Santiago de Compostela

“We made it.”

My voice cracking, my eyes welling up, Olga crying in joy.

“We made it.”

An emotional moment that overwhelmed us.

We asked a fellow pilgrim to snap a photo in that instant to capture the end of our journey so we could send it out immediately to our family. Then Olga and I found a spot in the glorious sun of a beautiful day to soak in the feeling for the next half hour. We spoke quietly, reverently. We made it.

Our approach to Santiago began the day before, a 23 km walk from Salceda to San Marco. The stretch was the least appealing to date, walking around an airport, groups of people behind and in front conversing unabashedly, constantly, shattering the silence. I was the Hare, hoping to break free from the crowds.

The morning is my best walking time; fresh energy, fresh air, fresh determination. After my cup of strong coffee at 8, I motored along at a heightened pace, stopping only to shed my jacket, forgoing my usual breakfast break. No church to visit and ring a bell, only a couple stamps from enterprising artisans. I rolled into San Pao at 11:30, 15.5 km along, deciding I do need to sit down for a rest and a bit of food. The first bar/cafe was crowded and noisy – no thanks. 200 m further on I spotted St. Ignatius Church, open, advertising the opportunity to visit and and obtain a sello (stamp). My kind of place.

An Italian volunteer was manning the table to imprint the small, decorative impression into my passport. It would be my last for the day, and the most coveted.  The church is tiny, simply adorned, quiet. Only a handful of others found their way inside. My donation was larger than usual.  “Gracias” and a sign of the cross; then I left. I wandered onto the grounds, sat on the low stone wall surrounding it, unburdened my backpack for some smoked sausages and water. I turned around ten minutes later. The church was closed up, the signs disappeared, the volunteer vanished.

I arrived in San Marco before 2:00 pm, surprising Olga who spotted me through the window of the coffee shop across from our hotel. San Marco is only 5.1 km from the Cathedral, purposely chosen for a short walk into Santiago in order to be assured enough time to attend the noon pilgrim mass the next day. The location had the additional advantage of allowing Olga the opportunity to walk the remaining distance if she had recovered sufficiently. Her ankle/shin have improved considerably but the initial long decline out of San Marco would be too difficult. Not a wise idea. Yet we wanted to fulfill her vision of walking into the square so conjured a plan to make it happen. I would leave, walking, at 8:30; Olga would order a taxi at 9:45. We would rendezvous on the grounds of the San Domingos convent in front of the Museo de Pabo Galego to continue and finish.

Olga and I walked the last kilometre, together, into the court yard of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. 

“We made it.”

The noon mass was filled to capacity. Advice from a security guard to line up early helped us find a seat near the back of the section facing the altar directly. When the  Spanish mass ended, we assumed everyone would be streaming out. The famous swinging of the Botafumiero only occurs once a week, on special sacred church days, or for groups paying for the privilege. We didn’t expect it today. Suddenly the priests gathered in front of the altar, the thurible lowered and the incense began spewing as some monks started a rhythmic tugging of the rope. Swaying back and forth, higher and higher, the Botafumiero flew from side to side for several minutes, enchanting the people, in awe, cameras recording. The ceremony capped our visit. The vision was complete.

We have been moving almost every day on this journey. We will continue tomorrow by bus to Finisterre for a few days. Together.

Buen Camino