The last five days have carried me in a quiet drift through the far northwest corner of Spain — Santiago, A Coruña, Fisterra — each place leaving its own soft mark on me.

Last Friday, our little band of pilgrims dissolved into different directions: some partings final, some temporary, some full with promises of future adventures. Usually, when I finish a Camino, I retreat inward, drawn into a private cocoon of reflection. But this time felt different. When I left for A Coruña, I carried a quiet joy in my chest, knowing I would see an old friend and then reunite with new ones for the journey to Fisterra.

A Coruña felt like a gentle reentry into urban life, its old town inviting me to get lost among tapas bars, its beach alive with the laughter of locals, the marina pulsing with the energy of wandering visitors. It was a soft landing, yet it reminded me how long it had been since I had let myself drift anonymously through a bustling city.

On Sunday, the train and taxi carried me quickly to the halfway point of the Camino de Fisterra. Tor and Hok were already waiting, and Eri arrived soon after. We shared drinks and dinner, our conversations spiraling into philosophical questions that only the Camino seems to inspire.

Monday’s walk to Cee was gentle, almost too easy, 20 kilometers along gravel paths and winding farm roads. We watched green hills roll past us until the sea revealed itself at the final turn, a sudden horizon that felt like a gift. We arrived in town, showered off the dust, and spent the afternoon in unhurried wandering and playful talk of creating a pilgrim’s albergue, a true oasis for souls like ours.

Tuesday brought a short 12-kilometer stroll to Fisterra. Those last 4 kilometers, we slipped off our shoes and let the Atlantic waves wash our feet, an unspoken ritual of release. I did not want to put my shoes back on; my feet felt baptized, unburdened.

That evening, we met Pav from the Czech Republic, who carried a kindness that felt rare and luminous. She gathered us all to the beach with a picnic she had assembled from the local market. We watched the sun slip beneath the sea and shared a simple meal, salt in the air, laughter curling into the dusk.

Wednesday morning came too quickly. My friends walked me to the bus stop; we lingered in that last stretch of togetherness before scattering again. On the bus, I found an echo of the past weeks, a family from California we had crossed paths with many times. We shared a fleeting reunion before they vanished into Santiago’s labyrinth of streets and faces.

Today, Santiago feels different. The errands I had to run pulled me through its winding lanes, but beneath each step there was a low hum of melancholy. The familiar post-Camino ache settled into my bones, the tension between belonging and returning, between motion and stillness.

I realize now that my sadness is more than just an end-of-walk melancholy. It points to something deeper. In California, my social life has thinned over the years. Working from home, scattered friends, long quiet evenings, I have grown used to a certain solitude that no longer feels like choice. On the Camino, that solitude dissolves into shared meals, spontaneous laughter, the warmth of strangers who become family for a few days or a few weeks.

I can feel the shape of a question rising. What comes next? Paid work seems to be fading from my horizon, but what will I reach for instead? Social projects? Volunteering? Another country? Another Camino?

The Camino always has a way of peeling away the layers, of showing me what I did not know I was missing. And maybe this one is not quite finished with me yet. Maybe I am not quite ready to return. Maybe I never will be.

This is my final blog post from this Camino, and I want to thank each of you for following along with me, for walking beside me in spirit, sharing in the small joys and quiet reflections. If any of you have questions, thoughts, or simply want to talk more about the Camino, please reach out to me directly. I would be happy to share a conversation, just as I have shared these miles.

Arriving in Santiago always feels like stepping into a dream that you are not quite ready to wake from. Today marked our final day walking together, the last physical steps of this long, winding Camino. We gathered at Monte do Gozo, finally reunited after being scattered across various albergues and reservations. With hugs, bright smiles, and a rousing “Happy Birthday” for Ana, we set off in a lighthearted, celebratory mood. At a luxurious 8:30 start, practically midmorning by Camino standards, we ambled the final 4 kilometers, arriving at the cathedral around 10:15, give or take a few spontaneous photo stops, café breaks, and extra stamps for those who wanted to squeeze in one last sello.

The moment we stepped into the Praza do Obradoiro, it felt as if our hearts all spilled out together into the square. We were happy, overwhelmed, and somehow already nostalgic before we had even finished hugging each other. Reaching the cathedral is beautifully bittersweet. There is joy in the accomplishment, pride in the perseverance, but also an ache because we do not want it to end. These weeks of laughter, blisters, shared dinners, and philosophical rants under thundering skies have welded us together in a way that feels deeper than everyday life allows.

After a storm of hugs and the usual group photos, some with tears and some with goofy faces, we dropped our packs into storage, perhaps the greatest act of freedom after weeks of carrying them like a second spine. We slipped into the cathedral to pay our respects to Saint James, a quiet, reverent moment to thank him for his silent companionship on this wild journey.

Soon after, we found ourselves around a table at a nearby café, beers in hand, grinning like kids on the first day of summer. I tossed out a question that took everyone off guard: “What have you learned about yourself on the Camino?” One by one, each person shared, and it felt like we were opening little treasure chests. There were stories of discovering personal strength, learning to lead rather than follow, finding peace in solitude, embracing vulnerability, and affirming old truths. It was as if the Camino had turned us inside out, and in that messy unraveling, we had each found something worth keeping.

The real question now is how do we carry this home? How do we keep the Camino alive inside us, not just as a story we tell, but as a quiet force that shapes us? I do not have the answer, but maybe it starts with remembering. Remembering each sunrise start, each unexpected act of kindness, each conversation that meandered deeper than we thought possible. Perhaps we live the Camino daily by walking through life with the same open heart we carried across Spain.

We scattered to run errands, prepare for Ana’s big birthday lunch, and tie up the final pilgrim tasks. That birthday meal turned into something beyond food and cake. It felt like the perfect ending, or rather, a new beginning. We celebrated not just Ana turning fifty, but also the family we had chosen along the way. We came from every corner, every background, and yet here we were, sharing a table as if we had known each other forever. We honored each person for who they are, and in that acceptance, found something beautifully human.

After lunch, one by one, we drifted away, some to visit family, some to catch flights, some to stay a bit longer and soak in the magic of Santiago. Each goodbye tugged at the heart a little more. But there was no sense of finality. Plans are already brewing, more Caminos, a potential pilgrim spa, even dreams of opening an albergue together someday.

None of us knows where the next path will lead, but we do know this: we are forever connected. We carry each other in our hearts, like little stamps from our journey, silent proof that we were here, we walked, and we loved every step.

Last night as I arrived at the albergue, slipping in along a quiet back road. From the moment the gates came into view, something felt ominous. Iron bars wrapped the entire property, creating a sense of imprisonment rather than safety. Though unlocked, they looked designed to keep people from escaping, not to keep them safe. The Camino is a place of openness and trust, but here, everything hinted at secrecy and control.

Ana, already having arrived and always alert, quietly pointed to the reception and warned that the staff were unfriendly. Inside, a blond woman sat behind the counter, her eyes sharp and watchful. Without a glance, she continued a tense phone call in her Eastern European language, her voice cold and dismissive. There was no warmth, no greeting, just a sense of strict control and hidden tension that poisoned the air.

In the bar, a young woman from Peru worked under that same heavy atmosphere. Her strong Andean features stood out, but her eyes were downcast. For a brief moment, when I spoke to her in Spanish, her spirit flickered to life. That light died immediately when the blond woman entered and spoke to her sharply in her language. The young woman shrank, replying in short, subdued Spanish, her entire posture that of someone conditioned to obey without question.

Later that evening, the blond woman’s husband arrived. Heavy and commanding, he moved like a man used to ownership, not partnership. The second young Peruvian woman called him “Papa” with a tone that did not match any natural affection. The sisters kept working late into the night, tirelessly tending to chores and guests. Meanwhile, two small children of the older sister ran around the compound, their features hinting at a connection to the dat man. There was no sign of a father, no partner, no hint of freedom or choice.

The next morning, a simple breakfast became another display of dominance. As the younger sister began to process the payment, the man intervened. He seized the card terminal, entered the amount himself, turned the screen away, and quickly snatched it back. Only later did a bank notification reveal the charge was twice what it should have been.

As we walked together sharing our experiences, the unsettling pieces began to form a horrifying picture. The forced silence, the controlling behavior, the fearful glances, the unexplained children. All of it pointed toward something far darker than a strict workplace. Though there was no direct proof, it felt unmistakable. This was a place where freedom had been stripped away, where human dignity had been erased, it felt like human trafficking. I feel that it should be reported but without proof, it makes it difficult to do so.

Now, on to the lighter side of things.

The last two days on the French route have been everything you might expect and then some. From Melide to Arzúa, we practically had to learn crowd-surfing techniques to navigate groups walking four or five across, oblivious to anything smaller than a bulldozer. Then there were the bicigrinos, cyclists who apparently think bells are optional accessories, perhaps to be swapped for a second water bottle or an extra selfie stick.

We decided to skip the circus of Arzúa and head to a smaller town, a tactical move designed to slide between the pilgrim waves. This plan worked brilliantly. Once we left Arzúa, we finally had room to swing our arms without smacking someone’s wide-brimmed hat, and the bird songs returned to us like old friends.

This morning, we left our albergue with a ten-kilometer buffer in front and behind us, Camino solitude at its finest. We floated down the trail like phantoms, greeting the few souls we encountered as though they were long-lost cousins.

We opted to stay at Monte do Gozo, five kilometers shy of the cathedral. The place looked like a Cold War military base retrofitted for pilgrims and youth groups. We arrived just in time to be engulfed by a sea of Italian teenagers in matching shirts. I briefly feared being conscripted into a spontaneous soccer match, but thankfully our private room spared us from group singalongs and late-night pranks.

The four of us were piled into the room, enjoying what can only be described as a world-class siesta with the windows wide open and our collective snoring surely harmonizing with the birds outside. Just as we had all drifted into that blissful stage where you start dreaming of tortilla de patatas and ice-cold Estrella Galicia, a young girl’s voice suddenly sliced through the air like a surprise bagpipe in a yoga class. “Cris, Cris…” she called, sweet and insistent. In my half-asleep daze, I instinctively answered, probably sounding like a startled goat. The next thing we heard was the frantic scurrying of teenage feet sprinting away, echoing down the hallway like a herd of startled cats. We all sat up, bleary-eyed, looking at each other as if we had just been woken by a cosmic prank. Now my friends are mimicking her voice calling out my name at every opportunity, turning every quiet moment into a chorus of “Cris, Cris” that I may never live down.

Despite the mob scenes, this has been my favorite final approach to Santiago yet. The quiet mornings, the tactical leapfrogging of pilgrim hordes, the discovery that I still possess some ninja-level evasion skills, all of it a reminder of how unpredictable and charming the Camino can be.

And through all of it, I am grateful. Grateful for the dear friends who share these steps, grateful for every croissant (even overpriced ones), and grateful for the kaleidoscope of people and moments that make each Camino unique. Even the awkward, even the suspicious, they all weave into the tapestry of the journey.

After 30 days on the trail, I can no longer tell you the day of the week, let alone what planet I’m on. On the Camino, time is measured in kilometers, café con leches, and how many times someone’s snoring made you question you’re walking the Camino. Dates? Those are for train tickets and doctor’s appointments back home. Here, the only thing we schedule with any seriousness is our next stop at a bar/cafe.

Except… when you get close to Santiago. Then suddenly people start muttering words like “deadlines” and “reservations” as if we were all high-powered executives instead of professional blister collectors. In the last 100 kilometers, reservations get made with fierce determination at 7 am, then canceled by 9:15 am because someone decided they wanted to walk a bit slower to enjoy yet another cow pasture. Plans made months ago? Untouchable. Plans made this morning? Gone before the second café con leche.

Last night’s accommodations were a charming example of Spanish rustic minimalism, which is a polite way to say it felt like we were sleeping in a converted horse stable, complete with flies. The rooms were about the size of your average wardrobe, the air hotter than a tortilla griddle, and the only thing missing was a pile of hay on the floor. J, T2, Em, and F had the wisdom to book private rooms, leaving the rest of us to slowly melt into our bunk beds like forgotten ice creams. Ed made a midnight escape to the common room couch, which probably saved his sanity and gave him the best seat in the house for the 3 am mosquito rave.

Today’s hike to Melide marked the end of the Camino Primitivo and the start of the Camino Francés. We only have three days on this new stretch, so we will see if it’s as crowded and “lively” as we remember. (Spoiler alert: probably yes.)

But the highlight of the day, no sarcasm here was celebrating T3’s birthday. A big shout-out to him for surviving another year with his trademark giant grin and unstoppable good spirit. He is the kind of person who makes you believe that happiness really is a choice, and he chooses it every single day. His son Er joined us today for the hike, though they started late and did their best impression of mysterious forest creatures, only emerging at dinner. We all gathered to celebrate, laugh, and toast to T3’s infectious joy. What a wonderful family they are.

Cheers to kilometers, camaraderie, and birthdays on the trail, exactly the kind of time that really matters.

I do not know what day it is today. I do not know what year it is either, come to think of it. At this point, I am lucky to remember my own name and which foot goes in which shoe.

Europe is in the middle of a heat wave hotter than the surface of Mercury. Spain has been clocking in at 110 degrees, but to keep it fun and spicy, yesterday and today were each a cozy 97. My personal thermometer only goes up to “sweating through your socks,” and we passed that somewhere around 8 a.m.

Yesterday was a rest day. We called it “rest,” but really it was an advanced exercise in horizontal living. We explored Lugo in a haze of ice cream, shared a lunch that turned into an accidental multi-hour hydration fest, and took naps so profound they probably qualified as spiritual awakenings.

Then came today. L had the bright idea to start walking in the dark to escape the heat. At first, she proposed midnight. Midnight! The hour reserved for vampires, and raccoons. Through vigorous negotiation (bribery involving croissants), we compromised on 4 a.m.

The early start was genius. We floated along the moonlit path, feeling like a band of confused ghosts. Today’s stage was a robust 27 km, full of asphalt radiating heat like a griddle at a pancake festival. To make it extra memorable, four of us missed our albergue and kept going. Like lemmings in neon vests, we went a full kilometer too far and then had to trudge back uphill. Total for the day: 30 km. My feet are so angry they have started composing a manifesto.

Today is bittersweet. T1 and N had to peel off to catch flights back to the States. L, fueled by caffeine and apparently the spirit of some ancient marathon deity, decided not to walk back with us. She kept on to Melide, another 20km away and who knows, she might have kept going to Portugal for dessert or a music festival.

As I looked through photos from the past days, I stumbled on one of R and H. In the picture, R is deep in conversation, hands moving like he is orchestrating an opera. H, meanwhile, is either contemplating life’s deepest mysteries or quietly slipping into a heat-induced coma. Hard to tell. Either way the audio stimulation tripped his breakers.

Even with the sore feet, missed turns, and tearful goodbyes, I cannot help but feel grateful. This Camino keeps throwing curveballs, but it also hands out unexpected laughter, unforgettable bonds, and little snapshots of pure joy. We might be a few friends lighter tonight, but the spirit of our wild, wandering little tribe is very much alive — heat waves, pre-dawn starts, and all.

Today was what some might call a “down day.” I call it a “strategic masterstroke of self-preservation.” After all, I have been walking since June 1, and though my feet and legs are still in shockingly good shape (probably because they’ve already accepted their fate), my energy reserves have taken a vacation to somewhere with colder beer.

So, when the plan for today involved a stage nicknamed “the leg wrecker” in low 90s heat, we did what any wise, experienced, slightly lazy pilgrims would do: we called Rocio.

Ah, Rocio. Our taxi driver, our savior, and, apparently, part-time Formula One driver. When she saw us again, she thought it was pure chance. Little did she know, we actually requested her, she the woman is faster than a Galician gossip chain. She did not disappoint. In fact, she delivered us to O Cádavo in one piece, but I suspect we arrived a few years younger due to her near light-speed driving.

As we zipped along, I watched the Camino crisscross the highway like a confused snake. Each of those gentle undulations that looked so scenic from the passenger seat would have translated into 15 to 20 minutes of sweating, huffing, and me questioning all my life choices. Instead, we covered it all in about 25 minutes of joyous wind-whipped laughter.

Tomorrow’s plan? A casual stroll from O Cádavo to Lugo — just 30 kilometers, which sounds charming until you add 93-degree heat and realize there is exactly one bar after 8 kilometers. After that? Nothing but an endless stretch of personal reflection and possible hallucinations about ice-cold Kaz de Limón.

T1 and I bravely tackled the first 8 kilometers before our collective common sense (and lack of additional bars) persuaded us to call Rocio again. Meanwhile, J and T2 took the day off entirely and wisely called for a lift from their own starting points.

Reunited in Lugo, we did what any triumphant band of tactical pilgrims would do: checked into a semi-fancy hotel. We pretended to be civilized adults as we unloaded our bags and immediately transformed the room into a drying rack for sweaty socks. Lunch followed, complete with a generous serving of Xeato (Galician ice cream), which might just be the pinnacle of human achievement.

I have to hand it to my companions. They were all smart enough to listen to their bodies (and perhaps their stomachs) today. As for me? I have learned that sometimes the most heroic act on the Camino is not to march uphill in punishing heat but to lift your arm, call Rocio, and buckle up.

Day 26: Of Rolling Hills, Lies, and Fly-Filled Skies

Today was billed as an easy 25-kilometer walk over “rolling hills.” This turned out to be a cruel euphemism, what we faced was less a gentle ramble and more an unsolicited audition for Everest Base Camp. Right out of the gate, the path tilted skyward with such enthusiasm that our calves filed formal complaints. And as if climbing Mount K2’s little Galician cousin were not enough, both cafes listed on every reputable Camino app were either shuttered forever or practicing their best impression of a haunted house, completely lifeless.

With coffee dreams dashed, we slogged upward. As the air thinned and our oxygen needs increased, we were instead treated to lungfuls of buzzing flies. These little winged demons orbited our sweaty heads like caffeinated satellites, each one determined to tap a vein and file a flight plan for the promised land of forehead salt.

Then, like a vision from some alternate Camino dimension, R from Poland came bounding up the trail, pack on, singing, glowing with vitality. “I feel great!” he declared as he pranced around the bend. We assumed he had just been assigned to mock us by the Camino gods. Moments later, he reappeared—showered, shaved, and dressed like he was ready for a dinner date in Madrid. He smiled wide and asked, “How was your morning?”

At kilometer 15, a café appeared like a mirage. Beer was ordered. Tortilla devoured. Hopes, slightly restored. T&T, dealing with battle-worn knees and hips, suggested we cab the last 10 km. My stomach, still furious at the pork belly extravaganza of the night before, quickly joined their union and demanded representation. A taxi was summoned. J&N, ever the overachievers, left their packs with us and charged ahead on foot.

Life, as it does, had other plans. The taxi took so long we had time to age gracefully at the bar. We finally rolled into A Fonsagrada just as J&N arrived, sweaty, triumphant, and only slightly smug. They kindly refrained from gloating. Probably.

Sometimes, the Camino gives you a mountain when you expected a meadow. And sometimes, it gives you a taxi… eventually.

A from Portugal walks the Camino as if it were a part of her soul, because in truth, it is. Her pack is patched with stories, a living archive of the many roads she has walked and the lessons she has gathered. Her Camino tattoos mirror my own, not just in ink but in meaning, symbols of transformation, resilience, and devotion. She lives right on the trail in Portugal, where every journey begins at her front door, as natural to her as breathing. For A, the Camino is not a trip; it is a way of life, a calling that continues to shape and refine her spirit.

I think of her as our trail angel, ever-present in the most surprising and beautiful ways. One moment she is behind you, then ahead, then appearing just when someone needs a gentle smile or a word of quiet encouragement. Her energy is calm and kind, like a balm for tired souls. She too is walking a path of deep change, and in that, I feel a shared understanding. Her presence reminds me that the Camino brings the right people into our lives exactly when they are meant to arrive. And A, lighthearted, grounded, full of grace is one of those rare gifts the Camino gives when your heart is open.