The prior month I celebrated my 40th birthday. Unlike my past significant birthdays, this one didn’t attract a desire for extravagant jubilations. The age 40 felt distinct, which led me to meditate on the possibility that based on average life expectancy, I may have fewer years ahead than those that have passed. This stirred an acute sense of priority and the necessity of wise time management as the special day neared.
Given this mindset, I secured a trip for my spouse and myself to traverse the final stage of the French Camino during my birthday week, from Sarria to Santiago de Compostela, located in the north of Spain. I anticipated it would offer time for introspect. Albeit I am not traditionally spiritual, nor am I fond of the term “spiritual.” However, being a writer, I’ve spent a large part of my life in contemplation, reading and considering questions surrounding life’s purpose, striving to better understand human conduct including my own and the possibility of a universal force behind everything.
As our pilgrimage began with the sun rising above the Rio Sarria’s treeline, and the sound of singing birds filled the town, my husband John and I chose our stones. It’s customary as part of the Camino practice to carry a stone. The stone is ultimately left behind somewhere on the journey, symbolising a release. We purchased our traditional scallop shells from a souvenir shop, mimicking the other pilgrims who hung the shells from their packs. We also received our pilgrim passports to get stamped at the varying stops on our excursion. Essentially, the entire Camino feels like an extensive rite, composed of these smaller rituals.
We navigated our way through an old oak forest, shrouded in a misty cloak; it brought back memories of the woods around my boyhood abode in Cork. The reminders of Ireland from my youth in the late 20th century, were mimicked in these surroundings, aside from a few quaint Romanesque chapels scattered along our path. The countryside was dotted with small cattle farms, antiquated dairy sheds, decaying agricultural machinery, and enclosures housing pigs, dogs, and mules. As the initial duo of days unfolded, we found ourselves enveloped in fog each morning, which gradually cleared to reveal clear azure skies. The speckled illumination navigated its way through a tangled maze of branches along the way, the vibrant green of spiky chestnuts littered the trails, accompanied by orchards of toppled apples, thick hedgerows teeming with ferns, and muddy pasture land home to limousin cows, with only the rhythmic chirping of crickets breaking the silence. The trail was adorned with messages or graffiti left by previous travellers, which I found a peculiar pleasure in reading: pronouncements like “Love is Everything!”, “The voyage is the prize!”, “How can you tell if you’re loved?”, “Pursue your aspirations”, and “Life may be tough, but so are you”.
During our journey, we encountered several groups of Spanish students among various people we crossed paths with. We heard English being spoken here and there, mostly by Americans or Irish individuals, but much of the interaction was limited to a broad smile and an exchange of “Buen Camino”. We had a chance to converse with several Americans, who made me realise the religious purpose of this journey for numerous wayfarers. They spoke quite candidly about God and Christ, something that seemed unusual from an Irish perspective. We met a duo from Texas who planned to volunteer at a Christian hostel post their journey and show films about Jesus’s life every evening. We spent a decent amount of time walking with a lady and her two daughters from Washington State, who had covered most of the 800km Camino route. Her faith was strong, but not overbearing. She believed it made her a superior individual and cited the death of her husband as the catalyst for her pilgrimage.
John and I had sporadic conversations, with periods of silence interspersed. We discussed my unease when people talked passionately about God and Christ. Being a homosexual, I feared their judgment. We also talked about the peculiar practice in Galician cemeteries of stacking the deceased in wall vaults instead of burying them. It bewildered me because I desired my body to decompose and become one with nature after death.
On the third day, the weather took a turn, and we found ourselves covered in cheap plastic ponchos, trying to make the best of the situation. After enduring seven hours of incessant rain, we reached the hotel completely drenched, and I felt anything but spiritual. My knees ached relentlessly, reminding me of my approaching 40th birthday. However, I tried to focus on the enchanting sight of oak forests that owed their existence to the copious rainfall. I mulled over the stone I was carrying, contemplating letting go of my habit of constantly seeking approval from others and the resulting exhaustion. I also pondered my relationship with alcohol, having recently discovered several impactful books on the subject of sobriety.
On our fourth day, we embarked on our journey before sunrise to elude an imminent weather system set for later in the afternoon. As we trod in the shadows, our phone torches guided us. The firmament above transitioned from dark to deep blue. The downpours of the day prior had revitalised our path. With the breaking dawn, the surrounding flora seemed more vibrant, marked with pockets of yellow gorse and purple blooms resembling amaryllises. It compelled me to record a digital diary entry, questioning the significance of a pilgrimage for a non-believer. This led me to contemplate the implications of Philip Larkin’s poem “Church Going,” where he ponders over the future function of churches once religion becomes obsolete. His conclusion was they would serve as solemn sanctuaries for those yearning to gravitate towards a more profound level of seriousness. This, I found, held a connection to our journey – the Camino.
Just as the grave thudding of rain started on our hotel window panes, we adjourned for the day. Relishing in some downtime that afternoon, I scrolled through my Instagram updates, breaking my rule of keeping my phone on airplane mode during the walk. It was there that a video of Sophia Loren, aged 50, caught my eye. She was recounting a chat she had with Charlie Chaplin, wherein he remarked that her inability to say no was her greatest fault. This video has since been revisited numerous times.
The sounds of John moving about in a dimly lit corner of the room roused me on the last day of our pilgrimage. Glancing his way later, two candles in the shapes of a 4 and a 0 illuminated a mixed sweet assortment of Lindor chocolates and Italian cannoli. As I extinguished the flames, the phrase ‘LOVE is aLL!’—an artwork from the Camino, surfaced in my reflections. Following breakfast, our journey led us through glistening eucalyptus forests, morphing gradually into suburban scenery on the outskirts of Santiago de Compostela. In the midst of sporadic heavy rain showers, John and I reflected on our journey and its impact on us. It was peculiar how quickly our 175,000 steps had passed, a unique sensation one experiences being detached from ordinary life; something also felt during momentous periods such as the Covid pandemic or significant life events like weddings and funerals.
After traversing into the ancient heart of the city, we wended our path through an age-old stone gateway, accompanied by the distinctive audible backdrop of Galician bagpipes. Our destination was the impressive Praza do Obradoiro, presided over by the awe-inspiring baroque grandeur of the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral, a commanding presence on the skyline. Our Camino pilgrimage rituals were initiated at the foot of the cathedral: capturing our victory with the quintessential end point photograph, locating the necessary office for obtaining our Certificado de Peregrino. Throwing away the Camino stones we had collected along our journey was neither appropriate nor fitting in the pristine vastness of the square – a quandary resolved by consulting a digital map. A solution presented itself in the form of Rio Sarela, a charming side-channel off the beaten path from Praza do Obradoiro. I released the stone over the side of a time-worn bridge, reciting a mantra of release and closure. With this act, our Camino journey reached completion.
The mythologies of the Camino are embedded in the narrative of St. James the Great, spawning countless rituals amongst attendees for over a thousand years. Although the identity of the present-day pilgrims has shifted and my personal skepticism regarding the authenticity of Saint James’ relics and their mystical attributes is present, there’s one constant – we’re all searchers, each in our own way. The question remains whether the sought-after revelation lies on the physical pilgrimage route. For me, the Camino serves as a sanctuary providing the much-needed time and space for introspection, pointing towards the real source of understanding – within us.
This account comes from Jamie O’Connell, the renowned writer of “Diving for Pearls.”