Day 20 - 19 May O Pedrouzo to Santiago de Compostela

The night before the big push we stayed in what appeared to be a nice place. Run by a bar, it had a separate little accommodation block. Five rooms with shared bathroom and khazi. All very Woodstock and "right on man",  with lots of essential oils, joss stocks and herbal pongs. Right up Cosmic Cate's Street. Far out!

Our room even had a sliding door. Technical! A potential problem for my perambulation to the Powder Room in the "wee" hours. However, the real issue was the bed. Just enough room for two, but it was another horrendous memory foam affair. Clearly, said foam had remembered a 30 stone oaf who'd previously kipped on it. Consequently, my side sloped downwards from the middle to the outside.

Our alarms roared into life at 6am. After c3 hours sleep I got that lovely "hit by a freight train"" feeling again. Bloody stuff it. Get up, walk to Santiago and get on the first plane home! Stuff* the coast, stuff Porto. In fact stuff everyone and everything.

We dressed, packed our bags, and did all the necessary ablutions with barely a word exchanged. Ahead of us laid 20km of boring walking along roads, round the airport perimeter, more roads, then faceless suburbs, and finally the magnificent old heart of the City. A carnival of concrete, a trudging fiesta of tarmac.

Off we went into the half light. The cold air was both bracing and enlivening. Soon we were in woods. The dawn birdsong and pungent aroma of the eucalyptus trees were thawing us out. Step by step the world became a better place. Seven kilometres, and a 400 feet climb away was our first coffee stop. The"12 kilometer cafè"; perched only metres from the end of the runway of Santiago airport. 

The forest continued....on and on, right to near the airport , then a sharp turn, running parallel to the runway. We knew it was there 150 metres away, but the dense woodland meant we couldn't see it at all. Another 90° turn to pass the end of the runway. A plane roared into land. No more than 150 feet above us, but the Galician mist prevented us from seeing it. Bugger! My first plane spotting opportunity for weeks, and I couldn't see a thing.

We came to the 12km Café. A lovely little rural spot, next to a charming small Chapel. Another plane roared in, this time behind the trees. My mood was up again. The sunshine was breaking through the mist, and sugar laden coffee were coercing me into a brighter, more positive place. Cate had found the uphill climb tough, but was her usual cheery self in spite of that.

On we went. Some Brits walked past and struck up conversation. I chatted with Gordon and Maureen from East Kilbride. Cate conversed with their "Camino Son" Harry, a Police Firearms Officer, from London. I honestly can't remember what we talked about, but before we knew it we were at Monte de Gozo, just 5k from the end. It is just phenomenal how chatting with different people completely takes your mind off the walking. Again we bade farewell to fleeting friends. We took a minor detour higher up Monte de Gozo to get a view of the city. There in the distance were the bell towers and spires of the huge cathedral. It was if they were winking naughtily....."come to me, come to me"; "you know you want to" they beckoned. I jokingly said to Cate "I suppose you're going to cry when you get there aren't you?". "Don't be daft" came the immediate response.

We walked on, hitting the boring suburbs. The brazen hussy, the Cathedral, had hidden. We passed the stadium with its unusual crane shaped floodlights - an absolute must for a fan of floodlight porn, such as me!

Over the motorway, over the railway, on and on past innumerable Farmacia's and faceless bars and cafés. Finally, the old town. But still no sign of the cathedral. The temptress had lured us in but had run off with someone else. I said she was a hussy!

Onwards through narrow curving streets. Past souvenir shop after souvenir shop; and then finally that sound! Just like in 1990 the whirring, squealing, haunting, almost tuneless, sound of the Galician single bagpipes. The player stood in an archway to maximise amplification. Down the steps, and boom; into the Cathedral plaza. We'd done it! Finally we were back at the place we'd fallen in love with over 30 years ago. Back then, there were 2 or 3 other people there. This time it was thronged with pilgrims and tourists. The tourist scuttled about like ants. The pilgrims just sitting or laying on the floor, packs beside them. Soaking up the moment, taking stock of their achievements. Whether they'd done the last 100, or the full 800, or somewhere in between, they had done something special. The atmosphere was odd. A sense was of great peace, unity and happiness with a sprinkling of smug thrown in. We didn't linger.

Cate wanted a "Compostela". A certificate of proof that we had walked the Camino. That's why you get your pilgrims passport stamped along the way. Not only is a great, and very personal souvenir; it gets your Compostela. To be honest  I wasn't bothered about the Compostela, but nevertheless went along with Cate. After filling in online forms  we were given our numbers and joined the huge queue. I was 444, but rather wanted to be 666. Forty minutes later I was sat at the desk. The wonderfully friendly woman asked where I'd walked from. "León to Santiago this year". "But I also walked St.Jean to León in 2019". "That's no problem" she replied. "Do you know the date you started in St. Jean?" She asked. I did. Thank heavens for the date filters on Facebook!!

A couple of minutes later she's handwritten my details on the certificate, and is reading them to me. I'm absolutely broken. Tears well up. It's all I can do not to sob openly. She can see behind my mask and glasses, and asks " are you okay? You don't need to rush". I say I'm fine., thank her  and get up. Still choked. Why? Wtf is going on? The Camino does strange things. I feel tearful just writing this now!

Semi-composed, I meet Cate, and we head to the Plaza. We just lay there. The blue sky sits above us like a huge duvet, and the towers of the cathedral look down on us. They giving me the eye again......"pull yourself together man".

We wander the plaza and meet a lovely Indonesian girl who we walked and talked with several times. Last time we saw her must have been 10 days ago.

In the evening we walk up to Parc de Alameda to take in the superb view back towards the Cathedral and Old Town. It's awesome! There's still the house with the rainbow window blinds that were there 32 years ago! That little sprinkle of colour to enliven a photo. We sit there for 10 minutes. A couple walk around the corner...."Cate" the voice calls out. It's Steph and Steve from Dundee. Cate had chatted with them a couple of days ago. At last count, Steph had 21 blisters, and was really struggling. Somehow she'd persevered and got there. Respect! I hadn't spoken with them before, but it turns out that Steve and I are kindred spirits on the football watching front. He supported Dundee United and Watford (he'd lived there).I'll leave it at that, other than to say he was going to see Sevilla v Athletic Bilbao on Sunday. Phil Johnson, my failure to go to Sevilla's ground is now at crisis point!!

That was it for the day. A quick meal, and walk back to our apartment (yep, luxury, complete with washing machine!). Strolling along the narrow portico's, our bed was beckoning.

And then a voice is calling. A lilting Irish voice......"Ian, Cate come on will ya......". It was the Waterford Wanderers, complete with wives in tow. You can guess the rest!

What a day!

* I may have used a more rude expletive.