We have a lot to thank the humble poncho for. I said it last time I walked El Camino and despite never going near one since, I’m now going to say it again. Never going near that is except for buying a rather fetching evergreen number when I did return. I donned it uon a particularly windy day en route to the summit of Peny Fan in the Breacon Beacons, Wales. Just cresting the top and a gust caught me by surprise, flipping said poncho up my back and completely over my head. It was like being thrown in a large bag and the top tied shut, flapping about trying to find some resemblance of an opening which wasn’t forthcoming. After a minute of frantic struggling I eventually emerged to the cheers and claps of several bystanders.
We have a lot to thank the humble poncho for. I said it last time I walked El Camino and despite never going near one since, I’m now going to say it again. Never going near that is except for buying a rather fetching evergreen number when I did return. I donned it uon a particularly windy day en route to the summit of Peny Fan in the Breacon Beacons, Wales. Just cresting the top and a gust caught me by surprise, flipping said poncho up my back and completely over my head. It was like being thrown in a large bag and the top tied shut, flapping about trying to find some resemblance of an opening which wasn’t forthcoming. After a minute of frantic struggling I eventually emerged to the cheers and claps of several bystanders.
It was promptly sold on my return and it wasn’t until my Appalachian trail hike last year that I reinvested in a more lighter, up to date model and I now swear by them. Slip it in an accessible, outside pocket at the first sign of rain, reach round and grab it, throw it over your head and pack and the jobs a good’n. No need for a jacket, pack cover, pack liner and arguably, waterproof trousers. Coupled with an umbrella, you tend to get a little damp below the knees but nothing that isn’t too uncomfortable or won’t dry out.
For some reason, hikers on the Camino love them. And leaving Gonzar in the morning most of them were put to good use. I had been walking for a good hour before a battling sun eventually emerged, struggling to find a way through a menacing dark cloud covering most of the sky. Thankfully it didn’t rain that hard but constant would be the word I’d use, albeit with a couple of small let ups during the day. At some point the weather had to break, I’d been incredibly lucky but perhaps not surprised at the elements so far. El Camino is blessed with abundant sunshine during the spring, summer and autumn months but Galicia, in the north west of the country, is the wettest region of the country. Even so, the wet weather doesn’t usually come through until about now, mid-October.
That poncho and yes, still raining
Another memory from my last visit, apart from the poncho, was that my mileage dropped during the last two weeks. Not from fatigue, more from realising that the end was nigh and I didn’t want to finish. Most other pilgrims share the same thoughts. Some have walked for 4 weeks, some 8, some a few months if they started their trek further afield. However, they all show a reluctance to reach Santiago because then it will all be over. No more relative freedom, no more great company or conversely, no more solitude if that’s what you prefer. Enjoying the detachment from a conventional life, away from irrelevant distractions and the absolute pleasure of being as near to free as one could ever hope to get. Just put on your pack and walk, that’s it.
Subsequently, the last week is very relaxing, everyone has slowed down, they’re all smiling, aren’t in a hurry and a relative calm descends on El Camino despite the rain.
During that last week the route goes through shady, sheltered wooded sections and Eucalyptus forest. The soil becomes somewhat sandy in places, mixed in with peaty soil and gradually each day, more leaves float down to cover the way. A morning ensconced in a poncho and under an umbrella shut me off from my surroundings a little. The patter on my umbrella muted anything going on around me and a low cloud stripped any scenery. I arrived at Palas de Rei about mid-day during one of the brief down pour let ups. Wet hikers stood around shaking gear dry, putting on warmer clothing as they cooled and looking skyward praying for a respite.
I set my pack against the wall outside a café under an awning, put on a warmer jacket and ventured inside for my now staple hunger fix of a tortilla and hot chocolate, with a shot of espresso of course. Cars hissed by on wet roads and for once, Spain seemed busier than usual. Perhaps the rain was a novelty for the locals to be made the most of. Packs leaning against walls outside establishments act as homing beacons for others keen for some company and before long I was joined by others, warming hands around hot drinks.
I spent the afternoon acting like a kid, splashing through puddles and kicking up leaves. The elevation dropped a little, leaving cloud banks up higher and letting the rain dissipate somewhat. The occasional burst of sunshine dried off my clothing and sent smoke clouds of water vapour skyward.
Melide was destination for the day, the geographical centre of Galicia. The town rather lacks the charm of others with more modern buildings but little touches like the allegedly oldest wayside cross in Galicia soften the contemporary surroundings. Melida is also host to a number of pulpeiras, eateries serving up the local delicacy of octopus, reputedly the finest area in Spain to partake of this culinary dish. Not to everyone’s taste, pulpo has a reputation of being somewhat rubbery. More a fear reached from observation of the purple tentacles and little suckers, pulpo is actually a wonderful dish.
Some trail markers you just can’t miss . . .
I remember sitting on a beach in Greece many years ago during a cycle tour and watching a fisherman bring in several octopi. He began smashing each one of them against a rock for several minutes, somewhat like you may see people washing clothes in the eastern world against a river bank. At first I thought this was just a quick method to kill them but was told later that they are already dead after being caught and the rock smashing is actually to tenderise the meat. After that, they are simply boiled and served with a sprinkling of paprika and a little olive oil. So, next time you bite into a rubbery pulpo, send it back and tell the waitress the fisherman isn’t doing his job. And yes, of course I had a little late lunch.
Vague memories of my last accommodation in Melida being stuck in a crowded dorm with serious lack of fresh air meant I sought out alternative lodgings to the municipal refuge. I was spoilt for choice, several new places had opened just this year and for the accepted 10E fee, before long I was washing my clothes and blasting tired limbs with a downpour of hot water.
Melida was a mere 32 miles from Santiago. Possible in a day but sticking to my no rush principle I made tracks for Pedrouzo, about 21 miles distant to leave me a little 11 miler on my last day and a lunch time arrival at the big finish. Back in sheltered woodland where oaks bordered the path, their trunks mottled in an evergreen moss tempered by a lighter, olive coloured lichen. The Camino dipped and dived, occasionally entering a low cloud on the highs, a misty, view obscuring dampness all around. Lose some height and the sun burst through again warming me. Water trickled around tree routes to form small streams at the path side before reaching water courses spanned by centuries old stone arched bridges. It was hard to imagine the searing heat and vast open plains of the Meseta were just a couple of weeks behind me.
Sand crunched underfoot interspersed with grey, slate like stones. Small hamlets offered fresh vegetable for sale, fresh springs were in full flow after the rains and stone Hórreos (grain stores) stood perched on mushroom legs full of cobs from the harvest.
Pedrouzo arrived quickly, partly due to a misguided notion that I was further behind than I had thought. It felt strange to know I had just one more day left. I felt melancholic, thoughts of returning to a cold England and of the usual weak attempts to try and fit back into normality plagued me during the evening. The last day of any hike is always an emotional minefield. Elation at the finish coupled with a fear of realising there is no more; it’s over. Returning home from a hike is leaving the life I love behind. It makes no sense emotionally, your mind struggles to accept it and apart from the usual financial pressures of earning money, it makes little sense.
I left early on the final day and walked pensively, slowly. The excitement was evident but the sadness stronger. For an hour I walked by the light of my torch, the occasional similar beam from another pilgrim up ahead confirmed the right direction along with the occasional stone marker. I walked with others I had met during the past few days; Andy from England, Niall from Ireland, Kate from Canada and Brian from New Zealand, excited chatters lifting my spirits.
The towers of Santiago cathedral used to be visible from Monte de Gozo but the outward spread of the city has long since blocked the view. It seemed to take ages to reach the mount and the monument erected to commemorate the Pope’s visit in 1993. We ventured down to the outskirts of Santiago and spent a couple of hours walking through at first, the more modern suberbs before history took charge and gradually, concrete turned to hewn stone as we progressed towards the centre.
Picking our way through the maze of streets, searching for the occasional marker we dodged torrents of water streaming from leaking gutters and moved round street torrents under the Porta do Camino. Along the Rua dos Concheiros, deriving its name from the concheiros who used to sell the St James shells there. Down the Rua da Acibecheria with its jet black, glistening, semi-precious stones glinting on the surface. The Praza do Obradoiro opened out in front of us dominated by the cathedral towering over everything. I bent down and touched the stones as I had done 11 years ago to mark the end of my journey as we congratulated each other, some tears of happiness as companions.
The finish. From the left: Kate from Canada, Brian from New Zealand, Andy from England, me and Niall from Ireland
My thinking in walking EL Camino again was for several reasons. Primarily because I had such an amazing experience last time that I vowed one day I would return to repeat it. Also, I was looking for a holiday as well as a hike. For once I wasn’t searching for remote wilderness; I needed a kind walk, somewhere with amenities en-route. As much as I enjoy spending several nights out in the wilds, I wanted that aspect tempered with a little comfort. I considered other options around a couple of months in duration, such as Lands End to John o Groats, or something further south in the Mediterranean perhaps. In the end the desire of familiarity won the day. I knew to a certain extent what to expect but also I wanted to see how this way had changed over the years.
Pilgrim numbers have increased but I didn’t notice this. If anything, at times, it seemed as though there were less people on the trail. It is a little more commercial in places, café and hostel signs appear as villages and towns get nearer but not overwhelmingly so. There are more places to eat and stay, an inevitable result of increasing numbers of hikers coming out here each year. I also walked it at the busiest time, September. After the summer heat has subsided and the children have gone back to school, this is the most popular period. Spring is next, which must be a beautiful time to experience Spain in all its greenery and blooming flowers.
Tapas (and drink) all round at the evening celebrations
Ashamedly I had forgotten much of the way. The spaces between settlements, as picturesque as they are, have few defining features so perhaps the memory doesn’t hold onto them for so long before tucking them away in some little file. The towns, villages and the tiny hamlets held more memories for me. Wonderful pilgrim bridges, unique architecture, streets that appear to have unchanged in centuries. Walking El Camino is a route through history stretching back thousands of years. Castles perched high view you down below, quiet country lanes still follow the same route. Your feet follow the same surface that another pilgrim trod in the 13th century, you can stay at the same place as someone rested their head 1000 years ago and eat in an ancient little café that someone drank wine at in 1150 AD. It is so rich in history that you just to come to accept it, feeling the ghosts of the past with you.
If it’s a relatively easy going route you’re looking for, with ample opportunities to rest, partake in good local cuisine, to meet a lot of great people with similar reasons for being there as you, look no further.
I walked it the first time because I was somewhat lost in life. I had little direction; my life was on a random course which I was merely following on a whim. A bleak future had me tethered and I was just being pulled along. I had no plans, mainly because I didn’t have anything to plan for. In short, I was completely lost. I returned a new man, bursting with ideas, positive about where I was heading and more importantly, I had the will and focus to go and get it. I am still on the same course and loving it.
It’s been said that time spent on El Camino will provide you with the answer. All you have to do is go and ask the question.
You can read about my first experience on El Camino in my book – The Journey in Between. Click on the cover below for full details, reviews and ordering details. You can also read the first two chapters for free.
