenty-four-hour mark, Frida made her first suggestion that something was aching a little, saying that her feet were sore. So, when we hit a cafe - clearly closed overnight - we sat on some chairs around a table on the terrace and took half an hour or so to take our shoes off, kick up our legs, and listen to some Adele and Coldplay. Continuing to enjoy the chocolate, Frida had had enough, her palate fatiguing. But I wasn’t without my problems either, with awful acid reflux for the past hour or so, likely from all of the electrolyte drink I’d had. Despite this, I still continued to drink it, trying to fend off any drowsiness I was feeling.
Eventually standing up and moving again, we locked into a sustainable pace as our conversation died down. Things were tough now. Having been walking in the dark for a fair few hours, we were now waiting for it to be light again. However, perhaps in craving this, things became more difficult as time seemed to pass more slowly, the distance feeling longer. Trying to think of any other tricks that I had up my sleeve, I suggested that we stopped to brush our teeth, knowing that it sometimes helped you feel fresher and trick your mind into thinking you’ve just woken up.
Perching on a stone set of stairs behind someone’s house, we brushed our teeth. But then we started hearing some people walking towards us. Surely no one was walking at 4 am? But there was. A group of Italians soon passed us, so I told Frida to hurry up and pack her stuff as we had to pounce on this opportunity. Some new faces to talk to would make a huge difference and help get us out of our present rut. I told them that we’d been moving for 24 hours and that it would be amazing if we could join them all the way to Santiago. They said, of course, no problem, so we tagged along with them.
I now felt re-energised by the new company - not that Frida’s ever grew old - and enjoyed getting to know the different people in their group. However, there was one slight problem - they were plodding along at a very slow pace. Painfully slow for two pilgrims that had already walked close to 100 km. It took more energy to stay with them than to just continue on at our own rhythm. So, having been told how tired and awful we looked by a lady taking a picture of us together as we hit the 100 km mark, we started pulling away from the Italians. If shit hit the fan, we knew they’d find us and help, having already offered us food and drink as they expressed their worry about us. But we were on the home straight now. We knew we’d be OK.
Continuing on, ebbing and flowing between states of depression and elatedness, the sun finally began to rise as we hit the outskirts of Santiago. Tired, we snuck into an Albergue to use their toilet, passing pilgrims setting off for the day. We looked so rough compared to them, which made me laugh a little inside. Having lightened the load, we plodded on towards Santiago’s centre, soon cresting the final hump before seeing the city. As always during these big pushes, I struggled mentally for the last few kilometers. One, because we were now walking through a concrete jungle and two, because my body had now decided to start shutting down, knowing that its job was nearly done.
After what felt like an aeon, we finally arrived at Santiago’s old town. As we neared the Cathedral, the streets became busier and busier; however, given that it was still merely 8 am, the crowds had not yet come in full force. Weaving along the streets - the same streets that millions of pilgrims had walked along -, we dropped down a set of stairs before hitting the Catedral de Santiago de Compostela. This was it. We’d arrived. We’d finished. And all we wanted to do was collapse on the floor and sleep. But we couldn’t do that quite yet, as a pair of other pilgrims who had just finished asked us to take a photo of them before offering to take an obligatory one of us. I guess we should take just the one, right? So we stood there together in front of the Cathedral, smiling to the camera, before darting across to sit beside a pillar on the other side of the square.
Wanting to soak it all in, we quickly fell asleep instead. Anticlimactic? Perhaps. Any regrets? No. It was just one unexpected Camino dance.
Strangely, I finished this post off quite abruptly. I’m acutely aware of this, and Frida even told me after reading it. However, this was what I had to reel from my mind at the time of writing, so I will keep it as is to preserve its authenticity and unpolished style. Regardless, I hope that you enjoyed reading this post. My Shikoku Henro writing is on hold for now as I intend to share the rest of the journey in a form other than blog posts. As I now start a new chapter in my life, perhaps my writing will change too. We shall see.
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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBTQ_rights_in_China ↩
Having passed through the city of Sarria the previous night, we were set on our plan. Just under two weeks ago, I did not know the girl that I’d now agreed to walk the last leg of the Camino - from Sarria onwards - with in one push.
Frida, a Danish girl the same age as I, had walked a couple of Caminos before. The Portuguese from Porto to Santiago, a few years prior with her family, and the Notre, or Northern, joining the Primitivo in Oviedo the year before. Compared to me, she was a veteran in the European Camino game - myself having never set foot on European soil with the intention of following an entire Camino. Yes, I’d walked a section of the Portuguese Way across four days at the beginning of last year - linking the picturesque, old university city of Coimbra and Porto - however, it being late January at the time, I saw perhaps a handful of pilgrims while walking. To add to this, being slap bang in the middle of the ‘off-season’ for pilgrims meant that the Albergues - these being the hostels scattered along most Caminos - were closed. Not that I knew much about them anyway, as I’d merely stumbled upon the route as a convenient way of getting to Porto from where I was volunteering at the time.
So, roll on a year and a half, I was nearing the end of my first go at doing a Camino in the traditional style - walking in precession to Santiago, following the blue and yellow path markers, staying at Albergues, and meeting hoards and hoards of pilgrims from all over the world every day. For Frida, perhaps it was third time lucky - not that she’d not had any luck during her first two Caminos. In fact, they sounded blissful to say the least! But she was, for all intents and purposes, an expert in comparison - not that she’d admit this.
Roll back a couple of weeks, having just slogged for a couple of hours through the blistering Spanish mid-day heat, I was sitting on the floor shirtless outside the Albergue, enjoying some nuts and olive oil straight from the bottle - much to the surrounding Italians’ disdain. Then, as the line of pilgrims stood up as the doors finally opened at midday, I spotted a pilgrim clad in funky-coloured clothing walking with two others coming towards us. Likely as keen as the rest of us were to find an Albergue to begin their daily post-walk rituals, they scouted around to find a place. At first, they crossed the bridge, El Puente Romano de Estella, over the river Ega, likely looking for a hostel that I’d scouted out before settling on this one - it not opening until 1 pm. However, a few moments later, they returned and sussed out the Albergue that I’d chosen before quickly settling on it, clearly deciding that the big group of Italians wasn’t too much.
Estella was a beautiful place - the narrow streets, lined with tall, traditional Spanish-style buildings, which backed onto the banks of the river Ega, certainly made me feel like I was somewhere authentic. So, I was excited to spend the afternoon roaming around, taking a dip in the river, and meeting more pilgrims at the Albergue, which was moderately large, sleeping nearly a hundred pilgrims. Anyway, I first needed to check in, so I joined the queue, tactically plonking myself near the three amigos that had just arrived.
Andrew was a soldier from the UK, Max a shop manager, and Frida a student - the latter two from Denmark. First talking to the whole group, Frida and I quickly clicked, talking in the strange way that pilgrims talk when they first meet, alternating between highly trivial and mundane matters, like where we’d walked from today, to relatively niche ones, like the area of mathematics Frida was currently studying for a Master’s in. I always found any first interaction with someone interesting - it’s as though you’re drip-feeding them information, but the drip that that information is fed from changes from context to context. We were both young, nerdy, and outdoorsy, so these set the basis for our respective drips.
We continued talking as I navigated checking into the Albergue without a phone, having decided that I’d go as long as possible at the start without it. Taking my time, Frida vanished to undertake her post-walk admin - this looked the same for everyone: shower, laundry, clothes hanging, supermarket shop, collapse, siesta, eat - while I held up the queue of pilgrims behind, now boiling over in the heat. Being one of thousands of pilgrims I’d meet and converse with along the way, the coming and going of pilgrims now felt natural. However, I was keen to get to know this small group of pilgrims a little more, so when I bumped into them later that evening, I asked whether I could walk with them the following day. Despite having been bumping into a fantastic moving party - I mean, a literal party - of Italians at the Albergues every night for the past handful of days, I mostly walked alone, so some company for a day would be a nice change.
Waking up early, but not as early as those that felt the need to leave at 3:30 am to avoid any heat - cmon, we were in Spain, and you’d chosen to be here - we set off around 7 am, walking together for the morning. It was all going swimmingly, other than the fact that we’d lost Max along the way as he pushed on in a different direction at a fork in the route. But then my right leg decided to stop working properly. An infection that I’d developed on my heel from the rookie, yet unavoidable error - given the state of my old shoes that had clocked 2500 km + - of taking a new pair of shoes on a long walk had led to my lymph nodes, particularly my right one, being very swollen. I mean like golf ball-sized kind of swollen. So, after Andrew and Frida stopped for a mid-morning coffee, myself practicing the harmonica outside, I told them to continue on without me. As I plodded the last couple of hours into Los Arcos, I accepted that I’d never see the others again - that it was another of these transitory moments in life.
On the plus side, I couldn’t get away from the Italians, amongst whom was a great German guy called Mario who kindly took up the role of doctor for the afternoon, helping square what was wrong with my groin. He’s the one who joined up the dots - the infection, the lymph nodes - that I couldn’t. Who needed to go to the pharmacy when Mario was at hand.
That night, as was custom at least every other day, our big group - predominated by Italians - came together once more as Dino, the guy who always seemed to be in charge, walked around asking for five euros from anyone who wanted to join the communal dinner that they’d chef up that night. Then, like magic, and certainly a testament to what teamwork and trust can achieve, we were seated only a few hours later beside tables that we’d pulled together to seat a group of forty-odd. As we enjoyed some delicious Bolognaise and salad that the Italians had prepared, I was deeply happy and grateful for being there - everyone talking, sharing stories, learning about different cultures, and even singing. The Italians certainly knew how to party, but, most importantly, they knew how not to take life too seriously. I believe that this is one of their secrets, that there are no secrets!
Having continued yo-yoing the Italian group for a couple of days, one day their unofficial tour guide - a lovely pilgrim called Elena - had found an Albergue with a swimming pool that she decided they’d stay at, meaning that they had a very short day to do. My lymph node on the mend, and enjoying the walking, I decided that it was a good time to part ways with the lovely group of Italians, so I pushed on by myself. Accidently ending up doing a big push - having arrived at the Albergue that I’d found on my paper list only to find it permanently closed - I eventually arrived at a place to sleep early in the evening.
After enjoying a cold salad for dinner in the Albergue’s garden, joining - or should I say, participating from the outskirts - an incredibly jolly and lively group of pilgrims who’d formed what seemed like a close alliance along the way, I headed for a stroll down the road into the village. And who was sitting there outside the village’s only restaurant, but Andrew, sandwiched between the two Danes. I wasn’t too surprised, as I knew that they were staying in the same Albergue as me, having been informed rather quickly of the presence of another Brit by the other pilgrims. You couldn’t hide on the Camino…
Joining them around the table, I explained that I was staying in the same place as them, and they said that there was a spare bed or two in their dorm, so I decided that I’d play it safe and move in with them, not fancying risking sleeping amongst some loud snorers. We soon headed back to get a good night’s rest so that we’d be ready to go again the next morning.
As the sun rose, we set off again as a group, thinking that this was just another one-off day of walking together. However, somewhere along the way, what had started out as a coincidental recombining ended up with Frida and I walking together all the way to Sarria, apart from the one day where I was sure that the situation wasn’t in keeping with the traditional Camino experience. Lets just say that I quickly disregarded that thought, helped by Frida explaining that there’s no right or wrong way to walk a Camino - everyone’s journey along the Way is different.
Now that we were very much walking together, somewhere, sometime, along the way, Frida explained that, the year before, she had wanted to walk the last hundred or so kilometers in one push, having heard about the inauthentic vibe of the last section. With pilgrims only being required to walk the last hundred kilometers to receive the Compostella - this being the credential for ‘completing’ a Camino -, it had resulted in this section becoming disproportionately and almost suffocatingly full of merchandise, souvenir, and attire stores, and everything else under the sun just to make more money from rosy-eyed pilgrims. As one approached the end, the price of a coffee or tortilla rose in proportion to the increase in touristic appeal, and Frida knew that I’d not enjoy such superfluities.
Last year, Frida both couldn’t find someone crazy and silly enough to attempt such a thing and had also bumped into a nice group of pilgrims near the end that she decided to walk with to Santiago. But, this time - Max having darted ahead on a one-man mission and Andrew having veered onto the San Salvador towards Oviedo - the stage was set for a big finale. Without hesitation, I said that I was keen, so long as she was too. We’d already established that we were on the same page, having spent the night sleeping under the stars with no sleeping kit a few days prior - a good plan, until we were forced to start walking at 4 am as we became too cold.
And that’s how we ended up landing in an Albergue just a couple of kilometers west of Sarria. A touch over 110 km from Santiago, we planned to wake up the following morning and go all the way in one push. Or perhaps push is the wrong way of putting it - celebration would likely be more appropriate.
Having just enjoyed a dip in the pool, we sat on the terrace outside the Albergue - which felt more like a fancy family holiday resort than the basic, yet pleasant, nonetheless, places that we’d enjoyed staying at up to this point. As we ate our whopping salad’s that we’d prepared in the plastic tupperwares that we carried with us, the tables around us started filling up one by one, until the restaurant was full and bustling with pilgrims. Sitting there minding our own business, content with our dinner and the food that we were preparing for tomorrow, a Czech pilgrim that had joined us then said “do you not feel rude eating here?”. Until then, I hadn’t considered what we were doing as rude, given that this was the only place for pilgrims to eat around a table at the Albergue, but he made Frida and I feel a little uncomfortable. And he didn’t stop there. As we prepared our snacks for our big push - throwing oats, dates, peanut butter, chocolate, coconut flakes, and seeds into one tupperware - he felt the need to comment, multiple times, on how the quantities of food before him made him feel sick. I agreed that, yes, it was a lot of food, but we had at least 24 hours of continuous walking to do tomorrow, and he knew this - we needed it!
Trying our best to ignore the Czech guy, we instead enjoyed the company of a lovely Italian lady called Fransesca, whose interest in nutrition and food led her to ask genuinely curious questions about what we were preparing - why the nuts and seeds, why the chia seeds in the overnight oats. We liked Francesca - she was beautiful, both inwardly and outwardly.
Just as we were about to head to bed, wanting to sleep a little before our 5 am start, two Korean pilgrims that we’d passed earlier whilst walking under a motorway bridge appeared and stood together facing the mass of pilgrims, the man holding a small speaker in front of him. We’d been serenaded by these two pilgrims earlier, stopping to listen to them sing Opera under the bridge. Yes, you read that right. And when I say sing, I mean SING. They were incredible; the emotion in their voices moving us as we listened. Clearly, they enjoyed sharing their talents with other pilgrims, and they begun their own rendition of a Spanish song relating to the Camino in front of us all. As before, it was moving - we were set up well for tomorrow.
At 5:00 am, the alarm sounded, and Frida and I hopped out of the bunk, quietly getting our stuff together outside the dorm as not to wake up other pilgrims. Frida asked how I’d slept, and I said that I couldn’t sleep much as I was so excited. She later told me that she was confused by this - why would someone be so excited to walk with just one person for over a day on a bad night’s sleep? I guess these are just the types of things that I love - adventures. It was just a cherry on top being able to share the experience with someone else.
Despite waking up to head off early, other pilgrims were also getting ready to leave at this early hour - perhaps it was their honeymoon-phase enthusiasm, or a fear that the Albergues up ahead would fill up early in the day. As you near the end, apparently, this is not an uncommon occurrence, as masses of pilgrims arrive before lunch to secure a bunk, often creating queues that lined the length of the streets outside. It not being peak season, perhaps these early risers would be lucky, but Frida and I needn’t worry, as we planned not to sleep tonight.
Leaving the small village of Vilei, dimly lit streets quickly gave way to dark country lanes, requiring us to walk under the light of our headtorch for some time. As we passed in and out of small, quaint Spanish villages, I told Frida that it felt cool to be walking past the Albergues so early - on the start of our big push towards Santiago, but no one else any the wiser. The day started off slow and easy as we let our bodies find a gentle flow, but it was already warm and stuffy, both of us soon slipping off most of our layers to stay cool.
Given that we’d prepared some overnight oats for breakfast and some snacks for the road, our bags were a little heavier than usual, so - combined with the fact that I couldn’t wait to tuck in any longer - we decided that we’d stop an hour or so into the day to enjoy our breakfast somewhere quiet along the way. Soon, we stopped and perched beside a farmhouse entrance to eat. I must say that I’d felt fresher at this point into a long walk. Having had aches and pains in various places during the Camino, the most recent was some soreness in my left hip and Achilles tendon. Luckily, walking was relatively untaxing on the body, and I knew that having Frida as company would help a lot.
Enjoying our breakfast, we soon heard the chit-chatting of other pilgrims in their stride towards us - a few groups passing us as we took a rest. We laughed about how we’d only walked a handful of kilometers before taking a long break, but agreed that it made more sense to stop to eat while still dark, walking a little more once it was light. Ingenious stuff, right… Finishing off our breakfast - the delicious soaked oats mixed with nuts, seeds, peanut butter, peach and chocolate hitting the spot - we were on our feet and moving again, feeling lighter, despite having only shifted the food from our bags to our stomachs.
A couple of hours into our day, we soon hit the 100 km to go mark. The enormity of what still lay ahead hit us both, as we talked about how far that really was. However, having both walked this distance before, we knew that the key was to take it one step at a time and not to get overwhelmed by the big goal.
Before meeting Frida, I was unaware of a certain type of endurance walk undertaken by many people in Denmark, as well as in other European countries. Known as vandreture in Danish, these long marches were essentially big walks lined with food and drink stations, similar to those seen in ultramarathons; however, people did not sign up to race, but instead, just to finish within a certain time - for example 24 hours for a 100 km. Still an incredible feat of endurance, but without the potential competitiveness intrinsically embedded in anything labelled a race, where participants are given a position, a rank, if you like. Social, fun and inclusive, I loved the sound of these marches and wished that more such things existed in the UK. Along with others - her mother included - Frida, had completed a hundred-kilometer march a year prior, and had come to Spain having just partaken in an event covering 300 km over six days. Anyway, I digress - Frida had managed to convince me that she was more than capable of closing off the crazy plan that she’d devised, not that I doubted her beforehand.
Taking a photo of one another in front of the stone marker indicating 100 km to go, we pressed ahead, the sun having now risen. As we weaved between small roads, farm tracks and wide trails, the frequency of stone distance markers increased. Every couple hundred meters or so now, we’d be reminded of how far we still had to go. 99.624 km… 99.326 km… 99.002 km. I told Frida that these signs would make it interesting psychologically, as I certainly held the belief that it is often better not to know how far you have left and to just keep plodding along. Now that we were being constantly reminded of how far we had left, I was already noticing the subtle effect this had in my mind.
As we ticked off the small villages and towns one by one, cresting a hill adjoining a wide valley, we were soon greeted by the sight of Portomarín. Dropping down towards the Minho River, we crossed Ponte Nova de Portomarín, and I observed how low the water level was - whether this was due to the unseasonal, extreme heat that Spain had experienced this summer, I do not know, but it struck a chord inside me and stuck with me, nonetheless. Our ecosystems and ecological landscapes were changing - shifting, degenerating, collapsing under the pressure of anthropogenic-induced change. Not wanting to add any negativity to the mood, however, I decided against kickstarting a talk related to climate change, having already given Frida enough of that spiel over the past couple of weeks. She didn’t need any more of it!
Climate change wasn’t the only concern I had crossing the bridge - I’d also started to feel quite some pain in my left hip on the way down the valley’s slopes. The remaining twenty hours or so would be challenging, but I could still walk and did not feel like I was causing any long-term damage - that’s all that mattered. Frida, on the other hand, was plodding along complaining not at all, looking fresh as ever, her only issue being that she hadn’t yet had her once-per-morning coffee. From my point of view, coffee every day is silly and unnecessary if you are energised anyway, but, for Frida, it was more of a ritual in the morning - a pause that I’d also come to enjoy and appreciate as we walked together.
Having crossed the bridge, we were greeted by a long set of stairs climbing up towards Portomarín. Assuming that that was where the Camino went - for which route would not traverse such grand stairs? - we climbed up, my legs feeling surprisingly fresh at last, apart from the hip. We passed a pair of American pilgrims - a daughter and son - who, like us, had also walked all the way from Saint-Jean-Pied-du-Port in France, this being the starting point of the Camino Francés. Looking for a cafe, we glanced over a few that looked far too fancy before landing on one in a nearby square.
Coffee in hand, Frida enjoyed sipping it as we scoured my paper list of Albergues in Santiago to find a place to stay the following night. The last thing we wanted was to have nowhere to rest after our big push. Ending up opting for my usual tactic, we booked two bunks at the cheap municipal Albergue just on the outskirts of the city - still bunks, but it would do the job. Waiting for Frida to finish her coffee, I kept nibbling away at the super snack that we’d prepared in one of our tupperwares. Not hungry, I did not know why I kept eating the questionably palatable concoction - perhaps it was the nerves setting in, or my body telling me that I’d walked too far the past few weeks.
Wanting to groove again, we retraced our steps out of Portomarín - it transpired that the Camino did not, in fact, traverse the long set of stairs - and continued westward towards Santiago. Crossing a tributary along the Minho river, we climbed uphill with a newfound energy from our break. Frida had lent me her poles to try to take some weight off my hip, and I felt like I was flying all of a sudden. Knowing that she liked using them, having used them up most hills up to now, I asked whether she was sure she didn’t want them. She said she wanted me to use them, but I knew that she was just being kind.
Feeling a swing in our step, we soaked in the morning sun. So far, the weather had been on our side, and we hoped that it would stay that way until Santiago. But with every step we took, we neared the coast, so we knew that the likelihood of rain would be higher. As we yo-yoed other pilgrims, who were now growing in numbers as we passed the Albergues that had housed them last night, we’d occasionally be asked where we were headed. Not wanting to be dishonest, we explained that we didn’t know where we’d be sleeping tonight. However, I often fell into weakness and felt the need to disclose our mission to other pilgrims, knowing that this was unnecessary. I was aware of the danger of declaring and talking about a lofty goal too much, as it had the psychological effect of living the experience out in your mind many times before it happens in actuality. I wanted our walk to be organic and face whatever came as it came. I knew that it would mean more that way, so I told Frida that I’d hold off sharing our plan if any more pilgrims asked - keeping it vague, instead.
Attitude shifted; somewhere along the way we bumped into a woman from China. The first question I asked was ‘Nihonjin desu ka? Are you Japanese?’, to which she replied ‘no’. Having been in Japan - walking a pilgrimage there, too - at the beginning of the year, I learned some of the language before heading out and picked up a fair bit while there, so I was keen to practice a little. However, I’d not met a single Japanese person along the Camino. Perhaps this was because of the difficulty in getting a long period off work as a professional in Japan, or the fact that they had a famous pilgrimage on home soil - the Shikoku Henro. Nonetheless, I was still sad that I couldn’t practice the language back home.
The Chinese pilgrim was in her late thirties and had recently left a job that had left her broken. Similar to many people her age, over the course of the decade-and-counting that she’d been in her last job, it had slowly become all-encompassing- the culture, environment, and pressure had all become too much. Naturally, I was unsurprised to hear that it was a job in finance, which on the surface was a ‘good’ job aligning with the distorted status quo definition of success. Luckily for her, she’d finally realised that the life that she was leading was not serving her, so she bravely left the role with nothing lined up afterwards. Shanghai, amongst most other Chinese megacities, had a toxic work culture, she explained - tremendously long days and an unquestionable people-pleasing attitude arising merely from the pressure applied from above. Interestingly, when I asked whether she liked living there, she said she loved it and planned to stay there. Why? I asked. Because Shanghai was a far more progressive and inclusive city than others in China.
Same sex marriage is still illegal in China, and being part of the LGBTQ+ community is still generally frowned upon; people identifying as such are often ostracised. From as early as during the Mongol Empire, where Genghis Khan made male homosexuality punishable by death, to later on during Maoist China, where it was seen as a “form of degeneracy originating in capitalist societies” 1, LGBTQ+ people in China continue to face unique legal and social challenges. It was both sad and interesting to hear about the disparity in progressiveness between different societies - how can a country so technologically advanced be so cognitively unprogressive?
Not all is bad in the East, however. One thing that they did do well was covering up their skin to protect it from the sun. The precise reasoning for this may not be well-meaning and pure - for I’d been told that to have a tanned complexion was also frowned upon in China - however, I still took a page from their book. I walked covered head to toe in a sun hoodie and some tattered joggers I’d picked up from the “free clothes” box at an Albergue, having stupidly lost my only spare pair of shorts on day one. But even the Chinese woman was surprised, asking how I didn’t feel too hot in all my layers. I said that it was to protect my skin and, regardless, when the temperatures rose above 30 degrees, I felt like it helped keep me cool.
Hitting a hill, we parted ways with the Chinese lady as she told us to go ahead, so I pulled out my harmonica that I carried in my rucksack waist pocket to play some music. Despite having no experience playing the instrument, I enjoyed messing around with it from time to time. Frida even said it sounded good, to which I said it isn’t that difficult, given that it was all in the key of C - all you had to do was blow in the right holes.
As we neared Palas del Rei, we passed a group of Spanish school friends who’d started their pilgrimage in Pontferrada, around a hundred miles from Santiago. The inevitable question of how many days we planned to take to reach Santiago soon arose, and their unhappiness towards our vagueness required us to spill the beans and tell them that we hoped to push to the finish today. Looking at us in disbelief and shock, talking amongst one another, we told them that this was not as uncommon as they thought, it all being relative - we certainly had pilgrim legs after three weeks of long walking. We wished them luck and continued on, soon hitting Palas del Rei.
Being forty-five or so kilometers into the walk, having seventy odd to go, we thought it was about time to stop for a late lunch. It was already 3 pm, so we needed to get some good food in us so that we could continue on our mission. Heading to the small supermarket around the corner, we passed pilgrims already settled, enjoying pints outside the bars. You’d think we’d be envious, but it felt cool to be on our own little quest. Instead of pints, we picked up some bread, avocado, and tomatoes form the shop to make a nice sandwich, as well as some fruit and yogurt for dessert.
Having spotted it earlier, we headed to Iglesia de San Turso to sit on the grassy terrace overlooking the town. As was custom, we sat on the grass and laid out our food to prepare our lunchtime feast. We loaded the sandwiches up with some cheese we’d brought the previous night, called Titilla - getting it’s name from the fact that it looked like a woman’s breast, or ‘tit’. It was delicious, and just as creamy, sweet, tangy, and soft as the cycling pilgrim who recommended it to us a few days prior had said. Crazily, Frida had also bumped into the same pilgrim on his bike at an Albergue along the Notre last year. It’s fair to say they were both in disbelief when they eventually recognised each other, Frida having asked whether he stayed at the same place as her. Luck must be on our side, I thought - such low odds for this to happen!
Our enjoyment was soon interrupted as the critical Czech man whom we hoped not to cross paths with again appeared. He kept catching us at the wrong times, when we were indulging in huge quantities of food - but this was our first meal since our 6 am breakfast. Oh well, we didn’t care.
As pilgrims finished for the day, the Czech guy included, we watched them enter the small church like bees to a hive to collect their stamps. Despite being on the Camino, we felt out of place wearing dirty clothes and sporting a weathered look, but neither of us would have wanted it any other way. Luckily, the Czech guy had to dash to find his Albergue, only to pass by a few moments later saying that it was already full. Considering offering for him to join us, we didn’t fancy carrying him - and his unnecessary criticism - along with us to Santiago, so we decided not to risk it.
Feeling full of beans again, Frida and I continued on our way towards Melide, where we planned to have our final stop for the evening to fill up on some food and buy snacks before going into the night. Most pilgrims having stopped for the day - other than one lady who we kept bumping into, riding a bike and clad head to toe in sun protection clothing - we enjoyed the quietness of the way. However, unlike all other days, since many pilgrims had likely prebooked their accommodation up the road, we passed groups sat outside cafes and bars enjoying some late afternoon drinks.
As pilgrims finished up for the day, we were still feeling fresh and moving well. My hip issue had settled down; the only thing now bothering me was my heel, but I’d manage. As the sun lowered in the sky, our shadows elongating behind us, we soon hit the suburbs of Melide. Before arriving, we’d decided two things: one, we’d find a local cafe and order two double espressos to help push us through the night and, two, we’d buy a crazy amount of chocolate to keep us fuelled.
Having passed a couple of tempting-looking places that we again decided were too fancy for us, we pressed ahead into the centre so we could soak in the atmosphere. Hitting Avenue Lugo - the main road dissecting Melide - we bumped into a group of Americans. Nothing special, except they were all wearing Huarache sandals - the sandals that I’d been carrying with me and wearing in the evening and banged on and on to Frida about how much I loved them. Seeing three women walking down the street in them made my day.
Passing the touristic bars lining the high street, we spotted a small local cafe called Cafeteria Marian hiding behind the Capela de San Roque. Heading inside, it was exactly what we needed - a basic yet authentic Spanish cafe, where locals lined the bar, drinking coffee at 7:30 pm, talking over beers and smoking cigarettes outside. Sitting at the bar, we ordered two double espressos and some croquettes, nodding when he asked, ‘grande?’ - the stronger the better! As we sipped on our coffees and tried not to burn our mouths eating the croquettes, we thought about how crazy and amazing this all was - that we were doing such a fun thing together despite only bumping into each other two weeks prior. Taking our time, enjoying talking with a local sat beside us and listening to the music playing from the television at the backside of the cafe, I found it incredible how the whole cafe seemed to be run by just one man. He’d take orders, man the bar, prepare food, help customers, all in one seemingly seamless act. It was strangely inspiring and admirable - nothing fancy, just keeping it simple and doing a good job.
Unfortunately, we couldn’t stay there all night, needing to crack on if there was any hope of us reaching Santiago. Popping across the square to a small Eroski, we raided the chocolate and nuts shelves to top up on snacks, and I grabbed a huge bottle of chocolate milk, too. I’d restrained myself from buying one the whole trip, wanting to leave it until the end. Now seemed like the perfect time, and when we sat outside the church to do some feet admin, I quickly glugged the milk - it was amazing!
Preparing some final bits before heading into the night, we were approached by an American pilgrim. Confused as to what we were up to, we explained that we were going to walk to Santiago tonight. Incredulous, he then kindly asked whether he could say a blessing for us. We agreed and sat with him as he wished us good luck, faith, and safety on our mission before a hoard of people proceeded to come out of the chapel. It turns out we’d just missed the evening pilgrim mass. Oh well, we didn’t know that it was on!
Full of caffeine and chocolate - which also contains caffeine, I guess, oops! - we headed out of Melide as the sun dipped below the horizon. Golden hour upon us, we climbed past the beautiful church of Igreta de Santa Maria de Melide and enjoyed the clear skies as we plodded along the quiet tracks - the sky turning from shades of blue, to reds and oranges, and finally to black with specks of light from the stars above.
Holding off for as long as we could, we were soon forced to use a headtorch so as not to trip over. I tried mine; however, its pathetically dim light helped very little as soon as we entered any wooded area, so we opted for Frida’s tiny super-headtorch instead. We were the only ones walking now, and we knew that things would get tougher now that it was dark, but we were excited for the challenges and fun that the night would bring.
As we passed in and out of dense forests, we decided to start playing some music for motivation, kicking things off with some Dire Straits. Swinging along to Sultans of Swing, we soon hit the end of the album and opted for a variety of throwback classics to keep us grooving. However, as I’d learned in the past, music could only provide temporary alleviation and distraction, and after an hour or so, I started to tire, and,my mind started playing games with me. I became emotional as I recollected past times that were difficult during my life and, as is often the case, felt a strong feeling of care and love towards the people I cared about back home. As I tried to contain my emotions, it became too much, and I let some tears out as Frida consoled me.
Emotional moment over, I picked myself up again as we continued deep into the night. I’d always realised the power and value of having somebody beside you during the lows in any long walk or run, and I was once again grateful. As we alternated between country roads and wide tracks - far wider than the start of the Camino to accommodate the far greater number of pilgrims close to the end - we passed the odd private Albergue with lights still on, some pilgrims enjoying talking late into the night.
Crossing Ponte Medieval de Rubadiso, I really needed the loo. Luckily for me, the local restaurant just off the path was closing for the night, so I walked in to ask if I could use the toilet, the waiter not even double taking the fact that a pilgrim was still walking at 11:30 pm. Perhaps this was a normal thing to do, after all? Opposite the restaurant, we sat on a street side bench, taking a break to eat some chocolate and rest our legs. Our energy was certainly fading, but this was to be expected.
As we hit the road again, we soon crossed a motorway - the N-547. Entirely carless and silent, almost like a road through ghost country, I felt as if we were crossing some sort of wild ravine. We could well have been; the lightless dual carriageway not suggesting otherwise and leading me to use my imagination - if this depression in the land was in fact natural, until recently, it would have been wild and untouched, right?
Running out of things to talk about, I started blabbering on about my pilgrimage in Japan once again. However, the next moment, we were walking into the city of Arzúa, and I turned to Frida to ask how we’d arrived here, not remembering walking in. She said that we’d just walked through the city’s suburbs - clearly, I’d just been half sleep-walking for the past ten minutes or so. Still in a drowsy state, amazed that I’d just floated along without awareness of doing so, I told Frida that I should find some caffeine to stop me from going any loopier. She told me to stop, and proceeded to pull out a tube of caffeine filled electrolyte tablets from her bag, handing them to me. Reading the label, four tablets equated to 300 mg of caffeine, so I threw four into a litre water bottle and glugged half of its contents in a matter of a few seconds. Surely that would do the trick.
Awaiting the inevitable caffeine kick, we passed through Arzúa as the late-night bars closed. But perhaps the caffeine never kicked in, as the next few hours after midnight were all a bit of a blur for me - my recollection of those hours vague and disjointed. I remember sitting down on a bench just outside of one of the towns along the way and playing one of my favourite artists, Fabrizio Paterlini, as we took a moment to pause and to appreciate how fortunate we were. We were tremendously privileged to be able to have walked the Camino and to spend the night walking. We knew this, and did not want to take it for granted. This emotional pause was juxtaposed by us finishing off the super snack that had lasted until then. As we were half-falling asleep, I soon turned to Frida, saying that we should crack on.
Sometime around 3 am, having zig-zagged across a main road countless times, thinking that we were closer than we were to a nearby town that Frida had passed through the previous year, we hung a right onto a side road only to bump into some youngsters sat outside a cafe. Confused, I asked what they were doing. They said they were just enjoying some drinks. Maybe this was normal. It was certainly more normal than what we were doing, so I felt silly for asking them as we continued walking on.
Touching on the twenty-four-hour mark, Frida made her first suggestion that something was aching a little, saying that her feet were sore. So, when we hit a cafe - clearly closed overnight - we sat on some chairs around a table on the terrace and took half an hour or so to take our shoes off, kick up our legs, and listen to some Adele and Coldplay. Continuing to enjoy the chocolate, Frida had had enough, her palate fatiguing. But I wasn’t without my problems either, with awful acid reflux for the past hour or so, likely from all of the electrolyte drink I’d had. Despite this, I still continued to drink it, trying to fend off any drowsiness I was feeling.
Eventually standing up and moving again, we locked into a sustainable pace as our conversation died down. Things were tough now. Having been walking in the dark for a fair few hours, we were now waiting for it to be light again. However, perhaps in craving this, things became more difficult as time seemed to pass more slowly, the distance feeling longer. Trying to think of any other tricks that I had up my sleeve, I suggested that we stopped to brush our teeth, knowing that it sometimes helped you feel fresher and trick your mind into thinking you’ve just woken up.
Perching on a stone set of stairs behind someone’s house, we brushed our teeth. But then we started hearing some people walking towards us. Surely no one was walking at 4 am? But there was. A group of Italians soon passed us, so I told Frida to hurry up and pack her stuff as we had to pounce on this opportunity. Some new faces to talk to would make a huge difference and help get us out of our present rut. I told them that we’d been moving for 24 hours and that it would be amazing if we could join them all the way to Santiago. They said, of course, no problem, so we tagged along with them.
I now felt re-energised by the new company - not that Frida’s ever grew old - and enjoyed getting to know the different people in their group. However, there was one slight problem - they were plodding along at a very slow pace. Painfully slow for two pilgrims that had already walked close to 100 km. It took more energy to stay with them than to just continue on at our own rhythm. So, having been told how tired and awful we looked by a lady taking a picture of us together as we hit the 100 km mark, we started pulling away from the Italians. If shit hit the fan, we knew they’d find us and help, having already offered us food and drink as they expressed their worry about us. But we were on the home straight now. We knew we’d be OK.
Continuing on, ebbing and flowing between states of depression and elatedness, the sun finally began to rise as we hit the outskirts of Santiago. Tired, we snuck into an Albergue to use their toilet, passing pilgrims setting off for the day. We looked so rough compared to them, which made me laugh a little inside. Having lightened the load, we plodded on towards Santiago’s centre, soon cresting the final hump before seeing the city. As always during these big pushes, I struggled mentally for the last few kilometers. One, because we were now walking through a concrete jungle and two, because my body had now decided to start shutting down, knowing that its job was nearly done.
After what felt like an aeon, we finally arrived at Santiago’s old town. As we neared the Cathedral, the streets became busier and busier; however, given that it was still merely 8 am, the crowds had not yet come in full force. Weaving along the streets - the same streets that millions of pilgrims had walked along -, we dropped down a set of stairs before hitting the Catedral de Santiago de Compostela. This was it. We’d arrived. We’d finished. And all we wanted to do was collapse on the floor and sleep. But we couldn’t do that quite yet, as a pair of other pilgrims who had just finished asked us to take a photo of them before offering to take an obligatory one of us. I guess we should take just the one, right? So we stood there together in front of the Cathedral, smiling to the camera, before darting across to sit beside a pillar on the other side of the square.
Wanting to soak it all in, we quickly fell asleep instead. Anticlimactic? Perhaps. Any regrets? No. It was just one unexpected Camino dance.
Strangely, I finished this post off quite abruptly. I’m acutely aware of this, and Frida even told me after reading it. However, this was what I had to reel from my mind at the time of writing, so I will keep it as is to preserve its authenticity and unpolished style. Regardless, I hope that you enjoyed reading this post. My Shikoku Henro writing is on hold for now as I intend to share the rest of the journey in a form other than blog posts. As I now start a new chapter in my life, perhaps my writing will change too. We shall see.
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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBTQ_rights_in_China ↩