Epilogue Day 2: Santiago de Compostela to Brighton. 1200km.

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. Waiting alone isn’t something I’ve had to do for a few weeks, it’s an unusual feeling. The city is slowly waking up with the noise of deliveries, commuters on the way to their jobs. Actual people live here! It’s not just a city full of pilgrims. In a few hours, they’ll start to arrive in their hundreds, from Sarria and beyond. Those arriving will eventually filter out too, onwards bound. It must be a strange and beautiful thing to live in a city like this: the transience, this intensity of emotions, these visitors filtering out and continuing with their lives.

I just said “ci vediamo dopo” (see you later) to the Italians, who are off to see the sea at Finesterre, a traditional final Camino for those whose journey hasn’t ended in Santiago. Some folks walk it, they’re getting a bus. My Italian friend is not the type who would want a teary goodbye, so I spare him, and keep it brief and manly. My Spanish friend calls him a Galician word, “toxo” (gorse). He’s sweet and caring, but protected by spines. I missed my Spanish walking buddy yesterday, and maybe it’s best we say “hasta luego” (see you later) rather than goodbye, she doesn’t like emotional goodbyes.

The overwhelming feelings of the last few days since arriving at the end of my journey will take some time to process. The black box of the subconscious takes time to reveal it’s secrets. There are hints, clues as to what’s going on. A lady walks past me holding a cup of coffee, clearly holding back tears. Yesterday day I saw a lady sitting in a doorway, head in hands, weeping. The day before that, I was there, in the square, doing the same thing. I’m not alone in my heightened emotional state. We likely all have very different reasons, but there’s something in this process, this journey, this catalyst that allows this expression. Perhaps outside of our culture, we have no judgement here, we are accepted, we are seen.

The cafe opens, the owner has arrived and lets the waiting staff in. I give them a few minutes and head indoors to warm up and take a tostada and cafe con leche. I’ve been here before, three years ago when I walked the Camino Português with my friends. It’s a very different feeling from then. Cafe Paradiso provides by far the best breakfast I’ve had this trip. The coffee is rich, dark and viscous. The bread is a homemade leavened flatbread cut in half and toasted. There’s butter, strawberry jam and unusually, queso crema - something close to sour cream.

I take my bus to the airport. Walking through the lounge, I think I see someone I walked with. I walk up to them, and say hi, they look at me with a look of confusion. It’s only a doppelganger, and a close one at that. Perhaps I still have one foot dipped in the Camino river. There are other pilgrims here in this airy building. We’re not only passing through geographical borders, we’re entering a different kind of life. We have to make adjustments to the new (old) way. No more arrows and daily itinerary to direct us. The simplicity of fulfilling only our hunger, tiredness and pains will be replaced by the complexity and overwhelming stimulation and distraction economy of modern life. When I awake from the dream, how much will I remember of it?

The afternoon train from Gatwick to Brighton is pre-rush hour so a quiet transition. When I walk down to the busy London road however, it’s in the middle of the school run. This busy road is something I’ve not seen for weeks, even at the height of the post-Sarria madness. My headphones do their best to block out most of the noises. I dip into a supermarket, and find myself next to a man at the checkout agitatedly complaining that his card should be working, but isn’t. I rush to leave out into the fresh air and onwards to my more peaceful house.

My cat doesn’t realise I’m back for a while. I’m in the garden, she greets me with her familiar tweet. I think there may have been a hint of annoyance there, but otherwise she’s happy to see me. Now I settle back into home life. My first job is to wash and disinfect everything I have with me. Fuck bed bugs. Everything, including my backpack goes into a 60C wash. The socks and sleeping silk are also sprayed with bug spray. I’m back.

The journey home and the coming weeks provide more time for reflection for me. I didn’t expect to be doing this. I thought I’d just go walking and enjoy some culture, language, food and drink, meet a few nice people, go home. I didn’t enter into this with any intention to have anything deeper than a walk in northern Spain. Instead, it took me somewhere. The experience has guided me down a path I didn’t think I’d be walking.

I wonder what brought this about. Is it the intense connection you make with people? Sharing the same journey, rhythms, destination, experience, hardships over many hundreds of kilometres. Is it the symbolism of the path you travel that touches something deep inside your subconscious? Beginning, middle, end, sharing the journey, dipping in and out of other people’s journeys, sharing more with some than others. Does this crack open the shells of our guarded hearts, exposing the soft, vulnerable tissue underneath? Of course, it’s not the same for everyone, and wasn’t for me on my previous walks either.

Whatever I’m feeling, I’m incredibly grateful to my two walking companions. The last week of walking I was in a family, albeit a temporary one. We shared a lot together. We walked in a group, sometimes alone, always knowing the others weren’t far away when we needed them. We laughed till our cheeks hurt, cried till our eyes dried, we ate meals together, slept nearby each other. We each had our own journey, and enough space to breath and explore that, without being alone. It was an incredibly enriching experience for me. I carry you both with me. I hope I don’t wake up too quickly from this blissful slumber.