Yes, Bono. Perhaps I am acting a bit like it’s the end of the world. But what’s a guy to do after finishing the Camino de Santiago?!

Well, go to the End of the World, of course!

Cape Finisterre, that is. The name derives from the Latin finis terrae, meaning “end of the earth” because in Roman times it was believed to be the end of the known world. It lies about 50 miles (90km) west of Santiago de Compostela, and many pilgrims—like the Martin Sheen character in the film, The Way—choose to continue their pilgrimage here.

Rainer, Aine, and Andrew have already ambitiously set out for Finisterre on foot. George elected to go by bus the day I was busting my butt to make it into Santiago. And I appreciate his thinking, because my feet are DONE with long-distance walking for a while!

So, after a couple of free days in Santiago, I secure my own ticket for a guided bus tour of the peninsula. It’s full of beautiful stops, including the Ezaro waterfall, the only site in continental Europe where a river enters the sea via a cascade.

But the real stars of this show are two iconic destinations. One, at the physical tip of Cape Finisterre, is a fitting symbolic end of the road for those of us who started in France, whispering loudly: we’ve crossed the whole freaking country of Spain! A bagpiper, a “kilometer zero” Camino marker, and a number of makeshift shrines on the high rocky promontory feed into the sense of finality. (Never mind the pesky fact that modern maps reveal it’s not actually the westernmost point in Spain…)

The other is a tiny town about 30 kilometers to the north called Muxia, which serves a similar symbolic purpose. And I love that the name of its nautically themed seaside church, the Santuario de la Virgen de la Barca, is a nod to the mythic stone ship that ferried the body of St. James to this region.

Along with its Celtic crosses, approachable rocky beach, and picturebook lighthouse, Muxia is–in my mind (and Martin Sheen’s!)–an even more contemplative place than Finisterre to pause, reflect, and give thanks for all the gifts of grace along the Way. I’m thankful to get a chance to see both.

Re-flecting. This is definitely one of the Camino practices I hope to continue back home. Whenever we climbed a relatively high point along the Way, George and I tried to make a point to stop and look back, to appreciate how far we’d come that day. Those metaphorical reflections at the end of each day were also mini-opportunities to look back and give thanks for the privilege, the health, and the community that made it possible for us to be there at all.

That’s essentially what I’ve been doing with the posts on this blog. It’s become a form of accountability that has helped me to pause, reflect, and digest so much of the goodness and wisdom God generously poured out to me on the Way of St. James.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride! If it’s whetted your appetite to try the Camino for yourself, please don’t hesitate to reach out with questions. The American Pilgrims on the Camino is another great resource.

And if you worry that you could never do something like that, just remember those fateful words I learned from Thomas on Day Two: “The Camino provides, my friend. The Camino provides!”

Culturally, it’s the capital of Galicia, the Ibero-Celtic province I’ve been traversing for a week now. And it’s a feast for the senses: the tart almond and powdered sugar of Galician cake, the wails and rhythmic droning of bagpipes, and the salty tang of exotic seafood like percebes, a delicious barnacle that looks like asparagus tips and is so treacherous to harvest that some divers have died in the process.

Architecturally, it’s a riot. Full of Romanesque, Gothic, and Baroque marvels are intertwined like so many strands of spaghetti. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage site for a reason. And it’s equally fun to explore the various shops, tapas bars, and pilgrimage services strewn along the narrow medieval streets that course through the roughly 10 block wide Old City.

In the Cathedral

The Portico of Glory, just inside the Cathedral facade, is the apex of this artistic exuberance. A true wonder of Medieval art and apocalyptic imagery, it was crafted by the workshop of Maestro Mateo (“Master Matthew”) in the 12th century as the interior entrance to the cathedral.

Today, foot traffic is diverted, special tickets are required to see it, and photography is forbidden, unfortunately. But I’ve supplied an artist’s rendering from the 19th century of what it looked like with pilgrims gathered beneath. Jesus sits on his judgment seat, and the whole cast of biblical characters is present across the columns and arches. Imagine what message that impressed upon Medieval Europeans at the culmination of their lengthy penitential pilgrimages.

Religiously, I’m reminded why Santiago has been considered one of the three most important Christian pilgrimage sites in the world, along with Rome and Jerusalem. Attending a mass in the cathedral with hundreds of pilgrims is a treat for both heart and senses, especially when the botafumeiro—a 100kg silver incense burner—is swung 100+ feet in the air. It takes 8 men just to pull the ropes!

Back in the day, the botafumeiro served multiple purposes. Not only did it symbolically depict the prayers of the people wafting up to God, but on a very practical level, it served as a way to fumigate filthy pilgrims who’d been walking dusty trails and sleeping outside for weeks! The very thought makes me grateful for even the most humble and cramped albergue showers we’ve enjoyed along the Way.

After the service, there is an opportunity to join the throngs who over the past millennium have visited the actual tomb of St. James, deep beneath the altar, touching the shoulder of a statue of St. James while waiting in line. So many pilgrims have touched his shoulder over the years that the metal wore off of it! Hence, the metal cape for Santiago was added after the fact.

The church and the service really are stunning. And there’s a sense in which you could say that I just walked 500 miles to worship there.

Friendly Faces Everywhere

But, if I’m honest, what’s most compelling to me about Santiago is the eclectic throng of people it attracts. The ebb and flow of newly arriving pilgrims seems like a tidal flow on a beach, washing in one rejoicing cohort before pulling them out and bringing in another wave. No sooner are plazas and patios filled with high-fiving and hugging new friends-for-life than they give way to another group of faces altogether. The atmosphere of Santiago is thus one of both constancy and flux.

Over two days lingering on this sacred beach, I intermittently feast, shop, raise toasts, tour narrow alleys, get tattoo curious, and even attend an Anglican eucharist. The latter was arranged (and led in English, thank you!) by Father Tommy from Georgia at the oldest church in Compostela, San Fiz de Solovio, which is now ironically the home to the Anglican Pilgrim Centre of Santiago. Tommy considers it the privilege of a lifetime. And I am blessed by his invitation for me to read Scripture and then join our friend Emiliy in a choral round of “All will be well,” inspired by Julian of Norwich.

Over these few days, both in the service and out in the streets, there are dozens of other familiar faces to savor. In addition to Los Caminos, I spend time with Tom from Scotland, Brad from Texas, Kriszty from Hungary, Simon and Bev from Wales, Niall from Ireland, Adrian from Germany, Emily from TN, Cameron (and her 80 y.o. father!) from England, and many, many more.

I even bump into some old friends from home!

Cherie from D.C. arrived the same night as me after hiking the Portuguese Way as a part of her own professional sabbatical. And the Cruz family from my home parish, St. B’s in Nashville, arrive after having walked from Leon with their two teenage kids. (We didn’t realize our pilgrimages would overlap until the last minute.) On arrival, Xavi, their adolescent son, is already scheming ways to get back, despite not having access to an electronic device for the past two weeks!

A Taste of Heaven?

As Cherie points out to me, this potent blend of places and faces, both familiar and new, must be a bit like what heaven is like. It’s as if the imagery of the final consummation of history from the Portico of Glory has spilled over into the streets! It’s a place where diverse pilgrims from all nations come by grace, through unique routes and struggles, to reach a city that feels energized and illuminated by the Spirit.

It’s kind of hard to put into words. So, as I often do, I reach out to a poet to help me. In this case, it’s the memorable lines of the 19th c. Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, who concludes his wonderful piece, “As Kingfishers Catch Fire”:

Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

My legs still hurt, and Santiago–like the Camino itself–surely isn’t perfect. But if you squint just right, Christ—the “Way” himself—sure seems to be at play here.

And I find myself wanting to join in the play, too!

I now empathize with that horse.

The longer I walk, the more my body hurts. But the closer I get to Santiago, the less inclined I am to stop. On a cellular level, I feel bound and bent to finish this pilgrimage, come hell or high water!

Especially since I know my friends are engaging in their own arrival celebrations.

George made it to Santiago yesterday, and Rainer, Aine, and Andrew are arriving today (June 4). My “sensible” plan to not overdo it on my shins was to walk a modest 18 kms today to get within shooting distance of Santiago, then try to arrive around lunchtime the next day without a big rush.

Conditions aren’t great. It’s spitting rain, and my attempt at using KT tape for my shin splints is backfiring. Even after shipping my pack ahead today, they’re barking worse than ever. At times, I groan audibly, attracting the morbid attention of curious onlookers.

A brusque “I’m fine” is all I can muster. Then I finally just rip the tape off! That helps a bit. I eventually find a way to shuffle that keeps the pain to a dull background noise.

I try to savor what I can. Passing a town and an albergue named after Saint Irene (my late mother’s first name) puts a smile on my face, reminding me of how much she would enjoy the scenery and culture of the Camino–but not all the walking! Then a poster for a tattoo parlor called “Sorry Mum” makes me grin even more. That’s truly the LAST souvenir she would want from me on this trip.

But who knows what might happen in Santiago? She’s not around to protest anymore. And my wife does already have her own tattoo after all…

Stopping for lunch, I sit down next to Tommy, the Episcopal priest from Georgia whom Emily introduced me to back in Sarria. He’s got quite the story. A former businessman whose life was completely derailed by alcoholism, he found his way to sobriety via AA and the grace of God. Then he later channeled his life lessons into ministry as a parish priest.

Tommy has since fallen in love with walking the Camino. Now he’s, dare we say, a “Camino junkie?!” But his walking partner this year had to leave early due to injury. Tommy’s since happily fallen in with a group of young, mostly secular 20-somethings and has been having a blast. But they slept in this morning, and he’s waiting for them to catch up. We exchange contact information and hope to reconnect in Santiago.

The next several kilometers are a blur, but I finally arrive at my albergue in Lavacolla around 2:15. It’s a really nice place, and I’d normally be more than happy to rest up and spend the night there. But I feel restless. I’m just 10 kms away from my destination, the endpoint of this month-long sacred odyssey. And the weather—which could be dismal tomorrow—has temporarily cleared.

Throwing caution to the wind, I pick up my full pack and decide to go for it. I don’t have a reservation, but…since when has that stopped me?! I send out an excited heads up on WhatsApp to my Camino friends.

The hashtag? #GameOn!

There’s one final hill on this route, traditionally known as Monte de Gozo (“Mount Joy”) because it’s where the spires of the cathedral in Santiago can first be spotted by incoming pilgrims. Just as I cross over the peak, my text thread lights up, and encouragements start to flow in. Joy like this is truly best when it’s shared!

After a couple of short pit stops, I find myself approaching the outskirts of town. Channeling our old friend Thomas, I stop at a cafe to order one final cerveza to “oil” my joints for the final push and make a call to my wife to inform her of the unfolding drama.

As I enter the city of Santiago, the Camino signage is surprisingly scant. I almost get lost! How weird to walk nearly 500 miles and then lose yourself in what feels like an ordinary Spanish city. My spidey sense kick in, though, and I eventually navigate my way through the suburban sprawl towards the Cathedral Plaza of the Old City.

At 5 pm I finally arrive. It feels weirdly anticlimactic at first. A lone bagpiper is playing welcome music. But other than that, it’s just another day in the plaza, relatively empty except for some tourists and pilgrims milling about.

But wait a second. I recognize some of those pilgrims. Cheers and waving arms soon direct me towards my friends Rainer, Aine, and Andrew for a celebratory hug! So many pilgrims finish this month-plus marathon with nary a familiar face in sight. Having friends at the finish is a special touch that makes all the difference.

It feels surreal. So many hours and miles. So many hopes and fears. So many pains and doubts. So many faces. So many places. All I can do is fall flat on my own face! Is it exhaustion? Or a symbolic nod to the pilgrims of yore who crawled in on their knees? Perhaps a little of both.

Needless to say, it takes me a looong time to get up.

The rest of the evening is a joyful blur: A hotel room is secured. An official Compostela procured. A celebratory dinner with friends convened. A surprise band performance on the plaza enjoyed. Then sleep, sleep, blessed sleep.

It hurt like hell, but it sure is good to be in Saint James’ barn!

Encouraged, I decide to wear my full pack again, leaving my options open for where to stay. It feels like I’m back in the saddle from the early days of the Camino.

But it’s actually June 2 now, and I’m fully on my own, walking at the speed of shin splints. My Los Caminos buddies are planning to arrive in Santiago a day or two before me, so I’m left to savor their progress and hijinks via WhatsApp.

Thankfully the terrain today is relatively flat, so I make a point of stopping to smell the roses. That includes sampling second–and third!--breakfasts, buying small gifts from a local artisan, and exchanging lots of “Buen Caminos.” The latter is a part of my stealth campaign to train up the newbies in proper pilgrim etiquette.

Yep. My inner Camino Pharisee may be chastened, but it’s still lurking. Especially at a hermitage chapel stop, when a woman in front of me pulls out SIX pilgrim passports to be stamped. It’s hard for me to imagine anything other than nefarious motives (a fake passport cartel?!) What’s more, our chapel host is literally blind, has 3 different stamps, and needs help guiding his hand to get them in the right spot! Five full minutes pass, and my ire is kindled.

Then a little voice reminds me to chill: “Remember, Morgan, it’s all gift!”

Killing Time

I decide to distract myself by listening to another chapter or two in my audiobook, The Ghosts of Spain. After previously learning “How the Bikini Saved Spain” (Just ask Chat GPT if you’re curious), today I’m getting the scoop on why the Spanish dinner hour is so maddeningly late. It turns out that, during World War II, the dictator Francisco Franco had a crush on Hitler and Mussolini, so he changed Spain’s time zone to match that of Germany and Italy. Never mind that most of Spain is actually west of England! Since the quirk has never been rectified, sunsets and dinner hours are still often well past 10 p.m.!

I eventually reach a potential stopping point called Melide, but am unimpressed. It feels like too much of a busy city for this pilgrim. Though my shins are hurting, I press on further past some recently planted fields to a tiny blip in the road called Boente, where there are some beds available at the Albergue El Aleman. That makes 21 kilometers today with a full pack. I’ll need icepacks!

While lingering on the patio to elevate my legs, I overhear some young guys chatting. It turns out that they’re recent graduates from St. Andrew’s in Scotland–and they know my godson, who’s a student there! It’s hard to believe, but it’s the first time in over a month on the Camino that I can recall meeting a “friend of a friend” from my life back home.

As I prepare for bed, I note in my journal how pleased I am with tonight’s resting place. It’s clean, modern, and deliciously spacious. After repeatedly hitting my bald head on cramped bathroom walls all the way across Spain, I’m grateful for facilities big enough for this 6’4” man to bend over and stand up without fear!

Dine and Dash

By 6:40 a.m. the next day, my bunk room of sixteen is completely emptied. Except for me. I’m just beginning my packing and foot care routines. Thankfully, at this stage of the Camino, I know myself and have made peace with being a “slow” starter. After a quiet breakfast, I celebrate my last place at the pole position by leaving without paying! Whoops.

Fortunately, the hospitalero calls to me before I get past the gate, and I apologize for my obtuseness. Again.

The sad truth is: I’ve walked away without paying the bill many times on the Camino! It’s surprisingly easy to do. As an American, I am mystified to encounter waitstaff so completely disinterested in being paid. Yet in Spain, it’s almost impossible to get one to bring you a check. It’s almost like making money isn’t important here.

Maybe they know something we don’t…

As the morning progresses, I pass through Castaneda, a town where medieval pilgrims dropped off limestone (picked up a few days back in Triacastela) to be fired into lime to build the Cathedral in Santiago. I stand in awe of these predecessors on the Way of St. James. How on earth did they cross hundreds of miles with just a wool cape, sandals, a hat, and a walking stick with a gourd—and then carry extra rocks? We are truly walking in the footsteps of giants.

Spiritual Lessons

I’m also walking in solitude, despite the numbers swelling around me. Perhaps it’s the infusion of pilgrims from other Camino routes (the Norte and Primitivo), but for the first time in my entire trip, I don’t encounter a single person all day that I even vaguely recognize.

It’s tempting to feel lonely.

But, as has often been the case on my Camino, I quickly remember that I’m not really alone. The timely scripture passage from today’s devotional (from the Pray As You Go app) drives this home powerfully. Speaking to his disciples about how they will be scattering soon, each to their own home, Jesus says: “You will leave me all alone. Yet I am not alone, for my Father is with me.”

How do those darn Jesuits just seem to know what I’m going through?! “The Camino provides,” I guess!

A reflection from my Camino guidebook, A Practical & Mystical Manual for the Modern-Day Pilgrim by the Englishman John Brierly, lends a helpful perspective on my current experience as well. He writes:

“Our collective band of seekers grows ever larger today, and we need be attentive to ensure the sense of camaraderie expands as well. Our journey continues beyond Santiago back to the fast lane of our ordinary lives.” (emphasis added).

With helpful nudges like this, I am beginning to come to peace with the notion that this third and final phase of the Camino really is the most spiritual stage after all. Just not in ways I expected. Rather than a series of new, dramatic “Aha!’s!”, it feels more like a series of familiar, recurring “Oh yeah!’s”. A season of training for what it might mean to continue being a pilgrim—beyond Santiago.

This resonates with some wisdom my friend Aine shared from her prior experience: the final stage from Sarria to Santiago–with its intrusion of newcomers–can serve as “practice” in learning how to deal with people back home, who may not know or care about the details of our own particular pilgrimage. Ouch!

But so true.

It reminds me of the first day of the Camino. The ascent over the Pyrenees was much longer and commanded most of my effort and attention. But the descent into Roncesvalles, though shorter, was a different kind of hard. It taught me not just how to care for my knees, but also my heart. About the importance of moving beyond heroic ascents to a deeper descending into humility and trust.

In retrospect, the Camino as a whole has a similar dynamic to it. The first weeks feel like an adventure, an epic journey “upward” towards a distant goal. But now that I’m approaching Santiago, every day feels like a descent. Not easy, but a different kind of hard. A time of preparation to deepen my capacity to walk out my pilgrimage in life back home. Where no one is likely to be encouraging me daily with a smiling “Buen Camino!”

All the more reason to say–to those still reading and caring about these reflections–THANK YOU!!

It feels like a “Buen Camino” to me.

I now have the pesky cough that’s shared between pilgrims sleeping in close proximity on the Way of St. James. But I’m also noticing a different kind of crud emerging as I begin to cross Galicia.

Self-righteousness.

The truth is, I’m starting to resent all these new pilgrims. Crowding our trails and cafes. Playing loud music like they own the place. Not practicing proper Camino etiquette by saying “Buen Camino” as you pass someone.

For those of us who’ve hiked, limped, or crawled from France, this feels like a capital offense. We bonded hiking over the Pyrenees. We picked each other up when we were down. We bled and died for one another. And now you don’t even acknowledge us?

How DARE you!!!!

Apparently, I’m not alone in my indignance. As one bit of sarcastic trail maker graffiti smugly puts it: “Jesus did not start in Sarria.”

I laugh. But then I wince. I’ve become a Camino Pharisee!

After so much gratuitous beauty this month, have I learned nothing? Forgotten that pervasive sense from my early weeks that it’s all a gift? That we are called to give, as well as receive, hospitality? Perhaps I should have paid more attention to those other signposts—the crucerios, or stone crosses along the roadside. As one local sign notes, given that there are 12,000 of them across Galicia, “our sins must be many.”

Ain’t that the truth.

Freshly convicted, I realize that I should spend more time remembering today’s gifts. Such as: the cool morning mist; being able to carry my full pack again (mostly) without pain; the beautiful views from the porch of my albergue; and the hospitality of Kriszti from Hungary, who this time notices that I’m the one alone and invites me to join a group of her friends for a meal.

But, as is often the case with hard hearts, what really softens mine towards new pilgrims is some radical proximity.

After a long, hot 23km walk to the lakeside town of Portomarin, I am just getting settled in at my albergue when I encounter a Korean woman who’s collapsed on a table in our shared kitchen. She just barely manages to tap out a Google Translate request for help. Her friend has apparently left to run an errand. The proprietor looks at me, and I look at him. Assuming she’s dehydrated, we're nursing her with sips of fluids and literally carrying her up two flights of stairs to her bed.

Afternoon plans altered. Thankfully, her friend soon returns, and she turns the corner.

As I recall my own times of need on the Camino and those God has used to help me, I’m struck—and ashamed—by how ridiculous it is to compare one pilgrim’s “worthiness” with another. I was this rookie pilgrim once, needing help and wisdom.

In other words, there but for the grace of God go I.

So, as I drift off to sleep, I give thanks again, including for my one-person bedroom. Not just for my own privacy, but so that my Camino Crud (the hacking cough kind) won’t keep everyone else awake!

A Fresh Town

Walking down the hilly streets of Portomarin the next morning, I am struck that people aren’t the only ones who need redemption. Sometimes, whole towns need to be rescued.

As my guidebook explains, many buildings in Portomarin were completely relocated up the hillside after the creation of the Belesar reservoir below flooded the original Medieval town. In fact, the individual stones of the austere Romanesque fortress-church of St. John (below) still bear numbers that helped with their reassembly. The work was done by the workshop of Master Mateo, the famous sculptor of the Portico da Gloria at the cathedral in Santiago.

After crossing the bridge to leave town, I begin a gradual ascent through varied woodland terrain to a peak of about 1600 ft before a slight descent towards my next destination, Palas del Rei, about 25km away. It will be my longest hike since Leon.

Given the distance, I decided to ship my pack ahead at least one last time. Yesterday’s experiment carrying it by myself went pretty well, but it’s been almost 2 weeks since I had a full rest day, and I am feeling the soreness.

Fresh Faces

I meet mostly new faces today, and they continue to redeem my impression of those pesky new pilgrims.

People like Sirius, a young acolyte to Father Stefan, the barefoot priest. From India, Sirius is far more nonplussed than I by the notion of a barefoot pilgrimage. He met Father Stefan while a pre-med student in Germany and agreed to accompany him as a wingman on this Camino. Upon learning that I am both a physician and a Christian, he spends the next hour peppering me with questions about faithful vocational discernment in the practice of medicine. Ironically, he’s not the only one I will have that conversation with today!

Paolo is a new student at a Catholic seminary in Valencia, Spain. One of his professors takes the first year class on a weeklong, community-building pilgrimage on the Camino every year. He leads them in liturgical prayers while hiking, stops for teachings, and then circulates for 1-on-1 time with each young man.

Originally from Portugal, Paolo is older than most of his classmates. He’s actually just completed medical school. However, after a conversion experience while serving on an away rotation in Lima, Peru, he has decided to pursue Christian ministry full-time. Needless to say, we have a lot to discuss!

Another surprising face today belongs to a guy named Steve, who walks out into the trail to offer me a free cup of coffee. A Virginian, he’s come to Spain on a short-term basis as a volunteer hospitalero at La Fuente del Peregrino in the village of Ligonde. I learn that their purpose is to help pilgrims deepen their pilgrimage experience through service, hospitality, and unconditional love. Sounds–and feels–like they’ve tapped into the true Camino spirit.

Later that evening, after settling in at my albergue in Palas de Rei, the seminarians are making their presence felt. After a remarkably full pilgrim mass, the students gather in the courtyard outside to play music and sing praise songs and some folk favorites, attracting an enthusiastic crowd. Their youthful joy is tangible and refreshing.

Fresh Legs?

As is a new business around the corner.

It’s literally called “Fresh Legs!” Offering a mix of massage, pneumatic compression, and cryotherapy services, it was opened just days ago by a physiotherapist and Camino veteran who decided there was a market to help pilgrims recuperate during the final stretch to Santiago.

I am happy to offer myself as a test case!

The cryotub is both painfully frigid and a little gross (How many people have been in this water exactly?), but the massage and pneumatic therapy are definitely keepers. I leave feeling like a new man.

After two days of newly solo hiking, I have 70 more kilometers to go. But my cruddy heart has been refreshed, and now my legs have too! It remains to be seen how long the effect will last on both.

We’ll just have to wait and see…

I’m starting to question it.

The route back to the main Camino from Samos is a LOT longer and hotter than I imagined. And there’s a lot less enchanting stuff to look forward to than yesterday. We’re also being reminded that life still goes on outside the Camino. After a call from his girlfriend, George is suddenly distracted by his cell phone, trying to make plans for after he finishes.

What are my Plans?

It makes me wonder: What am I doing after the Camino?!

I came here with a one-way ticket and no reservations. And due to the uncertainty over my own capacity to finish, I haven’t allowed myself to consider such possibilities until just the past day or two.

But as my odds of completing this crazy endeavour increase, I feel the need to start making some kind of plans. In my mind, I begin to ponder the possibility of some R&R near a beach, followed by a stopover in England to visit my son Isaac, who was unable to get away to join me for a portion of the Camino like his siblings.

Regardless of what I do, the bottom line is that George needs to get to Santiago by June 3. That means he will need to proceed at a faster pace than I can wisely sustain. Sadly, this will be our last day hiking together.

I prefer not to talk about it.

Eventually, after 10 long and quiet kilometers, we converge back onto the main artery of the Camino. Like a surge of red blood cells seeking to oxygenate a tired body, the pilgrim traffic is picking up as we approach Sarria.

A little voice warns me: Dorothy, we’re not in Samos anymore.

Pulpo!

It’s almost midday now. My shins are barking, I’m tired of dodging other pilgrims, and I’m feeling hangry. So, when an enterprising restaurateur on the roadside holds up some boiling octopus from his pot, I’m all in! I’ve read about Pulpo a la Galena, a Galician specialty since the early monastic days. It’s prepared simply but tastily with salt, paprika, and olive oil.

And, wow–I even get to pick my own octopus. It’s like a Galician Red Lobster!

The pulpo, which tastes and looks a lot like calamari, is finger-licking good. After washing it down with a cold Radler, we’re ready to walk the final stretch of paved pathways into Sarria proper.

Welcome to Sarria

Though not big (pop. 13,000), Sarria feels busy. As the main entry point for those seeking to walk the minimum (100km) requirement to get an official certificate of completion for the pilgrimage to Santiago, it sees a large influx of perky new pilgrims in addition to grizzled veterans like us.

Also among the grizzled vets is my old friend Emily from Tennessee! (Is it OK to call a woman “grizzled”?!) I’ve only seen her one other time since we met weeks ago–and got lost together–on the way out of Pamplona. She’s excited that her husband will be joining her tomorrow to walk the final stage of the Camino with her. Hopefully, he’s a more reliable walking partner than me!

Ever thoughtful, Emily recalls my interest in the spiritual aspects of pilgrimage and introduces me to a new friend she’s met—an Episcopal priest from Georgia named Tommy. We exchange greetings—and a secret Southern Episcopalian handshake (just kidding).

But Sarria is more functional than quaint—not somewhere I want to hang out for very long. I’m glad to be moving through quickly to an albergue in a quiet village a little further down the trail. So, after a brief rest, George and I press on several kilometers in the 90+ degree (F) heat. I’m getting eager to get my pack and shower off in comfort.

The only problem is: my reservation turns out to actually be back in Sarria! There were two different albergues with the same name, and the one I’m actually staying at—and where my pack has been dropped off—is now well behind us. And I only make this discovery after a long, hot descent, which I will now need to tackle in reverse.

Ugh. A month into the Camino, and I’m still learning hard lessons!

As a result, George and I say our goodbyes a bit earlier than expected. He’s energized to meet up with Rainer and Gerhard at an Airbnb rental two hours down the trail, where they can watch the Champions League Final soccer match on TV. But we promise to try to reconnect in Santiago before he leaves.

It’s not the first time I’ve said a goodbye to my main Camino buddy, but behind my grin, there’s a bit of a catch in my throat this time. I wonder if it may actually be goodbye for good.

Welcome Back to Sarria!

So, I trudge back up the hill in the blistering heat, lingering to document the moment next to one of those garish signs that have recently cropped up to demarcate the principal Camino towns by name.

Soaked with sweat, I arrive to check in to my albergue for the night, and I am glad to be reunited with my pack. Steam is rising from damp towels hung out to dry in the intense sun. Upon arriving in my third-floor bunkroom, I’m surprised to find Emily from Tennessee. She is completely unaware, though, fitfully napping on top of the sheets in the bed next to mine.

The Camino is really just a small town after all.

Not wanting to bother her, I shower and head out to find a cold beer and wait for a pilgrim mass. I can’t help but notice a priest walking by who isn’t wearing shoes. We strike up a conversation. His name is Father Stefan from Germany (because, of course). This is the 8th Camino he’s walked–all of them barefoot!

As someone whose feet hurt just touching the floor each morning, I’m stunned. The tar in the asphalt is literally bubbling from the heat. And the rocky, gravel-strewn trails might as well be flesh eaters. This is truly next level.

I may be officially walking apart from my “Los Caminos” friends going forward, but I’m glad to see that there will be no shortage of interesting characters.

After a pilgrim mass, dinner, and a complimentary shot of liqueur at our albergue, I try to get some sleep. It’s not happening. No air conditioning seemed reasonable back in the chilly foothills of the Pyrenees in early May. Now it feels like a curse.

My mind wanders as I struggle to find a cold side of the pillow. I am sad not to be hiking with my friends anymore, and wondering what the next 5 days will be like. But I do take solace in one thing.

At least I have shoes!

• Keep going or stop for the night?

• Walk alone or seek company?

• Listen to the pain or ignore it?

Today the choice is more simple: Right or Left?

The right path follows the main route towards Sarria via San Xil. The left path follows an “alternative” route through the quiet village of Samos, which will adds 7 more kilometers to our journey.

To this point, I’ve been a fan of scenic routes, but mostly ones that only add 2-3 kms of walking. At nearly 400 miles into the journey, with regularly sore feet and shins, I wonder if this one will really be worth that much extra mileage. But after the festive entry to Galicia, it seems time to savor one last dose of extended quiet.

The truth is, we’re wary of the crowds of pilgrims that will begin to surge in Sarria. It’s the last major town where pilgrims can start and expect to be certified as an authentic pilgrim by receiving the Compostela (certificate of completion), which requires you to walk at least 100 kms. As a result, according to my guidebook, “pilgrim numbers increase exponentially.” Yikes.

We decide it’s best for us to savor any solitude we can while we have it. And besides, Samos, a quiet village that’s home to a vast and historic monastic complex, seems like an interesting place for a stopover.

So left it is!

After a stop in Triacastela (“town of 3 castles”) for a second breakfast of empanadas and coffee, we veer left at the split. For the next 24 hours, we will be testing the wisdom of Robert Frost, who said (in “The Road Not Taken”):

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

A Valley Where Time Stands Still

The side trail to Samos is almost eerily quiet. Over 10 kms, we encounter just one other pilgrim—that is, except for a group of gregarious Argentine retirees who show up at the one cafe on the entire segment. They were traveling by bus from town to town and going for brief walks only on the most scenic stretches. (It’s a good reminder that there are many ways to do the Camino!)

The Remoteness is the Point

The village of Samos grew up around one of the oldest and largest monasteries in the Western world. Founded in the 6th c., it was initially small scale and modeled on the asceticism of the Desert fathers, who envisioned the wilderness as a place to come closer to God. The monks of Samos later adopted the influential Benedictine rule in 960, and their community gradually grew in size and scope to become a major cultural and religious center in Spain.

But a millenium later the community is dwindling, and there is relatively little activity in the surrounding village when we arrive.

In fact, it feels like a ghost town. I’m half expecting tumbleweeds (and perhaps a gunslinger?!) to show up on main street. So, taking advantage of the relative privacy, my inner American kicks in and I take some hokey photos at the incongruously modern sign overlooking the monastic complex.

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Not Alone–Thankfully!

After arriving, I choose to once again savor a cold water foot soak—this time in the shallow River Ouribio, which runs through town and the monastery property. In the process, I meet a few of the rare fellow pilgrims who’ve made it this far off the beaten path. They turn out to be Spaniards from Catalonia (which George tells me is kind of “the Bavaria of Spain”), and one of them, Raoul, speaks English. He shares that he and his friends typically choose a portion of the Camino to walk together each year for about a week.

After meeting so many internationals, it’s easy for me to forget that a healthy plurality (42-44%) of pilgrims each year are actually from Spain. One of the reasons I forget this is that they tend not to travel the whole Camino Frances at once, as I’m doing. Add in the fact that I naturally gravitate towards English speakers, and it’s another good reminder that the Camino contains worlds that I am not aware of!

The meeting proves fortuitous. We’ve signed up for a tour of the monastery, but the monk leading our tour speaks no English. Taking pity on us, Raoul comes to our rescue, interpreting as we go along.

An Austere Wonder

After the relatively small monasteries I’ve visited so far on the Camino, the Monasterio de San Julian de Samos seems simply HUGE. Like 14,000 square meters huge. The largest of the two monastery cloisters (an enclosed courtyard and surrounding walkways) is actually the largest in all of Spain. A fire in the 1950’s caused much damage, but it has been beautifully restored, with lushly painted vignettes of sacramental life on the cloister walls.

Only after going on tour, though, do I realize that the magic of this place lies not just in its beautiful architecture, but also in its topographical setting in the crook of a deep valley, where no horizon is visible. As one of the priests at Samos writes, “So secluded, so narrow, so buried is that Monastery between four high mountains, which not only enclose it on all sides, but oppress it, that it is only seen from the stars, when they are vertical.” In other words, the only place to look is up—to the heavens.

A Skeleton Crew

And yet, despite this enchanted setting and rich history, we learn today that there are only 7 monks left at Samos to carry on its mission. SEVEN!

I have to wonder: how does such a small community maintain such a vast complex? The modest price of our tickets to the tour could only cover a fraction of the maintenance costs. Rome must surely be shouldering much of the burden. Nevertheless, we decide to “do our part” by ordering one of the monastery’s delicious Mencio red wines and purchasing an herbal liqueur from the monastery gift shop.

Everyone has to sacrifice now and then! (Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge!)

When we return later in the evening for Vespers in the monastery chapel, I am once again struck by both the austere beauty of the space and its bizarre mixed messaging. In particular, I can’t ignore the juxtaposition of statues of knights beheading enemies literally on either side of the altar where the gospel is being preached! Shades of Santiago Matamoros (“St. James the Dragon Slayer”) once again.

Sated with monastic stuff, we head to dinner. Rainer and Gerhard have rejoined us now, and we also welcome a new, younger pilgrim friend from Hungary named Kriszti. We’ve seen her intermittently in recent days and, since she’s alone, are happy to welcome her into our reconfigured pilgrim band, affectionately known as Los Caminos. Like my daughter Jessie before her, she seamlessly integrates into the boisterous banter of older men, which gets a little extra fuel from the herbal liqueur from the monastery gift shop.

Meanwhile, in the surrounding sleepy village, no one is home. Literally.

When we arrive at our small inn for the night, the doors are locked. A neighbor hears our verbal consternation and eventually notifies the owners, who send their 13 y.o. daughter to “check us in.” Good thing we paid online, because she is the only “host” we will see until we leave the following morning.

And we thought the monastery was running on a skeleton staff!

We sleep well, but I wonder: What changes lie ahead when we emerge from our quiet valley home tomorrow...

Are. (gasp)

We. (gasp)

Doing…?!! (gasp)

My calves and lungs are in rebellion. I’ve made the executive decision to take the scenic route today, and they are not pleased. It feels damn near vertical.

The Road Less Traveled

As you’ve likely noted from other posts, one recurring theme of my Camino has been to take the “alternative route” whenever possible. Sometimes it’s on purpose. Sometimes it’s not! Sometimes it’s painful. But it’s almost always rewarding.

Today is a case in point. I’m approaching the final mountain range before descending into the province of Galicia, setting for the final stage of the Camino Frances. The scenic and steep Pradela route out of Villafranca has beckoned me as a quieter and more beautiful option than walking the main route along the highway below.

Freed up from carrying my full pack for at least a few more days, I figure it’s worth a try. It only adds an extra 1.5 kms of distance. And, despite the vertiginous start (1,500 feet of altitude gain over 3 miles), the views, hamlets, fragrant chestnut groves, and relative solitude are a wonderful payoff–especially since I’m told that the trails will be filling up with new pilgrims in the days ahead.

But I’m perhaps most struck by the birdsong!

It’s like an avian symphony up here, with so many calls of so many types. The blend is so restorative. It’s like a magic spell causing every part of your being to relax and reboot. Which makes sense: as a recent article in National Geographic explained, generous birdsong appears to be perceived by our brains as a sign of safety. (Compare it to the dread you might feel in a forest that has gone eerily quiet due to the presence of some threat.) It’s like nature’s equivalent of Julian of Norwich’s reassuring words: “All will be well.”

Bats don’t provide the same peace of mind, however.

George is bringing up the rear again after having a rough night’s sleep, compliments to some of those flying mammals buzzing his bed last night on the top floor of his albergue. But he still gets so energized by the beauty of our scenic route that he literally skips down the mountain—a decision his own calves will regret over the next few days!

Back in the valley, we reconnoiter for a break from the pavement with two of our favorite Camino couples, Andrew & Aine and Simon & Bev. We find a tiny cafe run by a former rock ‘n roller from California, of all places. Pizza, churros, and a dog named Oreo were not what I was expecting on my lunch break, but they all hit the spot.

While Andrew and Aine choose to stop early and rest there for the night. George and I decide to press on to the tiny village of Las Herrerias. It’s been getting hot as we approach June, and we hope to be in pole position to tackle the steep ascent to O Cebreiro in the cool of the morning tomorrow.

Las Herrerias

After 20 km of hiking, we reach Las Herrerias, our staging ground for the ascent. I’m eager to sit down next to an old Roman bridge and resume my ritual of soaking my aching feet in a cold mountain stream. The familiar sequence of burning pain, tingling, and eventual—even if only partial—numbness sets in.

Gracias. (I think!)

After dinner, we enjoy the sunset and some sangria outside our albergue with Gerhard (another tall, retired Bavarian, George has wrangled up) and Tom, the former Scottish priest with typically poor British dentition. He’s exclaiming about his passion for fruit: “BYOF! Bring Your Own Fruit!” Watching Tom make himself cackle over and over again causes a ripple effect of laughter through the group.

After the second round, we learn from some other guests that there are horses stabled nearby that offer a much kinder and gentler passage up the mountain to O Cebreiro. The question arises: should we ride as well? We’ve earned it, haven’t we?!

It’s a tantalizing thought for a 600m climb, but the consensus is…: No. We’ve made it this far on two legs. We’ll dance with the ones who brought us.

Horses, Shmorses!

And so, early the next morning, we begin walking with a staggered start as usual. Horses be damned! It’s tough sledding, but I savor a rest stop in tiny La Faba before coalescing again with Andrew, Aine, George, and now Rainer (whom I haven’t seen since Castrojeriz). Along the way, we see that–after two weeks in the vastness of Castilla y Leon, we’ve crossed into the province of Galicia, where we’ll complete the final leg of our journey.

The big climb has a payoff: We’ve finally crossed over into Galicia!

Together, we make the big push up to the crest of the mountain. But just as we make our final approach, my ears hear something that confuses me.

“Hummmmmmmmmm… NEE-yaa-ree-yaa-REE-yaa! Hummmmmmmmmm…”

Faintly, but growing in volume, I detect the familiar notes of what sounds like a bagpiper. Or as George likes to call it, in his Germano-English slang, “a doodle sack”!

And indeed it is a bagpiper!

No, we’ve not crossed a magic Chunnel into the Highlands of Scotland. There’s apparently a significant Celtic influence on this region of Spain. It turns out those darn Celts sailed and set up shop all over the North Atlantic coasts—not just on the British Isles, but also on modern-day France and Spain.

And vestiges of their presence linger on in these mountaintops. In fact, Celtic-style, stone igloo-type structures with grass roofs have been used in O Cebreiro well into the 1960’s. And the ancestral language, Galega (a cousin of Gaelic), is still spoken by a substantial minority.

“Wood Fires, Manure, and Pilgrim B.O.”

This is what O Cebreiro smells like, according to the renowned travel writer Rick Steves. But today the aroma of wood fire and manure pale in comparison to the pilgrim B.O., especially from yours truly! But there’s no rest–or showers–for the weary. All the rooms in O Cebreiro are booked, so we’ll need to press on down the trail to find lodging for the night.

In the meantime, though, I’m grateful to pay homage to a very special figure who’s buried here. The pre-Romanesque Iglesia de Santa Maria Real, the oldest extant church on the whole Camino, was first constructed to facilitate worship for pilgrims in 813. Well over a millennia later–in the 1970s and 80s–the church was the parish home of Father Elias Valina Sampedro, the priest who did more than anyone to bring the Camino to the attention of the modern world.

As I detailed in my second post in this series, Father Elias was both a visionary and a maverick. At a time when the Camino had fallen almost completely into disuse, he unleashed loads of paint and enthusiasm to waymark hundreds of miles of ancient paths with yellow arrows. Along the way, he educated Spaniards and anyone else who would listen about the history and significance of this pilgrimage route.

It strikes me as both fascinating and a bit sad how few modern visitors here are aware of his role.

But perhaps that’s as it should be. From what I’m learning, it was never really about him. In fact, his vision was to introduce the Camino to secular modern people who couldn't care less about priests, let alone St. James. He trusted that the Camino would do its thing and provide what their spirits needed, even if they didn’t have a religious framework for it.

Well, it’s apparently doing its thing on one of the ladies I sit next to for lunch in O Cebreiro.

No sooner have we gotten into the first course than we are going typically deep in conversation. Soon, this middle-aged South African is sharing about her big flash of insight on the Camino: it’s time to leave her husband! Perhaps not what Father Elias envisioned. Nevertheless, I never cease to be amazed at how people open up so quickly here and speak from the heart.

The rest of the afternoon is spent walking mostly along the ridgeline and hoping we can find a place to stay. The volume of pilgrims seems to be picking back up as we approach this final stage, and the next couple of villages are full. I start to worry a bit, but once again, we stumble just in time upon a hidden gem at a tiny, wide spot in the road called Fonfria.

Oh, Play Me Some Mountain Music

A Reboleira is one of the most delightful places I’ve stayed at on the Camino. Granted, the bunk rooms are massive and the bathrooms tiny (Don’t ask me how many times I bonk my forehead in the phone booth-like shower there!). But its hospitality sets it apart. After cleaning up and washing some clothes, we head down to dinner, which is served family style in a large, renovated round house behind the main inn.

The proprietors used to be in the restaurant business, so they know how to prepare good food for a large group. There’s more red wine, beef and rice than we know what to do with. And we then experience our first taste of traditional Galician cake–Tarta de Santiago. It’s a round, flat, flourless almond cake with lemon zest and a hearty sprinkling of powdered sugar on top. Delicious! And we’ll see a lot more of it as we go.

But the festivities truly commence after dinner. Our host comes in dancing solo with some Celtic-style Galician music blasting from a boombox. Soon she’s leading pilgrims from multiple nations in a series of dances. Let’ just say that anyone who can convince weary pilgrims to get back up on their feet like this after hiking up and over these mountains must be doing something right!

After dinner, I spend some time journaling and watching the typically late sunset from one of the outdoor lounge chairs. The glow of the day is hovering over me–literally and figuratively. The hills these past few days have truly been alive. And not just with sound of music, whether from birds or bagpipes. But also hope.

Having made it all the way to Galicia and accomplished the last major climb of the Camino, I find myself allowing myself for the first time to… look ahead. That includes exploring options for and after—dare I say it?—my arrival in Santiago! As someone who came here with just a one-way ticket and who feared he might never make it all the way, it’s a new sensation.

Although my pace may not be able to keep up with the others, I think I actually can finish this thing. And after the encouragement of the past few days, I once again deeply want to.

Knowing I’ll be slow, I depart early, trusting my friend George to catch up as he usually does. Our other Bavarian companion, Rainer, has a bad cold and has been sleeping separately on a slightly different pace to avoid waking up the whole hostel with his coughing and snoring. I can’t help but wonder if the constant cigarette smoking is the bigger factor, but I digress…

A Welsh Welcome

Early on, I meet a friendly pair of pilgrims who share my pace. Simon is an exuberant recently retired Welshman who has walked the Camino before with his daughter. His wife Bev, who is taking her first crack at the Camino, claims not to be as much of an adventurer as Simon but seems to be enjoying it nonetheless.

We decide to continue walking together. As I get to know them better, I discover that exploring is actually in their DNA as a couple. For their honeymoon, they went backpacking in Southeast Asia and Down Under–and ended up staying away for 18 months! Simon loves the U.S. and is also happy to answer all my questions about Wales, where I’ve never been.

After a while, I can’t help but notice a recurring, rhythmic sound: “Scccrrrrttch… Scccrrrrthch…. Scccrrrrttch…”

After looking around, I realize that Bev is regularly dragging her right walking stick with every step. No handicap or intention behind it–just an idiosyncratic habit. Just like the tick-tocking clock in the hungry crocodile’s stomach gave away the presence of Captain Hook (in Peter Pan), you can literally hear Bev coming before you can see her!

After scratching our way down the trail for several miles, we stop to check out a beautiful hermitage chapel in tiny Fuentes Nuevas. The art inside includes an elaborate ceiling fresco of the Last Supper. Let’s just say it compares favorably to some of the graffiti “art” left nearby by some tired and grumpy peregrinos.

By lunchtime, George has caught up with us in a village called Cacabelos. We enjoy some cervezas, calamari bocadillos (sandwiches), and some good old-fashioned people watching from our outdoor table. Feet rested and bellies full, we set out together as a foursome on the “alternate route” for the afternoon’s walk, betting that a couple of extra kilometers of effort will be worth it in softer trails and natural beauty.

Wine Country (again)

We soon find ourselves exploring the different fields and microclimate of Bierzo wine country. It’s the first such region we’ve been in since we left the Rioja and crossed the Meseta.

Apparently, the approaching proximity to the Atlantic Ocean moderates temperatures (compared to the rest of mostly hot Castile y Leon), while the unique soil composition produces notable wines with a distinct mineral character. Unlike our earlier visit past the Bodega Irache winery, however, there is no free wine fountain to drink from! We’ll have to wait til later this evening to sample the fruit of the land.

Meanwhile, look! Some roadside cherry trees. Their ripe fruits also entice us–so much easier to just pick and eat! But signs warn us hungry pilgrims to keep our hands off. Reluctantly, we soldier on, doubly abstinent, to Villafranca del Bierzo.

Villafranca (again)

If the name Villafranca feels familiar, there’s a reason. There are actually lots of “Villafrancas” (“French town”) in Spain. I’ve probably walked through at least three of them. The practice is a vestige of how churches and the infrastructure of Medieval Camino towns were frequently subsidized by French kings who competed for ostentatious public displays of wealth, devotion, and influence.

This Villafranca is a decent size town of 2,500 with a broad central plaza and numerous options for eating and lodging. Best of all for me, there’s a cold mountain stream running through it. After dropping off my stuff at my albergue, it’s a perfect opportunity to soak my aching feet and shins after another long day–a practice I’m finding more and more necessary the further I walk.

The first minutes of this exercise are painful. The icy, mountain water shocks my extremities—and Pablo—into submission. But eventually, my lower limbs become “comfortably numb.” I trust the temporary discomfort will be worth it down the road.

After my soak, I seek out a nearby bench to sit and journal in the warm afternoon sun.

Surprise!

Rather abruptly, though, my solitude is interrupted.

I find myself surrounded by four gregarious octogenarian women. They’re chattering and making themselves comfortable next to me on the bench like they own the place. Perhaps they do. Have I accidentally stumbled onto the Spanish set of “The Golden Girls” TV show? I offer to get up, but they just squeal at my broken Spanish and welcome me to the party.

As I head out later, the matriarch hands me a whole bag full of delicious local cherries! I tell them about the signs warning us not to pick any on the way into town, and they just cackle mischievously and send me on my way.

Fun and Fellowship with Friends

I bring my red treasures with me back to the plaza. It’s become a rendezvous point for dinner with some old and new pilgrim friends: Andrew and Aine, George, his new friend Gerhard (also from Germany), and Niall, the young lad from Ireland. I find myself getting to have a more in-depth conversation with Niall, whose combination of Irish accent and a slight stutter I always find quite endearing.

In typical Camino fashion, the conversation goes deep rather quickly, but this time with a bit more urgency and earnestness. I find myself answering a rapid succession of questions of concern to this recent college graduate: Are you married? How did you decide on the right person? How about children? How did your faith inform those decisions?

After catching my breath, we also discuss Niall’s rather abrupt decision to come on the Camino after a breakup and his challenging first days on the Camino. That includes the time he wandered the streets looking for lodging outside Pamplona until being taken in for the night to the home of a concerned local man (who turned out to be an immigrant from Venezuela himself!).

I have to both laugh at and admire the guileless way Niall seems to show up in life, often unprepared but always “open to outcome.” A case in point surfaces on Andrew’s iPhone. He shows us a picture he took of Aine the day before in Ponferrada. Not a particularly memorable shot–she’s turning away, and the castle is mostly out of view. But what he only noticed later was a brown blob in the background. At first, he thought it was a homeless man who’d crawled into the grassy castle moat to sleep.

But then, vaguely recognizing the hoodie, he thought, “Wait a second. That isn’t a homeless man. That’s Niall!!” Of course it was! Like a Spanish, semi-homeless version of “Where’s Waldo?,” Niall–who wasn’t feeling so hot that day–was just looking for a comfortable place to rest and ended up accidentally photo-bombing Aine.

After enjoying some pizza and a fine local red wine from the famous Bierzo vintner Raul Perez, I surprise everyone by passing around the bag of (previously forbidden) cherries that the Golden Girls had given me. Niall asks what they taste like.

I respond, “What do you mean, ‘what do they taste like?!!’” (thinking to myself: “You naive cretin!”)

Niall clarifies, somewhat sheepishly, “I’ve never tried one before.”

We soon rectify that sad dilemma, and Niall is all smiles. A novel cordial of semisweet red juice christening his lips and tongue.

Being together with an intergenerational group of old and new friends is a fun way to cap off the day, especially after a period of prolonged solitude for me. It’s a perfect “cherry on top” for a grand day on the Camino.

Yesterday I made it over the physical highpoint and symbolic threshold of the Camino at the Cruz de Ferro. And today I’ve got a modest hike (15km) to the Templar castle town of Ponferrada. But what should be a growing excitement to finish my journey has felt like the opposite.

I’m now mired in self-doubt, questioning whether I should even continue.

I’ve always known intellectually that life keeps happening back home when you’re on pilgrimage. But now I feel it vividly. Recent events back home have reached out of the phone line and grabbed me by the throat. My mind is filled with images of masked and heavily armed ICE agents arresting and detaining communities of hard-working immigrant families whom I’ve cared for as patients for years.

It’s hard to be present.

Instead, I ruminate. Walking through this beauty, day after day in remote Spain, feels like such an extravagance, almost a caricature of white privilege. I wonder: What good am I accomplishing? Am I losing my mojo?

These questions hang in the air, taunting me.

A Three Part Challenge

They say that the Camino Frances is composed of three sequential challenges: physical, mental, and spiritual. My experience is that these phases aren’t so easily divisible, but there is something to the broad pattern.

The first phase–starting with the Pyrenees until Burgos–is dominated by the constant physical challenge of adjusting to the rigors of so much damn walking. It’s all about survival.

The second phase–correlating with the long, flat, boring (to some) plains of the Meseta–is primarily mental. As the body’s chatter and the parade of new visual stimuli fade, you are challenged to be alone with your thoughts and feelings. And deal with them.

The third phase, roughly from Astorga until Santiago, is seen as more of a spiritual challenge. As the physical and mental noise fades, the deeper significance and implications of the journey emerge. It’s the payoff–where the real inner transformation happens.

I always thought that would mean uplift and joy. Instead, I’ve gotten a dark night of the soul.

Thanks a lot.

Welcome Diversions

But, as often happens on the Camino, on the walk down towards the river valley, my ruminations are interrupted by a sweet amalgam of sights, smells, and people. The weather is brisk and sunny, the hamlets are charming, and the scent of an ancient chestnut grove is disarming. As my wife would say, it’s “bucolic bliss.”

Then a pilgrim encounter puts my struggles into perspective. I’ve already been humbled once to meet an 80-year-old Englishman hiking the Camino Frances with his daughter. Today it’s my turn to meet a 1-year-old pilgrim! (and his very impressive and patient parents from Germany)

“Gunther” is currently in a stroller, but anytime he steps out he becomes the instant focal point of any Camino stop. A guaranteed community builder. The rest of us have gotten so used to adult company that a small child instantly brings out the “kid” in all of us. I prove my point by instinctively making some faces and uttering some baby sounds.

Goo Goo. Ga Ga!

Do these utterances translate into German? Judging by his face, I think so.

To be honest, I’m a little bit jealous of Gunther. Unlike me, he rides most of the time, gets lots of attention, and is years away from having an existential crisis!

After finishing 8 kms of steep descent, my knees are relieved to feel the firmness and altered angles of the path flattening beneath me. I’ve reached the handsome riverside town of Molinaseca. My guidebook says it has a population of just 818. But after miles in the mountains of El Bierzo, it feels like serious civilization. A spot beneath the dam is a favorite for pilgrims to take a swim, but it’s still too early in the morning (and chilly) for this peregrino to jump in.

Unexpected Grace

Instead, I head to a random cafe for a rest stop. And who should I run into, but Pete, the German art dealer that Jessie and I hiked with through a hailstorm en route to San Juan de Ortega! We briefly catch up and then discuss the possibility of walking together some more. But we agree that my shin-limited pace may not match his.

Before heading out Pete pauses and says that he has something to tell me. Judging from the eager look on his face, he’s been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. My curiosity is piqued.

“Oh?” I respond.

Pete says that in the weeks since we hiked together, he’s been in a number of other conversations with other European pilgrims talking about Americans. Apparently, our reputation is taking a beating. Whether he’s referring generally to the self-centered “ugly American” stereotype or implicitly to the crazy news emanating out of Trumpified America, he doesn’t say.

What he does tell me is this: “But I told them they aren’t all like that. Like you and your daughter–you’re different!” He goes on to thank me for the hospitality he enjoyed with us on what was a very hard and long day hiking together.

At a loss for how to respond, I just say, “Thank you, Pete. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, too.” And then he disappears down the trail.

I’m still processing this conversation when my tortilla and coffee arrive. I see two more friends and so I sit down at their table. It’s Sam and Joanne, the retired couple from the Pacific Northwest, whom I’ve been crisscrossing paths with for the past several days.

While Joanne steps away to use the restroom, Sam leans over and says, “You know, you’ve had a real impact on me.”

Curious and a little confused, I ask, “What do you mean?”

Sam proceeds to tell me that one of our previous mealtime discussions about my vocational choices, as well as the spiritual practices he’s seen me engage in on the Camino, have really got him thinking. We had discussed how science is a great gift, but one that needs something bigger to give it purpose and direction; and how faith can be both the inspiration and the lens for practicing medicine with deep excellence.

A committed agnostic, Sam tells me, “I hadn’t appreciated how faith and science could work together before we met.”

And when Sam takes his turn in the restroom, it’s Joanne’s turn to lean over. She thanks me for my intermittent presence in their lives in recent days as well, telling me it’s opened her eyes on several fronts. Then, before I depart, she asks me to pray for her.

Is Someone Scripting This?

As I resume my walk, my eyes fill with tears. It’s a familiar sensation on the Camino, but there’s something more behind it today.

First, I’m overflowing with wonder and gratitude for the dear, kind, and unsolicited words shared by these three new pilgrim friends. For someone who’s been questioning why he is even here, it’s a real balm for the soul.

But I’m even more awed by the timing of these completely unexpected and unsolicited conversations from friends who’d never met one another. How could they have known this morning was such a low point for me? Well, they didn’t. They couldn’t.

So, how on earth did that happen–at the same exact time and rest stop, no less?!

You could just say “the Camino provides” (again). And you would be right! But you could also say that God himself has been listening to my lament from earlier this morning—and is tapping me on the shoulder, as if to say: “You’re exactly where you need to be, Morgan. Just be here. And be yourself.”

I’ll let you decide.

Either way, it’s a huge relief. Basking in this timely affirmation, the miles to Ponferrada melt away. On arrival, I grab a late lunch and pause in the cathedral to journal and reflect on the events of the day. Needless to say, there’s a lot to digest. (Raw material for this blog post, actually!)

Then I check into a small posada with a view… of a huge Knights Templar castle.

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The Knights Templar

I have to admit I am pretty clueless about the Knights Templar. Most of my impressions about the mysterious Medieval order comes from reading The Da Vinci Code. And I’m pretty sure that the author of that novel-turned-blockbuster film wasn’t too concerned with historical accuracy! So, I decide to take a tour.

And I learn some things.

Like… that this Castillo de los Templarios was built in the late 12th century for a group of Spanish knights commissioned to protect pilgrims walking to and from Santiago. And how the Knights Templar got their name from the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, where the holy order of monk militants was founded to defend pilgrims to the holy land after the Crusades. And that the order grew rich and influential over time, effectively becoming the world’s first multinational corporation, complete with its own banking system (!). And that, after riches and prestige went to their heads (surprise!), the order was dissolved by the Pope in the early 14th century amid a whole lot of controversy.

My head is now full of esoteric historical information, which my Enneagram Type 5 personality loves. But my aching legs tell me, “Enough!” It’s time to head back to my inn.

Reunited–and it Feels So Good!

The good news is that I’m meeting up for dinner with my oldest Camino friend George for the first time in 2 weeks. The Bavarian threesome I traveled with earlier has been winnowed down. Thomas has returned home, and Rainer has been on a slightly different schedule due to a chronic, lingering cough. But it’s still great to see George, the fun-loving (and fluent English-speaking) instigator of our traveling band.

Though 20 years apart in age, we cut our teeth together as pilgrims and have seen “the Camino provide” time and time again. Over some dinner and beers—because, of course!—we enjoy stories about our respective journeys since our last time together, with a masseuse named Jesus back in Castrojeriz.

Needless to say, there’s lots to share. And it feels good to be an “insider” again for the first time in a while. I may be reconnecting with just one Bavarian, but I sense the energy level of my Camino is about to get a big jolt.

Just when I really needed it.

It’s late May in Rabanal del Camino, at 1,150 m (3800 ft) altitude, and the window is open. I’ll be gaining another 350 meters soon.

Time to layer up.

As the exertion of hiking and climbing kicks in, however, my relatively thin rain shell feels too hot. It’s a balancing act to keep your temperature regulated up here in the mountains. It’s Day 25 of my Camino. As I’ve learned by now, you’re no sooner putting layers on than you are taking them off.

Having surrendered the down vest I purchased to some nuns in Leon, I now have a bare minimum number of layers to work with. But they work. My trusty Smartwool T-shirt, my thin synthetic blend hoodie from REI, and my Gore-Tex rain jacket—they function like a veteran team. They know each other’s gifts and play well together. It’s a lean set of layers, but I trust them.

Letting Things Go

It took me a while to get lean.

But it’s a vital practice for pilgrims. As my Pray As You Go app reminds me, this isn’t just a Camino principle. It’s a consistent theme of the gospels. Jesus models it, and he exhorts his followers to do the same.

For instance, when he sends out his disciples to replicate his ministry, he explicitly instructs them not to overly provision themselves. Rather, they should trust for their daily bread and other needs to be supplied as they go. As Eugene Peterson memorably paraphrases Jesus’ words: “You don’t need a lot of equipment. You are the equipment.” (Matthew 10:10, in The Message)

He might as well have said, “The Camino provides!”

I’m learning that truth vividly right now. Leaving my full backpack to be transported ahead continues to be one of those gifts I am thankful for. I was initially too proud to consider it, but the Camino–and my fragile shins–humbled me. If that’s what it takes for me to make it to Santiago, so be it.

I’m also leaving other things behind unintentionally. Last week, it was my pillowcase. Yesterday, it was my Dr. Bronner’s highly concentrated multipurpose soap. Today it was my iPhone! Thankfully, I realized I’d left the latter after only walking a few hundred yards—and a kind fellow pilgrim returned it to me within a few minutes.

But it does beg the question: What else do I need to let go? Misplaced dreams, simmering resentments, agendas I have for people I love? They’re all fair game. As I walk alone, I have time to ponder what needs to be jettisoned.

Puerta Irago

An additional reason to ponder this question lies midway through today’s hike.

I’m walking towards the emotional and spiritual “gateway” of Puerta Irago at the Camino’s highpoint. For centuries, a symbolic Cruz de Ferro (“Cross of Iron”) has rested here atop a 50’ pole, marking a historically liminal space in the Way of St. James.

Back when the cathedral in Santiago was still being constructed, pilgrims gained special honor for carrying stones with them as a physical contribution to the burial site of St. James. Since then, a Camino tradition has emerged that pilgrims should bring a small stone from home–symbolizing the purpose of their journey–and leave it here at the Cruz de Ferro as a spiritual contribution to Santiago.

Resting at roughly the ⅔ mark of the Camino Frances, the iconic spot is a milestone from which it’s both literally and spiritually downhill to Santiago.

The site itself isn’t particularly impressive. There’s no natural viewpoint. Just the sense that you are at a relatively high place along a series of rolling hills. And there’s a new road built nearby that detracts a bit from the former sense of mystery and isolation.

But I figure it’s worth spending a little time here. So I find a bench and settle in for a bit.

Earlier in this blog, I reflected on how the Camino is a great opportunity to engage in what the philosopher Albert Borgman has termed “focal practices.” These are simple human activities that command your full attention and physical engagement. Activities like walking, washing clothes by hand, and preparing a meal. Activities that are increasingly rare in the modern world, because they cannot be mediated by a device or a screen.

Paying Attention

One of the focal practices I’ve been experimenting with on the Camino is sketching. I say sketch, rather than draw, because it feels more congruent with the relatively quick, firsthand impressions I jot down with a ballpoint pen in my small travel journal. I’ve got precisely zero training at this and even less skill. But I do appreciate what the practice does for me. It forces me to focus and pay attention to something–whether a caterpillar, a market scene, or the view out a window.

Today, my attention is directed to the Cruz de Ferro.

And what do I see? First of all, an incredibly slender pole–so much so that I have difficulty capturing the actual proportions in my sketch. I wonder, how long does it last before it has to be replaced? I also notice that, disappointingly, the cross faces oncoming pilgrims and not my bench. So, I cheat a little bit, altering its angle so I can include the distinctive shape in my image.

Then I notice the huge mound on which it sits. It must be 100 feet wide and 15 feet tall. Slowly, it begins to dawn on me that this isn’t a stabilizing device designed by a landscape architect. No, this mound isn’t structural, but devotional.

A closer look reveals that it’s composed of thousands upon thousands of small stones that pilgrims have brought and left behind over the years. Not unlike Native American burial mounds in my part of the world, it’s a physical manifestation of the lost loves and hopes of generations who’ve gone before me.

Then it dawns on me: I am such a loser!

I’ve arrived at this mystical site without a memorial stone. Ugh. FOMO revisited!

Since I intentionally avoided doing much research for this journey, I never learned about this tradition before I left. But even after I learned about it en route, the memory didn’t stick. In one of my “let it go” pack purges to empty out any unnecessary weight, I noticed and discarded the small stone which I’d picked up at some point but since forgotten the purpose for!

Womp. Womp.

Fortunately, I do have something in my pocket that I think might suffice.

It’s a 1.5 inch cross made out of a spent brass bullet casing. I bought several during a visit to Liberia years ago from some survivors of their civil war. I loved the redemptive, swords-into-plowshares imagery of it–an instrument of death turned into one of hope. And I’ve carried one with me as a physical reminder of where my hope is rooted amidst all my own recent challenges and loss.

And now it has a fitting new home:

But it’s time to focus my attention on some different stones now. Such as those scattered along the rocky trail heading eastward. Because the backside of this mountain is long and steep, and I’m not keen to add a sprained ankle to my laundry list of injuries.

So, I set off downhill. As I learned my first day while hiking over the Pyrenees, uphill is hard on the wind, but downhill is hard on the body. So I readjust my goals, deciding not to walk the full 11 km down to the bigger town of Molinaseca. I instead plan to stop halfway at a small village called El Acebo.

Noticing Our Whiteness

Upon arriving, I sit down for a late lunch at the first patio I see and welcome a new friend to join me. “Donna” is a professor at a university in Colorado, I chatted with briefly earlier today. Although she didn’t grow up hiking, she’s loved exploring the Rocky Mountains on foot and is thrilled now to be able to walk the Camino during a sabbatical. Not an uncommon story.

The wrinkle? She’s Black.

In fact, she’s the first Black pilgrim I’ve met on the Camino.

To some degree, it makes sense. The Camino has been a distinctly European experience for over a millenia. It’s almost “white” by definition. Only in the past couple of decades has it drawn broader interest from other parts of the world. But, despite meeting Brazilians and East Asians along the Way, and seeing a couple of Black members of religious orders, I’ve encountered no other Black peregrinos.

The topic eventually comes up in conversation, and Donna explains how much she wishes her students—especially African American ones—could experience the Camino. We both acknowledge the how the ripple effects of racism in our homeland has made that so challenging. I leave impressed by her gumption and hopeful that she can be an influencer.

But I’m also freshly aware of the blinkers I wear by instinct. Until this conversation, I’d not thought much about how “white” an experience this is. It makes me feel both chastened and a bit sad.

The “Hilton” of Albergues

I gather my larger pack from the preassigned dropoff spot and am told that the albergue I’ve reserved is on the far edge of town. I wander down the long, steep, and sinewy trail through the village, hoping I won’t have to walk back up anytime soon.

And then I’m stunned to see a gleaming new building complex on my left with a beautiful view over the valley. Could it actually be my hostel?

It is! It turns out that La Casa del Peregrino is the Hilton of albergues: a brand new hotel-like hostel with spotless facilities. They even offer massages and a pool (in season). The bunk rooms are for a max of 8, and the views from mine are fantastic. Not bad for 16 euros!

After grabbing a shower and a quick massage, I join the fray for a pilgrim dinner. And for the first time in a while, I feel… lonely.

But why?

One reason is that I’m sitting next to several people who’ve obviously traveled together off and on for a while. Listening to their easy banter, inside jokes, etc., it’s easy to feel on the outside looking in. It makes me wonder if I’ve done enough to make others feel welcome when they’ve shared a table with me when I was more of the “insider.”

But another reason for my sense of isolation is coming from inside me.

Feeling Blue

Before dinner, I had a long phone call with my wife back in Nashville, and she was deeply distressed. Tennessee Highway Patrol officers, in coordination with agents from ICE (U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement), have started targeting immigrant neighborhoods in my hometown of Nashville for aggressive traffic stops, seeking to detain anyone suspected of being in the country illegally.

The operation is wreaking havoc and terror among a population—immigrants and refugees—whom I’ve served as patients for most of my medical career. And not just among the undocumented. Dozens of longtime U.S. citizens or others with legal paperwork are also being swept up indiscriminately. Many, who were often just out running errands with family, are handcuffed and whisked away, leaving family members, including small children, behind to fend for themselves.

It’s a complicated situation, one I don’t have time to fully engage here. But the point is that these are dear people that I know and love. In my experience—supported by research—they tend to be more law-abiding, industrious, and religious than the U.S. population as a whole. The overwhelming majority strive to be good neighbors. Like the Venezuelan immigrant outside Pamplona who welcomed my Irish friend Niall into his home when he had nowhere to sleep for the night.

Reflection: This intervention–one of many similar dragnets ordered by our current president–recently resurfaced in the news after a local journalistic effort accessed body camera footage through a public records request. As suspected by many at the time, the justification of “pursuing public safety” was a sham. Of 600+ traffic stops conducted by THP over one week, 196 people were detained, but less than 1% were serious criminals. Meanwhile, all other traffic citations in more white-predominant areas were down across the board.

I have been blissfully shut off from crap like this while on the Camino. But when I do peer into my newsfeed about life back home, it’s ugly: stories of aggressive threats to freedom of the press, billions spent on mass detention centers, and people being disappeared in public by masked agents without due process. Stories that are eerily similar to the tales I’ve been learning about Spain under Francisco Franco’s fascist dictatorship. Demonization leading to dehumanization.

It’s all very infuriating–and depressing.

And it’s also disconcerting. Here I am walking this beautiful pilgrimage–and unable to engage these events, let alone do anything about them. It makes me wonder: Why am I here again? Is this just a colossal waste of time? Shouldn’t I be more engaged back home in the “real” world?

But then I’m jolted back to the present.

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A Balm Before Bed

A prior acquaintance named Tom, a retired Episcopal priest from Scotland, is saying hello. (It’s news to me that there is such a thing as an “Episcopalian” in Scotland. I thought that was just a U.S. thing, but Tom sets me straight.)

We first met back before Burgos when he was treating Niall’s badly blistered feet. He laments being too slow on the trail. “I keep losing my people!” he blurts out in a Scottish brogue with an infectious, self-deprecating chuckle. Tom is hilarious and tells great stories.

He’s also a good listener. Chatting with him is a nice balm for this solo and newly homesick pilgrim. We’re deep into conversation when Tom tells me to turn around and look at the horizon.

It’s one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve seen in a long, long time!

As the day winds to a close, I wonder if I can channel the spirit of the Cruz de Ferro and “let go” of my anxiety about what’s happening back home. I’m frankly not sure. I had just gotten to the point of thinking that I could actually physically finish this Camino, and now I’m wondering if I’ve lost the motivation to do so.

But this sunset reminds me of an important Camino lesson: when in pain,... seek friends and beauty. It doesn’t solve my dilemma. But it does pull me back out of myself–and into gratitude.

Unable to return to sleep, I decide to get going earlier than usual myself. After some delicious breakfast at one of Astorga’s premier chocolate shops (yes, you read that right!), I find myself leaving this charming town before most of its denizens are awake.

Behold the Man

After walking a few kilometers, I make a pitstop at a hermitage chapel located on the outskirts of town. I’m particularly intrigued by its name, which sounds vaguely familiar. It turns out that “Ecce Homo” (“Behold the man”) is a Latin phrase uttered by Pontius Pilate in the Vulgate translation of the Gospel of John. Pilate is presenting a bound Jesus, scourged and with a crown of thorns on his head, to a rabid crowd anticipating his crucifixion. It’s a scene that has taken a life of its own in the history of Western liturgical art.

As is the case with so many Catholic churches I encounter on the Camino, the message isn’t just written–it’s also depicted visually. A bound figurine of Christ presides behind the small altar. But what’s striking for me are the others we are also called to “behold” in this chapel. Along the left-hand wall are a series of historical photos of local parishioners.

The simple but dignified rural faces look out at us pilgrims, reminding us that there is also a local community who have called this parish home. It seems as if God is saying: “Yes, behold me. But also, behold these men and women. They bear my image. And you are our guests.”

Despite the different settings, something about these photos reminds me of old sepia-toned images of my own deceased family members from a similar era. I light a memorial candle in remembrance and leave a few euros in the donation box before moving on.

I also say a quick prayer for “Pablo.”

Pablo is the nickname I’ve given to the lingering ache above my left ankle.* Pablo has faded into the background a bit since I began walking without my full backpack, but he occasionally still lets me know he’s there. I’m trusting he stays relatively quiet for two more weeks, so I can actually make it to Santiago de Compostela under my own power.

Today’s destination is Rabanal de Camino, a tiny village in a fairly remote stretch of wilderness. One medieval writer advised pilgrims “to avoid it at all costs” due to wolves, brigands, or both. I’m hoping those problems have since been resolved!

My concerns today are more mundane. At 21km, it’s my longest walk since leaving Leon. It’s also mostly uphill, a sign that we’re leaving the “Meseta” flatlands of Castile y Leon and approaching the mountains of Galicia, including the highest point of the whole Camino, Monte Irago, which I’ll hopefully summit tomorrow.

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A Curious Sight

As I head back out on the trail, I’m intrigued by a pilgrim walking in the wrong direction.

He is dressed like any one of us—hiking gear, backpack, walking stick, conspicuous clamshell. Except, unlike every other pilgrim I saw this week, he was walking east, not towards Santiago. I was curious enough to ask him where he was going.

His answer: “Back home.”

He says he’s a Spaniard who has successfully accomplished his pilgrimage. And now he’s walking back home.

What a concept!

Of course, for nearly a millennium, that was what every pilgrim to Santiago did. After achieving their objective, worshipping at St. James’ burial place, and resting for a while, they simply turned around and… walked the entire journey in reverse.

In the modern era of the Camino, that is an exceedingly rare practice. Sure, some pilgrims will continue their walk another 40 miles or so past Santiago to Finisterre (Latin for “end of the earth”) on the Atlantic Coast. It brings some geographical resolution to their pilgrimage. But then they fly home. Or take a train.

Walking the whole journey twice in a row is relatively unheard of.

It makes me wonder, though: What would that be like? Probably lonely, for one thing. It would definitely be a far less communal experience. But it sure would offer an extended time to process what happened along the Way.

I don’t think my legs would ever forgive me if I chose to do that! But it does plant some seeds. If and when I ever finish, I’m going to need to be intentional to create space to process my Camino.

The Encouragement of Friends

It’s starting to get hot. But I’m buoyed by the relative lightness of my daypack and a number of small, friendly encouragements. Some of these friends I don’t even know. They’ve made their presence felt by leaving hundreds of small crosses woven from twigs and branches into a wire fence along a stretch of several hundred meters. It’s now appropriately called the “Via Crucis.”

I’m also encouraged by the first glimpses of some old friends from the first half of my journey–before my 5-day convalescence in Leon. First is Niall, the young Irish lad who came quite unprepared to the Camino on a whim–and paid for his rashness with a blister fest. It’s great to see him healed up and more enthusiastic than ever.

And I am also glad to run into Andrew and Aine for the first time in 10 days. They’re the couple that first met on the Camino six years ago–and joined up with me and the Bavarians intermittently after Burgos. After settling into our respective albergues, we meet up for drinks. It’s fun to listen to stories about Aine’s life as a visual artist and about Andrew’s intriguing work as an English police detective working in counter-terrorism, including around some royal estates.

I’m left with the impression that there are more fascinating and disturbing stories lurking under the surface. But when I ask for more details, Andrew just leans over with a steely look in his eye and says:

“I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you!”

Gulp.

I’m not sure whether I heard that or just sensed it. But rather than risk premature death or landing in a British witness protection program, I opt to go get some dinner.

Keeping Spain Weird

Thankfully, there’s a surprisingly nice restaurant here called El Refugio with room for one more. They specialize in the local cuisine of the Maragato people. The Maragatos are few in number now—perhaps a couple of thousand—but have a rich heritage in the region. I decide to order the local “special.”

Like the Basques, whose region I explored in the first week of the Camino, I quickly learn that the Maragatos are intense meat eaters. We’re talking serious Paleo people. I can’t even count the different types of cooked animal flesh that arrive on my plate!

It gets me thinking about all these disparate ethnic groups bundled together in Spain. As I continue to learn in my audiobook, contrary to my superficial stereotype Spain is no monolith. It’s composed of a whole variety of cultures with their own languages, practices, and identities. Sometimes it feels just barely held together with duct tape.

One of my favorite stories about the struggle to assimilate various cultures concerns the Catalan region of Spain. After unification five centuries ago under Isabella I of Castile and Ferdinand II of Aragon, the leaders of Catalonia were reported to have summarized their oath of fealty to the new kingdom in the following, cheeky manner:

“We, who are as good as you, swear to you, who are no better than us, to accept you as our king and sovereign lord, provided you observe all our liberties and laws. And if not, not!”

I’d like to see how that held up in court!

That feisty independent spirit lingers on in regions across Spain to this day. Much like the distinctly southern or Tennessean identity of my upbringing filters the way I perceive myself as an American. Perhaps even more.

It’s a good reminder that all culture is ultimately local. Maps and guidebooks are fine to start. But we need to go experience it for ourselves.

Caught in a Current

Since it’d be a death wish of acid reflux for my esophagus to bed down immediately after eating 3 pounds of meat, I decide to take in a vespers service. Tonight it’s at the small chapel of San Salvador de Monte Irago, a Benedictine enclave led by a group of monks from Bavaria.

Though the quickly chanted Spanish is still hard for me to decipher, it’s a familiar and comforting liturgy. But the group of pilgrims listening with me look tired. We’ll need tonight’s blessing and all the grace we can get to climb over the highest point on the Camino tomorrow.

As I stretch out on my bed in a (splurge!) single room for the night and reflect upon my day, an image fills my mind. The Camino is like a river flowing uphill.

Pilgrims need one another and its current to keep us going against long odds. We come from different directions and start at different times. Some, like leaves floating in a stream, move faster than others. Still others–like Niall or me-get stuck in eddies over to the side for a season, only to eventually get twirled back out into the main current.

But eventually we coalesce.

I’m grateful to be back in this current, encountering some old familiar faces. And even an occasional new one going in the “wrong” direction!

* The Apostle Paul is the inspiration for the nickname (“Pablo”) I’ve given my persistent shin affliction. He once struggled with what he called “a thorn in my flesh” and “a messenger of Satan, to torment me” (2 Corinthians 12:7). I’m not sure my affliction meets that dramatic threshold, but I have–like Paul–pleaded with the Lord to take it away!

This is the refrain from a Camino-inspired song written by my Bavarian musician friend Thomas from the first weeks on the Camino. As I continue my solo stretch of the Camino, taking more and smaller steps due to my shin splints, it’s basically become an earworm.

Especially the crescendo (“Always… Always… Always…”) and the emphatic rejoinder (“...Another step!”).

Thank you, Thomas. You may have returned to your French wife and your donkey Toulouse, but your words and tune about the Camino live on in my brain. And I can’t get them out!

Sometimes a good earworm can be helpful, though. Today I’m walking 17kms—a modest goal by my earlier standards, but still further than I’ve walked since my extended layover in Leon. Unlike my first two weeks of the Camino, however, I’m walking alone now. A good tune can help pass the time.

Cosmic Earplugs

The longer I’m on the Camino, the more I appreciate the gift of being alone. Our modern world is noisy, and the Way of St. James offers a much-needed tonic. Like a set of cosmic earplugs, it helps tamp down the noise.

I miss seeing my friends, but I’m also embracing the solitude. These past few days are not the first time I’ve walked without a regular traveling partner, but it’s the longest solo stretch I’ve undertaken thus far. And as I learned during my recovery phase in Leon, there’s a difference between solitude and loneliness.

Solitude is an important practice–a life skill even. It actually makes true community possible, according to the martyred theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer. As he once famously said: “Let him who cannot be alone beware of community…. Let him who is not in community beware of being alone.” (from Life Together) Solitude is the state of being alone without being lonely. It prepares and enables us for healthy relationships.

Loneliness, by contrast, is a state of disconnection. And that can happen in the absence or presence of others. In fact, it’s sometimes a lot more acute in relationships where intimacy and connection are presupposed.

Can all the married people say, “Amen?!”

As I’ve shared multiple times in these reflections, I’ve never felt lonely for long on the Camino. Those feelings certainly come–such as when my daughter left, or when I fell into social-media-induced FOMO in Leon. But it tends to burn off quickly. Like morning fog. New and old friends tend to emerge when you need them. And there’s also a deeper sense of spiritual accompaniment along “the Way,” too--if you’re inclined to see it.

There are clues, of course. Such as the near-universal impulse of gratitude among fellow pilgrims. Over and over again, we are drawn to give thanks. But to whom exactly? Some invoke the Universe. Others simply give thanks to… just “the Camino.” All that works. Gratitude is good, period.

But I can’t shake the sense that there is a Person underneath it all.

An Unexpected Oasis

One occasion for thanks today is an unexpected oasis on the trail to Astorga. Two-thirds of the way there, I stumble upon a wonderful, eclectic mix of chairs, free snacks, hammocks, coffee, and even a contemplative labyrinth. The refreshing sight of small children and cats round out the sense of “home” that I didn’t expect to encounter in the midst of a long forested trail through the countryside. There have been countless trailside offerings on a “donativo” (free / donations welcome) basis, but this one is easily the most elaborate.

Couples Therapy

Another blessing is meeting several friendly couples from different nations. Although my wife would love this experience, her work on a research project for a doctorate in Nursing Practice has kept her grounded at home. So, I’m a tad jealous of the couples who get to share this rich experience together. But I’m also grateful to be welcomed as a guest into these familiar micro-communities from time to time.

Marge and Terry from Australia are a case in point. They are delighted with how different the scenery is from their home Down Under. And they’re excited to tell me how a relatively new film called “The Way, My Way” has piqued interest in the Camino among Aussies like them in recent years, much as Martin Sheen’s film “The Way” did for Americans a decade earlier.

Meanwhile, Sam and Joanne are a retired couple from the Pacific Northwest whom I first met back in Villar de Mazarife. They attempted the Camino for the first time last year, but Joanne broke her ankle (!), ending their journey prematurely. They’ve come back this year to pick up where they left off. I ask if I can join them for lunch, and we trade injury prevention strategies. As we get to know one another, I am filled with admiration for Joanne’s resolve to finish what she started.

At first, I was a little skittish about interrupting their time together, but I soon realize that Joanne is a world-class extrovert, and Sam–who’s on the quieter side–is more than willing to share the conversational dance floor. It’s a good reminder that true hospitality is often a two-way street, a reciprocal exchange of gifts, some of which we don’t even realize we have to offer.

A Literary Companion

I also find myself being encouraged during my solo time by another “companion” who walked these roads half a century ago. That would be James Michener, the prolific 20th-century novelist known for historical sagas set around the world. He’s also written some nonfiction, including a tome called Iberia, inspired by travels through this peninsula in the 1960’s. On my flight to France, a pilgrim sitting next to me was finishing up her chapter from that book on the Camino and gave it to me.

She literally gave me just the chapter. Her husband, conscious that every ounce matters, had cut it out of the much thicker volume and rebound it with tape! It’s been my travel partner for the past 3 weeks now.

Michener is an enthusiastic writer, to say the least. His elaborate descriptions and compelling backstories have already compelled me to seek out several idiosyncratic sites along the Way. As I read his section on Astorga, he’s in utter rapture over a meal he enjoyed at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant called La Peseta. It just so happens that it has grown and is still in business 60 years later.

So, after walking the last few kilometers into Astorga, I make a beeline for La Peseta for a late lunch. It’s the only time on the Camino that I’ve made a restaurant reservation. But, boy, is it worth it! The same pork loin Michener raved over melts like butter in my mouth–perhaps the most tender piece of meat I’ve tasted in a few years. And the whole experience of fine dining for lunch after walking 17 kms is a wonderful treat.

“Leon Lite”

After checking into my albergue for a shower and a quick nap, I rouse myself to go explore Astorga. It’s a beautiful old town with Roman roots, set on the crossroads of several ancient Spanish paths. With delightfully walkable streets, good restaurants, innumerable chocolate shops, lively markets, and a beautiful cathedral all within the old city walls, it feels like a smaller version of Leon, which I enjoyed so much just a few days ago.

And one other thing it has in common with Leon? A spectacular structure designed in 1887 by the Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí.

This one is called the Palacio Episcopal (“Bishop’s Palace”) because it was built as a home and administrative office for the region’s Catholic bishop. One of only three structures Gaudí designed outside of Catalonia, the Bishop’s Palace quickly became a misnomer. Convicted by the ornateness of the Cinderella’s castle-like structure, the bishop decided it wasn’t appropriate for him to live in. As a result, the neo-Gothic structure has instead become a beautiful museum dedicated to the Camino and its pilgrims.

The museum also contains a wealth of wonderful art, including the original Cruz de Ferro (“Iron Cross”), which was once mounted atop a 50-foot pole on Monte Irago at the highest point of the Camino Frances. But the main theme is St. James himself, the patron saint of Spain.

James (“the Great”) has been traditionally understood to have preached the good news in Spain after he and the other disciples were scattered to the ends of the earth. Although there’s no definitive proof of this particular ministry, it’s plausible and deeply held. Camino Iconography thus frequently depicts James as an apostle, with an open bible in hand.

Another frequent image depicts James as a pilgrim. This symbol is anachronistic, of course. But it seems to convey to Catholic pilgrims over the centuries: “I know what it means to be a pilgrim, so you can invoke my aid on your journey.” I get it.

Santiago is… Complicated

Where the tradition becomes a little harder to swallow is the story of how James’ remains made it back here in the first place. According to tradition, after his beheading in Jerusalem, James’ body was brought via a series of miraculous events–which may or may not have included a stone ship sailed by angels–through the Strait of Gibraltar, and up the northwest coast of Galicia. An oxcart reportedly brought his body 40 miles inland, where it was buried–and promptly forgotten until the early 9th c.

The timing of that rediscovery was fortuitous. Regional Catholic kingdoms were actively soliciting support from the rest of Europe for a Reconquista to take back the peninsula from Muslim rule by the Moors, a task that would take over 500 years. A busy pilgrimage traffic from all over Europe to Santiago ensued, as did growing European support for the Reconquista.

This is where the third, more problematic image of St. James comes in. As I recounted in my post about Castrojeriz, it’s based on the legendary stories of Santiago Matamoros (the “Moor Slayer”) riding a white horse, bearing a sword, and beheading and trampling hapless Moors underfoot.

As you can see, St. James’ legacy is…well, complicated.

Yet here I am: 3 weeks and 300+ miles into a pilgrimage named after the guy. No turning back now!

Even though saints don’t loom large in my Protestant imagination, I’ve appreciated the depth of devotion and the traditions of hospitality and ecumenism that Santiago has inspired. But it is weird to realize this dark side of his story after you’ve already gone “all in” on a pilgrimage to the man’s burial site.

As I head to bed in my albergue, I reflect on the odd mixture of admirable and shameful elements to the history of this trail. But I realize that if I’m honest, my faith tradition of Anglicanism has its own feet of clay. And so do many others. I suppose we could all stand to be more honest about our histories, in all their mixed-up-ness.

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

With new trail shoes, compression stockings, KT tape, and heel cups, I’m hopefully well-equipped to fend off recurrent shin splints on the next phase of the Camino. At a minimum, I’ve made some nice investments in the local foot care economy!

And as on my first day, it starts inauspiciously–with a taxi. Today, though, the taxi is a way to skip the mostly asphalt and concrete first few kilometers of cityscape. Sticking as much as possible to softer walking trails is better to minimize the impact on my legs and feet.

I’ve chosen the “scenic route” for my first day back on the trail so I can walk a shorter distance to stay in a small town called Villar de Mazarife. It’s great to be back in the flow, smiling and nodding to fellow pilgrims with a hearty “Buen Camino!”

But mostly I get passed a lot.

You see, my new gait involves taking intentionally shorter strides to decrease lower leg strain. And for the first couple of hours, it seems to be working. But by mid-morning, that old familiar ache in my left shin re-emerges.

Argh! So much for rest curing shin splints.

It’s not severe yet, so I shorten up my gait even further. I feel like those Japanese women from Shogun who walk with short, rapid steps to avoid ruffling their kimonos. It’s kind of embarrassing, to be honest.

Timely Words

But once again, I’m amazed by the timeliness of the devotional on my Pray As You Go app. As often happens, the selected Scripture seems providentially appropriate for my situation. Today, it’s Jesus’ words to his disciples (John 14:31) after the Last Supper, as they head out to pray in the Garden of Gethsemane, where his betrayal and crucifixion await.

“Rise, let us be on our way.”

As I remind myself: he wasn’t exactly inviting them to a cakewalk. A garden, but not a rose garden. In other words, this is going to be hard; so, let’s get going.

With fresh and relevant marching orders, I embrace the call to be on our way (“camino”), leaning into not just the discomfort, but the plural possessive pronoun. Combined with my new Japanese shuffle, this sense of holy accompaniment helps me to reach Villar de Mazarife by early afternoon without too much difficulty.

Surprises in Store

Ready to stop walking ASAP, I secure a bed at the first hostel I see–the Albergue San Antonio de Padua. After resting and icing my leg, I explore the sleepy village, where African storks rule the roofs and old men playing cards in a bar are a spectator sport.

When I return to my hostel’s bunk room, I have a pleasant surprise: I will be the ONLY pilgrim sleeping tonight in a room with 30 beds! I even have my choice of four showers and three toilets. What a difference from our crowded first days on the Camino!

Fortunately, over dinner, I meet other guests who are staying in private rooms. One “couple” from England turns out to actually be a man and his sister-in-law. Apparently, their spouses weren’t into walking the Camino, so they were glad for them to both go on pilgrimage together. Let’s just say it’s made for some interesting conversations when ordering rooms for two!

“Uh, no, we’ll pass on the queen-size bed, thanks! Two twins will do.”

Over breakfast the next morning with the other guests, I encounter another surprise: I am the only true backpacker in the bunch. It seems everyone else in this more genteel set has a whole route booked out and bags sent ahead daily to make for a more pleasant walk.

As my wife would say, “so civilized!”

Nigel, one half of the British in-law “couple,” encourages me to do the same. “It’s simple and costs just 6 euros,” he says. “Why not just try it?”

I mumble something about my pilgrim pride. And the fear of entrusting my prized possessions to a driver I’ve never met. But, having seen me icing my shins, they won’t let me off the hook so easily. Eventually, I see their point. 25 fewer pounds to carry could make a difference. Can it hurt to try?

And so, with some trepidation I entrust my trusty pack to the “JacoTrans” service and set off for the day with only my small knapsack.

Some initial thoughts as I’m freed of my larger backpack for the first time on the Camino…

The result? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!:)

14km later I couldn’t be more delighted. It’s not a long day by Camino standards, but it’s been well over a week since I’ve walked so far without shin pain! And the further good news is that my pack arrives intact. Maybe I can trust this transport service thing after all.

Hospital-ity

My home for tonight (Day 22) is a town with the odd-sounding name of Hospital de Orbigo. It’s a tad ironic because for the first time in days, I don’t feel the need for a hospital!

It’s a ubiquitous term on the Camino, though. The word “hospital” in place names and signage is a reminder of the ancient institutions where monastics like the Benedictine sisters I met in Leon traditionally offered care to injured and sick foreign pilgrims along the Way. It’s a rich tradition, all rooted in the parable of the sheep and the goats that Jesus shared in Matthew 25. It’s still worth reflecting on today:

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’

Boom!

That mindset–of hospitality as a holy imperative with eternal ramifications–had a transformative impact on European culture. As both a physician and a lover of history, it’s a story I have studied and taught. An early monastic from Cappadocia (modern-day Turkey) named St. Basil the Great pioneered a novel combination of an alms house for the poor with the best Hippocratic medicine of the day.

Prior to that time, medicine was only available for those with money or influence. Soon, Christian monastics, embracing Basil’s example and the spirit of Matthew 25, turned that expectation on its head. As monastery-based hospitals proliferated, some monks would even bow prostrate upon the arrival of a poor, sick person, whom they referred to as “our Lords, the sick.”*

That is radical hospitality, and it has so much to offer our impersonal Western health care “system,” especially in North America—but that’s a rant for another day!

Jousts, Art, and a Camino Hero

Arriving early, I have time to wash clothes, rest, and savor the small charms of this quiet but substantial pilgrim town.

Such as the lengthy stone bridge, La Puente de Orbigo, where a local 15th c knight, scorned by a beautiful lady, threw down the gauntlet to challenge to a fight any knight who dared to cross. I’m not sure if it solved his romantic troubles, but over the next month he and his comrades reportedly broke 300 lances of knights from all across Europe! The inspiration for a Monty Python sketch, I wonder?

I then enjoy a little taste of the arts, beginning with listening to a local ladies’ choir practice in their parish church. Afterwards, I spend a little time savoring the art on the walls of the Albergue San Miguel, where an easel and art supplies invite pilgrims to relax their bodies by exercising their right brains. During my recent downtime in Leon I actually began sketching some street scenes in my journal, and I’ve found that it helps me to pay attention to what I’m looking at.

But the biggest blessing of the evening is serendipitously running into a young Dutch woman named Stefanie whom I’d met two weeks earlier. She tells me excitedly that she has just walked over 50km!

I’m even more humbled by her rationale than her stamina. At her first stop for the night, she offered to yield her bunk to a later-arriving pilgrim who was more tired and needy than her. After walking several kms further and settling down once again for the night in another small village, the same situation basically repeated itself. And once again, she offered up her bed to a fellow pilgrim, and hiked on until she reached Hospital de Orbigo!

Her already ambitiously long hike got extended twice—all for the sake of strangers she’d never met before.

As I listen to Stefanie, I note that her exhaustion can’t obscure a radiating glow in her face as she relates this story. It dawns on me that often the Camino does provide—not magically, but through the real individual sacrifices and heartfelt hospitality of people like her.

I think St. Basil would be proud.

* This phrase was actually written on the walls of the Knights Hospitaller hospital in Jerusalem in the 11th century. For those with an interest to further explore this topic, I commend the work of medical historians Henry Siegerist and Timothy Miller, as well as Christian History magazine issue #101 on “Healthcare and Hospitals.”

First stop over the course of the next two days is Casa Botines, the so-called “ice palace” built by the famous Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí in 1891.

Those familiar with Gaudí’s work likely know him for his provocative “sand sculpture” style works in and around Barcelona. Gaudí’s earlier work in Northern Spain isn’t quite that dramatic, but the Art Nouveau style of this 5 story building with its whimsical Medieval-inspired features was still quite novel in its day.

Constructed with private funds for residential flats with a warehouse on the first floor, it marked a historical turning point in Spanish architecture. Previously, such monumental-scale Spanish buildings were commissioned by the church or aristocracy. That doesn’t mean that it was devoid of religious influence, though: icons of St. George defeating the Dragon loom large throughout, including this statuary above the front door:

Today, Casa Botines is a museum showcasing Gaudí’s architectural innovations on the lower floors, while the upper floors host some incredible prints from those other Spanish artistic titans, Francisco de Goya (1746 - 1828) and Salvador Dali (1904 - 1989).

The Basilica San Isidoro is another eye-catcher. An opulent 12th c. church, cloisters, and museum, it hosts all manner of treasures, from gilded crosses to golden reliquaries for the bones of saints to massive illuminated manuscripts. “Illuminated” here means that the sometimes 2-foot-high pages of Holy Scriptures or lives of the Saints are adorned with ornate lettering or artistic flourishes. They’re from a time before the printing press, when books were rare treasures–reserved for special treatment and adoration like jewelry.

Meanwhile, the fresco-laden ceiling of its pantheon was another way to illuminate the stories of Scripture and church history. It’s known as the “Sistine Chapel of Romanesque art.” Though not as large or well-preserved as the real one in Rome, I’m still impressed.

But these are just the appetizers!

Why? Because Leon is home to the single most impressive church on the whole Camino Frances: the XIIIth century Santa Maria de Regla de Leon Catedral, known as the Pulchra Leonina (“Beautiful Leonese”). I’ve been spying its soaring towers from a distance during my stay and am excited to now get to experience it up close.

Unlike the cathedrals in Burgos and Santiago, which are so heavily adorned with side chapels and polyglot artistic styles, the beauty of this church lies in the pure Gothic aesthetic of the structure itself.

And it’s all about the light!

The cathedral boasts 125 stained glass windows—1,800 square meters worth—making it one of the largest collections of medieval stained glass in the world. At risk of making it a bit less structurally less sound, they give the church an otherworldly illumination inside. And that lighting changes throughout the course of a day.

(Nothing substitutes for being there in person, but this video offers a taste!)

During his time in Leon, Gaudí himself spent many hours inside the Pulchra Leonina while it was being restored. And he was deeply awed by its sheer scale and beauty, as well as the creative ways in which design supported purpose.

A case in point is how the morning sunlight filtering through the south-facing windows (portraying scenes from the gospels) illuminates the north-facing windows (portraying scenes from the Hebrew Old Testament). In this way, even illiterate laity could appreciate the story of Jesus as the key which illuminates and makes coherent the disparate stories and themes from the rest of Scripture.

For those with eyes to see, it’s like an Emmaus Road encounter —but mediated through architecture.

Gaudí had eyes to see. Although raised Catholic, he didn’t grow up particularly devout. But in the years after his stay in Leon, he grew more passionate to similarly use his gifts as a vehicle to express the light of God in durable forms. The Sagrada Familia Cathedral in Barcelona, which recently became the tallest cathedral in the world, would become the culmination of that vision. If you’ve never been to either cathedral, I can’t encourage it enough!

I wrap up my time at Leon’s cathedral by exploring the courtyards and adjoining museum. And I’m pleasantly surprised to run into a group of students from my med school alma mater, Vanderbilt University! They’re walking a portion of the Camino together as part of a travel abroad class. It’s a fun point of connection for this Nashvillian after 5 days mostly alone.

It’s been an “illuminating” day, to say the least.

And a fitting way to end my stay in Leon. I’ve realized that the best way to pursue a goal is sometimes just to stop. I’ve struggled with loneliness and FOMO, but been tutored and encouraged by the faithfulness and stability of the Benedictines. And finally, I’ve been blessed to take in the architect Gaudí’s artistry and some of his seminal influences—art that was literally generations in the making.

I’m also delighted that my shins have held up. I’m feeling much more hopeful about the prospect of resuming my Camino tomorrow morning. My friends haven’t arrived in Leon yet, but they are getting close. By getting a little head start, I can test out a slower pace on my own before hopefully reconnecting down the road.

And maybe, just maybe, reach Santiago de Compostela under the power of my own two feet…

#openhands

The dreaded FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out)!

The first and most obvious thing I’m missing out on today is celebrating my wedding anniversary with my wife. Of course, Heather knew I’d be away for this one, so it’s not really a surprise. But now that I’m off the Camino convalescing alone, it stings a bit more. We enjoy a good video chat, but my meager celebratory dinner consists of fruit and ramen noodles.

As I linger on the sofa, I ruminate on other things I’m missing as well. Things like: the new memories being created by my pilgrim friends who are continuing without me; experiencing key Camino milestones (like a photo-op at the sign marking the half-way point to Santiago); or just enjoying the deep solitude and beauty of walking across the Meseta.

But what’s the biggest fuel for my FOMO? You guessed it—social media.

I recognize the irony. I’m currently posting recaps of my Camino Frances experience online. So, take what I say with a big grain of salt.

But, at risk of sounding trite, it’s amazing how social media can alter one’s experience. I’m a slow learner. Before leaving for Spain, I studiously avoided reading much about the Camino online, other than how to pack. I actually didn’t even realize there were whole Facebook threads and YouTube channels dedicated to it. I merely re-watched Martin Sheen’s film, “The Way,” had a few conversations with former pilgrims, bought a guidebook, and started getting in shape.

And once on the trail, I haven’t had much time to be online, even when there is connectivity. I’ve posted a handful of pictures every 5-6 dates to ensure folks back home know I’m OK, but most of my energy has been focused elsewhere.

However, now that I’m stuck here recovering without much English reading material, I’m inevitably drawn to scroll on my phone. And somehow–I can’t recall exactly how–the all-knowing Facebook and Instagram algorithms direct me to all the cool and interesting things others are doing on the Camino right now. And then I start to think:

“Oh, I missed that.”

And “Now I’m going to miss that!”

And “When I was there, I should have done THAT.”

Etc. Etc. Etc.

Yuck! Within minutes, I’m learning vividly what a whole generation (especially of our young people) experiences at scale on a daily basis: Comparison really is the thief of joy.

An hour or two?–later, I reemerge from the social media rabbit hole. I’m much more informed about events on the Camino, but also much more sad about my current state of affairs.

Be Here Now

Then I recall the wise words a counselor once admonished me with: “Be here now. Be somewhere else later.”

If only it were so easy!

Thankfully, I do stumble onto one atypical Camino-centered Facebook thread that seems to embody this advice. It’s written by an American humorist and folk musician from Alabama named Sean Dietrich, who goes by the moniker “Sean of the South.” It turns out that Sean and his wife started out on the Camino Frances just a few weeks ahead of me, and Sean has been similarly laid up with a leg injury. His tales are full of woe and joy as he is separated from his wife and has to periodically catch up with her by taxi after she walks ahead.

A shot from my fellow pilgrim Sean of the South’s “Dispatches del Camino”

I’m grateful for Sean’s candor, humility, insight, and wit. Too tired to come up with much depth to share myself online today with friends back home, I just opt to link to one of his posts, as if to say: “THIS! This is how I feel right now.”

Sean is such a gifted and honest writer that I don’t end up feeling much FOMO after reading him. I’m just grateful. He models for me a redemptive way to share this personal journey with others online.

Reflection: Sean was one of several inspirations for me to start my own writing process on Substack after my return home from the Camino. So, Voila! Here you go. I should clarify that this exercise of composing personal online reflections is first and foremost for me. It’s one of the so-called focal practices I’m adopting for my “Inner Camino” I’m taking for the rest of my sabbatical year. I’m realizing that the commitment to write is a commitment to pay attention to both my inner and outer world. To reflect. To attempt to make meaning of an experience. Writing thus makes me more aware of what’s happening, more fully alive. That’s been my primary intention in starting this Substack blog. To wring yet more life out of this doggone Camino. But I’ve also learned that others seem to enjoy and benefit from it. If my writing has been a blessing to you in any way, I’d love to know about it. Just leave a comment or send me a message.

But there’s another counterweight to FOMO that I encounter in Leon. And it’s very much not online. It’s the shared monastic life of the Benedictines.

Now, I may refer to my solo stint in Leon as semi-monastic, but the Benedictine sisters of Leon at the Monasterio Santa Maria de Carbanal practice the monastic life for real. And yet they are not completely cloistered away from society. Rather, their convent is right in the heart of Old Leon, where they oversee one of the bigger albergues in town as a practical way to show hospitality to the stranger, as Jesus commended in Matthew 25.

I find myself drawn to attend evening prayers with them most nights while I’m in Leon. Not unlike the draw I feel towards my iPhone, it also stems from a hunger in me. But this hunger is not for diversion, but for stability.

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A Hunger for Stability

Stability–that word is significant.

My “history major” mind kicks into gear, recalling the context I learned about in a class I once took on Benedictine spirituality.

Beginning in the 3rd and 4th centuries A.D., Christian monastic communities emerged as models for how to go deeper into the spiritual life through vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. But by the 6th century, in the wake of the collapse of the Roman Empire, the world was in flux and untethered. And so were the monastics. Increasing numbers of wandering holy men called gyrovagues (from Latin “circle” + “wander”) were setting up shop in a particular locale only to pick up and move on to another one whenever they came into conflict with their fellow monks.

It was in this setting that Benedict of Nursia (480 - 547) began to compile a set of wise and rigorous standards for monks in his community. This booklet–the Rule of St. Benedict–began to be copied. And copied. And copied. It basically “went viral” before that was a thing. In fact, it went on to have such a formative impact on Western monastic life that Benedict was eventually named the patron saint of Europe.

A Novel Way to Be

What was so different about the Rule of St. Benedict?

Well, first was its practicality. Striking a flexible middle ground between the needs of the individual and the community, it provided a trellis-like structure to allow for monastic communities to remain both independently governed and yet consistent in practice. Second, the classic Benedictine phrase ora et labora (“work and pray”) both typified daily community life and symbolized their commitment to be in but not of the world.

In other words, Benedictines strive to not be so heavenly-minded that they are no earthly good.

But the most radical departure from monastic practice of the era was the Benedictines’ vow of stability. Unlike the gyrovagues, or even other monastic orders that might deploy a monk to multiple locations in a lifetime, Benedictines committed to staying put in a single community for life. The idea was that, because sin and conflict are inevitable, it is healthier to face them in the context of a committed relationship than to expect a change of geography to solve it.

Can I get an amen?!

It’s a doozy of a commitment. And it makes for quite a contrast here in Leon. On the one hand, a group of Benedictine nuns who’ve committed to one place of service for a lifetime. On the other hand, an international group of ever-changing peregrinos coming and going on a daily basis. It’s a paradox, but this deep sense of stability forms the foundation for radical hospitality.

So, on my free evenings in Leon, it’s my pleasure and privilege to join them for their evening vespers service, the ritual prayers marking the end of daylight hours. Though still opaque to me in parts due to the Spanish, I am delighted to begin to recognize familiar psalms, prayers, and hymns. And a highlight is always the gathering afterwards for pilgrims to meet one another and share a pilgrim prayer together after the service.

We are led in this pilgrim benediction by the gracious and multilingual Sister Maria. I am struck by her cheerful forthrightness. Each night she clearly reminds us that 1) All are welcome here; and 2) The sisters pray for us to experience through them the hospitality of Jesus, who is himself the Way (“el Camino”), the Truth, and the Life.

“His grace to us is why we are here to serve you,” she says (in English, Spanish, and Italian!). She speaks with the serenity and quiet confidence of someone who deeply knows who she is–and whose she is.

Is a nun crush a thing? If it is, I think I have one!

“Crushing” FOMO

If anyone has reason for FOMO, it’s a Benedictine. Do they ever wonder what life is like for the rest of us as we head to Santiago and beyond? Of course they must!

But by committing to one place and community–by saying “no” to lots of other options–they find themselves able to offer a deep “YES” to a different kind of inner journey in place, and one with no shortage of interesting people to meet.

We are all beneficiaries of that choice.

The more time I spend with the nuns, the more I forget what I’m missing elsewhere on the Camino. Instead, I become a de facto emissary for the monastery, recruiting others to prayer services and further winnowing my pack to offer a few of my belongings to their resource bin for pilgrims in need.

It’s not much, but it feels grounding. In a good sense. Not “stuck” grounded like a teen being disciplined by his parents and missing out on all the fun. More like being planted in the ground. “Deployed” to a firm base for a season of preparation. I’m slowly learning to just relax and receive it this way of thinking about my forced stopover.

And the other good news: my shins don’t hurt nearly as much!

Not that I’ve tested them very much, but after 3 days of mostly resting, I’m feeling good enough to venture out a bit further in the coming days. There’s still a lot more of Leon to explore…

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Like Burgos, it’s a bigger city of about 140,000 people. Now, “big” is relative on the Camino. When you’re walking everywhere, a town this size can feel like a veritable metropolis. To mitigate some of that disorientation and extra pounding on pavement, I’ve secured an efficiency apartment with a small kitchen on the edge of the Old City. Most that I’d need or want to see is within a relatively short walk.

Short is the key word here, as the whole point of my layover in Leon is to rest my legs.

Settling In

My apartment has no actual view of the city–or even windows, for that matter. Just some skylights above the sofa. So, as I periodically ice and elevate my shins, let’s just say that I am becoming more familiar with the clouds and birdlife than anything else in Leon!

Eventually, I figure out how to navigate the TV, but almost all of the content is in very rapidly spoken Spanish. I understand roughly every 20th word.

The one exception is…Eurovision!

It just so happens that I’m laid up during Eurovision 2025. For the uninitiated (like me until today), it’s a televised competition of musical performers from different European nations, with audience voting both in person and online. And lucky for me, most of the performances are in English. (I just didn’t realize Israel and Azerbaijan were considered European, but what do I know?!)

This year’s version is hosted in Basel, Switzerland, and I’m struck by the weird juxtaposition of national patriotism and often eccentric musical performances. It’s like American Idol trained for the Olympics but ended up at summer camp. The Estonian entrant was a case in point. Let’s just say that I’ll never think of Espresso Macchiato the same way again…

Venturing Out

But I can’t stay completely grounded at the apartment. Even on Sabbath, there are necessities to take care of, and walking a few hundred yards here or there is still vastly different than tromping 15 miles a day.

I’ll wait to tour some of the big-ticket items, but my initial glimpses of life in Leon are a striking alternative to the open fields and tiny villages of the Meseta. From weddings to commerce to tapas bars, I feel inside of a living community more than ever. And the Roman, Moorish, Romanesque, and Gothic influences make for a riot of styles and a palpable sense of history.

It’s refreshing to be immersed among Leon’s locals. Didn’t expect Spanish bachelorettes in cowboy hats, though!

After securing some groceries, the next item on my docket is getting some new shoes. I normally wear a size 12.5, but I’ve opted for a 14 on the Camino to allow for foot swelling and to minimize the jamming of my toenails on extended descents. Needless to say, life in Europe seems designed for shorter people, I’m skeptical I’ll find something suitable. So, I’m both surprised and thrilled to find both a known brand (Altra, with its wide toe box) in a size 14.

But I’m still not ready to discard my old shoes. Though worn, they were shoes that worked for me. Until the new Altras prove themselves, the Topo shoes are going to be along for the ride as backups.

La Peluqueria

Next on my list is a haircut and beard trim. Despite my mostly bald dome, my barber manages to spend a full hour working on me. There are three chairs and over a dozen instruments involved! The care, physical touch, and halting conversation in my remedial Spanish are a great reminder for this newly alone peregrino of the joy of embodiment and simple human connection.

I think I am also beginning to understand why so many women enjoy going to the hairdresser so much.

Speaking of which, I’ve found a friend!

Brad from Texas has just arrived after biking across the Meseta and is surprised to learn via WhatsApp that I’ve beaten him here. We’ve both come in unconventional ways to Leon, but we enjoy catching up over a meal at twilight on one of Leon’s many open air plazas with his hostel bunkmate Melanie from England.

Going Deep over Tapas

Earlier in the trip, Brad gave me a medallion that he’d made for his pilgrimage. Tonight, he shares the story of how it honors 3 of his family members who’ve died—and in whose memory he’s making his pilgrimage on the Camino. The medallion also creatively repurposes the famous vision receieved by Roman Emperor Constantine (“In this sign [the cross] conquer”) as a battle cry to help him finish his solo pilgrimage. Hadn’t seen that one coming, but it seems to be working so far.

After Melanie shares some about her own motivations for stepping away from a career in the UK and undertaking this journey, I share some of my own.

As I detailed in my initial post, my decision was catalyzed by my father’s transition from this life a few months earlier, but it also coincides with my making a significant vocational transition of my own without a clear next step. I just knew in my bones that the core work I’d most recently been engaged with (helping to launch a new medical school in my hometown of Nashville) was complete.

What was next was less clear. I just sensed that walking the Camino would be a key element of my discernment.

Am I further along in that process, she asks?

Emotionally, yes. The Camino–especially the past few days–has been a cathartic experience. The grief is starting to work its way out. My head is clearing. My heart is opening. And I’m experiencing rhythms and focal practices that I believe will be important ingredients in my ongoing life and discernment back home.

I just don’t know when that will be–and even if I’ll be able to make it to Santiago on my own power before I return.

But what I realize I need to embrace right now is Sabbath. Which literally just means stop (though it has so many more rich overtones). I thought I would be experiencing my Sabbath alone, but I’m glad to be mistaken, blessed yet again by the power of human connection on the Camino–whether via a Leonese barber, a Texan pilgrim, or his British bunkmate.

I’m slow to appreciate it, but God seems to be reminding me once again: whatever lies ahead, I am not alone.

I went to bed with growing uncertainty about what to do for my increasing shin pain. I’ve already taken a much-needed recent rest day in Burgos. But after just two days back on the trail, the pain is back and not getting better.

It’s still dark in my albergue when I open my eyes, wide awake and unable to go back to sleep. It’s a good time for listening.

So, I look for a quiet space to think and pray. The only common room available already has two pilgrims splayed out in it, refugees from loud snoring in one of the other bunk rooms. Not dressed for the chill night air, I decide to just sit in the stairwell.

A Sad Decision

By 5:30 a.m. I’ve made a decision: I won’t be going on today with the others. If I ever hope to make it to Santiago de Compostela, my shin needs more rest.

Which makes me sad.

In addition to George and Rainer, Andrew and Aine have officially joined our informal Los Caminos group, and I was eager to get to know them better. There are countless others, too, whom I’ve met intermittently and enjoy connecting with. It’ll mean goodbye to them as well. Yet more loss.

They’re actually getting up early, hoping to get going in order to catch sunrise from the trail overlooking the town. So, we share a final breakfast together, along with a friendly cat who keeps interrupting. They share some kind words, and I wish them well, trusting that somehow, in the Camino’s weird providence, we will cross paths again.

As I consider my options, I’m not keen to stay here in Castrojeriz. It’s been good to me–don’t get me wrong. But other than an elderly masseuse named Jesus, there’s not much to keep me here indefinitely. I’d prefer to recuperate in a bigger town with medical consultation available and a place to buy some new hiking shoes. My Topos trail shoes have been wonderful, but they are light, and the tread is already wearing out. Perhaps that’s contributing to the shin pain?

Who knew that Jesus “taking the wheel” would now come in the form of another bus ride! Grumpily, and with few other alternatives, I decide to take one for the 30 mile trip back to Burgos.

A Paradoxical Pitstop

But the bus doesn’t leave for a few hours. So why not take a quick tour of what’s around here? I decide to visit the large “Church of Our Lady of the Apples,” part of a convent complex on the edge of town. I’m not sure why it’s called that, but it proves beautiful–and not too many extra steps on my bum leg.

But nestled among all the beautiful architecture and artwork is a disturbing image of Santiago. It’s equally well crafted as the others I’ve seen. But in this one, St. James is on horseback and brandishing a sword, with terrified men in turbans underfoot.

It’s a motif known as Santiago Matamoros, or St. James, the Moorslayer”. It’s a long story, but basically the “rediscovery” of Saint James’ remains in northwest Spain in the 9th century was, shall we say, conveniently timed. The various Spanish kingdoms (there was no united, modern Spain as we know it today) were in the midst of a centuries-long conflict to dislodge the Moors after they had established a foothold on the Iberian peninsula in 711. And things weren’t going well.

Presto!

The emergence of St. James’ relics spawned a fast-growing number of devotional pilgrimages–and much-needed attention and resources to the area generally. But the reemergence of St. James in the cultural consciousness also spawned many legends. Such as his revisiting Spain to rally Christian troops into battle against the Muslim Moors. And sometimes even miraculously leading those battles himself.

I know. It’s deeply ironic that James—a herald of the gospel of Jesus, the “Prince of Peace”—would reemerge as a real-time, medieval warrior. Like his master, James was willing to be martyred in nonviolent witness rather than take up arms against his persecutors (Check out the New Testament Book of Acts, chapter 12).

But, sadly, it’s not too hard for us to imagine, is it? In a day and age when religious words and imagery seem increasingly appropriated for martial purposes, it’s a reminder that this twisted, human impulse isn’t new. It’s ancient.

But I don’t have time to dwell much longer on those incongruities today. I have a bus to catch!

A Plan Develops

It’s a bit unnerving to travel backward on the Camino. Even though comfortably ensconced on a bus, it’s both weird and disconcerting to realize how quickly a vehicle can cover in less than an hour the ground that you just spent two hard days traversing.

But, it is what it is.

Once back in Burgos, I find a clinic close to the bus station. I’m both surprised and grateful to be seen right away by an M.D., a Physical Medicine and Rehab physician from Ukraine no less. He concurs with the wisdom of my decision, but also notices some varicose veins (yay 🙂…NOT!) that may be contributing to the pain and recommends I try adding some compression stockings to my bag of tricks.

Just to be sure, I reach out by phone to a sports medicine colleague back home by phone as well. Miraculously, it’s right before his clinic starts, and he answers my call on the first try. He confirms my plan to rest for 4-5 days before attempting to resume my walk, adding a few new wrinkles to consider.

Leon or Bust!

Rather than linger in Burgos (again) and lose all hope of reconnecting with my friends, I decide to take yet another bus to the next major town of Leon. Who knows? With luck, I might be able to reconnect at some point after they finish crossing La Meseta on foot.

I’m striving to prioritize relationships over Camino perfectionism.

Knowing that most albergues require you to move on after one night, I use my bus ride to scan online for rental apartments close to the city center. But I have to admit: after the steady drumbeat of communal Camino rhythms, it feels strange, wimpy, and downright un-pilgrim-like to book an apartment for 4-5 nights just for myself.

But as the crucifix imagery in the churches along the Camino reminds all with eyes to see, the “Way” of Jesus is often counterintuitive. Proclaimed a King, he came as a servant. Offering eternal life, yet suffering death on a cross. Bidding followers to find their lives by losing them.

As the Mandalorian from Star Wars likes to say, “This is the Way.” It applied to James. And it applies to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m only tasting the slightest sliver of that reality as I limp into my comfortable Airbnb in Leon (no windows, but it does have skylights!).

It’s a kingdom principle that I’m prone to forget: sometimes, the way up is… to go down. The way forward is… to go back.

Or just to stop. That’s what the word Sabbath means after all. So here I am, embarking alone on an unwanted Sabbath in a strange town in a strange land.

Psalm 23 was a powerful image of encouragement for me after trekking through a hailstorm to San Juan de Ortega. Now the Good Shepherd is speaking to me through those ancient words again. This time, it’s about “making me lie down.” I’ve fought it long enough.

Let it be, Lord. Let it be.

My two Bavarian friends and I are intermittently walking together on the fabled Meseta—the windswept plateau in north central Spain that strikes equal parts fear and devotion in the hearts of pilgrims.

Though beautiful in its own way, there’s less varied topography than we’ve enjoyed to this point on the Camino Frances, so pilgrims are left more alone with their thoughts. Some love it. Some hate it. Some skip it. (Or, like Brad from Texas, they bike across it!)

My knee pain, which derailed and scared me so much at Burgos, is bearable now. But my shins are hurting more and more regularly. I’ve never experienced shin splints before, and I’ve rarely seen the condition as a physician either. It feels like a steady ache above the ankles that is periodically punctuated with a jolt of sharp pain. When that happens, I often wince audibly and come to an abrupt stop, then search for a better stride that might minimize the pain.

Passersby offer help, but I wave them off. Am I forgetting that pride goeth before a fall?

And with the pain come the familiar fears: Can I keep up with my friends? If I stop to rest (as shin splints inevitably require), will I see them again? Will I even be able to finish the Camino?

Physician, Distract thyself

Not wanting to perseverate further, I do what any self-respecting pilgrim would do: I distract myself!

I haven’t listened to a lot of audio from my iPhone so far on the Camino, but today seems like a good day for it. I enjoy some music, including the 60’s folk singer Sixto Rodriguez, whom we discovered through the fabulous, truth-is-stranger-than-fiction documentary Searching for Sugar Man (Trust me–just watch it!!), and the contemporary devotional musician John Guerra. Both are contemplative, but thankfully not quite as tear-inducing as the John Denver I listened to yesterday. My bandana might not be able to handle it.

I then learn some more insights, both tragic and humorous, about 20th century Spanish culture via an audiobook of “The Ghosts of Spain” by an expat British journalist. The first thing I realize is how little I know about Spanish 20th c. history! It’s a black hole for this former history major. I soon find myself hearing about everything from Spain’s lingering need for truth and reconciliation about the traumas of Franco’s fascist dictatorship to the story of how legalized bikinis saved its economy. (Hint: it rhymes with “bass pourism”.)

Rainer didn’t hit the trail quite as early today, so I enjoy distracting myself by getting to know him better as well. After hearing him continue to cough regularly, I inquire about why he started smoking again in his 60s. (Doctors really can’t help themselves!) He doesn’t speak English as fluently as George, so I can’t pick up the subtleties of the story. But I gather that it’s his way of reclaiming a sense of agency and enjoyment after surviving lymphoma several years ago.

A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, I guess.

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Spanish Bibimbap?

Eventually, we make it to the ancient fortress town of Castrojeriz. There’s an ancient medieval fortification overlooking the city, which has been in ruins since the massive Lisbon earthquake of 1755. We’re tempted to check out this castle and the beautiful view from the rare Meseta hilltop on which it sits, but our legs are just too exhausted at the end of the day.

Our friends Andrew and Aine, whom we’ve crisscrossed along the trail today, have been here before and recommend the Albergue Orion as one of their favorites. It’s run by a Korean-Spanish couple who—like them—met while walking the Camino and decided to start a hostel to cater to the growing number of Korean pilgrims. Sounds wacky, but we’re delighted at the prospect of mixing up our Spanish dinner routine with some bibimbap!

Savvy veterans now, George and I waste no time asking our host about any possible massage options. He asks us to wait a minute while he makes a few calls.

Success! He’s located an available option for us across town. Then—noticing my limp—he graciously offers to drive us the mile or so to the “office.” After wandering a maze of tiny streets, we park, walk along several more back alleys, and then wait as he knocks on the rear gate of an inauspicious house.

George raises one wary eyebrow, Borat-style. We are both starting to wonder if we are taking this “road less traveled” thing a bit too far…

Then out comes a short, older man named Jesus who leads us to a makeshift massage room off of his garage. Are we really doing this?

Yes, we are! One hour and 20 Euros later, we emerge wondering what in the world just happened. Let’s just say the old guy has some unorthodox massage techniques! Then Jesus invites us into his old Citroen sedan to drive us back to the Orion.

The others are glad to see that we’ve resurfaced. We do the usuals (shower, beer, laundry, elevating the legs) and the unusual (enjoying a Korean/Spanish fusion meal) before heading to our bunk room to get ready for bed. My muscles feel better, but the swelling and tenderness above my left ankle remain.

Despite all God’s provisions thus far, my faith feels weak. I’m uncertain about what to do. I fade to sleep, wondering what it might look like to let “Jesus take the wheel*” of my now injury-addled Camino.

And I don’t mean the “massage therapist” of Castrojeriz!

*For uninitiated (especially non-American) readers, “Jesus, Take the Wheel” was a hit country music song recorded by Carrie Underwood in 2005. It was actually written by an acquaintance, Brett James, who tragically died in a plane crash several months after I finished my Camino. May he rest in peace.

Today is my day.

It starts with goodbyes. First, to my daughter Jessie, who only expected to be with me for a week. But also to Thomas, our Bavarian troubadour, who extended his original one-week Camino plan by first 1, then 3, and then 7 days after a little negotiation with his wife back in France. We will miss them both dearly.

Los Caminos is now a group of just 3, and—as usual—Rainer leaves early. So, George accompanies me as I gingerly walk out of Burgos, testing the limits of my shins and newly wrapped right knee. The early going is reassuring.

We’ve not walked long, though, before we encounter two surprises.

Surprises

The first is a HUGE bird nest. Actually, LOTS of huge bird nests. Complete with some long-legged fowl lurking on the top of them on the church towers we walk past. A quick web search suggests these are white storks. We’ll see hundreds nesting across Castille y Lyon as they migrate from Africa to northern Europe. Mating pairs often return to the same nests year after year, which can get massive in size. Like 500 - 1,000 kilograms!

The other surprise is running into Brad from Texas. On a bike! Unlike us, outdoor-savvy Brad wisely delayed his hike over the storm-riddled Montes de Oca. Now he’s caught up with us. But he’s decided to rent two wheels to cover the next stage of the Camino Frances.

Who knew that was even an option?!!

There is some logic to it. The vast upcoming plateau region known as the Meseta has a “love it or hate it” reputation for being wide open, unsheltered, and monotonous.

As someone who’s been forced to ponder more creative, possible strategies to finish my own journey, I am in no position to judge. In fact, I’m taking notes. If my legs end up unable to withstand 300 more miles of constant walking, perhaps two wheels could be my ticket to Santiago?

But, as appealing as the idea is in the moment, it also seems a lonely option. I occasionally see other cyclists on stretches of the Camino, but most seem to be traveling in prearranged groups. It would be hard to pace with other walkers and sustain the kind of community I’ve found traveling on two legs. It seems efficient, but isolating.

Nevertheless, Brad illustrates an important Camino lesson: we all have to “walk” our own Camino. It’s ultimately an individual choice, and there’s no benefit to comparing or judging how others do it. The point is just to do it.

As Brad pedals ahead, George and I wish him well. We now have more 1-on-1 time to chat than we’ve had in a while. We’ve already discussed his decision to leave a job in sales and potentially start his own business as an outdoor adventure coach. But today I hear more about his family. Including the death of his father when he was just 21 years old.

It suddenly dawns on me: Maybe it’s not a coincidence that George has drawn together a group of older men to walk with on the Camino. Whether consciously or not, he’s surrounded himself with grey hairs (or no hairs, as the case may be!) as he thinks out loud about whether to take this significant next vocational leap. I’m honored to be invited in.

Warm as Tears

But my attempts to listen carefully to George keep getting interrupted by a warm, salty sensation on my cheeks. How annoying!

I don’t really know why I started crying. I just am. I try, unsuccessfully, to keep George from noticing.

There’s a poem* by C.S. Lewis that beautifully captures what I’m experiencing. I’m reminded of the first stanza, which I’ve committed to memory:

Love’s as warm as tears,

Love is tears:

Pressure within the brain,

Tension at the throat,

Deluge, weeks of rain,

Haystacks afloat,

Featureless seas between

Hedges, where once was green.

The Castillian countryside, so captivating just moments ago, is becoming a blur: “featureless seas between / Hedges, where once was green.”

And then there’s the snot.

It’s not as poetic as “haystacks afloat,” but I’m contending with it nonetheless. After all, tear ducts don’t just flow outward; they also flow into the nasal cavity. And all that liquid has to go somewhere… I find myself blowing my nose roughly every 30 seconds.

Not very subtle, Morgan.

I apologize to George and ask him to continue. He knows that my own abrupt decision to come on this journey was in part triggered by my own father’s death four months earlier. So, he graciously continues, allowing me to linger next to him as a listening, leaky faucet. Over the course of the next few miles, we share attributes that we loved—and miss—about our fathers.

Being a Mess

I guess you could say that grief needs space. And company. Truth is, as much as I initially fixate on hiding it, it may be that the greatest gift I have to offer George this morning is simply an older man next to him in tears.

The first two weeks of my Camino have been wonderfully full of learning, beauty, and physical challenge. But now that we’re in the flow of the Camino, with two of my children come and gone and with the big, wide open spaces of the Meseta ahead of us, a deeper level of sadness is beginning to surface.

And, of course, George’s story of loss is triggering my own.

Not just the loss of my father, either. But the loss of my mother three years earlier. And the long-ago loss of an older brother (Jesse—a namesake for my daughter Jessie—who died of a heart defect just before I was born). And the recent fading of a certain vocational dream. And the end of a special time with my daughter. And. And. And.

Griefs are like the hooks and loops on a close-up image of velcro. They connect up with each other, not content to emerge just on their own. They daisy-chain. As a “head” guy, I’m not used to my feelings showing up so visibly and unexpectedly. But I’m running into the reality that they’re in the driver’s seat, whether I’m aware of it or not.

Add in the breakup of our group this morning and my growing uncertainty about whether I’ll be able to complete the Camino, and frankly… I’m a mess!

Even after starting to walk more solo later in the morning, my eyes stay intermittently moist. And listening to John Denver’s Greatest Hits isn’t helping. It’s comfort music, evoking memories of childhood and “country roads [taking] me home.” It’s not eliciting grief exactly, but… a certain wistfulness. It primes my tear ducts just the same.

After stopping for some coffee and second breakfast, I pass through a tiny town called Rabe de Las Calzadas. Huge trailside murals on the sides of small buildings there combine various Scriptures with modern images. I see one of an injured hiker being attended to by a fellow pilgrim–a modern reenvisioning of the “Good Samaritan” parable. It hits eerily close to my recent experience.

More tears.

I see yet a small roadside chapel. Beautiful and empty, it beckons me to come inside. So I take off my pack to spend some time there to journal, lament, and pray. As I contemplate the simple crucifix on the wall and start to tear up again, the title phrase from Lewis’ poem comes back to mind: “love is tears.”

I realize that everything I’m experiencing–the beauty, the challenge, the grief, and the community, are all different tastes of, ripples from, or opportunities to experience God’s love. It’s just the shape that love takes on the Camino. And it’s taken purchase somewhere in my own heart.

After a while, I feel sufficiently unburdened, so I gather my things, wipe my face, and prepare to leave. But suddenly I sense that…I’m not alone.

A tiny nun is standing in the corner.

Where did she come from?! I guess that she’s the caretaker, as she offers to stamp my pilgrim passport.

“Puedo rezar por ti,” she adds? (“Can I pray for you?”)

“Ye–essssss,” says Morgan (Pressure in the throat. Voice breaking.)

She puts her hands on my shoulders and begins to pray in Spanish. And my recently shut floodgates burst back open. Unable to reach for tissue due to our awkward near-embrace, I’m unable to do anything about it. Soon, I’m dripping tears and snot again. On her table.

#UglyCry or #HolyTears?

Maybe a little of both.

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Something is purged. I feel dazed, but clean. Lighter. It’s like the sacrament of communion that I’ve been denied in the actual masses has now been delivered to me in the physical person of this tiny nun.

I don’t recall much of what follows. But the next thing I know, I’m several miles down the trail. I’m arriving at a hostel in the hamlet of Hornillos del Camino wearing a tiny medallion of Jesus and Mary on a thread. I guess the nun must have placed it around my neck?!

George greets me at the door of a hostel. He’s secured me the last open bed for the night and is proffering a cold beer. Because, of course! Soon I’m encountering more old friends: Rainer, Andrew & Aine, and even the Aussie mother-son duo of Sean & Philippa whom we last saw over a week ago.

After showering, washing clothes, and enjoying some paella at a communal pilgrim dinner, we wrap up the evening by playing some games. Tonight it’s a rousing and boisterous round of Uno, which a couple of Korean pilgrims watch with fascination. I even “win” a hand for a change!

Once again, I’m thankful for the Camino’s provision—including a tiny nun, holy tears, and a community to absorb them.

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*And rather than just share a link, I’ve included the full text of Lewis’ poem here. It’s worth lingering over.

Love’s as Warm as Tears

By C.S. Lewis

Love’s as warm as tears,
Love is tears:
Pressure within the brain,
Tension at the throat,
Deluge, weeks of rain,
Haystacks afloat,
Featureless seas between
Hedges, where once was green.

Love’s as fierce as fire,
Love is fire:
All sorts—infernal heat
Clinkered with greed and pride,
Lyric desire, sharp-sweet,
Laughing, even when denied,
And that empyreal flame
Whence all loves came.

Love’s as fresh as spring,
Love is spring:
Bird-song hung in the air,
Cool smells in a wood,
Whispering ‘Dare! Dare!’
To sap, to blood,
Telling ‘Ease, safety, rest,
Are good; not best.’

Love’s as hard as nails,
Love is nails:
Blunt, thick, hammered through
The medial nerves of One
Who, having made us, knew
The thing He had done,
Seeing (with all that is)
Our cross, and His.