I dedicate this pilgrimage walk to Jennifer Cluff.

For thirty one years she’s supported me, believed in me, tolerated me, loved me.

She is the wisest, most spiritual, person I know.

And the most beautiful.

The last 31 days have been for you, my darling. For the last 31 years you’ve given me.

Bill

I walked 39 kms today to arrive in Santiago.

I arrived with decidedly mixed feelings – no sense of elation, no sense of achievement, no real sense of accomplishment. Not even an anti-climactic feeling.

Just a sense of confusion, really, as to why I've put myself through this.

It hasn't been easy for me.

I actually didn't want to arrive. I sat in a bar around the corner from the Cathedral, and stalled. I couldn't bring myself to walk into the square in front of the Cathedral. I had a beer and a plate of chorizo instead.

And I meditated. Perhaps it was because of the exhaustion from the day's walk, or the beer, or the afternoon sunlight, but I quickly slipped into a deep meditation.

I was asking why did I do this pilgrimage.

And nothing came back.

So I got up, paid the bill, walked around the corner into the square, had my photo taken, and walked into the Cathedral.

Let's start at the beginning of the day.

I left Arzua at 6am, and possibly because of the early start, I had three hours of beautiful walking without seeing anyone else on the track. It was a glorious day – blue skies, soft sunlight, and a cooling breeze.

In the dark though, before the sun came up, I got lost. I got to an intersection and for the life of me I couldn't find a marker showing which way to go.

And then I saw some horse dung on one of the tracks. It must have been from the Brazilian riders yesterday. So their horse shit became my yellow arrows!

I had breakfast at 9am after I'd walked 12 kms – fried eggs and ham. With painkillers. My knee had been giving me problems. The previous afternoon, walking into Arzua, it suddenly got so painful I had to slow down to a crawl.

What is it with the Camino?

I thought I'd gotten over my knee problems, and soon as Santiago is within spitting distance, the knee decides to throw a spaz. (Sorry, politically incorrect, but you get the picture,)

So this morning I drugged myself up good and proper, I put on my Voltaren cream and elasticised knee bandage, and I walked tentatively. Even so by 9am it was hurting.

So I did what I've done with all my medical/injury issues on this pilgrimage – I ignored it. I just walked through it. Nothing was going to stop me getting to Santiago today.

And a strange thing happened – the pain went away. Or at least, it retreated to a position of tolerability. So too the blisters which had emerged. They too were painful, but I put my thoughts elsewhere, and they didn't bother me.

I was expecting today, on the last stage into Santiago, to be full of crowds, but I saw very few people the whole day. I saw Bob and Joan again, who were powering through the day. (I've discovered that they are marathon runners, which explains their extraordinary level of fitness and stamina.)

And I saw Lazlo too, who has to be one of the sweetest kindest men I've met.

Bob and Joan left me spluttering in their dust, and I kicked on from Lazlo. Such is the brutality of the Camino.

I wasn't moving particularly fast though – I was stopping and taking photos whenever they presented themselves, and I think on a deeper level I was going slow because I didn't want the day to end.

I didn't want to arrive in Santiago.

About 8 kms out I was flagging, not having had lunch other than two Coke Zeros, when I came upon two young Irish girls, Sinead and Kate. They had a week off work, and they'd decided to spend that week walking the Camino. They were very funny and very sweet, and they kept me amused until we reached the outskirts of Santiago.

Then I let them go on ahead because I wanted to walk into Santiago by myself. I wanted to think about all of those pilgrims who'd come before me, and of the significance of what they, and I, had done.

I walked past this group of pilgrims sitting in the sun in an outside cafe. I passed them saying G'day as I do. (I refuse to say the requisite Buen Camino. I always say G'day mate instead. )

Anyway, this bloke jumped up out of his chair and chased me, and pulled me up and said You're Australian. He was an Aussie too, and he was leading a group that had started in Leon.

We swapped some Sydney Swans banter, and by this stage, a few others from his party had come over and joined us.

He asked me where I'd started from, and I told him St. Jean Pied de Port, and this was my 31st day on the Camino.

They all looked at me, impressed, and the bloke said very sincerely: Mate, I've got so much respect for you.

I left quickly, embarrassed.

It wasn't long after that I hunkered down in that bar around the corner from the Cathedral and meditated, trying to make sense of it all.

Fact is, what I've done is no big deal.

Later when I went to get my Compostela, the lady who was supervising said that today, 850 pilgrims would get their piece of paper. Tomorrow, she said, it would be between 1,000 – 1,200. And this is shoulder season! What will it be like in July and August, the most popular months…

Now, admittedly a good many getting their Compostela today will have done the minimum distance of 100 kms, but even so that's a hell of a lot of people walking this ancient path.

That's a big shift of energy.

I haven't done this walk to challenge myself. I haven't done it to work out any existential questions. I'm not groping for meaning in my life.

And yet there's no doubt this walk has changed me. It's had a profound effect on me. I'll go into that stuff more in later posts, but yes, the Camino has worked some subtle spiritual magic on me.

I talked to my beautiful wife on the phone about 10kms out of Santiago. We talk each day before she goes to bed in Mudgee. And for no real reason, I broke down and cried and cried. I don't know why. And yet later when I walked into the square in front of the Cathedral I felt nothing. Other than my sore knee.

I've yet to make sense of all of this.

And I don't know what I'll do tomorrow when I don't have to walk.

You've got a lot of people in close proximity, sharing extraordinary and difficult experiences in an exotic and romantic country. At the end of the day's walking you're often eating and drinking together, then sharing sleeping quarters. A lot of people are between relationships, and unattached. They might be open to someone new entering their life.

You'd think this would provide the incendiary ingredients for sex on the Camino.

It doesn't. Or at least, it's not the hot bed of sexual trysts you think it might be. The Camino is strangely chaste.

Now, that's not to say that there aren't hook-ups, and romantic liaisons don't blossom. They do. But I have a theory that the Camino is asexual. I think the energy coming up from The Way, from the soul imprints of all those pilgrims who've been before, is such that it almost negates the sexual impulse.

This is a pilgrimage. And many people take it seriously as a spiritual journey. They're walking the Camino to work stuff out. They are self absorbed in their internal musings. They don't give out. They are turned inwards.

They are not open to the advances of others. It doesn't interest them. They are employed in higher pursuits. They might feel that a sexual union might somehow tarnish their special and very personal experience of the Camino.

In the summer time you get more younger pilgrims, and possibly more of a holiday festive kind of energy infuses The Way, and perhaps then more hook-ups occur.

But what I've found is that there is an enormous respect for the other's “space.” This is not a walk where you hit on someone.

I met a couple, in their middle years, who met on the Camino several years ago. They fell in love and later married. And now they're walking the Camino again, at exactly the same time of the year when they first met, to remember the love they discovered together.

I met a couple, boyfriend and girlfriend for several years, who split up acrimoniously a week into their walk.

Someone said to me: You see people at their physical worst on the Camino. Unattractive clothing, dirty hair, no make-up on the women, men unshaven and scruffy, smelly, sweaty.

Did I say smelly?

If you find someone attractive under those circumstances, chances are it will last. But, I don't think the Camino exudes a sexual energy. It exudes a spiritual energy. A sacred energy.

It is, after all, a pilgrimage. It's not a nightclub.

Sarria is a town about 108 kms from Santiago.

Where it's important on the Camino is that it's the minimum distance you need to travel to qualify for a Compostela. (For cyclists, it's 200kms)

A Compostela is a document you receive from the church in Santiago to say you've completed the Camino pilgrimage. It's meant to count towards the absolution of your sins, and hey, who amongst us hasn't sinned, right?

To get the Compostela, you have to prove you've walked the Camino. You do this by presenting your Pilgrim's Passport, or Credential. It has to be stamped every day you walk – and if you've started in Sarria, twice a day. This stops people from cheating. (Why cheat to get a Compostela? Kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?)

I heard of one bloke who started at St. Jean, and lost his Credential in Leon. He went hysterical.

Surely the purpose of walking the Camino is to walk the Camino, not to get a certificate from a Church to prove you've walked it.

Anyway, for this reason Sarria is the place most people start their Camino. And the 108kms to Santiago is an industry. Buses, tour groups, guides, and day-packer hordes crowd The Way for their 4-5 days easy walk into Santiago, so they can get their piece of paper to say they've walked the Camino.

To those of us who started 700kms further back, or even further than that for some too, these Sarria blow-ins are a test.

They wear designer Camino-inspired hiking gear, they either don't carry packs at all, or the more adventurous have light little day packs, often colour matching their designer outfits. Their boots are clean and unsullied with mud or (gasp) cow dung –

And they talk.

That's what's most challenging for us “true” pilgrims. They chatter. Loudly. And they laugh. And for some reason, they whistle. They whistle while they walk.

I try really hard to love them. To acknowledge that they have as much right being there as the guy who's walked 1500 kms from Le Puy, or the couple who've walked 1200 kms from Nimes. Or the bloke who's flown all the way from Australia (in coach, no less) and walked 700 kms from St. Jean Pied de Port with a sore knee and the daily pressure of writing a blog.

I'm sure they're really nice people. I'm sure they're kind to their pet cat. I'm sure they have their reasons for taking the easy way to get their Compostela.

But do they have to talk so loudly? And do they have to whistle? And do they have to look so damned clean?

Many are riding bikes, some are riding horses. There's a group of about 20 Brazilians on horses.

I pull over to the side of the track and let them pass. And smilingly wish them a Buen Camino, understanding as I do that this is the final test to see how far I've spiritually evolved.

Then I step in a big pile of horse shit.

If it's a test I demand a recount.

Today –

Today was long and hard. 26 kms from Palas de Rei to Arzua. Some long steep climbs and some tough descents. But through beautiful bushland.

I've noticed that the closer i get to Santiago, the bigger the taxi signs.

Huh.

Anyway, I'm now only 38kms from Santiago. I feel myself getting stronger the closer I get. I feel like there's a golden cord pulling me inexorably towards that Cathedral.

Only 38 kms…

My feet will be pleased to get there.

The day I walk into Santiago, this Saturday, my footy team the Sydney Swans play Hawthorn.

Old foes.

St. James, I've done my bit. Payback time buddy…

I had dinner last night with Bob and Joan, two retired educators from Berkley. Bob is 69 and Joan is 71. (You wouldn't believe their ages to look at them both.)

I left half an hour before them this morning, and today I really cranked it out. I was hooting along at near to 5 kms / hr, which for me is verging on the speed of light.

They passed me three hours into the day. And they'd also stopped for morning tea.

I had a rest stop and spoke to this fellow who'd come through from south of Madrid. He was 64, and this was his fourth Camino.

Yesterday I got talking to a couple who'd come from Nimes, in France. Already they'd done 1200 kms, and by the time they finish they'll have done 1300 kms. Jean Marc is 61 and his sister Genevieve is 64.

And then there's Soren, from Switzerland. He's 67, and he climbed up O Cebreiro a couple of days ago leaving me bobbing in his wake.

The Camino is full of OLD PEOPLE.

Note the caps, note the italics, note the underlying tone of disdain, and bewilderment. Bewilderment because they're all faster than me.

My definition of old? Anyone over 60.

For the record, I'm 59 years and 9 months, so I write from the relative perspective of youth.

It's not surprising a lot of old folk walk the Camino. They have the time – most are retired – and most have a degree of financial security. (Mind you, you don't need to spend a lot of money to walk the Camino.)

Some are looking for answers to the Big Questions of Life, others see it as a way of keeping active and staving off the degenerative symptoms of old age. Some see it as the ultimate FU to getting old.

But, if you saw one of these people standing in a crowded bus, you'd get up and offer them your seat. They look like they should be getting Meals on Wheels. You feel that some should be accompanied by Carers. With bed pans.

And yet these oldies are blitzing the Camino.

They're leaving the young folk, like me, reeling in their backdraft.

You never see them getting buses, or taxis, or shipping their backpacks on ahead. Nope, they are hard core. Seriously hard core.

They have stamina, resilience, and the wisdom to listen to their bodies, and judge the demands of The Way. Often they are people who've lived active lives – but I'm astonished by those who've just turned up and done it, with very little training.

They are amazing.

Today –

Today I hardly took any photos, because I couldn't find much that was really interesting. The path followed roads for most of the way. I'm now at Palas de Rei, with only 64 kms to Santiago.

I did though meet up with Lazlo, the Hungarian fellow that I started the Camino with – the friend of Balazs. I last saw him in Pamplona. It was great seeing him again!

Here are a couple of shots that I kind of liked:

When I first arrived at Biarritz airport – a month ago now – and I was walking gingerly down the stairs because even before I started, my knee was giving me problems, I was greeted exuberantly by this bloke I’d never met before.

He was a Hungarian fellow called Balazs.

As it turned out, we shared a taxi to Saint Jean Pied de Port, along with another Hungarian chap, Lazlo, and a beautiful young Dutch lass named Rosa.

That taxi ride cemented a strong friendship amongst us all. We were excited, nervous, scared.

We then stayed in the same albergue in St. Jean (Espirit de Chemin), and whilst we all went our separate ways up the Pyrenees to Roncesvalles, we crossed paths several times later that first day.

My knee went ballistic on the second day coming into Zubiri. It was a steep and rocky descent, and I was in a lot of pain.

The third day I hobbled into Pamplona, wondering how i could possibly go on, and who should appear behind me but Balazs and Lazlo.

Balazs knew which was the best albergue to stay in and we all checked in. He looked at my knee, then the size of a football, and he gave me a tube of Voltaren which he’d brought with him. Voltaren is a very effective anti-inflammatory and I’ve used that cream every day since.

Then he insisted I ice my knee.

He produced a towel – one of these expensive hi-tech trekking towels – got some ice and wrapped the ice in the towel, then wrapped it around my knee.

Later, after the pain and swelling had subsided somewhat, he took me to the department store in Pamplona and insisted that I buy a pair of walking sticks. He helped me choose the best pair.

Anyone who’s followed this blog knows how resistant I was to using sticks. But that pair of Lekis, without a doubt, will enable me to finish the Camino.

The next day, Balazs and Lazlo left early to continue on – I stayed back to rest my knee.

I went to give the towel back to Balazs but he insisted I keep it, on the proviso that I keep icing my knee.

We said goodbye, I took some photos, and they left. And I haven’t seen them since. Balazs is fit, and a strong walker, and after he left Pamplona, he powered ahead.

We’ve swapped a couple of text messages since, and so I’ve been aware of his progress.

He flies out of Santiago on the evening of April 12th.

The reason I’ve been pushing hard this last week or so is because before he leaves, I want to give him the towel back.

He was so kind to me, and so generous, it would mean a lot to me to personally hand him back his towel in front of the Cathedral in Santiago.

Rosa —

Balazs and Lazlo —

The reason this blog is late is because today was a huge day.

36 kms and 12 hours walking.

I left Samos this morning at 6:30am, and I arrived at Portomarin at 7:30pm. I got lost, and added another 3 kms to the trip. I had lunch of 30 mins, and a break of 15 minutes. Otherwise, the day was walking, and taking photos.

I started off slow. I did the first 12kms from Samos to Sarria in 5 hrs. That's about 2.5 kms / hr.

Here's the thing though – today I took 276 photos. Now, as you can probably gather, I take my photography seriously. (You wouldn't think so most of the time, looking at what I post, but I do.)

So when I see something that I think could make a shot I stop, consider it visually, get my camera out, start it up, (which doesn't always happen instantaneously), select the focal length, the aperture and the ISO, I then frame and focus, check my exposures, re-frame and refocus, and finally I take the shot.

Then I do the same thing from a slightly different angle. And then I do the same thing closer. Or wider. I figure if something is worth stopping for and photographing, then I may as well do it properly.

I walk slowly so I don't miss anything. I'm constantly on the lookout for shots.

I estimate that it takes me between 30 seconds to 90 seconds to take just one shot. I don't just shoot from the hip. I consider everything carefully. And I look and try to see. Then at the end of the day I look at what I've shot and wonder why the hell I wasted so much time on such a bunch of ordinary images!

(I've taken about 4,000 shots so far and of those, there's only about 6 or 7 that I really like.)

Anyway, my point is this – I walked today for 12 hours. But of those 12 hours, I spent a hell of a lot of time taking photos. Let's say I averaged 1 minute per shot, which for me is about right. That's 276 minutes. That's over 4 hours.

I could have walked the journey today in 8 hours, which would have put my speed at about 4 kms/hr. Instead I stuffed around taking pictures.

But what my photography enables me to do is really see the Camino. I see stuff that most people miss. They walk right past some amazing things, because that's not their purpose. Their purpose is to walk.

My purpose is to dick around with my camera.

Lets talk about today. Or rather, let's start with last night.

I went to Vespers in the Samos Monastery chapel. (I'd always thought Vespers were little Italian motorbikes.) There are no pictures because photography was not allowed, however the chapel was inside the monastery – a simple but beautifully elegant chapel – and there were a dozen monks that sang Gregorian chants. Some were very old, stooped, and tiny. With their robes, they reminded me of little Obi Wan Kanobis.

It was beautiful though – and worth doing, even though I'm not CathoIic and I had to stand for about 40 minutes and my knee was aching like hell.

I then left early this morning – 6:30am – and grabbed a coffee and some “mother's” cake before I left Samos.

Again the track leading out of Samos followed the stream. There was a gorgeous stone angel by the track at one point, and on several way markers people had left photos of loved ones – presumably those that had passed.

As I said, I got into Sarria at 11:30am, and stopped at a Supermercado to pick up my lunch:

1. 1 x Coca Cola (they didn't have Coke Zero)
2. 1 x packet of potato chips, crinkle cut.
3. 1 x packet of sugar coated lollies (they looked too good not to buy them)
4. 1 x block of milk chocolate.

Yep, that was my lunch today.

I ate it on a moss covered rock about 2kms outside of Sarria. Later in the day, at about 4pm, I had a proper lunch – Galician soup, fried eggs and bacon, and French fries. Much healthier…

Later, I stopped and had my photo taken at the marker for 100 kms to Santiago.

And still I kept walking. It was a long day, made longer by my getting lost just before the end of the journey and adding about another 3 kms to the day.

(I'd just taken a shot and got distracted and missed a crucial marker. Stupid me and my stupid photography.)

Anyway, the title of this post is that everything is different in Galicia. This is why I'm going so slow. Because the images are so enticing. Different light, different textures, different weather.

Rain and wind – and if it's not actually raining, then it's drizzling. And the food is different. The Galician soup is sumptuous, and of course there's the Pulpo. Octopus.

The buildings are all stone, and there's such a strong Celtic influence to everything.

I am now 90 kms from Santiago. I can't believe it. After these past two big days, I'm now going to take it a bit easier.

And I'll try not to take as many damned photos!

Why am I doing this walk?

Today, that question reasserted itself very strongly.

I still don't know, but what I do know is that the call was very strong, and where I am right now had a great deal to do with it.

Firstly, my day –

Can't say I liked O Cebreiro. It had a very strange energy. I didn't take any pics because I couldn't bring myself to. It looked like a movie set. Something you'd find on a Universal Studios tour. It was a stone village so perfectly preserved, with so many tourist shops and so many tourists, that it reeked of artificiality.

The storekeepers and merchants had the battle weary dissonance you always find in tourist traps. I was pleased to get out of there, so I left at 6:30am, knowing I had 32 kms to do today, to get to Samos.

It was a beautiful sunrise. Yeah I know, I'm not supposed to think sunrises are beautiful, but this one was a cracker.

(I took a photo with my iPhone and a High Dynamic Range app. It's the first time I've not used my Fuji. I find those Instagram / HDR Pro apps too gimmicky for my taste, but it gave a spectacular image, even though I think it looks fake!)

The first part of the day was hard – steep climbs and equally steep descents. Murder on the knees, and my knee reminded me today that it hadn't gone away. It misses the Meseta.

I had breakfast after about 2 hrs walking – coffee (only one, because I'd grabbed one in OC before I left) – and beautiful ham and cheese on toast. The bill came to €2.75. In Australia, the same breakfast would cost about $4 for the coffee and $6-$8 for the toast and ham and cheese. That's about €8-9.

I'd done about 21 kms by lunch, so I popped into a restaurant in Triacastela and had a Pilgrims Menu (€10) of beautiful home made Galician soup, and barbecued steak, and home made rice pudding. I needed the sustenance after the walk – and I still had a ways to go to Samos.

The last 7 kms into Samos has to go down as perhaps the most glorious walk I've ever done. A track that led through ancient stone villages (the real deal!) and following a stream which had little waterfalls and rapids at regular stages.

The track rose and fell, so at times I was way above the stream looking down at it through the trees, and at other times I was walking right beside it.

Many of the trees were ancient and covered in moss, and some were in flower and were blowing tiny white blossoms onto the path in front of me. Always was the sound of tinkling water, along with cuckoo birds, and cow bells.

I stopped regularly to take photos, and just take in the beauty. I was very slow – 9 kms in 3 hrs – and I didn't want the track to end.

But then I turned a corner and there below me was the Samos Monastery. Truly magnificent.

Two years ago, my wife and I stopped in Samos for a coffee and I wandered around the Monastery. I remember seeing pilgrims entering the Monastery's albergue, and I poked my head in. I saw all these bunks, and pilgrims staking out their territory with their backpacks and sleeping bags.

Later, I spoke to a fellow who was doing the Camino. I remember asking him a lot of questions – how many kms he did each day, how long he'd been walking for, etc.

Samos isn't on the most direct route to Santiago. It's a 7km detour. But I had to come back.

I've now staked out a bunk with my backpack and sleeping bag. I'm sleeping in that same dormitory in the Monastery I checked out two years ago. At 7:30, I go to Vespers in the Chapel. It includes Gregorian Chants.

It will be an experience.

And it might give me some clue as to why I'm doing this walk.