Terminus

In front of the cathedral defaced by scaffolding, Susan and I find a gaggle of ebullient pilgrims, backpacks on the ground, hugging, posing, taking photos of each other. They have conquered the Camino. Their cheerful voices rise above the square. The ambiance is electric. Except for me. And perhaps a few others like me. It will take me a while to understand why. For me, the Camino was what mattered: the changing scenery, the people, the villages, the walk, the daily a to b. Whether or not I would reach a destination never mattered too much to me. It was the moment that counted, that I enjoyed, the friends I made along the way, the stories I collected, the spirits of those who had preceded me and lingered in history. It was the way my life was being enriched. For me, Santiago means the return to my role on life’s stage at the end of a beautiful interlude. Santiago means goodbyes. I am fortunate to have a loving family to return to. I wonder what it is like for those who must return to an empty house. I have it good both ways.

Looking back now, I can understand the elation of those for whom carrying a heavy bag, walking with blisters, suffering from exhaustion, was a challenge. They deserve to be proud. I can understand the elation of those who felt they had been walking with God, asking for a favour, or less often perhaps, even thanking God for one. I hope wishes are granted. I hope God receives thanks graciously. I understand those for whom the Camino was a time for spiritual reflection, a search for a new direction, a quest. I hope they found the answers they were looking for. I also understand those who sought healing. I sincerely hope they went home healed.

That evening, while the pianist played, with Susan, Gabriela, Lizi and Bori, a reporter we had met briefly a few days before, we celebrated in a restaurant near the cathedral. Tomorrow, Susan was going on a bus tour to Finistere and Muxia. Lizi would be off to Andalucía to vacation with her sister. Bori would be going back to her work in Slovenia.

Gabriela and I had no luck securing seats on the excursion bus with Susan. We met the group in the morning, hoping for a couple of cancellations. When there were none, we made a mad dash for the local bus station twenty minutes away, where the driver welcomed us on board as he was pulling out of the station. Once in our seats, much to my delight, I realized we were on the local bus, the one that pulled into every cove and village. We would at least get a scenic tour.

In Finistere, Gabriela and I walked along the beach and treated ourselves to the most delicious seafood I had ever tasted. Then, she took a direct bus back to Santiago. She would leave for Málaga the next morning and spend a week at the beach with one of her fourteen siblings. I walked two or three kilometres up the hill to the lighthouse where I bumped into Susan and her bus tour, and I took the slow bus back so I could enjoy every bit of the scenery again. I would return to the same restaurant in Finistere two days later with Nuala on an excellent tour with a knowledgeable guide. Our favorite stop would be Muxia with its tragic history of the oil spill, its giant sculpture commemorating the thousands of international volunteers who came to clean and restore the shoreline.

I was ready to return home now. It would be good to be with my family again. Before my train back to Pamplona, Nuala and I would have time to explore Santiago off the beaten track. What a treat it was to have a private room. I could leave my belongings all over the place. I was glad she had suggested the Seminario Menor. We enjoyed breakfasts at her hotel, and I cooked us dinner up the hill.

Sadly, the Camino was not to end on a cheerful note for everyone. On my last evening, as I was preparing a salad at the long kitchen counter, I heard a middle-aged woman weeping. Her sobs were getting louder and louder. Bent over the counter, her tears fell in large drops in a puddle on the stainless steel. I went to her, put my arm around her shoulder, and asked if I could help. She picked up her cell phone, entered Korean characters into a translation App, and showed me the screen: ‘My father died.’ I was shocked. She had obviously just received the news. I put my arms around her and let her cry. After only a few seconds, she picked up her phone again and wrote something else. ‘Suicide.’ I couldn’t believe it. It was all too brutal. Too unreal. Why couldn’t he at least wait until she got home? I held her in my arms. When her sobs abated somewhat, I asked a young man to please go to the common room and find some Korean women to help comfort her.

Before he could find anyone, a Korean man arrived and asked what was wrong. He shook his head, thanked me and took her away to another area. I knew nothing of that woman; I had never met her before. It seemed a cruel irony, a nasty twist of fate, that this should happen now. Often, people come on the Camino to heal. I have no idea why she was here. Was it a quest for her father’s healing? She would be going home with pain rather than a cure. In that moment, I felt angry. I felt all the unfairness of life. I understood once again there is no point in looking for the meaning of life. Just live it to the fullest. Carpe diem.

Epilogue

In September 2021, during the Covid pandemic, Andrea and I returned to the Camino. It was quiet. Many changes had occurred. The albergue and restaurant in Zariquiegui, the Jardín de Muruzábal, the Casa Mágica in Villatuerta were all closed. In front of the church in Zariquiegui, several friendly officers of the Guardia Civil were giving out information about an app in case of emergency. The large windows of Hostal Burgos were papered over and full of graffiti. I don´t know whether it will open again. In Valverde, heavyhearted, I spotted a large ‘For Sale’ sign at the deserted Casa del Camino where I had first met Elena and the hospitaleros had been so kind to me. But all was not bad. I discovered so many wonderful new albergues and small hotels, including charming Pensión Santa Rosa in Samos, and award-winning Mercadoiro with its fine antiques and history of (now defunct) linen production.

When I hurt my foot and could not hike for several days, at O’Cebreiro, I met a generous woman called Camino (her real name). From Vigo, she took time off from her usual life in order to help pilgrims. Two days in a row, she drove Lluc, a Majorcan writer also in physical distress, and me, to our separate destinations, asking nothing in return.

I will never cease to be amazed at the wonderful connections the Camino provides. Back home, through FaceTime, I was able to cheer up Elena, my Russian Camino friend while despite being vaccinated she was ill with Covid and in hospital in Yekaterinburg.

I can’t imagine ever tiring of the Camino.