The Write Stuff

I start writing this sitting on the cold stone of Santiago in the morning, waiting for an old cafe to open, waiting for a plane to fly me home.

Today is my Santiago rest day. My chance to rest, relax, recover from the hundreds of kilometres that have passed underfoot in the last 16 days. I should have a lie in. Instead, I'm awake before six.

The last day. The final 20 km. 675 km walked in 28 days, two parts, over two years.

I awake in the dorm, my mind skips around in the dark, the muffled light snoring entering my ears through my plugs is a comforting sound, but not enough to send me back to sleep. The last few days have seen our little group become very close. Tomorrow is the beginning of the end of that particular form, and the end of 28 days of walking for me. The thought of this starts some waves of overwhelming emotions.

Today is the last big day before arriving in Santiago. 29 km, 6 hours walking straight. With breaks, it ends up being more like an 8 hour day. Breakfast in cafe central from the night before is a "Napolitano": a pan au chocolat, and a cafe con leche, with milk always because the Spanish coffee is, let's be charitable here, more drinkable with milk. Our small group joins up with the Spanish couple from the previous night who are having breakfast outside their hotel, a place that looks like The Overlook Hotel had a lovechild with a brutalist Soviet block of flats.

My French walking companion and I decide to leave early to avoid the crowds. It takes us about an hour to pass most of them in the dark before we're ahead of the pack. Like the Tour de France, but with trekking poles, backpacks with shells hanging off them and dorky outdoor clothing. When we finally get to the top of the hill, we're almost at the sunrise, it's marvellous view, and we're almost on our own. We stop at a cafe for breakfast, others catch up.