Before setting off, we lingered over breakfast with Suzanne, a fellow traveler from Eugene, Oregon—our old stomping grounds. We had been told repeatedly that other Oregonians were on the trail, yet it wasn't until yesterday that we finally crossed paths with one. Suzanne regaled us with tales of her many Camino adventures. There was a sense of kinship as we shared our experiences, the miles walked, and the profound moments of solitude and connection that such a journey brings. It was a breakfast that nourished not only our bodies but our spirits, setting the perfect tone for the day ahead, filled with scheming future Camino adventures.
With our packs adjusted and shoes laced, we set off, deciding to take a small alternate route that promised to follow the estuary out of town before leading us to the ocean. The air was crisp, the kind that fills your lungs with the purity of a new day, and the estuary's waters shimmered with the reflections of the early morning light. As we followed the winding path, the landscape gradually began to change. The flatlands of the estuary gave way to the hills that rose from the coastline, beckoning us higher.
We climbed up the cliffside hills into a forested landscape that looked out over the ocean. Small dirt roads crisscrossed the area, offering tempting detours at every turn, each path as inviting as the last. But we had a goal—to reach Finisterre, the end of our pilgrimage, today. So, we resisted the urge to explore and pressed on, reconnecting with the official route after a short stint.
The Camino Finisterre, like all Camino routes, is rich with history. It is said that in ancient times, this was the path Celts and Romans took to reach the very edge of the known world. Finisterre, after all, means "the end of the earth," a place where the land yields to the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The road we walked was a testament to the countless pilgrims who had tread before us, each step laden with the weight of their hopes, fears, and dreams.
For a while, we chose to follow the cyclists' alternate route, which promised to keep us closer to the shore. The ocean was a constant companion. But as the road grew busier with traffic, we found ourselves longing for the tranquility of the footpath, and so we veered off once more, seeking the quiet that the Camino can sometimes offer.
The footpath took us past a small hut, a humble abode with a character all its own. Here, a free-living hippy had set up a makeshift rest stop, offering tea, soda, beer, and fresh fruit to weary travelers. The air was now warming, and the sun climbed higher into the sky, so we gratefully accepted the cold sodas, leaving a donation in return. The hut was a relic of the countercultural spirit that has always been a part of the Camino—an acknowledgment that this journey is as much about the people you meet as the places you pass through.
As we exited the hillside footpath, the landscape opened up before us, and we caught our first glimpse of the peninsula. The ocean, vast and unending, stretched out to the horizon, and there, nestled against its shores, was Finisterre. The town seemed to rise out of the land as if it had always been there, a place of both endings and beginnings. We were surprised by its size, having expected something smaller, more remote. But Finisterre was bustling, a lively coastal town where the energy of pilgrims and tourists alike filled the air.
Our hotel was not yet ready for us, so we indulged in a celebratory vermouth at a café overlooking the docks. The harbor was alive with activity—locals going about their day, fishermen preparing their boats, and visitors wandering the streets in search of the sea’s secrets. The drink was a moment of quiet triumph, a chance to reflect on the miles we had walked and the experiences that had shaped us along the way. When our room was finally ready, we checked in and washed away the sweat and dust of the trail, resting for a time before venturing out to explore the town.
As the evening approached, we made our way to the lighthouse at the end of the earth—Faro de Finisterre. This lighthouse, perched on the cliffs at the very tip of the peninsula, has guided sailors for centuries, standing as a beacon of hope in the face of the wild Atlantic. The Romans believed this to be the end of the known world, a place where the sun died each night, sinking into the ocean to rise again on the other side. For us, it was a place of profound significance, the culmination of our journey.
Though we had hoped to find solitude, the lighthouse was busier than we expected. The allure of the setting sun, casting its golden light across the ocean, draws many to this sacred spot. But we managed to find a more secluded area, away from the crowds, where the only sounds were the waves below and the wind whispering through the brush.
Here, in this peaceful setting, we fulfilled a promise. We spread the ashes of Lauren's brother, Mark, into the wind. Mark had always dreamed of traveling, of seeing the world, and in bringing him with us to the End of the Earth, we honored that dream. The ashes caught the breeze and danced across the ocean, a final journey for a life well-lived. It was a moment of quiet reflection, shared with the ocean, the shade of the peninsula, and the memories of the miles we had walked to reach this place.
As the light began to fade, we made our way back down the hill to our hotel. Our Camino was over. We had walked from Irun to Oviedo to Santiago de Compostela and on to the very edge of the world, and now, with a mix of satisfaction and bittersweetness, we faced the end of this adventure. But even as we prepared for the days of travel ahead—back to Santiago, then on to León, Burgos, and finally San Sebastián—we couldn’t help but begin to scheme, to dream of our next Camino.
