Walking to the End of the Earth: Sarria to Santiago de Compostela to Finisterra

¡Hola! I am here, at the end of the known world, in Finisterre, and I will try to tell you how I came to be here since I last emailed... We enjoyed visiting the medieval market and sampling street food at the fiesta in Sarria on the evening of June 23rd, but I had to turn in at my albergue at 11pm before the huge bonfire was lit or the Galacian music had begun. The next day I set off through the Galacian forest with the throngs of new pilgrims who had joined at Sarria to walk the last 100 km, far enough to earn the Compostela document in Santiago. Most of them had no backpack, or only a very small one, their gear being transported by support car, and they tended to have a very different attitude toward the Camino as those from overseas often claimed to be doing it for a vacacion or an athletic experience, and those from Spain were often doing it to improve their resume or for a weekend outing with friends or family. However, I learned from my experience in St.-Jean Pied de Port, which had been similar, not to judge them and to have compassion and comraderie for and with them. Johann (Washington, DC), Mario (Mexico), Justin (Nova Scotia), Joe (Boston), Florian (Lyon, France), Miguel and Emmanual (Portugal) and I passed the 100 km to Santiago mark with great jubilation. That afternoon Joe, Justin, Johann, Florian and I left the camino and walked through forest out to the middle of a field fallow with soft green grass to sleep for the night. We meditated on the beauty of the scene all afternoon - the fields and forests over rolling hills and the distant village of Gonzar - and a wise letter from Johann's girlfriend that he read for us kindeled a deep conversation about community and God as we sat in a circle and broke bread for dinner. The sun set in the clear sky and the stars unveiled themselves slowly until the entire sky had exploded with them. We had a jolly game of cards by the light of our headlamps, then lay in wonder of the starry field in our sleeping bags. I slept wonderfully, and when I awoke I poked my head out of the sleeping bag to look at the stars again and instead found the sun rising and Joe and Justin packed and ready to go. I walked through lovely forests to Casanova that day, meeting with Florian and Johann again on the way. Stopping in Palace do Rei Florian and I encountered one of the Irish women who I had met in O Ceibrero when they had started just before Sarria, and he and I felt very uncomfortable with the heaps of praise that she lay at our feet for the distance we had walked. I tried to explain that all pilgrims have made great accomplishments, that distance was all relative, and that starting places in today's world have become fairly arbitrary, but she insisted on calling us her heros and on taking our picture without standing with us. People walking only the last 100 km responded after asking where I had started walking with "why in God's name did you start in TOULOUSE?!" and, although I could explain the logistical, symbolic, historical and geographical reasons, I tried to explain that it really doesn't matter where we start from because we all start from our home and the Camino guides us from there. There was no food when we arrived in Casanova, so Daniel, Nathan (Texas), Geena (Australia), Gordon (Scotland), Johann and I strolled back through the last kilometer of lovely forest without our backpacks to buy sandwiches at the bar for everyone back at the albergue, and the bartender kept us delighted with free tapas while we waited for the huge order. The next day we walked through the scortching heat until we reached the river crossed by a medieval bridge with the original pilgrim hostal which had been renovated on the other side, and we could walk no further. We checked in then jumped in the cold flowing river for the afternoon. The day before Santiago in Arca O Pino the next evening I was just walking up from the albergue when I saw Joe and Justin, who we all thought had already arrived in Santiago ahead of us, walking into town. Justin had been sick, and Mario had wanted to walk ahead, so they had walked a short day and fallen behind us. "You saw Justin?" Florian said when he heard, "and Joe? You've been eating mushrooms." The whole crew of us had dinner together, Miguel subtly cheering for Portugal as the football game played on the TV in the restaurant full of Spainish as the two countries played eachother to go to the finals. That night Florian, Daniel, Nathan, Geena, Justin, Joe and I got up at 2 am to begin our last 20 km into Santiago. We walked through the dark forest by the light of our headlamps, startled once by the bright green eyes of what turned out to be a friendly dog, until the sky paled into the morning at Monte de Gozo. I let the others go ahead and walked slowly into the loud suburbs, feeling the aches of 1200 km, tired and flea-bitten from the blanket I had used in the last albergue, but calm as well, with the whole trip scrolling through my mind. I entered the Old Town and the crosses on top of the cathedral spires came into view above the rooftops and I was overwhelmed with emotion. I walked slowly, feeling my heart pounding as I held my staff to my chest, and followed the scallop shells through the winding streets. As I emerged into the plaza in front of the cathedral I realized that I was arriving in the place that I had been focusing on for years, and that my life had led to this moment, and I was literally brought to my knees on the cobbels. The bells of the cathedral struck 8, and they had struck 8:15 before I could even raise my head from my fetal kneel and be humbled again by the utter magnificence of the Baroque fascade and the unbelievability of being before it. Eventually I walked slowly to the back of the plaza where my friends waited and hugged them, seeing the God that is in each one. We entered into the Romanesque interior, empty in the morning, and the stark and austere huge barrel vault of the aisle inspired more awe than the magnificence of Burgos and Leon combined. I descended into the crypt bellow the altar and encountered an apostle of Christ, the ultimate focal point of over 1000 years of prayer and pilgrimage in a little box of radiant silver. I then climbed into the huge Baroque altarpiece and embraced the central figure of the apostle, his robe of silver studded with gems... We then arrived in the pilgrim office and waited in line for about five minutes to receive our Compostellae, the latin certificate confirming that we had completed the pilgrimage, and by the time we had got it the lineup filled the courtyard. We then all sat together in the main aisle of the cathedral - Florian, Joe, Justin, Geena, Nathan, Daniel, Gordon, Johann, Miguel - and Mario, who had arrived the day before, greeted us before going to don his priests robes for the pilgrim mass. The organs blared their magnificent song above us, intwined with the perfect voice of a nun and a thousand pilgrims, and Mario read the gospel. Amazed at our good fortune, a pilgrim having paid for it to be swung each day of the week, the Botafumeiro which was usually only used on significant feast days was lowered and lit. The organ played gloriously as the cloud of white smoke rose from the huge incense burner and it lept into the air and began swinging. Back and forth it swung until it seemed to be in danger of coliding with the ceiling of the vault, trailing smoke like a silver comet. When it finally came to rest above the altar and a priest caught it in mid-flight and spun to break its momentum and the organ blasted a grand finalle we burst into aplause. I caught a glimpse of one Englishman I'd met who'd been complaining that he haden't had any very powerful experiences on the Camino, and he had tears streaming down his cheeks. We all went out for tapas for lunch, and that evening met for drinks to celebrate the 50th birthday of Dave, from England. Justin, Joe and I sat in the park near our albergue and watched the setting sun illuminate the facade of the cathedral which dominated the entire city, and every time I looked up at the spires I could not help but to shake my head in disbelief... I fell asleep, still watching the lit spires from my bedside window in the albergue, but rose to the unpleasant news that there were bedbugs there. We put everything that had been in contact with the beds through the dryer and sprayed our backpacks until we were fairly sure we were safe. I went to the pilgrim mass again, then got lunch and headed out of town again toward Finisterre, the ultimate end of the road. I topped the first big rise and bid farewell to the cathedral then walked on. It felt like my first day out of Toulouse, walking almost alone with a new goal on a new path - my feet even began hurting the same, even after 1200 km - but I knew now that Santiago was the true end and the goal. The next two days were the two longest of the camino, 33 and 34 km, and I was limping with wounds that I had never had in my previous fifty days of walking, but the land was beautiful, the company was wonderful, and as I neared the coast I anticipated the sight of the sea. Yesterday, July 1st, three days out of Santiago, I saw it, misty and obscured, and I adorned my backpack, staff, hat and necklace with wildflowers as I descended down towards it. The road descended steeply and I arrived finally at the beach of white fine sand. I removed my boots and rolled up my pants and walked the rest of the way, the Atlantic bathing my wounded and wary feet, and I picked up scallop shells from the sand. After checking into an albergue and eating a seafood paella I began the 4 km walk out to the tip of the cape, the furthest West point in Europe, the Celtic End of the Earth. I reached the waymarker reading 0,0 km at the lighthouse as the sun descended into the veiling mist. I descended the ragged cliff-face, amongst the harths where pilgrims had burned their travel-worn clothes, toward the roaring sea, and the wall of sharp black rock hid me from the rest of the Earth, leaving me alone with the vast Atlantic... When I climbed back up to where Aaron, Joe, Florian and Justin were perched on a rockey pinacle we set our socks on fire, gagging at the sweat-smoke. "That's the pilgrim menu for you," I said, getting everyone laughing. We held hands in a circle around the flames which symbolized the end of our pilgrimage and each said a prayer, thanking our Gods for the love and friendship that we had found, the protection and perfection that we had been granted, for the questions that we had answered and those that we had come to ask, and we hugged eachother, our new lifelong friends. Today Joe caught the bus to Madrid, and tomorrow I will continue walking north along the coast to Muxia to end my pilgrimage alone and contimplate it in solitude. I will then return by bus to Santiago, from where I will fly on the evening of the 5th to Barcelona to see Gaudi's architecture, then to Madrid for my flight back to Montreal and bus to Ottawa. Mom has recently been chosen to work in Beijing for a month, and I will be looking for work in Ottawa for the next months. Leaving this lifestyle will be strange. I am accustomed to waking in a dormatory of bustling pilgrims, sitting up in bed and packing my stuff, walking, stopping, showering, living out of a backpack, cooking, eating communally, and sleeping. I don't know what lays ahead, but I know it will be a continuing adventure. ¡Buen Camino! Bradley Finisterre, Galacia, Spain