Day 40: Tarta de queso

Awakening in the quiet tranquility of Moraime, we found ourselves luxuriously rising around 7:30 AM, indulging in the rare pleasure of sleeping in. This was not a day for rushing; the journey ahead spanned a modest 12 miles, offering us ample time to savor the experiences of the Camino Finisterre. The morning routine was leisurely, as we showered and gathered our gear, anticipation mingling with the lingering haze of sleep.

As we embarked on our hike, the misty fog enveloped us, an white cloak that turned the world into a soft blur. We donned our rain ponchos, feeling the mist lightly kiss our faces as we traversed the three kilometers to Muxía. The trail guided us down towards the beach, where the rugged beauty of rocky outcrops and sandy shores greeted us with the soothing sound of rolling waves. After three weeks of journeying inland, the ocean was a welcome sight, its presence a reminder of where we started our journey. The air here was different—crisp, briny, and invigorating.

Arriving in Muxía, we sought refuge in a tiny, bustling café. The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the cool, misty morning outside. We squeezed into the cozy space, savoring a hearty breakfast. A few peregrinos were found in the cafe, and one spoke up asking for someone that spoke english. Psycho assisted her with translating the menu so she could order what she wanted. Did she travel the entire Camino asking for English speakers?

With renewed energy, we ventured into a nearby grocery store to pick up a few simple supplies for the road ahead. Bananas and blueberries, followed by a second coffee in Muxia before setting out for the remainder of the day.

Leaving Muxía behind, we began our ascent up towards the ubiquitous wind turbines that dominate so many of Spain’s ridgelines. The fog clung to the landscape, thick and persistent, while the mist, although light, combined with our exertions to leave us thoroughly damp. Each step upward was a step closer to the end of our hike. Excitement and sadness mixed with fatigue, relief, and joy. The turbines gradually emerged from the shroud of fog like silent blenders for our mixed emotions.

The descent from the ridge was a gentler affair, leading us through the calming embrace of eucalyptus forests. The scent of eucalyptus hung in the air, a refreshing balm that invigorated our senses. We paused at an even smaller café, a charming, rustic spot where we quenched our thirst with cool, hydrating drinks. By now, the midday sun had begun to pierce through the morning clouds, casting a warm glow on the world around us.

Our path meandered through a picturesque landscape of corn farmlands, ancient horreos (the traditional Galician granaries), and more eucalyptus forests. Along the way, we encountered a few friendly cats, their soft purring a delightful interlude in our journey. The rhythmic crunch of our footsteps on the path, the occasional chirp of birds, and the whispering wind through the trees created a symphony of nature.

By 2 PM, we reached the small, inviting town of As Lires. The Albergue here was our beacon of comfort, and we quickly settled into our familiar check-in routine. The sense of achievement and anticipation for the next day’s journey mingled with the welcoming atmosphere of the Albergue. Soon, we ventured out in search of sustenance, finding it in the form of burgers and sodas. The simple meal was a delicious treat to set up the afternoon siesta.

Returning to the Albergue, we allowed ourselves to relax, the strains of the day melting away. Evening brought with it a delightful dinner—fresh salad followed by a decadent cheesecake, accompanied by a glass of Vermouth. The moment was lightened by a humorous exchange between our waiter and Psycho, resulting in the playful new moniker "Tarta de Queso," given to him after pointed at himself and ordered cheesecake. Laughter filled the air, adding a touch of joy to the end of our serene day.

As we retired for the night, the prospect of our final hiking day loomed ahead. Today had been a gentle reminder of the beauty and simplicity of the life of a peregrino, each moment another brushstroke on the canvas of our journey. Tomorrow promised to be the culmination of our adventure, a final chapter in a story rich with memories and experiences.

Day 39: The Hórreos

We awoke at 4 a.m. in the quaint and eerily silent town of Olveiroa, our bodies still aching from the previous day's journey yet energized by the anticipation of what lay ahead in our final three days. The day would be long and potentially warm, this part of Galicia was inland and warmer, but we are fast approaching the coast which makes for more mild temperatures. Although we could have lingered longer in our bunks, we understood our desires for an early start. 

As we prepared ourselves, the town of Olveiroa, bathed in the soft glow of its streetlights, revealed one of its most cherished treasures: the Hórreos. These ancient grain storage structures, perched on stone pillars to protect the harvest from rodents and moisture, stood proudly throughout the village, illuminated to honor their historical significance. The Hórreos are a testament to the ingenuity of the Galician people, blending functionality with timeless architectural beauty. Their stone bases and wooden or slate upper sections create a picturesque yet sturdy silhouette against the sky. Most of the Hórreos in this region were stone, although we passed several wooden ones around Lugo and Santiago de Compostela.

We left the sparsely populated town, our footsteps echoing through the empty streets as we ventured into the darkness. For a fleeting moment, the crescent moon and a smattering of stars offered their celestial company. However, as we continued our walk, an eerie fog rolled in, enveloping us in its misty embrace. The world around us transformed into a ghostly landscape, the fog muffling sounds and creating an atmosphere that was both serene and otherworldly. To heighten the fear, we just learned about the Galician lore of werewolves in the area. Fortunately, we were protected by the crescent moon, or so we hoped.

At 6 a.m., we found our first stop: a humble coffee shop that had just opened its doors. As we savored the warmth of our drinks, a curious cat lingered nearby, its eyes reflecting the dim light. Despite our attempts to coax it closer for a pet, the cat maintained its distance, content with simply observing us. As we prepared to leave, the feline seemed to adopt the role of a guide, leading us across the highway and along the trail for a short while. Perhaps it sensed the potential danger of the highway shortcut and wanted to ensure we remained on the safer path.

As dawn broke, the gray glow of morning light began to filter through the fog, casting the landscape in a surreal grayscale palette. The world around us seemed like an old photograph, with shadows and shapes emerging slowly from the mist. The atmosphere was almost cinematic, each step we took adding to the unfolding story of our journey.

We continued onward, our path weaving through small villages that dotted the countryside. While the previous day's hike had been characterized by endless cornfields, today was defined by the omnipresent Hórreos. Nearly every village we passed through boasted half a dozen or more of these structures, each one a silent sentinel of agricultural heritage.

Around midday, we reached an Albergue Cafe, its rustic charm inviting us in for a much-needed break. Our meal was simple yet satisfying: toast, eggs, bacon, orange juice, and a delicioud pastry. The bill came to a modest 10 euros, a delightful reminder of the affordability of rural Spain. As we ate, we reflected on the unique charm of the area and morning.

Our journey continued, and in the next town, we encountered the largest Hórreo of our hike. It stood proudly next to the Monastery of San Martiño de Ozón, its imposing size a testament to the agricultural wealth it once safeguarded. The monastery itself, with its ancient stone walls and serene cloisters, spoke of a long history intertwined with the land and its people. Founded in the 12th century, the Monastery of San Martiño de Ozón once served as a spiritual and agricultural hub, its monks tending to both souls and soil with care.

As the day drew to a close, we arrived in Moraime, our final destination for the day. The Monastery of Moraime, where we would spend the night, greeted us with its austere yet welcoming presence. The Albergue was no longer open at this location, so we had arranged for a private room, a luxury we greatly appreciated after the day's exertions. Our accommodation included a special tour of the Iglesia de San Xulián de Moraime, a privilege usually denied to the public.

The church's interior was a revelation, its ancient walls adorned with faded frescoes and intricate carvings. The dim light filtering through the windows created a tranquil and contemplative atmosphere. The history of the Monastery of Moraime dates back to the 12th century, its foundations laid by monks seeking solitude and spiritual fulfillment. Over the centuries, it had weathered the ravages of time and conflict, standing as a beacon of faith and resilience in the Galician landscape.

Exhausted yet fulfilled, we retired to our private room, grateful for the comfort it provided. Today had been our last long day of hiking, with only two more days separating us from our final destination, Finisterre. The thought of sleeping in tomorrow, followed by a shorter hike to As Lires via Muxía, was a welcome prospect. We intended to take full advantage of the cooler weather and the relative luxury of our private quarters, allowing our weary bodies to recuperate.

Day 38: Lost shorts

Our trek from A Peña to Olveiroa, a modest 16-mile stretch compared to yesterday's grueling 20 miles, began in the predawn hours, a test of both endurance and resolve.

At 5 a.m., the oppressive heat of the Spanish summer still clung to the air, refusing to yield even to the cover of night. Despite the restless sleep, we steeled ourselves for the day's journey, driven by the promise of the destination and the spirit of the pilgrimage. Amidst the hurried preparations, a curious incident unfolded. A pair of black shorts, left on a black couch, became the morning's dilemma. In the dim light, a pilgrim must have forgotten them. Psycho, with an impulsive determination, seized the shorts, convinced they belonged to a fellow traveler we might catch up with on the trail.

The first leg of our hike led us through the darkness, the stars our only guides. As we passed the first stop before dawn, the café remained shuttered, its promise of morning sustenance denied. Yet fortune favored us a kilometer later. As the horizon began to blush with the first light of dawn, we stumbled upon a vending machine, a beacon of hydration and energy. With a cold beverage in hand, we pressed on, the morning's almost coolness a fleeting respite as we wove through the sprawling cornfields.

Halfway through our day's journey, we had yet to encounter the potential owner of the shorts. The weight of uncertainty grew with each step. Perhaps they had taken a different path or, worse, perhaps the shorts belonged to another pilgrim who had awoken to find them missing. Our minds whirled with these thoughts as we approached the next café, our hopes pinned on a chance encounter.

Inside the café, we ordered drinks, perplexed and weary, the mystery of the shorts unsolved. Then, as if scripted by the fates, the pilgrims we sought appeared, passing by outside. How they had fallen behind us, we did not know, but Apricots recognized the men quickly and tore the shorts from Psycho's pack. Following her reaction, Psycho dashed across the highway, shorts in hand, calling out to the two Korean men. The language barriers of English, Spanish, and Korean dissolved in the universal gesture of the proffered shorts. The man’s smile, tinged with confusion and gratitude, was a reward in itself. With a nod, he took the shorts and continued on his way, leaving us relieved and amused by the odd turn of events.

The latter part of our journey was marked by the relentless heat, the sun now high and unyielding. The landscape, though beautiful, was dominated by expansive cornfields and dairy farms, their earthy, sweet scents mingling with the heat to create a heady atmosphere. Each step seemed to amplify the sun's assault, baking the very ground beneath our feet.

We paused for a final break thirty minutes from our destination, seeking solace in cold beverages and a sweet Napolitana. This brief respite reinvigorated us for the last push towards Olveiroa. The village, known for its ancient stone buildings (more Horreos than people) and historic significance as a pilgrim rest stop, beckoned us forward.

Upon arrival at our albergue, a wave of relief washed over us. The discovery of an air-conditioned room was a joy unparalleled. After days of enduring the unyielding heat, the promise of a cool night’s sleep was a luxury beyond measure. The simple comforts, often taken for granted, became the day’s true reward. 

As we settled into the cool sanctuary of our room, the trials and tribulations of the day began to fade. 

Day 37: Starting Camino Finisterre

Today, we started The Camino Finisterre, the path less taken than the renowned Camino de Santiago. Unlike its sibling routes that converge upon the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, the Camino Finisterre extends its journey westward towards the edge of the ancient world, Finisterre, where legends tell of pilgrims casting their worn shoes into the sea, or setting them ablaze. More recently shoes are left at a mound of shoes. Although, even that tradition may be frowned upon. This continuation offers more connection to the landscape and the past of Galicia, and a return to the coast.

Our journey began in the predawn stillness, waking at the ungodly hour of 4 AM. The oppressive heat from the previous day had made sleep elusive, and the anticipation of a grueling 20-mile hike under the scorching sun added to our restless night. By 4:50 AM, we were already on the move, driven by a mix of trepidation and excitement.

As the 5 AM bells tolled, we found ourselves in the vast, silent expanse of the plaza in front of the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral. Bathed in the ethereal glow of the moon and the flicker of street lamps, the square was a hauntingly beautiful sight, devoid of the throngs of pilgrims and tourists that usually fill its space. The cathedral stood solemn and majestic, its spires reaching towards the heavens. For a brief, magical and eerie moment, it felt as if we had the entire world to ourselves.

The first few kilometers of our hike were illuminated by the soft, orange glow of sulfur lamps. Their eerie light created an almost dreamlike ambiance, guiding us through the quiet streets and onto forested paths where the light from our headlamps cut through the inky darkness. The trees loomed large and shadowy around us, and the warm morning air was filled with the sounds of our footsteps and the occasional rustle of nocturnal creatures.

A chill ran down our spines when we encountered a solitary figure in the forest. The person, carrying only a bucket and no flashlight, did not acknowledge our presence as we passed. The silence and the sight of this ghostly figure added an unsettling, almost supernatural, edge to our hike.he turned his head away from our lamps so we only saw the back of his head as he quietly walked past us, bucket in hand.

Feeling unsettled, we made quick pace on the next road and missed a marker. This caused us to add a ten minute detour to our day. Fortunately we caught our mistake before too long.

Our spirits lifted when we reached an albergue for a much-needed coffee break before our first major climb of the day. The warmth of the coffee was invigorating, and provided a welcome respite from the eerie solitude of our early start. Rejuvenated, we tackled the climb with surprising ease, the warnings of its difficulty seeming almost exaggerated. Perhaps it was the coffee, or perhaps we were simply too tired to notice.

Descending into the picturesque village of Ponte Maceira was like stepping into a postcard. This tiny village, cradled by a cascading stream, is home to a legendary stone bridge that dates back to the Roman era. The bridge is shrouded in myth, said to have been the site where Saint James performed miracles to aid his followers in escaping their enemies. Standing on this ancient bridge, we could hear the whispers of the babbling waters below, passing over cascading rocks and under stone buildings built on the stream.

As the day wore on, the heat became our relentless adversary. By the time we reached Negreira, we were in dire need of an electrolyte drink to replenish our drained reserves. This small town, with its medieval architecture provided a brief but much-needed sanctuary from the sun's unyielding glare. A few kilometers later, we found another haven in a tiny roadside shop, its shaded interior offering cool relief and a moment to catch our breath.

The final stretch of our hike was a true test of endurance. The last five kilometers felt like an eternity, with the heat pressing down upon us like a weight. Thankfully, the path was shaded by towering eucalyptus trees, their fragrant leaves providing a modicum of comfort. The promise of reaching our destination kept us moving.

The last 15 meters were perhaps the hardest, a steep climb up stairs to a pilgrims-only albergue. With our muscles aching and our spirits flagging, we pushed ourselves up the final steps. The sight that greeted us at the top was a reward in itself: cold, refreshing beverages and the promise of a communal dinner. 

As the sun readied itself to set, we settled down with our fellow pilgrims, sharing a meal and the tales of our journey. 

Day 36: Santiago Rest Day

As the night stretched into its late hours, the jubilant clamor of the weekend's festivities echoed through the cobblestone streets outside our pension in Santiago de Compostela. Revelers' laughter and song lingered in the air until the first hints of dawn finally ushered in a semblance of silence. By 4 a.m., the town's vibrant spirit had quieted, allowing us a few precious hours of sleep before our day began at 7 a.m.

We began our day leisurely, embracing the slower pace of a rest day. A short walk led us to a charming café specializing in breakfast. Here, we savored tostadas, scrambled eggs, and a decadent waffle smothered in Nutella, a small indulgence after the many miles we had trekked. The streets were still, the city resting in the afterglow of the previous night's revelry, as we returned to our pension to plan our day.

Our agenda was blissfully sparse, having managed to do our laundry the day before. With the freedom of an entire day to explore Santiago, we decided to set out early to avoid the sweltering heat forecasted. We meandered through the serene streets, making our way back to the plaza in front of the magnificent Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. This time, we took a different route, discovering new nooks and crannies of the ancient city.

As we approached the cathedral, the sound of joyous cheers grew louder. A group of barefoot walkers, likely students from a Catholic school, ran past us into the square, their excitement palpable. Two nuns followed closely, their smiles beaming with pride and joy. It was a heartwarming reminder of the diverse experiences and shared joy the Camino de Santiago brings to its pilgrims.

Finding a shaded spot in the plaza, we sat down to observe the scenes unfolding around us. Pilgrims from all corners of the world celebrated the culmination of their arduous journey, the air thick with a mixture of relief, pride, and elation. As we watched, a wave of emotions washed over us, the weight of our own accomplishment settling in. Tears hinted at us as we reflected on the miles we had walked and the challenges we met.

Leaving the plaza, we decided to get ourselves delightfully lost in the labyrinthine streets of Santiago's old town. We wandered through narrow alleys, each turn revealing a new hidden gem. The churches we stumbled upon were beautiful in their own right, though we referred to them as "Bridesmaids," with the Cathedral of Santiago standing as the resplendent bride.

As the day grew warmer, we retreated to our room, seeking refuge from the oppressive heat. Our plans to visit the cathedral would wait until we passed through Santiago again after completing the Camino Finisterre. Resting in the semi-cool comfort of our pension, we reflected on the journey ahead and the quiet trails that awaited us.

In the late afternoon, we met up with Magnus and Ellen, fellow hikers from Copenhagen. Over a delightful dinner, we exchanged stories of our adventures. They had arrived in Santiago a few days before us, choosing to remain in the city rather than continue to Finisterre. Their stay was made even more memorable when Magnus proposed to Ellen in the plaza on St. James' Day. The moment was captured by reporters, adding a touch of serendipity to their Camino story.

In our explorations and conversations, we had forgotten to collect stamps for our Camino credentials, the cherished artifacts of our journey. Each day, we had diligently gathered unique stamps to mark our progress, but Santiago, in its grandeur, had left us momentarily distracted. 

We also bypassed the process of obtaining our official certificate of completion. The office would only recognize our Primitivo route, disregarding the kilometers we had trekked on the Norte. A certificate stating we had completed 310 kilometers seemed insufficient for the over 800 kilometers we knew we had walked. In the end, our memories and experiences would serve as our true certification.

As night fell, we prepared for the final leg of our pilgrimage. The Camino Finisterre awaited us, a route chosen by only ten percent of pilgrims after reaching Santiago. It promised the solitude and serenity we craved after the bustling city. We planned to start early, setting off by 5 a.m. to embrace the tranquility of the dawn and the quiet trails that lay ahead.

With the anticipation of new paths and the reflections of past miles, we now drift to sleep... or the closest thing to it in this heat.

Day 35: Arriving in Santiago

We stirred from our slumber, eager to embark on the (sort of) final leg of our journey along the Camino del Norte and Camino Primitivo. This wasn’t just another early start, but the beginning of our last steps towards Santiago de Compostela. A communal sense of anticipation buzzed among the many pilgrims who joined us on the trail, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of headlamps, a sea of bobbing lights winding through the pre-dawn darkness.

The moon hung low, casting an eerie white glow on the edges of the hills, a silent guardian watching over our passage. Each step carried the weight of the journey’s end and the promise of the pilgrimage’s culmination. The early morning air was crisp and filled with the quiet rustle of footsteps, the rhythmic sound of walking sticks tapping the earth, and the occasional murmur of hushed conversations. 

As the sky began to lighten, the first hints of color painted the horizon. Our hearts, however, were heavy with a peculiar blend of excitement and anxiety. The excitement manifested in a restless energy that seemed to vibrate through our very beings, prompting us to pause frequently. Coffee, electrolytes, sandwiches, and pastries were consumed in hopes of calming our nerves, but nothing seemed to quell the anxious anticipation that marked our steps. 

The trail led us through a tapestry of landscapes, from lush, verdant woods to the bustling outskirts of Santiago. Suburbs gave way to the historical heart of the city, where the architecture transformed before our eyes. Wide modern streets narrowed into ancient cobblestone lanes, and the familiar hum of contemporary life was replaced with the echoes of history. We were now surrounded by towering stone buildings adorned with intricate carvings, each edifice a testament to centuries gone by.

As we made our descent towards the Plaza del Obradoiro, the distant sound of bagpipes grew louder, welcoming us into the sacred space. The sight of the grandiose Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela emerged, its spires reaching towards the heavens, a beacon of our pilgrimage's end. The plaza was a hive of activity, a melting pot of emotions. Pilgrims arrived in waves, each greeted by a cacophony of cheers, laughter, and the jubilant ringing of bells. 

The emotions that surged within us were indescribable: a mix of amazement, anticlimactic realization, overwhelming joy, and a strange sense of normalcy. The experience defied words, unique to each pilgrim. Amid the celebrations, we witnessed various rituals of arrival: a group of hikers chanting names as individuals ran and jumped onto a pile of backpacks, others knelt in silent prayer, some embraced loved ones, while a few simply sat in quiet reflection.

The heat of the midday sun began to assert itself, urging us to seek respite. We meandered through the labyrinthine streets towards our pension, but not without first indulging in a celebratory vermouth. We raised our glasses in a toast to our accomplishment, savoring the bittersweet taste of the moment. The rest of the day unfolded with a strange normalcy, our epic journey punctuated by mundane routines.

A nap provided much-needed relief from our exertions, and as the afternoon heat abated, we found ourselves drawn back to the square. The throngs had thinned, and the fading light cast a golden glow over the cathedral's façade. We captured a few more photos, attempting to imprint the memory into both film and our minds.

As evening descended, the city was alive with festivities in honor of St. James Day. The air was thick with the sounds of music and laughter, the streets filled with revelers. We sought solace in the quiet of our room, enjoying a simple dinner of hotel-room salads, followed by a nightcap as we reflected on our journey. 

The day's fatigue eventually overcame the lure of the festivities, and we retired to the comfort of our beds. The sounds of celebration outside mingled with our dreams, a final reminder of the significance of our pilgrimage. The path to Santiago had been more than a physical journey; it was a passage through time.

We will take a rest day tomorrow, and then do the five day hike to Finisterre - "end of the earth".

Day 34: Moving Fast

The night before had been one of restless agony, the kind that leaves pilgrims bleary-eyed and grumpy at dawn. In the quiet communal sleeping room of Boente, an inconsiderate soul had decided to entertain the room with an hour-long monologue (one sided phone call), his voice reverberating through the silence like an unwanted symphony. The clock's hands had crept past 9:45 pm, and still, his voice droned on, ignoring the weary bodies around him who were desperate for sleep. One could almost hear the collective groan of frustration as heads burrowed deeper into pillows, trying to block out the noise.

Sleep, when it finally came, was a fitful companion. At the ungodly hour of 4 am, Apricots was jolted awake by the unnerving sound of someone grinding their teeth. The rhythmic scrape was like nails on a chalkboard, setting nerves on edge. As if this wasn’t enough, another pilgrim began packing up their belongings at 4:30, the rustle and clank of gear filling the room with a cacophony of disturbance. 

Needless to say, our morning began earlier than anticipated. Tired and irritable, we dragged ourselves out of bed, moving with the groggy efficiency of seasoned hikers. Despite the early wake-up call, our departure was a masterclass in quiet haste. We slipped out the door like shadows, leaving behind the symphony of rustling gear and murmured complaints.

The pre-dawn darkness enveloped us as we began our trek, the path ahead illuminated by the soft glow of headlamps and the ethereal light of a nearly full but waning moon. The stars, twinkling in the clear night sky, seemed to guide our steps. For ninety minutes, we walked in a world of shadows and silver, the cool night air invigorating our tired bodies. Our pace was brisk, driven by the quiet solitude of the night and the promise of the day ahead.

As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, the world around us came alive. The quantity of pilgrims increased with the rising sun, and with them, the atmosphere transformed. There was an electric excitement in the air, a palpable anticipation for the final days of our journey. Some pilgrims sang as they walked, their voices carrying through the air. Some hikers celebrated birthdays at a cafe. Others danced at breaks along the path, their steps light and joyful. It was a celebration of movement, an expression of the journey’s end drawing near.

We made a few coffee stops along the way, each one a welcome respite from the trail. These stops were brief, yet revitalizing, and before long, we were back on the trail, covering miles with a renewed vigor.

By 12:30 pm, we had completed the 18-mile stretch to Arca, our destination for the day. We arrived at our Pension, eager for the comforts of rest and solitude, only to find the reception opened at 1 pm. With weary smiles, we settled outside, savoring the accomplishment of the morning's journey while waiting for the doors to open.

The room we were assigned felt like a sanctuary. After the chaos of the communal sleeping quarters, the privacy and peace were a balm to our frayed nerves. We showered away the grime and exhaustion, letting the hot water soothe our aching muscles. With the hunger of the weary, we ate heartily, replenishing our strength for the final push to Santiago de Compostela.

With full stomachs and clean bodies, we succumbed to the sweet lure of sleep, napping away the fatigue of the previous night. The room, quiet and cool, was a haven of rest, and we slept deeply, rejuvenated by the comfort and solitude.

Tomorrow, we will reach Santiago de Compostela, the culmination of our pilgrimage. The thought fills us with a mix of excitement and exhaustion. The journey has been long and arduous, but the end is now in sight. The promise of the cathedral, with its towering spires, beckons us. We are tired, yes, but also filled with a profound sense of accomplishment and anticipation.

Day 33: The Freeway Merge

The alarm buzzed quietly on the wrist. Psycho groaned, his body craving the comfort of an extra hour's sleep, but yesterday's blistering heat was still fresh in our minds. The memory of the sun's relentless rays spurred us into motion, determined to make an early start and avoid hiking in the oppressive midday heat.

As we stepped outside, a light breeze greeted us, whispering through the trees and carrying the scent of dew. The sky was a deep, velvety black, devoid of stars, signaling that dawn was still a ways off. The weather seemed promising, a favorable omen for the journey ahead. Perhaps we even had cloud coverage.

Our peaceful start was abruptly shattered by the furious barking of three unchained dogs. Their fearsime barks sent shivers down our spines, hearts pounding as we skirted cautiously past them and quickened our pace to distance ourselves from the potential threat. Just as we were catching our breath, a car sped by, headlights cutting through the darkness like a knife. The suddenness of it all heightened our senses, making the cemetery we passed by seem even more eerie in the predawn light. Shadows danced among the tombstones, and we couldn't shake the feeling of being close to death.

But the light came, and with it peace and enthusiasm for the day. Caught up in a lively conversation about former teachers we have had, we missed a crucial turn. Realizing our mistake, we retraced our steps, adding an extra half-kilometer to our journey.

Back on trail we began an ascent, climbing to a rocky hilltop where white stones jutted out from the grassy expanse. The view from the top was breathtaking, a panoramic display of nature's fog. If the fog and clouds were gone, it would be even more amazing. We then descended into a forest of towering eucalyptus trees, their scent invigorating us.

Continuing through a series of rural properties, we took a simple snack break at a charming picnic table just outside Merlán de Seixas. The tranquility of the spot, with its rustic charm and the gentle sounds of nature, offered a perfect respite.

With renewed energy, we tackled the last major hill of the day. The climb was challenging but rewarded us with a descent through a short forest patch, emerging below a canopy of clouds that hung low over fields of golden grass. The cool wind at our backs was a comforting companion, pushing us gently forward.

Our stomachs grumbled in anticipation as we reached a quaint café with a delightful goldfish pond outside. The pastries were delicious and paired perfectly with a beautifully poured cafe con leche. We lingered there, savoring each bite and sip, the pond's goldfish darting playfully below the surface, adding a touch of serenity to our break.

Energized, we made a brisk march towards Melide, a bustling junction where the Camino Primitivo meets the Camino Frances. Our simple lunch was a hearty affair, refueling us for the final stretch. Before resuming our trek, we stepped into the Iglesia de Santa Maria. The ancient church, steeped in history, was finishing a service for St. James Day. We collected our credential stamp and stepped out onto the Camino Frances.

Merging onto the Camino Frances, we were engulfed by a sea of peregrinos. The route transformed into a bustling freeway, with at least five and sometimes as many as fifty pilgrims visible at any given moment. The energy should be palpable, a vibrant tapestry of humanity united in a common goal, but it was hard to not be disgruntled at the loss of quiet solitude that we were used to. With this many pilgrims, everyone seemed to be pushing their way forward with less enthusiasm at seeing another pilgrim.

The last five kilometers were a testament to our stamina and determination. We marched with confidence, comfort, and speed, overtaking almost every peregrino we encountered. The rising heat pusged us forward, and soon we arrived at our destination in Boente. We watched as the droves of walkers continued their journey under the punishing heat of the midday sun.

After settling in, we found solace by the pool, enjoying a well-deserved snack. The atmosphere was lively, filled with the chatter and laughter of fellow pilgrims. Yet, there was a noticeable difference between these pulgrims, ans those of the Primitivo. The former seemed to approach the pilgrimage with a more touristy vibe, indulging in drinking, smoking, flirting, and even impromptu push-up competitions by the pool. It was a stark contrast to the contemplative and spiritual journey we had embarked on, highlighting the diverse ways in which the Camino is experienced by its many travelers.

We hope to do the Frances route one day, but this peak season traffic is too busy for our tastes, and we will have to find a different time time to tackle this route. This would avoid the heat, but introduce the complexity of weather. This is a challenge we will explore as we talk more about our next Camino.

We know that it is easy to point out the different peregrinos, and contrast them, but each individual hikes their own way. It has just been a shock to our norm. One day, we might be on the other side of the coin.