It is around 86km to Finisterre from Santiago. Finisterre is not entirely necessary - Santiago is the destination of the pilgrimage, but Finisterre is literally the end of the earth. Pilgrims continue walking until they can't walk anymore, and all around them is an expanse of blue ocean.
As I write this, nearly two weeks later, I have had a chance to talk with other pilgrims about the two destinations of Santiago and Finisterre. Simon the Kiwi joined me yesterday. He'd travelled down from Santiago to Portugal, and then to Madrid. He explained how Santiago is considered to be the 'masculine' destination - a very powerful energy as so many routes from across Europe all end there. But Finisterre is not obligatory. It has a gentler, 'feminine' energy. The gentle lapping of the sea, and the desire of most pilgrims to watch the puesta del sol (sunset) as the masculine sun sinks into the western ocean and gives way to the feminine moon and tide of the sea. It was known as the end of the world - the western most point of Europe, until Columbus looked out and decided there must be more. He then discovered The New World (or did he?) and proved that the world was round by not falling off the horizon. And science just hasn't been as much fun since.
Most of the pilgrims I'd spent time with were walking - around 3 day's walk. But for me, walking was over. I was OK with being alone on my birthday - being out of the country for the first time as I turned a year older. Provided I got my little moment sitting on a beach and watching the sun set on the last 28 years of my life. Like spiritual re-birth. But as with most pre-arranged 'moments' it wasn't heart-stoppingly moving. But I got my sunset. I got an Italian man who found me wondering around alone and offered to keep me company. And my birthday came and went in a wave of serenity.
The Italian's name was Ciro (pronounced Cheero). I thought that was apt because he was cheering me up. He was a sweet man. I thought I recognised him but wasn't sure. He was actually one of the Italians from the group at the '100km to go' milestone in Galicia, and I had taken a photo for him and his friends. So we ate together that night, and he was armed with his camera for the sunset as much as I was. I'd spent the day wondering over cliff tops looking for the beach, which was actually 5 minutes away from my hotel. My hotel was 2 minutes away from the bus station, but nevertheless I walked for half an hour to the lighthouse to discover I had to re-trace my steps. I looked so tired (I was carrying everything) that the man who broke the news to me got his son to drive me to the hotel. I told them it was my birthday and driving me was the perfect gift. They, as so many people do, found me amusing. I'd got lost for some time later that day when trying to find the beach that was actually right behind me, and I'd taken a little path that was growing narrower and narrower with every step. I had to fight to get through the end of it, at which point I burst through a thicket, covered in leaves, twigs and thorns, and landed in someone's vegetable patch. The Galician peasant stared at me. She had a twisted face and looked like she might have killed her husband recently. I stood up, apologised, and asked her where the beach was. Typical tourist. She pointed vaguely and I staggered down the lane. That is when I met Ciro.
I sat on the beach alone watching the sky change colour and occasionally glancing over my shoulder at the moon behind me. Other pilgrims were dotted about in their own space. I listened to a favourite piece of music, then I had silence, and then the sun went away. I took several photos before joining up with Ciro again. We were chased off the beach rather unceremoniously by a fleet of hornets, which shook me out of my spiritual reverie, but it was rather funny. Ciro and I said our goodbyes. We'd been great company for each other that evening, but now it was over. Again, no details exchanged. He was there, and then he wasn't.
The next day was a day of trying simply to return to Madrid. Everything that could have gone wrong did go wrong and from start to finish I was travelling from 6am to 9.30pm. I've been back in Madrid for nearly two weeks. Seeing Simon yesterday was lovely. He's continuing his tour of Europe until September.
The weather is hot and sunny and I'll shortly be joining my friend Becky at the pool to damage my skin and swallow dirty water and look horrific in a bikini. The neighbours are still having loud sex and at this very moment I'm trying to drown them out with the BBC National Orchestra.
I leave Spain in less than two days. Mixed feelings are in abundance. My life has not gone to plan lately (well not to my plan) and several things are falling through due to incompetent estate agents and inherited responsibilities. I have to return to the UK, move into my flat, pay the mortgage, and do exactly what I do not want to do for as long as it takes to sell the flat. With me actually being there it should be easier. It does mean that my trip to the US is postponed, which will cost me more money in the future. I'm still going to Las Vegas which is very exciting.
As I sat on that beach in Finisterre, I was over-whelmed with the desire to continue travelling - backpacking. Not forever, but to see places I've always wanted to see. Even my creativity felt insignificant in comparison. I now have to do the total opposite (stay still and be surrounded by unnecessary crap) but I'm trying to focus on positive things. I can watch telly again. I can eat English food again. I can see my friends and family without rushing. I can go to the cinema and understand the film. I can take up a fitness class and understand the intructions. And who knows, if this is where life is taking me, perhaps the Universe is still unfolding as it should. So bring it on.
The four sided peace pole at land's end:
Sculpture of a pilgrim's boot:
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