Six years ago, I came across a movie called “The Way” starring Martin Sheen who plays a career driven father disappointed by his son’s (played by Emilio Estevez) lack of interest in his ophthalmology footsteps. The son sets out on his own ambitions to walk the Camino de Santiago. I sat there wondering…. What is this Camino and why have I not heard about it?
I was still working full time at Windsor Police Service so my idea of walking 800 km across Spain on this Pilgrimage was just a pipe dream, especially because in 2018 I was diagnosed with a hemangioblastoma and had emergency surgery to remove the small benign brain tumour. We’ve all heard about people who when faced with adversity come to the realization that you only have one life to live so go live it! So, during my recovery, I researched this long walk across Spain and the more I knew about it, the more I was excited dreaming that one day, I would walk the Camino de Santiago.
I retired in December 2019, moved to Boblo Island and continued my obsession with the Camino. Then Covid reared its ugly head. So, I walked a virtual Camino completing the 800 km trail around the island until I could finally travel.
Finally, in August 2023 all the preparations, researching, packing my backpack, unpacking my backpack, and re-packing my backpack, I was ready to go. I bid farewell to my friends and family who all thought I was crazy as a single “mature” woman leaving solo on such an adventure with a one-way ticket to Spain in my pocket.
Planes, trains and automobiles transported me to Saint Jean Pied de Port, France at the base of the Pyrenees Mountains, where I stayed for two nights to catch my breath and wait out the 42-degree Celsius heat. My first experience in an albergue was terrifying. As I was ushered to the common sleep area and assigned a single, stark bed, I spotted a man sitting on the bed right next to mine and thought, “this is going to be really weird.” The man must have recognized the terrified look on my face and in his Australian accent reassured me that I’d, “get used to it”.
On August 26th I headed out of the albergue with all my vital supplies neatly stacked in my backpack and was bid a “Buen Camino” by the French villagers. As I approached the first ascend of the Pyrenees I stood and looked back at the tiny town of SJPP and thought, “YIKES, this is really happening!” It was rainy and foggy but thankfully cooler than the last couple of days. The 3404 m gradual climb afforded me the opportunity to meet several other pilgrims who came from all over the world, just as I had to walk the Camino. Some will tell you they walk The Way for spiritual reasons, others as a physical challenge and some just to get away from the craziness of what has become “normal” to them. Pilgrims come in all shapes, sizes, and ages. The oldest pilgrim I met was 89 and was the recent recipient of a pacemaker. He and his elderly sister were trudging up the mountain as confidently and determined as the rest of us.
At the peak of the Pyrenees, an elderly French man served cafe con leches and chocolate croissants from his tired little camper trailer. By the time I arrived at this little “miracle on the mountain” a group of pilgrims were all huddled under the canopy taking shelter from the wind and rain, chattering in languages I couldn’t understand, except to interpret that the common theme was the threatening weather. I literally wolfed down my cafe con leche and chocolate croissant and bit farewell to the flock of wet pilgrims. I had a sense of urgency of getting off the mountain before the weather forced me to surrender. I was already drenched from the rain as I left the chattering pilgrims and bravely marched up the mountain. I recalled the volunteer at the pilgrim’s office in SJPP strongly advising that at the top of the mountain there would be a pole with the number 79 on it and was told repeatedly to turn right at the pole and follow that dirt path down the mountain. Do not, they echoed, turn left “or you will lose your way and possibly fall off the side of the mountain”. Through the dense fog and stinging rain, I saw the sign indicating I had reached pole number 79. I had an odd sense of loneliness at that moment while I tried to look through the misty fog for any signs of life behind me, but the only noise I could hear were the cowbells of the long horns in the distance. As I edged myself down the muddy, rocky path towards the forest, I considered how many pilgrims before me had walked this same path and trusted my instincts knowing I’d be safe and thankful when I would finally reach the first village of Roncesvalles just beyond the Spanish border.
My wet feet and tired legs felt as though they were disconnected to the rest of my body. I could feel my wet feet swelling in my boots knowing I would have to stop soon and change my socks and refill my water bottles. After miles alone on the rugged dark forest I could hear faint conversations and singing through the dense fog. I desperately picked up speed to catch up with them and was so grateful to have another pilgrim to walk with.
Pamplona is a vibrant university city where in 1926 Hemingway wrote “The Sun Also Rises” and where weeks earlier the festival of Sanfermines took place. In other circumstances I might have stayed and roamed the ancient walled streets and enjoyed tapas and vino but I was on a mission to find an albergue and settle in for the night. I learned a couple of valuable lessons by the time I had reached Pamplona in that one, the recommended ten percent of my body weight that I’d been carrying for these last 60 kms was still excessive and two, I need to slow down and rest more often. I tore pages out of my guidebook, squeezed half of the toothpaste from its tube, donated three quarters of my first aid kit to other pilgrims and throughout anything else I had originally packed “just in case”.
With newfound energy and confidence, I departed Pamplona in my dry boots and three pounds lighter backpack I followed the symbolic shell and yellow arrows, surrendering the bustling city for the stony Camino path. As I continued, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to all those pilgrims that I left at the trailer cafe at the top of the Pyrenees. No sooner did I think it, I came upon a couple from New York that I had met who very anxiously asked, “what happened to you? We were looking for you that day on the top of the mountain. We were rescued off due to bad weather and taken back to SJPP”. It all made sense now…. That would explain why I didn’t see anyone for twenty kilometers or so that day.
It’s amazing where your mind will go when you’re all alone in a foreign country. To keep my mind off my yet very sore feet, I sang, I thought of a name for my backpack, (her name is Alice… like the camel, because that’s how I felt day in and day out) contemplated life and even cried at times. They were mostly happy tears; tears because I was so grateful to be alive and doing what was making me happy.
Four days into my Camino I was tired, hungry, dehydrated and I had succumbed to the rocky inclines and declines of the Camino trail. I knew I was in trouble. That is when my “Camino angels” appeared with water & hydration tablets, food and the two very experienced pilgrims took half of the contents of my backpack and carried it 20 plus kilometers for me. I am eternally grateful to Dawn from San Francisco and Lynn from the south of Spain.
The Alto del Perdon is a 2,526 ridge where wind turbines tower over a wrought iron representation of medieval pilgrims, heads bent to the west wind with the inscription; “where the way of the wind crosses the way of the stars.” It was day nine and the stony path down to Los Arcos was torturous and unforgiving. I finally reached the tiny village where I resigned myself to the fact that the boots were no longer the right choice. I cautiously removed my merino toe liners and my second pair of socks to discover that my baby toes looked like they had been burnt with a blow torch. I was wishing at that moment that I hadn’t relinquished my first aid kit back in Pamplona. Scrabbling for antibiotic ointment and bandages I wrapped both baby toes and slipped on my Keen walking sandals. With my boots tied to my backpack off I went seeking new trail shoes and a post office where I would ship my boots to Santiago.
Although I walked the Camino as a “solo pilgrim”, pilgrims from the USA, Australia, Germany, Norway, Spain, S. Africa, Denmark, and fellow Canadians all became my Camino family. Some walked with me for days and others just in passing but you get to know them and without any plan at all we ended up in a small village singing and playing music and dancing in the streets or having dinner with some in a large city such as Leon.
The mornings that I left before dawn were gloriously cool and quiet and by the time I’d devoured my first chocolate croissant and cafe con leche the sun was rising over the mountain ridges.
On September 12th, nineteen days since I’d left SJPP I was at Sahagun (km 365) the halfway point. My feet were happy now that I was in my new Altra’s and my legs were stronger than I could have ever imagined.
Astorga (the city of chocolate) was one of my favourite cities along The Way. The Spanish people are a celebratory bunch and it’s obvious as family and friends gather in the city squares for barbeques, and music. I could have stayed and eaten chocolate and drank Tinto de Verando all night long, but I knew the next two days would be challenging both mentally and physically.
The ascent from Ponferrada was wet and rocky, peaking at 4938 feet where the Cruz de Ferro is erected. It’s an ancient ritual site that dates back as far as 2500 years ago when the hermit Guadcelmo set an iron cross on the sacred oak tree truck and is considered to be the nearest point to heaven on the Camino. It’s a potent link between heaven and earth where modern pilgrims lay down their burdens by leaving a stone or shell at the cross. The morning was foggy and chilly, but I carried a stone (my burden) since I’d left Canada with the intention to lay it down at the Cruz de Ferro. My stone is from my brother’s farm where he lived until the day he passed away fourteen years prior. Two weeks before his death we had been trail riding together and while we were brushing the horse after he looked over at me and said, “you know Ann, when I go, I want to go right here in the saddle, and I want you to play Happy Trails on my way out of the church.” Two weeks later he was dead from a massive heart attack in the saddle at a horse show in London. That was my burden; I never forgave myself for not recognizing the “signs” and I carried that burden until now as I stood in front of the Cruz de Ferro, sobbing while I laid my burden down. As I took my hand off the cross and I turned around I saw the skies opened and the sun came out over the peak of the mountain. I can’t begin to describe how the heaviness and the sadness left my body that morning. I was finally letting my brother rest in peace.
Through fields of sunflowers and forest of Cypress and Eucalyptus trees I reached the last 100 km to Santiago. The Camino trail busier as many pilgrims only walk the last 100 kilometers.
On September 27th, I approached the city of Santiago I was anxious and sad and excited all at the same time. In so many ways, I didn’t want my Camino to end. It’s like saying good-bye to a longtime friend. I could hear bagpipes playing Galican folk tunes and people cheering in the distance. I was the 619th pilgrim to register in Santiago that day. Pilgrims from around the world are hugging and crying and dancing in the Praza de Obradoiro in front of the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral. The Cathedral is the reputed burial site of Saint James the Great.
I have earned my Compostela by verifying my pilgrim passport with stamps obtained from cafes, albergues, restaurants, road side cafe trailers and historical sites along the way. With a handshake from the pilgrim officer and my Compostela in hand I exit the plaza and suddenly feel lost for the first time since I began my Camino some 800 km ago.
The following day I attended a Pilgrim’s mass at the cathedral and although I didn’t understand a word being said the ritual of the botafumeiro (smoke spreader in Spanish) brought me to my knees. The five-foot swinging incense burner requires eight tiroboleiros to lift the 53 kg thurible 20 metres high on a pulley system and swings towards the side naves.
From Santiago I bused to Muxia and walked another 30 kms to the tiny fishing village of Fisterra, meaning Land’s End in Latin. That is where at marker 0.0 that I truly felt that I had completed my Camino, al 967kms of it.
The Camino is not for the faint of heart, but it has forever changed me. I spoke to several pilgrims who told me they were on their 3rd or 4th Camino and an elderly man from Minnesota walking his 13th Camino. I couldn’t understand why anyone would do the same Camino even a second time, but now that I’m home I would do it all over again. My plan is to return to the Camino and help host at an albergue called Casa Susi in Trabadelo and then continue onto Santiago once again.
Buen Camino!
