By Gabriel Wyszynski
6:30AM on the 28ᵗʰ August and I have folded my swinging limbs
into my Easyjet seating ration. With the seat in front filing down
my knees and the row behind occupied by children
hurling their feet and screaming, any attempt at sleep was futile.
This lack of sleep did not dim the sparkling tiles of Porto on
arrival however, which set a good precedent for the long term
sleep deprivation I would endure throughout this journey. We
didn’t spend long at our first stop (just one night) on
account of a tight schedule, but Porto charmed us. We spent the
day trying as hard as possible not to be tourists: between our
dawdle along the estuary promenade and our cathedral visit (a
colossal structure gleaming over the city and decked with blue
and white tiles all over its complex interior) we sought out the
dingiest looking eateries in a desperate but by no means fruitless
effort to find the best food Porto had to offer. Our bellies full
from a day of eating and drinking, we got ourselves into bed by
11:00PM, readying ourselves for a two week, 270km odyssey along
the Iberian West coast.
We began at 9am the next day; we were engulfed in mist, 30
pounds heavier (on account of our packs) and 100 euros poorer
(on account of the previous day’s indulgences). In spite of all
these adversities we knew the Cathedral of Santiago de
Compostela awaited, and held our spirits high. That was until
about 15km in, when the sun came out and sizzled off the
tarmac of Porto airport, where we found ourselves once again,
this time walking the length of it. Dazed and confused on
account of the heat and our hunger, a little inconspicuous cafe
slowly revealed itself to us, bringing with it offerings of braised
gizzards, fresh bread and perfectly creamy espressos. We
left the café feeling lighter while Oliver (my travel partner) and I
found ourselves snapping at each other much less than we had
before our lunch. After a very long day of walking, ending
in Povoa de Varzim, a suburb some 35km North of the centre of
Porto, we scouted out a suitable spot to set up camp before
sundown, settling on a clandestine corner of a public park. Our
bohemian approach to sleeping arrangements was another
symptom of my austere budgeting, something that only
occasionally caused rifts between me and my travel partner. We
settled down for a night of half sleep, preparing for our 6:00AM
start, which would be daily practice for the next two weeks.
The next day brought us to the blinding white beaches of
Esposende. Having started our day once again enveloped in
the Portuguese morning mist, it was with great relief that we
arrived at our next scheduled destination by midday, greeted
with a resplendent sun and a beautiful beach caressed by the
ice cold Atlantic waters. We camped again that night a little
further North, approaching the town of Marinhas. Two days into
the walk, we were starting to take note of the many reappearing
pilgrims, some of whom would become very close friends of
ours. This feeling of pilgrim fraternity was quite evident from the
beginning of our walk, with the “bom caminho” (which later
became “buen camino” as we crossed the Spanish border)
wished from the lips of every pilgrim we passed, and the familiar
smiles of people we had never spoken to. Maybe Oliver and I are
too acclimatised to London’s lingering sense of dread, but this
palpable joy in everyone we passed resonated greatly with us.
We agreed to camp for one more night before settling in a
hostel, having planned to spend total of four or five nights in
hostels, just to break up the wearing stretches of nights spent
under tent cover. The sun was strong the next day as we
crossed bridges connecting the banks of great estuaries, but
the mist began to roll in as we approached our destination of
Carreço. We pitched our tents on a bed of decaying leaves in
the vast Litoral Norte nature reserve, sheltered by a canopy of
bark-shedding eucalyptus trees and fog. This day was the
hardest, on account of a disagreement between me and my friend
which left my lunch of tripe and butterbeans tasting sour.
One of the joys of pilgrimage, however, is the daily meditative
reflection that comes with walking, something which becomes
ever rarer with society’s increasing lack of balance between
work and leisure. So, with an hour’s walking and some
exchanged apologies, we went to sleep feeling light and
appreciative of each other, quite relieved at the prospect of a
hostel the following night.
From the plastic mattresses and pillows to the cold stone floor,
our municipal hostel in the border town of Caminha was pure
luxury. Unlike our camping days, with the evenings spent
waiting for sunset to put our tent up, today Oliver and I have the
whole afternoon to take in the town. We dawdle across the
glittering cobbles, free of our bags, the slap of our flip flops
against our sore soles making quite an unpleasant sight (and
smell) for the locals. It was a delightful day, however. We ate a
lot, we drank a little more, and we had the most beautiful
encounters throughout the day. Just 20 minutes after waking in
Carreço, a grumpy toad crosses my path, disgruntled by the
disturbance, then, an hour before sleeping in Caminha, three
Eurasian spoonbills fly over my head in a chevron. Caminha was
a charming town, dotted with medieval churches in the
Portuguese Manuelino style, an elaborate twist on the Gothic,
leaving no room for lack of detail in the complex masonry. We
spent the evening sipping cold beer in the town square,
serenaded by a sweaty and sun-creased busker tearing at his
violin strings, and got an early night, jumping at the chance to
sleep in a real bed.
The following day started with our entry into Spain,. We crossed
the Minho estuary crammed onto a little motor boat, with the
Galician rain reaching out to greet us. The rain dampened our
spirits as we made our initial ascent into the mountains, but a
few hours later, after filling our bellies with croquettes and fried
cod, the sun came out to greet us, which was all the better
because we had a soggy tent to dry out. Whilst folding our tent
up, after leaving it out to dry, I spotted two inquisitive faces peering
at us over a wall. They were two noisy Italian boys who were in
our hostel the night before. We didn’t exchange any words last
night, save a “ciao bello” from one of them, but I smiled
and waved nonetheless. That night we camped in Baiona, or
rather on the rocky edge of a hill overlooking Baiona. The tent
pegs barely made it in the ground, a recurring problem
throughout our time sleeping on Galicia’s rough terrain. We
walked an obscene amount that day (another 35km) so we
agree to limit our distance the next day, to avoid getting to
Santiago ahead of schedule.
Again, we rose at 6AM, we walked along Baiona’s seafront and
swampy marshes, we stopped for a coffee and a pastry an hour
in before resuming. By noon we were beyond our destination for
the day, which was an apt excuse to spend the rest of the
afternoon on the beautiful beaches of Panxón. I ate a pork loin
sandwich, drank a beer, waited an hour or so to digest it all and
charged into the Atlantic, without giving myself a second to
reconsider submerging myself in the ice cold waters. The sand
sparkled with tiny fragments of quartz, gently exfoliating my
sore feet. A lanky spire lords over Panxón’s skyline, sparkling
over a domed roof, tall and thin like a moorish minaret. After
spending a few hours letting the sea and sand lull us away,
evening approaches, and we set off to find a supermarket
dinner and a camping spot. We settle for a plot just at the side
of the Camino path, and, on account of our conspicuous spot,
cross paths with a dog walker. He is lovely; he introduces
himself and his dog, tells us of the 20 pilgrimages he’s taken to
Santiago over the last 20 years, and gives us his exact address
in case we need anything. An hour later, as we squeeze into our
sleeping bags, the exchange still has us beaming.
The next day brings us to Vigo, a hyper industrial and fast paced
port, and the most populous city in Galicia. It’s a charming
place; art nouveau apartment blocks stand boldly in front of the
cranes lining the port. The architecture is tastefully modern: the
few obtuse 21st Century glass structures are drowned out by
ornamentations of the last two centuries, the floral and geometric
motifs of Vigo’s buildings frame the Galician mountains and sea.
We feel quite at home there; a hideous P&O cruise ship has
brought with it a haggle of old tomato-faced Brits, and I can’t
help but smile as I overhear their endearing attempts at
speaking Spanish as they order their black teas with milk. We
soldier on out of Vigo and camp later that night on a mountain
side overlooking the small town of Teis. We decide to spend the
next night in a hostel in the medieval streets of Redondela,
leaving ourselves with a cool 8km walk for the next day.
By 10:00AM the next day, after just four hours of very slow walking,
Redondela revealed itself, an isolated refuge tucked away in a
valley, its viaduct rolling through the mountain fog, a steel and
brick ode to Durham. We find our hostel, 34 beds stuffed inside
a 16th Century townhouse, and deposit our bags outside.
Check-in starts at 1PM, so we have a few hours to kill. We
explore a little, we get some stamps in our credencials (pilgrim
passports that verify your route and enable you to claim your
certificate of completion) and we settle down in a grubby little
café, watching the local children hurl abuse and encouragement
at each other across the fútbol sala pitch, the focal point of the
town. At 1:00PM we get back to the hostel, and a few heads behind
us I spot those two pesky Italians from days before. They end up
in the bunk opposite ours. Despite feeling very tired and socially
drained, I am obliged to engage with them, because of an
unwritten rule enforcing socialisation between Italian speakers.
After a while, however, I talk to them less out of obligation and
more out of interest. Out of courtesy for my colleague, they
switch to English with great fluency, unlike most Italians, who, in
my experience, speak it with unwarranted confidence. Ollie and
I split from them to find some dinner, but we reunite a little later
for a drink. My partner and I are friendly enough, but these boys
behave as though they’ve known us for a lifetime. Their
familiar manner is refreshing and homely, and we very willingly
accept their request to walk to Pontevedra together the next day.
The weather showed no mercy the following morning.
Waterproofed and not quite ready to go, we stop off for a slice of
cake and a splash of espresso just before leaving Redondela. As
we sit with our new friends outside, looking hopelessly at the
cobbled streets shrouded in rain, a blue eyed man with a serf-ish
haircut takes a seat next to us. He’s a builder from New Zealand and he’s nice enough, so we
spend the day walking together. In spite of the harsh weather
conditions and the endless trudging through muddy puddles,
the day’s walking goes by quickly. Being in a bigger group keeps
a good pace and distracts you from the distance left; in just a
few hours we’ve reached Pontevedra. The unpredictable skies
leave us with no choice but to stay in a hostel for a consecutive
night (we’re not complaining). Despite our initial panic at seeing
the queue outside, we nab a bed, deposit our affairs, then run
off to the supermarket to buy bread, lamb’s lettuce, fresh
cheese, cheap white wine, and tinned fish, because good
Catholics don’t eat meat on Fridays. The rain has dampened our
touristic intrigue, we barely venture into Pontevedra, but we
allow ourselves one church visit. The Church of Our Lady the
Pilgrim is built in the shape of a scallop, the symbol of Saint
James and all pilgrims. It’s an elaborate baroque building, with a
statue of Our Lady above the altar, wearing a pilgrim’s hat and
gown, decked in scallop shells. We do a circuit of the Church,
then meet our Kiwi friend in a bar (he stayed in a separate
hostel to the rest of us). We have a few, go back to the hostel to
cook some dinner, and fall swiftly asleep. We’re only four days
away from Santiago.
After some very poor quality sleep, we were up and half-alive,
somewhat ready to venture off to our next stop, Caldas De Reis.
Once again, the walking went quickly. We caught up with our
Kiwi friend, and bade him goodbye again later as he split off to
follow the Camino Espiritual (a variant of the Portuguese route
along which Saint James’ remains are said to have been brought
to his final resting place). We went on, and as the sun appeared
through the cloud-draped sky, Caldas de Reis started to rise up
over our heads. Since the ancient Roman occupation of the
Iberian peninsula, Caldas de Reis has been a coveted spa break
destination for Galicians, having been built up over natural hot springs.
Being a pack of strapped-for-cash pilgrims, we could
only allow ourselves the pleasure of the public foot-baths. We
followed the smell of sulphur, which eventually brought us to a
wide, seated stone tub, akin to a large trough. The sight of
pilgrims throwing their heads back ecstatically as they eased
their feet under the water drew me ever closer until my
calloused feet joined theirs in this great ugly vat. It was divine.
The feeling of the mineral-rich hot spring water melting away
your blisters was enough to make you forget the pungent
sulphur stink and the blackened algae lining the surface. I must
have spent an hour with my lower quarter submerged in there.
Eventually, however, the waning sunlight called us to seek a
camping spot, which was found in good time, on the edge of a
valley. We had our dinner of supermarket empanadas and warm
beer, and burrowed into our sleeping bags.
Having exhausted our budget for hostel stays, we were
supposed to camp the following night as well. We decided to
stretch the budget a little, however, after hearing of an old
Franciscan monastery, not far off the route, where pilgrims
could spend the night, with dinner and breakfast provided, in
exchange for a donation. The morning after Caldas, we reunite
with our Italian friends in a café and a few more pilgrims who
we’ve befriended, and we walk on together. The Camino route
should take you to the town of Padrón, but we split off a few
kilometres before to get to the Monastery of Herbon, where we
will be staying the night. We get there, deposit our bags, and
escape to a bar, fleeing the second-hand embarrassment of one
of our Italian colleagues relaying a crass German saying to a
group of German pilgrims sitting outside the monastery, gravely
offending an old lady in doing so. We have some drinks and
tapas of tripe and chickpeas, I have a roast pork sandwich, and
then we make our way back to the monastery in time for the
Sunday evening mass. The priest makes the kind effort to greet
all the pilgrims at the end of the service, then we bundle back
into the living quarters for a very rustic dinner of stewed lentils,
washed down with red wine in plastic cups (the carafes were
left bone dry). Our hostess is working her first night at the
monastery, and delivers a moving speech: she implores us to
stay sitting after dinner, to enjoy each other’s company, and she
reminds us that the Camino is not the route we take, but the
people with whom we walk it.
We’re just 15km out from Santiago de Compostela, but we have
to stagger our walking over two days, as we still have 3 days
until our flight. In the morning we split from our colleagues, as
they are going straight to Santiago, whereas Ollie and I go
towards Padrón to wander aimlessly. We take in the sights, the
churches and the chapels, and have a very long coffee break;
we don’t want to cover too much distance today, suitable
camping spots will become increasingly scarce, and we want to
allow enough distance for tomorrow to build up our excitement
for our arrival. The route for our penultimate day was not
especially interesting. Aside from Padrón, we went mostly
along an ugly motorway, so we were relieved to eventually find a
nice forest off the road to camp in, but considerably less
relieved to find that the cacophonous birthday party happening
on a nearby farm would continue until 4:00AM.
Two hours after the party ended, we were awake for our last day
of walking. We had about 10km to go, a mere fraction of what we
had walked up to that point, but when you’re so close to your
final destination, the distance seems to increase with each step
forward. We didn’t let this dishearten us; Oliver and I
had never walked so fast in our lives. About one hour in, we see
some pilgrims snapping away on their phone cameras at a view
point. We cruise up to them, and upon seeing the two spires of
Santiago jutting out on the horizon, those same two spires we
had seen depicted in every hostel we had stopped in on the way,
we leave the amateur photographers eating our dust and
resolve to make it into Santiago within the next hour.
Each time the cathedral peeks out at us, teasing us, we go
faster, grabbing the odd cake sample offered by hopeful
shopkeepers out of their doorways to keep us going. As long as
it seems to take us, the Cathedral keeps looking marginally
bigger than it did the last time it popped out through the
rooftops. At this point we can’t feel our legs; we’re moving
unconsciously, delirious with the joy of having made it. Anything
can still happen, I tell myself, until we’re face to façade with the
cathedral itself.
It would take a million words to convey the extravagant beauty
of the exterior alone: a thousand different motifs line a hundred
different statues on just one side of the Cathedral. Three
statues of Saint James beam down at his devoted followers,
countless pilgrim heads bowing in disbelief, incredulous at the
endurance they have found within their faith in God. We can’t
take our bags in, so we resolve to see the inside after checking
into our hostel. We do so after getting our pilgrim certificates
and wolfing down a decadent breakfast of churros drowned in
thick hot chocolate.
Over the 12 hours that remained of our time in Santiago, free
from the bondage of a heavy backpack, we felt liberated. We
basked in the beauty of the town, we ate and we drank, we
reunited with all our old, new friends, most of whom I haven’t
had the chance to mention properly, we danced and we laughed
and we appreciated and shared everything we had done and
seen and felt. It was beautiful. Just as I had ended many nights
of this adventure, I went to bed smiling.
I woke up with a headache, but after sharing a few laughs in the
café where Ollie and I had breakfasted with the two Italian boys, it
subsided. We walked to the Cathedral again, and insisted that
we would see each other soon whilst we split ways. Ollie and I
went to mass; we were lost in the beautiful inconsistency of the
interior, wide-eyed and gaping under the gilded ciborium,
sustained by gargantuan cherubim. We were shrouded under
the billowing incense smoke of the botafumero, swinging yards
above our heads, and hurtling down ferociously. All this
accompanied by the resonant baritone of the cantor. It was a
beautiful mass.
Two hours later we were in the airport. Having spent the last two
weeks learning more about myself than I thought possible, I
maintained a smile, comforted by the thought of our new
friendships, and the prospect of my inevitable return to
Santiago, as well as that of getting home and applying some
roll-on.