On the Camino de Santiago
Whenever I’ve walked the camino with groups, the walkers have always been a little bemused I think it would be fair to say, at my levels of enthusiasm. They’re levels that can’t be faked in an attempt to inspire others, they just are, and I can do nothing about this, nor would I ever want to. You see, whatever the day entails, however gloomy the weather or muddy the conditions, it is a day on the camino, and for me, life just doesn’t get any better than that.
And it doesn’t really matter which of the many camino trails I’m on. Getting me to decide which of them is my all time top camino is like “Sophie’s Choice” to me, I can’t decide either a specific daily stage, or a specific time of year. Though Spring and Autumn have to be the top two contenders. And if there are sea views involved that is always a plus.
Leaving behind the bustle of a city to head out into the calm and beauty of a camino trail has to be one of the best feelings ever. I love to start, for example, in the beautiful, bustling city of Porto, having spent ‘Camino-Eve” - and it always does feel like Christmas Eve to me, that irrepressible joy at the thought of the wonderful gifts and shared joy awaiting me - eating a glorious meal of fresh seafood, local cheeses and sparkling vinho verde wine overlooking the iconic Ponte Luis bridge and the twinkling lights of Gaia on the opposite bank of the river Douro. Then strolling back to my room along the jewel coloured buildings on the waterfront, I am giddy with the thought of all that awaits the next morning.
My preference is to hop on an early morning train to avoid the grimy, relentless slog out of any city centre, and start my walk at a local fishing village instead. My whole body both relaxes in the fresh morning air and is invigorated by the ocean breeze with its whiff of adventure and far flung lands.
The flat capped locals sitting on what is doubtless their bench, chins resting on their sticks bid me ‘bom caminho’ - a good path - as I float in by on my camino bubble. Nothing they haven’t seen before a thousand times before, but still they honour me and my journey. There is reverence for this ritual from the local all along the Way. Only the fishermen, reeling in their nets, or sitting in a huddle stitching them, seem oblivious to the passing pilgrim, immersed in daily rituals little changed in centuries. Another of the countless camino aspects I love, that sense of a time out of time.
I don’t plan my stops, but when that ideally located waterfront cafe with its weathered wooden beach sign beckons me to rest a while on a terrace overlooking the ocean, how could I refuse? I order a ‘gala’ a delicious, frothy, milky coffee. I sigh contentedly as I sit and wrap my hands around my steaming cup of love, Boris my faithful backpack sliding to rest at my feet. I let my gaze drift out on an ocean ripple, following it until I can no longer distinguish it from the rest and fall into a state of camino bliss. Oh if only I could bottle this.
Boris will eventually prompt me onwards and westwards, eager to see what other magical moments await us along the path. We hit the network of wooden boardwalks so conveniently elevating us above the sand, allowing us to savour the hypnotic tumbling of the Atlantic to our left without being weighed down by sand incrusted shoes. Of course at some point it’s impossible to ignore the magnetic pull of the waves and Boris will be unceremoniously flung off, along with shoes and socks to release my inner two year old and splash and galumph my way westwards creating a momentary trail in my wake. Feeling the presence of the ghosts of centuries of pilgrims in whose steps I follow.
I turn and look back at one of the lighthouses standing sentry over this sacred path, bearing witness to, but keeping their secrets stonily to themselves. Tales of shipwreck, heartbreak but also lives spared due to their selfless service, beaming their love and protection out to all. Just off the path I know that Roman remains lurk, it’s tempting, but just knowing that this land through which I pass is steeped in such a rich legacy thrills me. It’s enough to acknowledge their presence, knowing another time I may come back to linger in their presence. But for now ever westwards I press.
Tomorrow I will veer off into lush verdant country lanes, but today I drink in my fill in huge thirsty gulps of the endless ocean, the tromping of my steps on the wooden boardwalks the only accompaniment to the shushing of the waves across the sand and the stones tumbling playfully in their vortex.
By late morning my thoughts will start to turn from soul sustenance to more bodily needs, my belly growling. I prefer to get as many kilometres under my belt before stopping as I can, but the balance needs to be right; enough to keep the batteries charged but not too much or I will just want to curl up and take a seafront siesta. There’s no shortage of options, unlike their Spanish neighbours lunch here starts around midday. My preference is to stalk the locals, those obviously on their lunch break, the street sweepers, the delivery guys, they always know the best spot. I’ll slip in their wake & follow them to a less shiny, slightly shabby around the edges place, paper rather than linen tablecloths, the menu, if there even is one, scrawled on a board, and most definitely no photos to accompany the text. A squat, square shaped bottle of local wine & a carafe of water the only table adornments. I’ll try to blend in unobtrusively. Taking a corner seat, observing the shorthand of familiarity with which they receive their food, no order necessary, no words other than ‘boa tarda’ as a steaming sopa de legumes (vegetable soup) and plate of freshly caught grilled fish, probably the ubiquitous bacalao (cod fish) is placed unceremoniously before them. I’ll have what they’re having. All the while observing. The clientele consisting mainly of groups of outdoor workers, many in overalls, caps removed, revealing swarthy features wizened by decades of exposure to the elements. Conversation is generally slightly muted, the comfort of custom prevailing and a busy working day to return to, their focus on the food in front of them. The sound levels much lower than they will be when I cross the Spanish border and less lingering over lunch on this side.
And so, fortified, Boris and I turn back to the boardwalks, letting the rhythm of the waves mark our pace, losing ourselves in the expanse of blue, the early afternoon glare playfully bouncing sequins of sunlight around on the crests of the waves. Unlike my lunch companions now returning to their daily grind, my mind is freed of all thoughts, merging with the spot where the sea meets the sky. I’m only vaguely aware of other passing pilgrims, we’ll share a bom caminho with a conspiratorial nod, hugging to ourselves this sense of pilgrim privilege, wandering ever westwards with a shared purpose, each free to experience it as we choose.
I feel I will never tire of this trance like state of pure sensory delight, but by the time pilgrim play time is kicking into gear late afternoon so am I. Though I love to walk alone I love the camino camaraderie & look forward to the communal dinner. I’ve done my years of pilgrim penance in the dormitory style municipal Albergues (Hostals) so will generally have treated Boris and myself to a private room. This is often in a converted traditional farm house, with a welcoming host, thick stone walls that embrace you in their sense of solidity, the antique farming implements after decades of service now retired as adornments, the flagstoned paths once trodden by cattle now traversed only by we modern day pilgrims. With a sigh of relief and joy Boris slides to the floor and I gratefully step into the shower & prepare for dinner.
I will always choose to eat with the other guests, the vast majority being fellow pilgrims, with maybe the odd ‘camino curious’ onlooker. All ages and nationalities are represented, the camino is a great leveller, all dressed in walking gear, no nonsense quick dry trousers and fleeces. Occupation, income levels disguised. You could be seated next to a high court judge, a schoolteacher, a secretary or a student. All an irrelevance. Here no one will start a conversation with “So what do you do?” It doesn’t matter, it’s irrelevance here. We are all simply pilgrims sharing a path and dinner. As plates of local cheese, fresh vegetables, steaming stews are placed in front of us we are enveloped in this present moment.
Around the table there will often be a group of friends who’ve evidently planned this trip of a lifetime, maybe celebrating a “big” birthday. Or a father walking with his son, on one occasion the son was aged 72, they walked a week per year, already having completed the French and central Portuguese caminos, the son confided in me that he feared this might be their last visit to the shrine of St James, that his father would have to retire his walking shoes. Often there will be a lone walker, male or female, who is evidently here to walk their way back to themselves following some major life event;the death of a spouse, a divorce, a search for a new direction, heading west to find it. These confidences bubble up spontaneously, conversations it would be unthinkable to have with a stranger on the other side of the looking glass.
I so cherish this conspiratorial evening huddle, comparing and contrasting impressions, thoughts, fears and feelings evoked throughout the day. Nowhere outside the camino bubble does conversation flow so unguardedly, so generously, so non-judgmentally, we really are all in this together. And the unlikeliest of dinner companions, with whom you may well feel you have nothing in common, might well turn into a lifelong friend, or even more. In this profound, shared experience all preconceptions and judgment melt away, leaving only that which connects you.
A glass or two of local wine helps the conversation and the joy to flow. And the laughter. So much laughter. Everything is brighter and lighter in this time out of time shared experience.
And so to bed. Hugging to myself the pre-Christmas morning feeling of getting to do it all over again the next day.
If you would like to join Deborah on the Camino Portuges in September, click here.
