WE SET OFF, the five of us, from our hotel in Santiago de Compostela at the crack of dawn and we kept on going – until we reached a café at the end of the street where we had coffee and toast and several croissants to sustain us on the first leg of our journey.
It was just as well that we did that, as it turned out.
We crossed the spacious cobbled plaza in front of the Cathedral, seeing it almost totally empty for a change: at all other times of day it would be thronged with people either recovering from their marathon trek or welcoming others of their party arriving after them.
Even the perennial bagpipe player was not in evidence, which must have been of considerable relief to the still sleeping guests of the pricey parador beside the plaza.
We exited down some steps beside the parador and walked down a sloping road past old terraced houses.
Not long after, we crossed a public park which led us to a climbing wooded track that brought us into the countryside. We kept walking for a while and could feel the sun on our backs as it rose behind us.
The air was filled with the scent of eucalyptus. The tall eucalyptus trees lined the track for quite a while as we walked on happily chatting and anticipating our first stop a few short hours away where we planned to have a nice break. Our maps and our book showed that we would reach a café at approximately 11am just in time for a relaxing break and some refreshment.
It began to get hotter and hotter and so did we. We strode on regardless knowing that we would soon arrive at a point on the map where our first halt was indicated.
The track brought us out onto a quiet country road – and there was our café – locked and bolted and looking as though it had been that way for some time. Years maybe.
We sat and wept with our heads between our knees. Well, not quite: we said a few silent prayers to St James of Compostela and soldiered on. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.
The noonday sun was beating down by the time we reached some suburban roads that stretched in all directions with no Camino signposts evident. Were we lost already? Fortunately a delivery van stopped outside one of the houses and we asked the driver the way to the café where we were hoping to stop for lunch.
He gave us the directions in rapid Spanish or maybe Galician, but he was gesturing and pointing down the road at the same time, so we soon arrived at our destination.
It was thronged inside and out with peregrinos, some gnarled and burned to a deep mahogany shade, others less so, but still looking as though they had been walking for days.
We almost felt like impostors as we found a small table and somehow fitted ourselves around it.
The trick then was to get some food and drink. Inside the small premises every inch of space was jammed with customers ordering dishes from the hard-pressed pair behind the counter.
It didn’t look promising, but they coped amazingly with all the demands, including ours, and the food was delicious. Let’s face it: anything feels delicious after a five mile hike at the height of the summer. (Spaniards in other parts of their country laugh at Galicia’s weather and tell you “It’s just like Ireland. It’s always raining there!” But not the year we went there: Galicia was then experiencing a spell of soaring temperatures that were breaking all records.)
We noticed a slightly odd couple a few tables away. They were middle-aged, very well equipped with what looked like brand new everything, and they were talking louder than anyone else at the surrounding tables. By the sound of their speech we assumed they were American.
They seemed to be arguing, but then again, maybe it was just their way of discussing the next stage of their walk, or reviewing their progress so far. He was large, wide and grey-bearded, she was narrow of both face and body, with hair that purported to be blonde.
Just as we had begun to notice them, the man suddenly banged his empty glass down on their table, picked up his rucksack and headed across the road to get back on the Camino track. She, slightly flustered, paid their bill and hurried after him. He didn’t seem to be slowing down to wait for her.
We soon lost sight of them and continued with our own meal.
Maybe it was the heat that prompted one of our party to indulge in a nice glass of the local Albariño white wine in a long, chilled glass.
Big mistake. Trasmonte was awaiting us.
We had of course seen it on the maps in the late John Brierley’s indispensable guide to the Camino, but until now that had been theoretical.
Now, however, we could see the steep wooded hill a few fields away from where we were finishing our lunch. Already the place was emptying out, as the seasoned serious peregrinos had hoisted their heavy rucksacks and set off briskly.
The cafe owners were cleaning the other tables and looking at us in a pointed manner. We got up and followed the other walkers, who were already mere dots in the distance.
But let us pause for a moment. Who are this “We” you are reading about?
We were a mixed bunch on that first fine careless venture on a stretch of the Camino. Two of us (the writers of this version) were older than some of the others, but we had had quite a bit of previous walking experience – much of it in the Alpujarras Mountains much further south, east of Granada, where we first stumbled upon the Taja Valley – (I use the word stumble advisedly, but we got better after a bit of practice over several visits. But more of that later).
The other three were of assorted ages and experience of walking any kind of long distance – but it was a sudden suggestion by this trio that got us thinking of trying the Camino. Without much hesitation at all, we said yes.
From the outset all five of us were agreed on one thing: there was to be no roughing it. No tents, no dormitories or basic auberge accommodation for us – we would sleep in decent beds every night, and our baggage would be whisked from place to place ahead of us every day. We hadn’t the foggiest how this could be arranged, but we would somehow find out.
The internet soon solved that problem. A quick bit of googling brought us to a company called Jacotrans. Our email brought a prompt reply from Jaime who told us to send him a list of our dates and accommodations and he would do the rest. All we had to do was leave our baggage at the reception desk by 8am each morning and Jacotrans would have it ready for us that evening at our next stop. He never let us down.
There were other questions. When to go – and how to go – and where to start? It had all sounded like a great idea in theory, but how to make it a reality?
We began to investigate and make plans. Correction: two of us began to make plans. The other three had a blind faith in our abilities. But our ability at the outset extended only as far as reading the bible — the bible in this instance being one of John Brierley’s invaluable Guides To The Camino de Santiago … in this case it was the Camino Finisterre.
Brierley was a busy Chartered Surveyor until he decided to take a sabbatical year away from his Dublin business to get “off the treadmill” and find out if there was more to life. His search eventually brought him to the Camino. From then on he began to regularly walk all of the various routes that lead to Santiago De Compostela, and he would then update the numerous guides that he soon started publishing.
They are packed with maps and detailed descriptions that take you by the hand and bring you along with him. His pages contain spiritual reflections along the way, but also invaluable information on what accommodation you’re likely to find at every turn.
The guides are still published, and the information on prices and other details are still updated regularly. Even in the age of the internet and instant information it’s still hard to beat Brierley.
Browsing one of his books was our starting point. We soon spotted that his description of the final 100 kilometre stretch from the town of Sarria to Santiago mentioned that it was frequently very crowded and that much of it was flanked by a busy main road. (This 100km walk is the one most favoured by the many package companies that sell organised pilgrimages: the distance is the minimum required for walkers to get their Compostela, the official certificate that they have “done” the Camino.)
We weren’t too interested in getting a Compostela by amassing stamps from designated accommodations and other places along the way. Neither were we interested in joining a package tour. In our blissful ignorance we scoffed at the notion that anyone in their right minds would sign up to walking 20 kilometres a day – the normal stage-length in the packaged walks we had perused earlier.
To cut to the chase: our cunning plan was to start in Santiago De Compostela and walk west to Finisterre, in stages of between 15 and 20 kilometres a day.
The Camino Finisterre is also known as the Epilogue Camino, sometimes undertaken as a final flourish by those who have completed the 790 km Camino Frances walk from St Jean Pied de Port in France to the traditional finishing spot of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela
Maybe by that stage they simply can’t stop walking.
That’s not a joke: be warned, the Camino gets into your brain and can be hard to shake off.
Éanna Brophy is a retired journalist and former Sunday Press columnist. This article is an excerpt from his recently-published book ‘Camino? Sure why not!’
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