I'm a few days past that end of my formal Camino De Santiago. Holy wow. I hope that I never rid my body of that memory. Some people do the Camino for religious reasons, akin to a Christian Mecca journey, tapping into ancient routes forged by willing pilgrims and some do it for the scenery. I don't think it matters what you use for motivation, because I think the whole thing is sacred. I did it to see if I could push my body and honor/listen to it at the same time, and unwrite what i learned over too many years.
The basic story that undergirds the Camino de Santiago is that after the death of Jesus and the subsequent dispersion, James went westward to preach in Fini Sterre [which is Latin for "end of the world", James took that commandment seriously] and then sought to head to Rome (or Palestine, it's not clear. But something East of where he was.) Eventually, he was killed and his followers brought him back to Spain. When they arrived at the coast, the Queen of the region said he could not be buried within a 3 day walk, so they brought him to Compostela and buried his body there.
Since then, pilgrims have worn grooves into the land, shuffling along towards the burial site. Many people began their Caminos by walking out their own doors, navigating by way of a compass and some sparse arrows. Over time, pilgrim refugees popped up along trails (called Albergues) since pilgrims traditionally only brought a cloak, a shell (marking their pilgrimage) some wine, and maybe bread and cheese. The hallmark of the Camino was the unwarranted but ever appreciated hospitality that seemed as certain as gravity along the Way. As time wore on, more hostels showed up, pilgrims became a bit more modern, and some Camino savior painted yellow arrows to mark the journey. (Further blessings to the 'bici-fairy' because some trails were not bicycle friendly😳) Now, the Camino has several variations, sufficiently ending in Santiago de Compostela, though technically in Finisterre. The inexplicable hospitality is still present today, and anyone who has done the trail will tell you the same.
My Camino was inspired by 'The Pilgrimage' by Paulo Coehlo, which i read a few years ago. The book captivated me so I did a bit more research and decided that one day I would take the 30 day (give or take) walk across Spain. Plans changed a bit (nursing instead of theology, gay and happily in love with my girlfriend instead of straight and single, 3 months to travel instead of 6, etc) so I decided to bike the trip instead. Initially, I'd still planned to do the Camino Frances, the traditional way. Then I talked to my good ol' dude Matt LaBorde, who suggested looking into the Northern way. That route is flanked by the sea on one side and mountains on the other. There were some warnings to say it was a bit more challenging (and expensive) than the normal way and it was less popular so there would be fewer pilgrims (hi, this sounds like Christmas, SIGN ME UP) so I switched plans to the Camino Del Norte, or the Camino de Costa.
BEST DECISION.
I stayed with my friend Nikki's family and managed to buy a new bike in Madrid for ~140€ (including my butt-rack, as I affectionately called it). After a weekend in Ledesma (holy beautiful, more about that later) I biked to the bus station and caught the next train to Bilbao, about 150km short of the standard starting place. I met a guy from Germany named Julian who was also doing the Camino, so it was nice to start with another pilgrim. I recklessly did NOT buy a guidebook, going against the advice of almost every website, but here we are, and you're not shocked. I ambitiously reasoned that my rusty Spanish would kick back in, and that between the coast and the road, I could functionally navigate. (I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that I was right, despite what could've easily been foreshadowing that I just provided)
I decided to walk with Julian for about 12km to the next stop on the route before biking on my own. We had a really nice convo and shared some of the reasons we decided to do the camino, which felt appropriate. We had a late breakfast in Portugalete and I wished him well as I started my ride. The scenery was beautiful, and breath taking. The blazes were usually little yellow arrows that someone had painted, but occasionally you were lucky enough to see a blue tile with the scalloped shell, or a bronze plaque embedded in the sidewalk. Eventually, I learned that I would not see the blazes every 10m like I hoped, but instead, I'd see them just often enough to keep me moving in the right direction. The Way wouldn't tell you to change direction until it was time. You can guess the myriad of lessons that come out of the Camino. The rest of day 1 was brutal and yet somehow, in a mangled way equally beautiful.
I stopped at a few different beaches and enjoyed the sandwiches I packed in the morning. I thought I'd spend my time listening to music but that never happened, which surprised me. Most of rides were either spent absorbing my view as best I could or mustering enough motivation to push my bike up the paths that were meant for walking. I will say without shame that the latter of those two was exhausting and frustrating. But I could be frustrated and still not have a bed to sleep in, so it didn't fix my problems to huff around about it. About 10km from my goal for the day, I stopped before a mountain trail because I was out of calories and I needed a break. I sat on someone's garden wall and tried to not think about the wrestling match between brake, tire, gravity and exhaustion that I was preparing for. My water bottle had almost nothing left in it and for a brief moment, I considered "waiting to fill my water as a reward for getting up the mountain." It was 90 degrees outside. Someone was watering their plants on the opposite side of the hedge. C'mon, don't do this. Thankfully, I'm a semi-stubborn 27 year old and not a relentlessly stubborn fool in the same way I was at 20. I walked around the corned towards the woman watering her yard and before I could even ask, she said, "ah, quieres agua, espera." I handed her my bottle and she came back with it full of water and ice. AND, she brought me a frozen water bottle. I almost cried, stumbling over a round of "gracias, much as gracias!" a little better off to start up the mountain.
It was as terrible as I expected. I was soaked from sweat, and tired, since I was going on hour 12 of my journey. And the mountain wasn't suited for a bicycle. But I'd been given a wild gift in the form of cold water, so as grumpy as I felt, I was also wildly grateful. After that mountain was another smaller one, though equally steep. At one point I stopped and rested on my bike. A man siting on his porch and offered to fill my water bottle again. His wife came downstairs and we chatted by way of patience and rusty Spanish. They assured me that Laredo was at worst 2km further, and that I might even be able to bike to the next town since it wasn't far and mostly downhill.
By the time I reached the summit for Laredo, I was totally spent. I rolled onward, embracing the downhill and anxiously searching for my little yellow arrows. I couldn't find any, so I did some guessing and found a map. A woman read the look on my face and told me that I was going in the right direction and would be at the Albergue soon, which was kind.
This Albergue happened to be part of an actual church, which was really cool. The nuns who ran it still did singing services which pilgrims were welcomed to attend. I was collapsingly grateful that I'd found a bed for the night though. I took a slow shower and later, and inventory of which clothes needed to be washed. Dinner was probably the best thing about the whole experience though. The meal is community style, sloppily stitched together out of holy sisters and weary pilgrims. The nuns provided a main course and pilgrims were asked to share what they had to give. I offered cheese and an orange to the table of growing cured meats and wines. 10 pilgrims danced around each other, setting the table, finding serving plates, all while rotating through the collection of languages between us. The were 2 folks from Spain, 2 from Italy, 1 from Germany, 2 from France, a man from Japan and 2 of us the from the states, along with 2 of the sisters. The meal looked haphazard but in my eyes, it was the perfect scrap quilt. Dinner was the perfect piece of rest after a 70km bike day.
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