We are back home and although I walked to the cathedral of Saint James I was constantly reminded of Saint Roque,  that saint who represents the plague. He is normally portrayed holding his skirt up in a vaguely flirtatious way, showing off his boils.

I struggled the whole way with a rash,  brought on by taking a magnesium supplement a month ago, then had a nasty reaction to the pills the doctor gave me for that, so when I started out on the great pilgrimage I was going demented with an unbearable itch all over my torso.

To John’s great consternation I bared my midriff to a pharmacist in Serria, who just shook her head: ‘Go to Emergency, they will fix.’ So we did and were ushered in, and I stripped off my T shirt  just to make sure they understood. John again hoped it wasn’t the janitor that was getting such a view of my full frontal. They twittered away about passports and so on, then I was given a hydrocortisone jab in my hip, and five pills and off we went.

The  rash coloured the walk in so many ways. Walking through falling autumn leaves we ran about like Rocky chasing a chicken in the movie as we tried to catch a leaf in order to wish. What did I wish for? A dermatologist!

I even had a thought of writing a note on my back pack: ‘Dermatologist wanted urgently, reveal yourself please.’

I am back and have seen the GP who has given me more lotions and potions… I am still writhing and twitching, but he assures me that I will recover by Friday… mind over matter?

When we decided to do this walk, we knew we had so many options of where to start, what kind of accommodation was available, and so on. We had seen Martin Sheen in the film The Way. Someone we knew stayed in the multi-bedded dorms that were so cheap. He described his whole body itching from bedbugs, of how it was hard to sleep with so many strangers sharing and being privy to their sounds and smells, someone always going to the one bathroom, and the flushing that never stops. Not to mention the snoring, the stuffiness, just the intense human interaction that probably we could do without. We elected to go for the luxury version of budget hotels.

We set off from Samos, a fabulous monastery 127 km from Santiago.

We were full of optimism, ate an apple from a tree and breathed the morning air. We walked across carpets of acorns and chestnuts and a tree that had grown into the sign of the cross.

Just a reminder that we were indeed pilgrims following a worn path and had joined a group intent on the same purpose, to get to Santiago Compostela. Strangers wished us Buen Camino or Hola, and smiled. All nationalities, all ages, many it seems had started in St Jean in France and had been walking three weeks already. We felt the strain in our muscles, but we were  of good cheer.

Arriving in Sarria we were met by a tipsy Australian couple who had just emerged from a restaurant selling octopus, or pulperia as it is called in Galicia. It was my birthday so where else should I go? They literally pushed us in, ‘Go now, they close at 4 and this is the best restaurant for octopus in the whole of Galicia.’ We dutifully entered, and yes, oh my, It was so good! Just white wine, crusty bread and firm succulent octopus.

Then off to the pharmacy and the trip to get the hydrocortisone injection.

Later that evening John treated me  to new walking sandals, the best investment ever. No pressure on bunions, and with the Ninja socks, no blisters. I was in heaven, and even looked the part in my Jesus sandals with socks, not the most sexy of sights, but I was a pilgrim and was making good progress!

Off we went the next morning; it was still dark as we followed the scallop shells on the marker posts and the walls. It was all so beautiful, ‘Bien Camino!’, and we tramped through forests and farms and John snapped strange constructions designed for storing corn away from rats. The constructions came in all forms. Some wooden, some  cement, some ancient and some modern.

We stopped periodically for coffee, we ate picnic lunches of cheese and ham croissants or cold tortilla. Sometimes we walked with people and shared their stories. Some were sad,  some were happy. One elderly man from Croatia had been walking for a month and was very particular how we photographed  him at the 100km marker. ‘I want to make myself look nice,’ he said as he arranged his collar and his hair. He didn’t want to stop at Santiago, he wanted to go on to Finisterre. I am sure he did.

After 23 km we made it to Portomarin. We had to walk up a flight of stone stairs, reminiscent of an Aztec pyramid,  the locals’ cruel joke, a tough entrance to their town.

Good news for John, his daughter has given birth to a baby boy, and all is well. We shared our happy news with fellow walkers, all joined in the mood of celebration.

The next  day saw us marching for 25 km from Portomarin to Palais de Rei.

It was hard going and hot and mostly uphill. Smells of the rural farmyards were dominant, old crumbly villages looked picturesque, and a pretty Siamese cat escaped my camera. One stretch of road was long and tedious and we shared the way with a group of Spanish walkers all singing  to the same hymn sheet. We stopped in wonder at a forest of eucalyptus trees. It could have been Australia, the sky was so blue. Two American ladies offered to take our photograph and then we walked for a while. It was nice, they were friendly and good company. One was hobbling with pain as her boots were causing blisters. She was ready to pay millions for my sandals, and was determined to buy some at the next stop.

The day went on, we walked past giant dahlias, chestnuts, pines, gum trees and grape vines. Always the smell of the silage dominated the farmyards.

Arriving at Palais de Rei we were met by our hosts for the evening. They drove us to the most beautiful property where we relaxed, and sat under an arbour before eating a cordon bleu meal.

Our fellow guests were the same two American ladies – Barbara and Cathy.  Serendipity. We talked and bonded. My rash and Barbara’s blisters were a good starting point.

The next day was long and hard. We had 30 km to go to Arzua.

Our friends parted company with us in Meride, and we walked on meeting up with other familiar faces. It was all such an outing. People merged and chatted, then parted to meet up again like long lost friends. Others soldiered on, ‘Bien Camino,’ and some just plodded. I posed by my patron saint, San Roque, naturally he was there too.

There were photographs, articles of clothing, countless abandoned boots, and strange sad messages pinned on crosses and stumps of trees.

We were constantly reminded of the spiritual journey we were on and were sharing. I saw a South African man waiting by the side of the road, he told us he was waiting for his wife to catch up, ‘It’s only polite after all.’ She was taking her time. Different paces, different people, everyone mingling. We sat by a stream and were suddenly  surrounded by cows. We walked past a café decorated by empty beer bottles, and always the smells, the eucalyptus, the pine, the silage.

Along the way we saw a man who had hauled off his boots and was dabbling his feet in a cold river. It did look so good.

I was convinced I must be getting thinner, but alas – no. I had fallen head over heels in love with the Santiago tart. Oh my goodness. It is made with almonds and egg white and sugar. It was mandatory to the day’s walk – I hadn’t a hope of losing weight.

We arrived in Arzua,

and again were spirited away for our night’s rest at the pretty Casa Lucas, set on a hill overlooking a lake. We were blessed with a hot bath to soak our weary bones. We were seriously tired that night. Even my itching and twitching didn’t keep  me awake.

The route next day was from Arzua to A Rua, a pleasant walk compared to the trials of yesterday. The body felt fitter and the way was easier. We walked along easy tracks from village to village. I felt that I could do this for ever!

And finally the last day. We set off in the dark, the stars were so bright and low, and cats scurried away as we trudged past hedges.

Walking through the dark forest of eucalyptus the smell was intoxicating. There was no one about, just us. It felt so special. And then the sun appeared and so did the rest of the pilgrims. We walked through woods and beautiful fields, and we were getting closer, the way was becoming urbanised, vandalised and concrete was more prevalent.

We trudged up a hill beside the airport and then a further one called Monte de Gozo. In the distance we could see the spires of the cathedral. From then on it was downhill, and then finally the walk through the streets of Santiago was brutal, just pavement bashing and never-ending.

We finally made it to the Cathedral. In the square were hundreds of people just staring up at the great gothic building, embellished with pilgrim shells and images of Saint James.

We went to the Mass at 7 p.m., all in Spanish. There were hundreds of people, and a beautiful soloist tenor voice. I felt tears well, I don’t know why. I just had so many pictures in my head of farms, and forests, and fields and the pervading smells of pine and silage and big pumpkins and beautiful flowers. It was a week. Only a week but a very special one.

I looked  up and saw the old man from Croatia walk in. He went straight to where you can put your hands on the statue of Saint James. Perhaps he also went to look at the crypt where the relics are kept. I don’t know. I don’t know if he was religious or not, but he certainly was spiritual. I think everyone was really, in their own way.

The following day we had a drink in a café, and it was only when John had taken my photograph that  I saw it was San Roque’s café. How appropriate, my horrible rash was still spreading, with horrendous itching, despite so many creams; it was as  though an army of ants were crawling all over me.

Later we met up with the Australian couple who introduced us to the octopus meal, and we ate oysters together for lunch in the market.

We exchanged addresses and invitations. We later ate grilled fish for dinner with Barbara and Cathy, and got drunk on some strange after-dinner liqueur and gazed at the full moon.

Everyone had made it. More addresses exchanged. And we walked back through the streets, the cathedral looking now like some luminescent wedding cake. We had done it. I have the shell necklace to prove it! We had walked a total of 140 km, 90 miles, from Sarria to Santiago and wished that we had done the whole route from France! It was a wonderful experience.

Buen Camino.

Our little holiday ended with a couple of nights in Barcelona. We hopped on and off the tourist bus, gazed at the Sagrada Familia and got totally lost in the old gothic part of town. We wined and dined and strolled along the Ramblas, and were horrified that our tapas dinner suddenly went through the roof financially. We were persuaded to order the special negro ham, which means the pigs were fed delicious things and serenaded to music. The price of that was more than a double whisky and a glass  of wine and three other dishes. I actually thought it was a bit chewy.

Next day it poured and poured and poured.

The Park Gruell was a wash out, a modern day picture of Renoir’s ‘Parapluies’. We gave up and went looking for a warm restaurant for some paella.

And so we left Spain, and the spires of Barcelona cathedral, still in the making. I loved Gaudi’s words when he was asked when it would be finished back in 1926:

‘Don’t you worry. My client is in no hurry, He has all the time in the world.’

A befitting quote  to end my Pilgrim Blog!