How different a few weeks can make…
Eight days of mist and rain, added to treacherous conditions underfoot can result in a soul destroying concoction where every step is excruciating. If you throw a swollen ankle into the mix, you have a recipe for real hurt.
Maggie, Jeremy and I have fought our way from Santiago along the Camino Fisterra and now are within thirty kilometres of the ‘end of the world’, at least that’s how the Romans saw it. With the shocking weather we will be lucky to even see the ocean, but you never know… Perhaps our luck will change.
Sadly, tonight in the little village of Olveiroa, our little fellowship must come to its end. Maggie’s fall in the mud yesterday means she can barely walk, so a taxi will be necessary for a part of the final stage. Jeremy will plod on steadfastly, but I must walk a big thirty kilometre stage with my swollen ankle to reach Finisterre in one day, so that I can make Muxia by Sunday evening. This will enable me to arrive back in Santiago by local bus the following day so I can catch the early coach for Lille in France, on the Tuesday.
Can it really be possible that the end is in sight? Where did the time go? Have I changed? The silence has finished since Santiago, where I was literally shocked into speech after the awful cathedral experience. I have somehow felt unclean since the words started again. They feel rough and coarse inside my mouth and when forming in my mind.
Slowly the calm is returning as the earth passes below my sturdy old boots. The constant present moment vigilance forces one into the eternal now, and therein lies sanity. Praying inwardly for that joyful bliss of the mountains and the open sky of the Meseta adds to a sense of redemption…. Of turning away from the Santiago Temple and back to the elemental church in my heart.
If I make Muxia, it will be the end of this Camino and maybe the beginning of another…