Epilogue Day 1: Santiago Rest Day. 0km

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. My body is still in the rhythm of my days on the road. I get up and shower, my French walking companion is getting ready for his final (optional) three day walk to the sea at Finesterre. After his bedbug infestation, he took the nuclear option and threw most of his gear away. He’s walking with his new, much lighter bag, and jettisoned much of his gear, including (very questionably) two wool jumpers. We mull over the metaphorical significance of him carrying less weight with him, but don’t get too far with it before coffee.

After our caffeination, we hug each other goodbye and buen camino. I learn that he’s placed a prayer he left in the pilgrim’s office chapel. I won’t print the details, but it’s a beautiful sentiment and I’m grateful he was able to share this with me. I later share some words about my emotional journey of the last week, I tell him “I didn’t really expect the Camino to affect me so much. I thought I was just having a nice walk in beautiful countryside…”, to which he replies “Ah ah, it is also that. But not just. It never is.”

I walk up to Praza Obradeiro. It’s before 9am, and the square is relatively quiet at this time of morning. The larger volumes of pilgrims won’t be filtering in for a few hours time. It’s a quiet, and contemplative moment. I see the side I sat in yesterday, engulfed in emotions. I’ve felt some waves this morning, but they’re lighter than they were yesterday. I talk to an American who I’ve crossed paths with on roughly the same route as me. He quit his job in the financial services industry to do the camino and is thinking about making changes when he goes back home. He’s a quiet and thoughtful guy, but we’ve not shared enough with each other to keep in touch. I wish him the best for his life. “Buena vida” as my Italian friends say. I chat to an Italian lady who arrived via the Camino Primitivo on the same day as us. It joins up with the Frances in Melide, the pulpo town just before Sarria. She’s heading to the second service of the day in the cathedral. While I rejected the crowds for the pilgrim mass at 1230, I decide I might like to go to the earlier service.

The cathedral is cavernous and airy inside. I’m glad I am missing the crowds of the pilgrim mass. I’m not here for religious reasons. I’m not usually walking around churches with meditation and reflection in mind, but today is different. After walking around, I come to the seating area and find Giuliana. I ask if I can sit next to her, and we sit and wait, silently reflecting for half an hour until the service starts. This walk that became a journey. Close bonds forged in such a short period of time. Letting go of those. The lack of distraction and stress that allowed me to do that. My emotional unblockage. What this experience has told me about the changes I should make to my life. While we’re waiting, a man in a hi-vis vest repeatedly shushes the congregation. I welcome the peace, despite the hissing interruptions. The service starts. While the choral singing is beautiful, my Spanish isn’t good enough to absorb the lessons of the priest, and I drift into my own thoughts. It’s enough to be lost in that palace right now.

I walk over to the greystone slabbed market. Three years ago, I spent a wonderful afternoon here eating seafood and drinking wine in the sunshine with some Italians and a walking companion. I drink a few glasses of wine on my own here, reminiscing, soaking up the smells and tastes of the regional viticulture. I walk back towards the centre. I pass by a lady, likely a pilgrim. She’s sitting in a doorway, head in hands, weeping. I think this happens quite a lot in Santiago. So many strong emotions involved. The connections, the trials, the finality of reaching the end, the onward travel back to the real world.

After dinner, we head to my final Tuna in Praza de Obradoio. The musicians in their gowns play the same tunes from the night before. There are newcomers, some familiar faces from the previous night, and some absentees. The magic from the night before hasn’t disappeared, but it has dissipated somewhat in the familiarity. Heraclitus said “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man”. My presence here on a second night feels like a different person standing in the same stretch of river. It’s time for me to go. Tomorrow, as I head home, I step out of the Camino river, and back into that of my own life. How will it feel? What lessons will I take with me? Only time will tell.