On Following The Way

A few years ago, I had planned on walking the Camino de Santiago with my cousin. At the time, all I knew about the Camino was gleaned from watching Martin Sheen in The Way and from listening to a few others at my school who had walked it.

When they spoke of The Camino, I had assumed there was only one, from the border of France across the north of Spain, and when Covid cancelled all the plans my cousin and I had made, I turned to other long walks in the hopes that one day we might find another window of time to make the pilgrimage.

Unexpectedly, this May I was invited to accompany my best friend on a brief foray to Germany and dreams of The Way came flooding back.

With a new job, my cousin would be unable to accompany me, but in the meantime, I discovered that there are scores of Caminos of varying lengths from compass points all over Europe; I could pick another and save the route from France for a future time with her. Why waste an already booked flight which was taking me only two countries away?

I decided on the Camino Primitivo, largely because it was described as one of the more mountainous routes and a lesser traveled one. I could fly into Aviles, a city which is on the Camino del Norte, walk backwards (away from Santiago de Compostelo) on the Norte, and pick up the Primitivo in Villaviciosa.

Credencial in hand, I left Aviles in the early hours of June 25 following the iconic scallop shells and yellow arrows that mark the route. For two days, until I reached the Primitivo, everyone I met would ask me if I was going the wrong way. I’d just smile and assure them that The Way I was going was the right way for me.

One wonderful thing about the Camino are the albergues and hostels pilgrims stay in every night and the small cafes and grocers spaced throughout the day. I needed only to carry some simple clothing and a few other essentials, making it the most luxurious thru-hike I have ever done.

I loved getting up early every morning, tip-toeing out of the bunkroom so as not to wake my fellow pilgrims, and walking the first few cool hours in the dark mist, moonset and sunrise engaged in a duel of beauty.

Spain tends to stay up quite late and sleep in, so I cherished these quiet moments alone on The Way waiting for the first shop to open to stop in for a cafe con leche grande and the delicious extras that always accompanied it.

Although it was harder to find markings in the dark, I found myself unbothered when I wasn’t sure which way to turn; feet at one shell, I’d inch a few tentative steps forward until the next one appeared; I reminded myself that I was a pilgrim and must do pilgrim-y things, like launching out in faith even when the road ahead was uncertain.

I forced myself to slow down. To find the sacred.

Sometimes it was revealed in ruins, evidence of the relentless taptaptap of time.

Other times it was a kitten, tiny delight with a broken tail, begging me to take her with me.

The hills of Spain felt like God’s holy temple, and every day He surprised me by His intimate care.

Like a monastery albergue, where I met Richard from Quebec and Noel from Australia, each of us speaking wildly disparate English as we shared a week or so of gentle company.

Or a town water fountain just as I was about to run out.

A sello stand in the middle of nowhere when I hadn’t found any place to stamp my credencial all day.

Fairytale forests.

A cheese-loving cat to share my lunch.

Lush flowers, Roman bridges, horses grazing a hillside, mysterious doors, and small stone churches, candles ablaze, causing me to weep.

One morning, I came across a vending station in a tiny hamlet, but no coffee dispensed after paying my euro. Noel happened by, and as we chatted, the owner of the machine walked in. Unable to fix the problem, she ran instead to her house and brewed us both fresh coffee, served on a tray with a pitcher of cream.

I could have kissed her.

One night, we pilgrims fall asleep to the mournful moos of momma cows newly separated from their babies. Another morning, I sit eating second breakfast at a road crossing, enthralled as wafts of steam evaporate from the asphalt.

Everywhere, beauty.

In the ancient Roman town of Lugo, I walk the city walls and find an English language paperback at a market stall to replace the one I was just about to finish.

When the Primitivo finally joins the French Way in the town of Melide, a day and a half from Santiago de Compostela, I am unprepared for the hordes of pilgrims completing the final stages.

It’s disorienting to walk next to tour busses and taxis ferrying luggage, singing and cheering, music blaring over bluetooth speakers; I’m initially quite grumpy.

Who are all you people?

Perhaps the noisy crowd is why the closer we get to Santiago, we begin to see neighborhoods displaying protest signs. The mobile party coming through every day must be a lot for the residents.

But are not all these souls pilgrims? Are they not also following The Way?

I force my critical heart around and begin to give thanks for all those pilgrim feet, traveling the hot and dusty road into the city.

And just in time – peeking out between the apartments and businesses that line the street is my first glimpse of the iconic Cathedral tower.

Pilgrims buzz by me as I lose my breath, hands on knees. Wasn’t expecting that.

Straightening up, I become singularly focused – get to the plaza.

Crosswalks are torture, as are mothers with strollers, old couples arm in arm, men on corners smoking. Please let me by!

Bagpipes play as I round the final corner and the Cathedral appears.

Pilgrims are everywhere, all of us in similar states of relief, euphoria, confusion, and despair.

Over? How can it be over?

I wander around, doing the things I know I should do. Go to the Pilgrim Office to receive my Compostela. Tour the Cathedral. Get in line to hug the statue of Saint James.

Offer to take others’ pictures. Ask someone to take my own.

I know I should feel something – what? – more.

But all I really want to do is keep walking.

So that is what I do.

Why have you chosen to follow The Way? This is the question most pilgrims ask one another when they meet.

For me, it was an unexpected gift to hike The Camino this summer.

I felt God’s protective and loving presence in myriad forms, every day, and I learned to trust Him, not begrudgingly as I often have in the past, but in eager anticipation of His goodness, wisdom, artistry, and love.

Following The Way was to experience what the prophet Isaiah described hundreds of years before there even was a Way:

But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.