Camino de Santiago: An Extraordinary Hike in Northern Spain

A modest stone walkway served as my starting point. Beyond it stretched kilometres and kilometres of farmlands, woods and country towns – their pale and ruddy grounds packed tight by the footsteps of a million pilgrims and travellers. Grounds, that were now mine to pound through to reach my destination, the Spanish city of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. As I contemplated the 118 km trail that lay ahead of me, romance battled apprehension – wild flowers and brooks jostling for mind space with blisters and shoe bites.

I was walking the trail solo, but any illusions I had about this being a solitary journey were quickly dispelled by the shuffle of approaching walkers. Thoughts paused, I stepped aside to make way for the jaunty bunch. ‘Buen Camino!’ they cried before quipping delightedly that 118 km is all that remained of their 800 km long trek – one that had begun weeks ago in the French city of Saint Jean Pied de Port, the actual terminus of this route. As they soldiered along with their laden backpacks, I took my first tentative step towards what I believed would be an epic journey, the bravado of committing to do the walk in five days notwithstanding.

The Camino de Santiago has been in existence for a long time. Its path dotted with alburgues (inns) well before the idea of hotels became so widespread, its route markers put in place way before GPS was even conceived of, its trail trodden by pilgrims long before intrepidity came to be celebrated.

It is believed that the remains of Saint James were brought to Santiago from Jerusalem. Word got around and the devout simply left home and walked the distance to Santiago – not just from Spain but from as far and wide as France and Portugal. As a result, the Camino is not one route but a network of routes, all leading to Santiago. Despite the religious backstory and intent behind the walk, a good percentage of walkers today tend to have non-spiritual motivations.

I was beginning my walk from Sarria, a popular starting point for those wanting to clock the minimum 100 km required for the Compostela – the official certificate given to walkers. A written acknowledgment was great, but for me personally the Camino was part fitness challenge, part exploration, but mostly just introspection.

Preparation had begun weeks earlier with regular practice walks. At that time, the Camino was little more than a speck of an idea, with my imagination filling in the gaps. Now arriving into Sarria around dinner-time on a typical spring day, to find shops selling Camino paraphernalia and footpaths punctuated with scallop mosaics, the Camino got very real and literally within touching distance.

Day 1 – Of Learnings and ‘Isms (Sarria to Portomarin: 23 km)

The trail just beyond the stone walkway was not too different from what I had imagined – a muddy path snaking through grasslands lush with springtime exuberance. A couple of kilometres down, the path opened up to afford views over grasslands far beyond with a viaduct cutting through them all. Those first few kilometres were dominated by a sense of wonderment, the greed to take it all in and steep learnings.

The learnings involved getting accustomed to the many quaint Camino-isms. The omnipresent scallop shell was a good place to begin. The most recognisable symbol of the Camino, it is a pictographic representation of the trail and a historical good luck charm rolled into one. It’s common for Camino walkers to attach a scallop shell to their selves or backpacks, as a symbol of their purpose and destination – a practice that harks back to medieval times.

Next came the pilgrim’s passport. So the good folks who issue the Compostela certificate at the end need more than your word to confirm that you have indeed walked at least a 100 km on the Camino to Santiago. The pilgrim’s passport is that proof. Each walker has this passport and is required to get a minimum of two stamps per day from establishments along the Camino way. Churches, official buildings, hotels, cafes are all legit stamp dispensers. It is all too easy to get completely consumed by the momentum of the walk and relegate stamp collecting to the recesses of the mind. However, with some of these stamps being works of art in their own right, one is more likely to go stamp crazy, calling at every stamp dispensing establishment along the way.

The trudge along, the stamp collection, the coffee stops, the snack breaks, the Buen Camino greeting to fellow walkers…my routine for the next five days was slowly but surely falling into place. A charming micro-life of sorts with its own rhythm and syntax.

My walk that had begun shortly after 8 in the morning, culminated 23 km and 6 hours later in the tiny town of Portomarin. It had been a long walk through varying topography, but I was beginning to harbour the thought that my initial apprehension was probably misplaced. Then again, this was just the beginning and there were days of longer and more arduous walks ahead of me.

The sight of Portomarin town resplendent in the afternoon sun was such a sight for sore eyes, not to mention sore feet. Finding my hotel for the night was a breeze, as could be expected when a town has all of four streets. Portomarin, as also some of the other little overnight halts that were to follow, though adequately equipped with mod cons, were also delightful palimpsests that helped envisage travel in a bygone era. Of those tiny villages, where people who had set out bag, baggage, livestock an all, sought night-time refuge – where a kind soul would provide them with a makeshift bed and warm soup.

Having fed myself warm soup and then some, I settled indoors for a siesta. The evening was spent having a wander around the little town, followed by a light dinner and early bedtime. Yet another routine that stayed for the five days to come.

Day 2 – Of Birdsong, Mist and Colours (Portomarin to Palas de Rei: 26 km)

Fortified with a carb-heavy breakfast, I got off to an early start as I had a longer walk ahead than the previous day. The mist had come down rendering a wintry aura to the day. Walking down Portomarin’s elevation to re-join the Camino path, I could barely discern the hazy outlines of other walkers merging onto the trail – the rustle of their backpacks and clatter of walking poles echoing through the morning clam.

Once outside the town limits though, all other sounds were upstaged by birdsong. Cooing, tweeting and chirping they were always audible but barely visible through the thick foliage. My self-imposed walking regimen demanded non-stop walking for the first 10 km. The relentless birdsong, however, was too appealing for my biophilic self to ignore. If ever there was a time to bend the rules, this was it. The short detour into a side-path, where sunlight was scarce and leaves plentiful, led me to what was possibly the hub of the birdie orchestra. The few moments spent there marvelling wide-eyed at that melange of mist, foliage and birdsong in the wee hours of the day is quite possibly the Camino memory I throwback to most often.

There was something new to absorb every day, but having familiarised myself with the bulk of the nitty gritty on the first day, I was getting to be more ‘in the moment’ today. ‘Green’ now seemed like a lazy blanket term for the many hues of the myriad plants and trees in varying stages of their lives. Sounds less poetic, be it the crunch of marching feet or the yelp of a fractious dog, were getting to be more than just white noise. The Camino was coming alive.

Routines and walking targets which had dictated my first day were being eschewed for that additional halt to stroke a pony or rest my gaze a wee bit longer on wisteria-fringed walls.

The 26 km were almost a breeze, and when I checked into my hotel in Palas de Rei, I was far less eager to collapse on the bed than I was the day before.

Day 3 – Of Stone Cottages and Honesty Boxes (Palas de Rei to Arzua: 29 km)

I was doing long walks even back home, but what made the Camino different, apart from simply the idea of it, was that it’s a traverse through the Spanish countryside.

Overwhelmed by the rigour of the walk, I had begun to overlook this cultural context until I broke my journey for lunch in the market town of Melide, on this longest of all walking days.

The main square was humming with walkers stocking up on essentials and queuing up to taste the local specialty of pulpo (octopus). That brief halt was a much-needed reminder that this was living, breathing Spain, with little towns that prided itself on its local produce and had specialty dishes people travelled to eat. This awareness was further cemented when at the end of my 29 km walk, I rewarded myself with a sit-down dinner in Arzua, where the hero dish was the local cheese, another iconic food from these parts.

But there was another aspect of culture, one that went beyond sensory pleasures, that was the real hero. And that was the subtle, but palpable, and all pervasive Camino spirit.

The tiny villages on the trail, like commas on a lengthy sentence, have been forbearing witnesses to thousands of pilgrims and walkers over the years. The doors to their stone cottages were probably worn from the many weary, thirsty walkers who had come knocking. And yet the Camino remains just as sacrosanct for them, their inconveniences not even footnotes in the long history of the walk.

The lone farmer tilling away in the midday sun never misses to return your greeting or egg you on with a word of encouragement or two. The longevity of the Camino and the cleanliness of the trail is most certainly the result of this pride and ownership. One only has to look at the ubiquitous hórreos – granaries built on stilts that are no longer in use – dotted all along the trail to get an indication of the passage of time and the permanence of the Camino amidst it all.

By day three, therefore, the sight of honesty boxes became commonplace and went unquestioned. As to why someone would leave cake, fruit and other goodies unmanned in a stony alcove, for walkers to help themselves to, was at the outset beyond my city sensibilities. My initial thoughts on seeing the accompanying honesty boxes ranged from plain old cynicism (wonder if people actually pay for what they eat) to full-blown paranoia (what if someone ran away with the box)! Clearly, blind trust is not my strong suit.

Day 4 – Of Strangers and Acquaintances (Arzua to Amenal: 24 km)

Having gotten through hump day which was also the longest, I felt particularly buoyant about the remainder of the walk. My legs were by now on auto-pilot. I had decluttered my mind from much of the stressful fore planning and started to take actual notice of the people I had been meeting along with way.

There were the two nuns in one of the convents I had stopped by to get a stamp on my passport. Having recently hosted a priest from Kerala, they were delighted to meet someone who was from the same neck of the woods. How could I forget the father and son walking duo from Spain I kept running into – the father who continued to initiate deep philosophical conversations despite my limited Spanish and the son who wouldn’t stop rolling his eyes at his dad’s uncool earnestness. The two Kates from England who cheered each other on to keep going, but had it all figured from the word go – that it was as much about the journey as the destination.

Random walkers I overtook and was overtaken by were now beginning to cross over into acquaintance territory. Notes were being exchanged about night halts, advice was being dealt out about walking gear and names were being asked. There were also the very many nameless and, by now, faceless walkers – ours paths crossing for mere moments…moments that were both fleeting and, paradoxically, enduring.

Somewhere along the way, after I had witnessed the most brilliant of green woods, the 25 km route marker came into view. The end was now clearly in sight, but the momentum of that home run was broken – necessitated by the final night halt at Amenal. A mere whiff of a hamlet, Amenal was like the crucial inhalation before a vocal crescendo – barely there but essential for that all important final push.

Day 5 – Of Life (Amenal to Santiago de Compostela: 16 km)

There were just 16 km between the hotel in Amenal and the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral, the end of the trail.

Walkers who had been dragging themselves along now marched purposefully with an unseen vigour. All roads now led to Santiago and the tell-tale signs began to appear soon enough. Shortly after Amenal, I passed Santiago airport. Motorways gave way to overpasses and before long Santiago city limits appeared. The joy of having reached the destination was short-lived, as the Cathedral was tucked away well inside the historic centre of the city a fair distance ahead. Those final kilometres were undoubtedly the longest.

Walking into the Cathedral square at long last, I was greeted by a medley of sights. Triumphant selfies, group hugs, teary-eyed prostrations, but mostly just tired bodies sprawled out on the ground.  As plans were being firmed up with the acquaintances-turned-friends for a celebratory dinner, I strolled around the old town letting it all sink in.

The immediacy of the walk now behind me, the Camino puzzle was beginning to piece itself together.

Five days or five weeks – the duration seemed to be simply a technical detail. From nudging you to find your pace, unravelling itself when you were willing to see, making you confront your own prejudices and casting light on what actually matters, the Camino works in a relentless sort of way. Somewhat like life itself. The Camino, in fact, could be whatever you want it to be – fun, tedious, spiritual, demanding, an epic journey, or all of it. Pretty much like life itself. It’s no wonder then, that they say, the Camino never ends.