Walking the Camino de Santiago, one of the most well-known pilgrimages in the world, took me two years. Of course, not literally. The real path I took was a convoluted 11-day hike up into the Galicia region of Spain along the Portuguese coast. However, the journey starts long before you set foot on the pilgrim trail, when you first feel the “calling” to abandon your everyday comforts and follow the well-traveled path, as people in the community know (yes, there is a community).
Weekend walking vacations are nothing new to me, but when I came across Alastair Humphreys’ book My Midsummer Morning—a story of walking, camping, and (badly) busking around Spain—I began to consider a longer journey. By the beginning of this year, that notion had grown into a well-thought-out plan, supported by further books, podcasts, articles, and conversation with anyone who would listen to me discuss the subject. On the outside, I was going on an enjoyable journey to connect with nature. I was quietly looking for room to think, to breathe, and perhaps even to recover. I was still in shock over some significant life decisions that ultimately backfired, and there was the lingering sorrow of grief that I never had the time to absorb.
I choose to follow in my mother’s footsteps after she walked the Camino throughout Spain around eighteen years ago. In honor of the Jesus follower who helped spread Christianity throughout Europe, the pilgrimage is also called the Way of St. James. It culminates at his grave in the Santiago de Compostela cathedral in Galicia, Spain. I am by no means the first to set out on the voyage for non-religious reasons, despite its religious significance. These days, people from all walks of life put on their hiking boots in quest of a vacation that focuses on fitness, a time to reflect, or just to take in the environment.
On the first day, I started out from the Portuguese municipality of Porto and hugged the coastline, which changed from rocky to sandy as the weather changed from bright to rainy and haily. It was like a preview of what was to come. After spending my first night in an albergue, a hostel specifically designed for travelers, I strapped on my rucksack the next morning and left shortly after five in the morning. I veered off course to walk inland until the sun rose, twisting around country roads, because I was so horrified by how dark it was to walk down the coastline.
Even though it rained nonstop from morning until night, the third day was the nicest so far. I had perfected my time and had found my walking rhythm. I had mastered the ability to reach necessities while on the go, so I knew where everything was in my pack. The sound of breaking waves, chitterels, and birdsong served as my background music, and my earphones remained unused at the bottom of my rucksack the entire time.
The typical mind-consuming worries of everyday life were put on hold as I went about my daily missions, which included finding the first coffee of the morning, getting passport stamps (which marked my route so I could obtain a certificate of pilgrimage once finished), and stopping for fresh fruits, nuts, olives, and of course pan con tomate (tomato on toast) until my next bed stop. These victories cleared the way for the area I was looking for. When grief strikes, I usually slam the door, but this time I did the mental equivalent of putting the kettle on.
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