Camino De Santiago

El Camino de Santiago, The Way of St. James, is an ancient pilgrimage leading to a shrine in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela where the remains of St. James are reputed to be interred. Pilgrims from all over Western Europe and parts of the rest of the world have followed a labyrinth of pathways that end in Santiago de Compostela, the capital of the autonomous community of Galicia in Northwestern Spain. Today, Santiago de Compostela is easily reached using an automobile or other means of public transportation, but in the spirit and tradition established over centuries, most who embark on a personal pilgrimage choose to walk or ride a bicycle, beginning from numerous locations. Many have religious or at least spiritual reasons for making this trek while others are motivated differently. Marsha and I along with our daughter, Sarah Rich (the planner and leader in nearly all respects) understood our own pilgrimage in May 2025.

Our trek began in Porto, and covered a distance of 197.15 miles, calculated by Marsha’s Apple Watch and confirmed by Sarah’s google tracker. Others could cover distances much longer while others could be considerably shorter. One can legitimately question the reasons for undertaking a trek of this magnitude, but there are other more fundamental questions that rose to my mind as we planned and executed our journey. Who in the world was St. James? Is he in fact interred in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela? Is there historical evidence that he was ever in Spain or Portugal? How and why did the pilgrimages begin?

For the uninitiated, those who don’t identify with Christian religion or reject it entirely, those who may have once believed and then strayed, or those who are true believers who just feel confused, an enigma might be the identification of “James.” After all, it is the reputed resting place for his remains that is the objective of Camino de Santiago. A true Pilgrim may be informed or at least knowledgeable, or may not need or want to know, seeking reward or redemption for other reasons. The Pilgrim who isn’t really one at all and who is just out walking the trail because it’s being done may have little interest in the origins of James, interested only in the walk without the religious baggage. Others, like me, who are here for obscure reasons, spiritual or not, might want more.

As we all know, Mary was a virgin who gave birth immaculately, that is without all that nasty business that the rest of us were subjected to in order to be born. But, the synoptic gospels, i.e., Mathew, Mark, and Luke, tell us that Jesus had brothers, James, Joses, Simon, Jude, and unidentified sisters, a detail that seems at first blush to challenge the idea that a phallus wasn’t invoked as part of his birth. Over the centuries, Christianity has done contortions to find an answer. At one extreme are those, such as the Ebionites, an early CE Jewish Christian sect, who argue that Jesus and his brothers were all the biological offspring of Joseph and Mary. A middle ground, one that has become a common Protestant argument, is that the brothers are half siblings, conceived after Mary gave birth to Jesus. In other words, Mary gave birth to Jesus without the help of Joseph and his member, but then had sexual relations with Joseph that produced the siblings. Both of these arguments are anathema to those who believe in the perpetual virginity of Mary.

Another theory is that Joseph fathered the siblings in a previous marriage, and thus they are step-brothers and sisters of Jesus. This remains the official position of the Eastern Orthodox Church. And, still another theory, the one adopted by the Catholic Church, is that both Joseph and Mary were life long virgins, neither ever afflicted with the lust that has brought about the downfall of mankind and, in the 20th century, the near downfall of the Catholic Church. In this scenario, Jesus was born immaculately, neither Joseph nor Mary were tainted by fornication, and the siblings were all the product of a different Mary, the wife of Clopus and sister to Mary, mother of Jesus, and thus the siblings are not actual brothers and sisters but cousins.

This all amounts to a rather long winded but incredibly interesting exploration of one potential James that has drawn us to this expedition. But, alas, James, the brother, the half brother, the step-brother, or the cousin of Jesus, isn’t the focus of Camino de Santiago. This James is considered to be the first Jewish Bishop of Jerusalem, he was never one of the apostles, and he was murdered in either 62 or 69 CE. He is known as James the Just but apparently never ventured into Portugal or Spain. But, ambiguity abounds as will be seen below.

There are two other possibilities, both wrapped in obfuscation created by language, the passage of time, and myth upon myth. Both are named James, and both are among the twelve apostles of Jesus. James the Less, a denotation indicating someone younger or shorter not necessarily less significant, was one of them. According to Jerome, an historian and religious scholar who lived during the fourth century CE, James the Less was the son of Mary, the wife of Alphaeus, and the sister of Mary the mother of Jesus. Thus, this James would have been a true cousin of Jesus if Jerome’s theory is accepted, but there is considerable debate that remains unsettled, some arguing that consistent references to this James as the “brother” of Jesus should be taken literally, an hypothesis that would make this James the same as James the Just.

The other possibility is James the Great, the offspring of Zebedee and Salome, members of a family of Jewish fishermen on the Sea of Galilea. Salome, not the one of the famous seven veils, was also a sister of Mary, mother of Jesus, which also made this James and Jesus cousins. He is known variously as Saint James the Great, James, son of Zebedee, Saint James the Elder, Saint Jacob, James the Apostle, or Santiago which translates from Spanish to James. He was one of the twelve apostles. He was also a brother of John, another apostle. It is this James whose remains are reputed to rest in Santiago de Compostela.

There is scant historical evidence that James the Great actually ever went to Portugal, but that hasn’t bothered those who instead look to anecdotal accounts that say otherwise. According to the legends, James the Great traveled to Padrón, not far from Santiago de Compostela in Spain, to proselytize, though why he would have picked this place over all the other possible destinations in the world is left to the imagination. Centuries later, the tradition of the “Way of St. James” was recorded in the Codex Calixtinus, a 12th century collection of sermons, reports of miracles, liturgical texts, polyphonoic musical pieces, and descriptions of the pilgrimage routes.

And so we have the established “fact” that James the Great preached in Spain but returned to Jerusalem where he was beheaded on order of Herod Agrippa. His followers, Athanasius and Theodorus, retrieved his body and took it to Jaffa where they found a miraculous stone ship that they used to transport the remains to Iria Flavia, the modern municipality of Padrón. There, they approached the local pagan queen, Loba, for permission to bury the body and a series of events followed that included confrontations between the disciples and her dragons and wild bulls. Loba, finally convinced, converted to Christianity and provided help. Eventually, the body was interred where it remained for hundreds of years unnoticed and unmarked.

In the early ninth century, a hermit named Pelagius saw strange lights and was drawn to the place of burial. He immediately reported this to Theodemar of Ira, the local bishop, who was led by a star to the place of burial. The remains of James were somehow exhumed and identified, a miracle by any estimation.  “Compostela” may thus be seen as a corruption of the latin “Campus Stellae,” or “field of stars.” But, curiously enough it happened that there was a Roman cemetery located at the exact same spot. Another theory that is perhaps more rationale is that Compostela is derived from the Latin word for cemetery, cometerium. Regardless, the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela was thus created and has become the third most visited Christian site after Rome and Jerusalem.

In 844, according to various legends, a famous battle occurred in which a small Christian army led by King Romiro I of Asturias and a larger Moorish army led by Abderrahman I, emir of Granada, battled one another near Clavijo. Just when the Christian army was about to be vanquished, a horseman on a white stallion appeared and began slaying the Moors by the thousands, beheading them handily and causing a rout. The horseman was St. James and the legends of St. James the Moor Slayer were born and have become a part of the lore. The Vatican has yet to formally accept any of the legends in spite of an earlier Bull that accepted the authenticity of the relics. Nonetheless, pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela from all over Europe have occurred for hundreds of years. As might be expected, the routes are many reflecting the diverse origins of pilgrims from all over Europe. It has become politically and perhaps religiously impolite to emphasize St. James as a “slayer,” but the images can be found in many places along the various pilgrim routes. For example. the cross is typically represented by a crossing of swords and will be seen on signs marking the route, on the scallop carried by many Pilgrims, and on the Cathedral.

Just when one might think the mystery of whose remains might be found in the cathedral has been solved, we learn of the existence of a reliquary bust of James Alphaeus, or James the Lesser, that is purported to contain his head. As noted earlier, James the Lesser died in 62 CE. His death was violent, and there are slightly different accounts of how it occurred. One is that he was thrust from the top of the temple by pharisees and then stoned or perhaps cudgeled to death. Another is that he was sentenced to death by stoning. There are no accounts of him being beheaded, and all accounts seem to corroborate that he died as a result of a blow to the head.

He was buried in Jerusalem, but there are certain medieval documents, the exact nature of which are obscure, that claim that in 1108, nearly two centuries after Pelagius found the remains of James the Greater, a Portuguese bishop, Maricio Burdino, also known as the antipope Gregory VIII, brought the head of James Alphaeus back to Iberia. It was seized by Queen Urraca who then reigned over Galicia, Castilla, and León, who delivered it to Diego Gelmírez, the acting archbishop of Compostela, who then placed it into a golden chest. The mystery deepens. There are quite a few questions, to be sure, among them why Maricio Burdino chose to bring only the head of James Alphaeus. After all, this James was not beheaded which means that Maricio Burdino or his agent had to not only exhume the remains but behead it, a gruesome act hard to understand or accept.

In any event, in the latter part of the 19th century, the remains of James Alphaeus were examined by three professors who concluded that they were from three different persons, a conclusion that bolstered the legend that James the Greater and two of his companions were buried in the cathedral. A century later, a further forensic examination occurred, this one under the auspices of Forensic Anthropology at the University of Florida. The examination occurred in the cathedral under rather strict limitations. This time, it was concluded that one of two hypotheses might be possible: one, the skull did not belong to James the Lesser, and two, the skull “may be” that of James the Greater. Of course, these conclusions assume the legitimacy of the lore that got either James to Iberia in the first place.

I doubt seriously that most who visit the Cathedral have any notion of who or which James is the focus of the Pilgrimage. Once inside the Cathedral, there is a long line of Pilgrims or other adherents waiting to pass by the tomb of James the Great, all passing an obscure, un-noticed urn that sits alone where James the Lesser supposedly resides. It’s curious to say the least.

My sources for all of this are varied, contradictory, confusing, and full of hypotheses, myth, and legend. See https://aleteia.org/2021/10/25/two-jameses-and-a-confusion-of-relics-in-compostela; https://journals.upress.ufl.edu/fa/article/view/1557/2094#:~:text=1)%20That%20the%20remains%20do,600%20and%20800%C2%B0C; https://www.trevorhuxham.com/2018/10/santiago-compostela-legends.html; or https://aleteia.org/2021/10/25/two-jameses-and-a-confusion-of-relics-in-compostela. But, there is the Codex Calixtinus, attributed to Pope Calixtus II but more likely compiled by the French scholar Aymeric Picaud, that contains extensive materials intended as advice for those seeking the Way of St. James. There are five books believed to have been separate at one time and likely originating in the 12th century. Eventually, they were combined into a sort of encyclopedia, the Liber Sancti Jacobi. There are multiple copies of the work but the Codex Calixtinus, the most famous manuscript that contains the Liber sancti Jacobi, was  held for centuries in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela and only discovered and examined in the 19th and 20th centuries.

As noted earlier, the Way of St. James as a holy pilgrimage became inextricably connected to the conflict with Islam, St. James becoming known and celebrated as Santiago Matamoros or Saint James the Moor Slayer. There are numerous representations of St. James along the routes leading to Santiago de Compostela that show him in full battle regalia. For a time, St. James was the patron saint of Spain, and his iconography was used by the Spanish against indigenous peoples as the Americas were being colonized. There remains a statue of Santiago Matamoros in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

There are other powerful symbols encountered on any of the routes commonly used and recognized. The scallop is one, found on or near markers that point the way toward Santiago de Compostela. There are numerous explanations, all steeped in mystery and myth. One is that the body of St.  James was miraculously washed ashore covered in a protective coat of scallop shells. Another, apparently reflected in the Codex Calixtinus, is that a scallop shell was given to reward the successful pilgrim upon reaching the Cathedral. The cross of St. James, a sword bisected by a fleur-de-lys is another powerful symbol, this one still in use and clearly associated with the wars between the Christians and Moors. The Botafumeira, among the largest incense burners in the world, can be found in the Cathedral where it is used on special occasions such as the birthday of St. James. The yellow arrow, wide sombrero hats, wooden staffs are all seen frequently and are associated with the millions who have made this pilgrimage.

My own conclusions are that there are certainly bones to be found in the cathedral, but they are not those of either James or any James for that matter. My spirits, nonetheless, for the trek have not been dampened. I have never been inspired by the possibility that I might meet St. James or his aura. After all. So, I embarked with my companions, my wife and my daughter, for the chance to experience a trek that many have taken for their own reasons, content that my reasons are at least as good as the ones they may have possessed or believed in. My reward includes my fascinating exploration of St. James. John Brierley’s Camino Portugués was interesting and helpful in some respects. His forward is a reflection of a deeply religious man which I am not. But, he included this quote from Kabir, an Indian mystic poet revered in modern India:

We started our trek on the coast just slightly north of Porto in Matosinhos which we reached by tram. Yes I know, real pilgrims did not have the advantage of mass transportation. But St. James needs to give me just a little break.

We started on a long boardwalk that followed the coastline northward. The scenery was simply spectacular, not necessarily any more so than the Oregon Coast but simply stunning nonetheless.

We were in the company of other pilgrims, many who greeted us with words of encouragement, Bon or Bom Camino, a signal that seemed to imply to me at this stage that we looked like we had no chance of making it. We persevered, nonetheless, and I eventually knew that it was a signal of camaraderie and encouragement, one that recognized the challenge and joined in it.

The route is marked by a yellow arrow or a scallop image or both.

The scallop represents a long tradition the origins of which cannot be explained. One idea is that the stone ship (yes, I know it’s unlikely that a stone ship ever floated but bear with me) that contained the body of St. James overturned or sank. The body of St. James surfaced and floated to the shore covered in scallop shells that protected it from whatever might have threatened it. Whatever the source of the tradition, the scallop shell is universally recognized as a symbol of the Camino. It is everywhere, on signs, on the backs of virtually everyone including us, and displayed in various ways almost everywhere one looks.

We stopped for lunch midway, dining on some decent tapas and green wine and then continued on our way.

While we had spattered rain, the weather was forgiving, the scenery enchanting, and the conversation interesting and entertaining.

However, by the time we reached the end of the day, Mindelo Beach, there was a feeling that things had gotten difficult. The feet hurt, the back ached, enthusiasm lagged, and the need to reach the destination became overwhelming. We did stop briefly to have medicinal whiskey, a short pull from a flask that I had brought, that didn’t seem to alleviate any of the symptoms. It’s possible we didn’t take the correct dose.

When we arrived at last, we were greeted by a gracious, entertaining hostess who was intent on talking and talking, but we finally found ourselves safely and very comfortably ensconced in a beautiful home. It’s just hard to describe the sensation of being assaulted by a gracious, friendly hostess that doesn’t seem to appreciate the need to sit down. Upon inspection, we established that we had walked 13.8 miles, a distance that exceeded the represented mileage making me skeptical of what I had been told about what I had undertaken and what I could expect. Sarah mentioned, casually, that our total distance was closer to 175 miles rather than the 130 that I anticipated. This may not seem that significant to the uninitiated, but I was worried and with good cause. (Our total distance at the end was 197.15 miles.)

Our night was restful and we were served an elegant breakfast the following morning by our hostess and her husband, an array of cheeses and breads, fresh fruit, pastel de nata, little toasts covered with cream cheese and jam made from pumpkins, and eggs. Like the previous evening, she was voluable, full of information and suggestions, insistent that we eat more. We left with heartfelt goodbyes that included an embrace as though we were close acquaintances. But, it was her extension of admiration and encouragement for the journey that lay ahead, similar to many we encountered as we went along.

The morning was a brilliant blue with a brisk wind coming from the north that blew at us all day.

The first several miles took us somewhat off the coast and through a large protected area, home to numerous species of wildlife and vegetation native to Portugal.

Eventually, we reached Vila do Conde where we visited an old monastery converted to a hotel,and examined an impressive acquaduct that suppled water at one time.

The Ave River runs through this area, making it necessary to walk some distance inland to access a bridge. We made our way out to the mouth of the river and found a charming restaurant that looked out over the sand and rocks into a very blue Atlantic Ocean.

From there, it a long slog further north to Povoa de Varzim where we spent the night. Our distance thus far today has been 10.3 miles. The calculations of our anticipated distances and times of arrival have been suspect, all of them turning into something quite a bit further and quite some time later. I think it was a subterfuge intended to keep me going, but I started to catch on.

We met numerous pilgrims all intent on a goal similar to ours, whatever that may be. The expected greeting was always Bom Comino, and with our packsacks we are apparently immediately identifiable. No one has mentioned the remains of St. James as being central to their objective.

In the early 9th century, legend has it that a great battle between Christians and Muslims occurred at Clavijo, an autonomous community of La Rioja. There are various accounts, all of which provide sometimes contradictory fact, but there is agreement that St. James, astride a white steed, appeared and turned the battle in favor of the Christians. Thousands of “Moors” were killed. The legend of James Matamoros, or James the Moor Slayer, was born. Of course, it originated right at the time of the Reconquista when Iberia strove to expel the Muslims who had invaded and ruled much of the peninsula. It is a troubling image of St. James that isn’t compatible with the vision of a man who came to Iberia to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ. Still, the images of James Matamoros remain. The battle has no historical basis, a fact that failed to dissuade the spread of the myth and the dissemination of the many symbols that survive to this day. The most notable is the use of swords to form the Christian cross.

We were on the trail by shortly after 8 a.m., finding our way along the wooden boardwalk that follows much of this part of Portugal. It is an amazing labyrinth of paths that lead to the beach, to small villages along the way, or simply lead the pilgrim toward Santiago de Compostela. All along the way are the remains of old windmills. Some have been restored or at least maintained while others are delapidated.

The weather was cool, but so very blue.

The coastline was lined with white sand much of which is raked and shaped by bulldozers. The Atlantic was deep azure in stark contrast to the white sand and black rocky outcrops. It is very beautiful.

Our trail led ever northward but after a few miles turned slightly inland where it joined the Coastal Route for a distance before turning back toward the coast. The wooden walkways gave way to pavement, dirt and gravel tracks, and asphalt.

We found lunch in Apulia where we had magnificent views of the ocean and were sheltered from a fierce wind that came from the North.

Far in the distance on the Atlantic, we observed and identified through the help of a waiter, who turned to Google for words and pictures, a large structure that provides guidance for boats searching for harbor. Not far distant was a large sailing vessel being driven southward by a huge sail that billowed like a brilliant white cloud. For a time, huge dunes lined the coastline.

We eventually arrived in Ofir, having walked about 11.7 miles, where we spent another night in a modern hotel and where we expected to dine on Portuguese pizza but didn’t. We settled for a decent meal where staff insisted that we drink bottled water, a tout that Sarah firmly rejected. Tap water in Portugal is perfectly fine.

We awoke to another glorious morning, the sky a deep blue and the sea peaceful and incredibly blue as well. There was little wind, and the image was serene and misleading when the history of the area is taken into account.

This was a “short” day, according to Sarah, one for just a few miles where we could do as we wanted without any pressure to reach our destination. Of course, that turned out to be just more than misleading, some 10.4 miles later. But, it was quite rewarding.

We crossed the Covado River with splendid views of the delta that led to the Atlantic.

On the north side, we found Esposende where we found the famous pastries, Clarinha de Fāo, filled with a sweetened squash and covered with powered sugar. Nearby was a beautiful, if small, cathedral in which there was an image of Mary with seven swords driven at strategic angles into her breast.

Of the hundreds of cathedrals we’ve been in, this was the first we’d seen this image, but the swords are well known representations of the seven sorrows of Mary.

By this point in our journey, the “coastal” and the “litoral” routes converged and separated in confusing ways. The coastal route is actually more inland and the more traditional way to find St. James, while the litoral route is more recent and follows the actual shore more closely.

It is not always well marked. Instead of the yellow arrow and scallop, we looked for signs that weren’t always obvious, marked “Litoral Norte.”

It was somewhere at this stage that we encountered three people also making their way north, a man and two women. The man, quite talkative, introduced himself as a solo traveler who had somehow connected with two “very nice ladies” and he announced that they had determined to take the litoral route all the way to Santiago de Compostela. The ladies said nothing, but appeared satisfied. Marsha immediately named him “Solo Dude.” We had several encounters with Solo Dude before we lost him at the border into Spain. By that time, the two ladies had ditched him and he was indeed a solo. The two ladies, one a tall, horse faced, intent woman and the other an Asian who mentioned her desire for a taxi from time to time, remained a part of our retinue until we arrived in Santiago de Compostela. It was the Asian woman who graciously took our photograph before the Cathedral.

In Belinho, when I was beginning to develop doubts about how far I had to go, we stopped at a small establishment for rehabilitation in the form of one somewhat modest beer and two small glasses of white wine, all filled to the point where moving them was hazardous. Just across the road was another small, attractive cathedral that had two large images imbedded on either side. One was the figure of a man holding a book in one hand and large knife in the other held in a way that implied a threat.

At first I was convinced that it was Jesus holding a large knife and a scroll, and I was aghast, but it was St. Bartholomew who was skinned alive and is now a Saint. Unfortunately this is another of those stories that has no historical support.

We had a potato, bacon, and egg concoction in Belinho before the final trudge to our night’s lodgings. A green wine was the order of the day, one that is “young” and crisp and quite tasty.

Our hosts along the way have been so warm and welcoming and encouraging, all telling us “Bom Camino” or “Bom dia” with smiles and waves. It’s been pretty special.

Our accommodations at the end of our fourth day were spare, our room including two twin size beds with inadequate pillows, a tiny room with a shower only big enough for a small person accompanied by a sink that almost didn’t exist, and another tiny room with a toilet at one end that had to be approached backwards with a toilet paper dispenser located high over the left shoulder at an angle intended only for a contortionist.

We left under beautiful skies with the threat of weather moving in slowly.

We were determined to follow the Litoral Norte route but found it difficult. The trail wasn’t marked consistently and the Coastal Route frequently intruded and attempted to entice an innocent pilgrim to avoid the real coast. We persisted, finding ourselves at times clambering down huge dunes to find the beach where we would walk for miles.

Our day was large and arduous. Walking in dunes for miles isn’t easy, one leg having to be longer than the other for one thing and the constant threat of sand sneaking into the shoes and socks.

At one point, we were faced with a large stream that flowed out over the beach that couldn’t be crossed without threat of getting wet. Without going into all the details, I will only say that walking barefoot is very difficult for me and so removing my shoes to wade across proved to be an ordeal that should have been videotaped.

At one point, we gained a view of our destination, Pousada Viana do Castelo, at the mouth of the Lima River.

Far in the distance, it resided at the top of a tall hill with the Sanctuary of Our Sacred Heart of Jesus, an enormous basilica only constructed in the early 20th century, in the foreground. To get there we walked an endless distance along the beach and then roads to find a bridge that was at least a mile long that crossed the river and deposited us very near an establishment that was in the business of selling whiskey, a substance that was in sore need.

And then we began the long, tedious, challenging task of getting up the hill.

I really can’t describe this adequately. It included steep cobbled pathways, stairs, and a great deal of sweat and naughty words. It was hot. We made it, emerging to find the top of a funicular that we could have taken. Pilgrims didn’t have this advantage and neither did we.

This was one of our most difficult days, a combination of the distance, 12.7 miles, the need to walk along beaches, the slog up the steps, and the crossing on the beach, but the end was indeed rewarding. The views out over the river and the Sanctuary below were breathtaking. Our meal in this elegant establishment was forgettable, but we had decent beds and a shower.

We woke to a glorious sunrise in the midst of clouds the color of gold that soon turned to heavy fog and wind. There was a threat of rain and cooler weather.

We dined on very marginal food served by people dressed formally who implied that we didn’t know anything about food or the life of the rich and famous. We had a look at the huge sanctuary just below our lodgings, finding it to be more intimate and small than it appeared from the outside, but spare and uninspiring. We found the funicular and rode to the bottom of the hill and then started a long, steady slog north along the coast.

The path was marked with periodic forts built in the 18th century to repel pirates, ancient windmills, and splendid scenery.

For some portions, we had wooden boardwalks, but as we got further north the way became more obscure,

often leading us along stone walkways that were difficult to walk on or forest pathways. At times, the route seemed to double back on itself, an apparent deference to landowners along the way. The Literol Norte route diverged all along from the more traditional and more inland Coastal Route, but it was hard to get lost with the sea always nearby and always on our left.

We encountered numerous other pilgrims, all odd, all immediately recognizable, some completely incommunicado, and some who wanted to bond. I don’t really have a sense of where we fall in the spectrum, but I know that we aren’t passing as natives. All of the local people see who we are and many of them shout Bom Camino to us and wave us on. It’s almost like we’re in a road race.

We walked 13.3 miles on this day, long but moderate compared to the previous day. We arrived in Vila Praia de Âncora, tired to be sure. We had a late afternoon drinks that included the remains of two separate bottles of hooch and what was left in a flask that I have carried for emergency purposes. We sat on a sidewalk in front of out hotel and were almost immediately assaulted by a gull who deposited an enormous quantity of excrement as it flew over us, splattering a nearby car and the sidewalk with a “splat” that startled all of us. Fortunately, no one was hit. We watched a glorious sunset.

Dinner followed shortly thereafter that included Portuguese cheeses that were just excellent. Our lodgings were modest, but after walking 13.3 miles anything was more than adequate.

We rose to another beautiful morning, the air clear and crisp, but dark clouds and rain moving inland. The morning coffee came from a machine that produced a small cappacino that tasted like hot chocolate, and breakfast consisted of dry crusts of bread spread with marginal cheese, hard boiled eggs, and ham, served by a surly young woman. But, then we were off!

We moved steadily northward along a well maintained and well marked trail filled with pilgrims on individual quests.

The landscape was a profusion of wild flowers, yellow daisies, purple lupin, fuchsia and yellow colored succulents, all quite dazzling in the morning sun. We moved along steadily for roughly five miles before catching sight of the Minho River that forms a part of the international border between Portugal and Spain. It forms a huge delta that can only be crossed by boat. And, there we were, suddenly facing a departure from Portugal to Spain.

It was here that we had a passing with “Solo Dude,” now alone, his female companions having somehow shed themselves of him. He made only a feeble attempt at conversation as we passed him. The river was large but calm, and we were directed by a young woman acting like a traffic coordinator to either take a private taxi or walk further upriver to a public transport. We elected the private taxi, a small motor boat that accommodated only a few people.

Some distance later, up the coast of Spain, we arrived in A Guarda where we stopped for lunch in an establishment that had a certain attitude, our waitress acting as though we were in high society. We dined on a red colored fish soup that was nearly tasteless with small globules floating around and small scallops baked with vegetables. The scallops had clearly been in the cooler a long time and the vegetables were simply incapable of overcoming their inadequacy. We did enjoy a very decent Rioja and some good bread.

From there, we trekked onward. I was under the impression that we had a short distance to go, one that proved to be wildly inaccurate. We walked a total of 15.7 miles today, all of us exhausted and more than just a little discouraged by the time we arrived. This was one or our memorable tough days. Our accommodations were in “farm house,” a beautiful property that looked out over the Atlantic. Our hostess spoke not a word of English, but was determined to show us her entire property. There was a very nice swimming pool, an hórreo that had been converted to a sitting area, a huge lawn and beautiful grounds, but all we wanted was an opportunity to put our stuff down and have a drink.

The farm house was at the bottom of a steep incline that we had to climb to reach the only place for food, a small diner type establishment where dinner was be another adventure, one that was modest but welcome after our long slog. There was no breakfast or coffee making for a difficult morning, but there were decent beds, a shower, and we had been very certain about having adequate supplies for our very late afternoon libation.

Our morning was leisurely but bereft of coffee and food, not always a good way to start the day, and here it was just a bit of a struggle after the previous day’s efforts. Sarah’s room had a small invasion of mosquitoes, but we all survived and struggled to the top of the hill to find coffee and sustenance. And, then it was off northward.

While yesterday, yes it was 15.7 miles, was difficult, but we found ourselves moving along without a lot of difficulty for the first few miles. The coastline was ever spectacular, dark and cloudy skies off the sea, low fog flying across the hills above, and sunlight peeking through.

The tide was up with huge waves crashing across a rocky, rugged shore. The wild flowers were resplendent, many of which we had never seen and could not identify. But, there were Shasta Daisies, hydrangeas everywhere, and others.

We stopped for our midday repast in Oia, the site of an ancient Cistercian Monastery, the remains of which are a stunning structure that dominates the skyline.

We entered to find a a well preserved structure that had elements of the gothic with a nave and two aisles. While not the largest by any means, it is magnificent. Construction began in the 12th century, that alone being reason to be humbled.

As soon as we passed into Spain, we began to encounter properties that included small rectangular structures supported on piles constructed of stone and topped with platforms that gave them the appearance of a mushroom. They were typically enclosed, sometimes with slats that seemed to offer ventilation, and always adorned with a cross at one end.

We wondered and wondered what they were only to finally discover with the help of technology that they are hórreos, or granaries raised above the ground to repel rodents. There are thousands of them in Galicia and Astoria and we encountered them over and again for the remainder of our journey.

Our walk today was a mere nine miles, hardly worth mentioning, the end of it along a highway that led into a small village. We arrived in O Mato Vello and almost immediately collapsed. We enjoyed a leisurely afternoon by a seaside pool among Scandinavians walking around in speedos, or banana hammocks according to Sarah. While refreshing to see people unafraid to parade around in what they were born with it can be a bit traumatizing. A little whiskey helped dull the sensation.

We are still smiling and laughing and having such a great time.

It was represented as another “easy” day, something just somewhere close to six or seven miles. But, 11.4 miles and a large and very steep hill later, we arrived in Baiona, exhausted, hot, and thankful for respite. Not that long ago, I was seeing signs telling us we had only 165 kilometres to go, a number I found discouraging, but today we learned that the number had now decreased to 138 kilometres. That’s roughly 85 miles, a number that’s daunting but possible. As is surely evident, there are a few mind games that need to be played.

The setting today was stunningly beautiful, the light soft and filtered by a bit of cloud cover, the sea a brilliant blue, the sky a contrast of blue and white, and the landscape a kaleidoscope of wildflowers, ferns, pines, and golden colored boulders that dot the seashore and hillsides. There are small farms everywhere, many with horses and other livestock.

Our “trail” began along the highway, but detoured often, sometimes taking us a bit inland and at other times down close to the sea. At times, the trail is pavement, but many stretches were real trails that were strewn with huge rocks, roots, and sometimes a bit of mud. At times, the trail is well marked and easy to follow, but at several points it was more difficult. The more traditional pathway, the Coastal Route, is always better marked than the more modern Litoral Norte that seeks to follow the seashore. We will continue to follow the coastline for at least another day.

It was ever northward toward Faro de Cabo Silleiro,

a lighthouse at the tip of the Montreal Peninsula that marks an inward turn of the coastline toward Baiona, our goal for the day. At first the lighthouse was barely visible, but it gradually came into view but seemed so far away in the wind and haze.

Before reaching the cape, we turned inward and took a long, steep climb over the cape that eventually led us to a steep decline that led us to the city center and our destination, Parador de Baiona, our hotel built within an historical castle. Like the ends of all of our days, we were exhausted and only able to sit for a time with an afternoon drink. We had splendid views of the ocean below while we sat in a brilliant sun and fierce wind.

Baiona is mostly devoted to tourism but it has a long and interesting history. In 1493, the Pinta returned here to make it the first European city to learn of the discovery of America. It is celebrated here each year. Our hotel had a large, formal dining room boasting of excellent food, a claim that proved illusory. We had small scallops and vegetables, a seeming safe choice but one destined for the dust bin of Spanish culinary endeavors. All made worse by the condescending attitudes of the servers.

Baiona is a major jumping off point for Pilgrims seeking a shorter experience, and so we were among large groups of people having their bags transported.

We were informed at the outset that we had to have our bags in the transport area by 8 a.m., but that had proved to be wildly inaccurate and we had become just a bit careless. It’s a long story, but Sarah’s bags got picked up and ours did not leading to a long saga. I’m quite certain that Pilgrims of old must have had similar experiences.

The libation part of the day did not begin until nearly 8 p.m., a sure sign that this was the longest day yet. We were on the trail for nearly 10 hours, and we walked 18.25 miles. We knew it was going to be long and hard, but I don’t think any of us really appreciated what was in store.

Marsha had hot spots on her feet, Sarah and Marsha both had a bit of exercise induced purpura (a sort of rash), and there was a lot of moaning and groaning. A little whiskey was not only well earned, but essential for a fast recovery for the journey coming on the morrow.

We began, of course, in Baiona,

with girded loins for the journey ahead. There was a long walk around the bay, some six miles, and we could look back onto our hotel. It was a splendid view, but just a little discouraging that after so far we were still looking at where we slept.

Along the way, we stopped for a morning coffee, a strategy we thought would get us through the day. Marsh had an expresso, Sarah an Americano, and I had a croissant with Nutella, bananas, strawberries, and nuts, quite large. Later, we stopped for lunch where we could look out over the beach and bay and see where we slept the night before.

Our trail was a combination of the litoral and the inland trail, so we mixed and matched, trying to find the most scenic but also trying to minimize the distance. We had long stretches of walking along roads, but also long walks along the beach and through forested areas. The trail is marked with green arrows for the litoral, and yellow for the inland. It’s often confusing, and frequently we just had to find our own way.

More frequently we now find symbols marking the trail that include a cross that is made from swords,

a nod to James Matadoros who slew those nasty Moors. The irony for me is overwhelming but I wonder whether my fellow pilgrims (excluding Sarah and Marsha) have any idea.

This was indeed our longest day, one that seemed to never end. We arrived in Vigo, a large but very charming city that we would have liked to explore more. But, I have to be honest, we were so exhausted and so tired and so thirsty that all we could do was put one foot before another. I can remember so well telling our hotel concierge that he had no idea how happy I was to be at the end of the day. We sat in our room, sipping whiskey and commiserated. We had a forgettable dinner and went to bed ready for our next day. This was a magic day, although in retrospect it’s hard to imagine, because we had reached a point where we were 100 kilometers from our destination. Yes, we were still a long way from Santiago but somehow the number 100 gave us confidence that we could make it.

Real pilgrims use Albergues for lodgings, establishments ranging from the most basic to something more elaborate. At the basic level, one brings a sleep sack, shares a bathroom with others, runs the risk of a bed bug or two, and does without. Some are first come and others can be reserved. They can cost as little five euro in some places. Some are private while others are public. The real pilgrim carries everything, often drying his or her socks on the back of the backpack while walking the next day.

We’re real pilgrims, or not, except we’re staying in hotels, apartments, and farm houses where we have privacy, some guarantee that bugs aren’t rife, a shower, and sometimes breakfast. Our bags are picked up each morning and delivered to our destination, a service we had to pay for quite willingly. So far, none of us has had laundry drying from our backpacks, except Marsh. St. James might or might not approve, but since he likely never made it to this part of the world and exists only in the imaginations of the millions who do the pilgrimage to see the grave where he has never been, I’m not that worried.

We reached Vigo by slogging our way northward and then moving inland along the southern edge of the Ria de Vigo, one of the four estuarine inlets collectively known as the Rias Baixas. While long and arduous, there were some moments of levity. One was our sudden arrival along an edge of beach where an immense woman the color of dark sandstone was lying on her back without any clothes. Not far above her head, a scrawny man also bereft of any clothing stood gazing out to sea. We walked steadily downhill to reach Vigo, where we negotiated a good part of the shoreline to reach our hotel.

Vigo was very charming, full of shops, restaurants, bars, and wide beautiful streets. We’re sorry we couldn’t have seen more of it. Our departure was along a route that took us steadily upward at a somewhat challenging angle until we were high over the Ria de Vigo with spectacular views backward toward the sea, the water and sky shades of blue that were mesmerizing.

We arrived in Redondela, a mere 11.2 miles, and found our lodgings. Redondela is known as the “Village of Viaducts.” There were two railway viaducts constructed in the 19 century that dominate the skyline from certain vantages but are quite hard to see otherwise. I was too tired or lazy to photograph any of it.

The identify of the James we are doing all of this work for is fascinating. Whether any substantial number of the pilgrims with whom we are walking know the first thing about him is a mystery. We did, however, encounter a large group of very young people walking the route with one adult who looked the part of a mentor. It was religious, and periodically they stopped to sing a hymn that went something like “

Santiago Santiago,” a catchy tune that we adopted as a prelude to a little sip of whiskey. It seems to have helped.

We left Redondela early after finding a very modest breakfast at a busy establishment not far from our lodgings. It was full of local people having coffee and conversing or arguing. A typical breakfast beyond a pastry might be a bun of some sort with sliced hard boiled eggs, ham, a tasteless form of cheese, all accompanied by café con lecce or coffee with milk. It wouldn’t take a lot of imagination to do better, but one takes what is available and smiles all the while.

Our day was a total of 14.3 miles, not our longest but nonetheless difficult. There was a lot of uphill, some of it on pavement but quite a lot on real trails that represent what it might have been in the day. Many were “paved” with large stones that had to be negotiated carefully and slowly. It became apparent that the concept of a switchback was yet to be discovered, the routes going straight up the hill for distances that never seemed to end.

We passed through small villages, some where ancient fountain areas have been preserved. Women came there to wash clothing, get water, and converse with one another ou

tside the presence of the men. Hórreos were everywhere, some huge and well preserved, others obviously unused and dilapidated, all so interesting.

We crossed the Verdugo River by way of the ancient Puente Sampayo Bridge, the setting just a little dazzling in the morning sun. It was built on a Roman foundation in the 10th and 11th centuries. It’s often so difficult to comprehend the amount of time that has passed and the endurance of some structures that have been here for hundreds of years. It was very photogenic.

We passed by a woman playing the bagpipes, and learned that this instrument has a long established presence in northern Portugal and Galicia. Not long after

We arrived in Pontevedra with the plan to observe the Sabbath, a day of rest, one that occurred the next day, and one we fully intended to take. I will say that in retrospect I question the wisdom of stopping when we were so near the end.

We were by then some 65 kilometers (about 40 miles) from our destination. St. James had invaded my conscience as we neared the end.

It is hard to describe the feeling of accomplishment or victory or relief when we arrived at the hotel, found our bed for the night, took off our shoes, and took a little sip.

It being the Sabbath, we took a day of rest on Day Thirteen in Pontevedra. Even pilgrims deserve a little time off. It was a well deserved break, but were then intent on finishing our last three days of walking and reaching our goal. While we all needed the rest, it was one that interrupted the rhythm of things to a certain extent and I wonder if it contributed to the difficulty of the last three days. I had hoped – not all the seriously to be sure – that our St. James objectives might have been formulated by then, but it appeared more doubtful as the reality of St. James actually waiting for us dimmed.

Galicia is one of 17 autonomous communities in Spain, having powers to govern itself within the framework of the Spanish Constitution. Pontevedra is a province within Galicia, and its capital has the same name. It is here that we paused. The city is second only to Santiago de Compostela in historic import with a well preserved old city. It lies on the Lérez River.

There are several important religious structures along with many other places of interest. We spent a leisurely part of the day strolling though the old city. It is quite small and can be seen in a relatively short period of time. Near the river, a modestly large flea market was in full progress where we observed one of the larger collections of pure junk we’ve ever seen.

At the center is the Church of the Pilgrim Virgin, constructed only in the late 18th century and dedicated to Mary who purportedly led pilgrims on their journey toward Santiago de Compostela.

It is replete with images of the scallop, and it is an important icon of the city. Not far away is the Ravochol Parrot, now an image associated with the city but once a pet of a city pharmacist. At the edge of the old city is the Burgo River, spanned by a 12th century bridge built over an earlier Roman structure. Not far from the Church of the Pilgrim Virgin, a large festival was underway celebrating graphic books of all varieties some devoted to children and others more attuned to adults. Many of the artists responsible for the works were present and drew images on the inside covers of books that had been purchased. We had a pleasant lunch that included a sort of pie made with meat and vegetables and served by a voluble man who hailed from Argentina.

A less leisurely pursuit was laundry, a chore of all chores, and our room became adorned with all manner of contrivances intended to hurry along the drying process. I was determined that I would not have wet socks clinging on my backpack on the morrow, but at the same time I was just a little desperate for something clean to wear.

Our day of rest ended, and I confess the morning arrived bringing a certain apprehension for the three days remaining. And, not without reason. We arrived in Caldas de Reis at 4:30, some eight hours after leaving, traversing 14.8 miles.

There were a lot of mental games going on by now, talking oneself into positivity, imagining a tall beer, convincing oneself that things don’t really hurt that bad, watching the number of kilometers to our destination move ever downward so slowly, and conversation. We had been remarkably injury free, but blisters, arthritis, neuropathy, older age, discouragement, and the constant lack of that cold beer had taken their toll. We were still upright, in great spirits, but really focused on getting to the end.

There was so much of this endeavor that made it rewarding. Each day with Sarah was like a new window had been opened. She did most of the planning and leading. She poked me along, encouraged me, poured the whiskey, and was ever full of suggestions for making it happen. She found places for me to sit down from time to time, she was constantly on the hunt for a place to stop, and she regaled us with her experiences as a traveler, teacher, professor, and mentor. It was all pretty special.

There are many more pilgrims at this point, the several different trails having largely converged. There are also quite a number who have started nearer the destination. While we started in Porto, many start much further along. We had a certain sense of superiority as a result, but one tinged with guilt that we could ever feel that way. After all, St. James was watching and waiting. At least, that’s what I was led to believe.

Our little village was picturesque, noted for its hot springs which we had neither the time nor energy to find. We had dinner at the edge of the stream that runs through it, excellent salads and a cheese plate. We had two big days ahead of us.

This was another long, difficult day. We walked 15.7 miles, many through woods and meadows but many along roads and city streets.

It was hot, and toward the end arduous and endless. At the end, we found ourselves checking into a one star rated establishment that was almost easy to overlook that was really quite charming and comfortable. Our host spoke not a word of English and used a translator to give us all the information we needed. The hotel was located about 200 yards off the highway, but on a pleasant property. Our options for dining were to either walk to a gas station back at the highway or take a taxi to a restaurant with whom our host had some arrangement. We got the ride at no charge as long as we ate something. We were taken quite some distance away to an establishment that had the appearance of something it wasn’t. We were served by a loud, abrupt woman who brought us prawns that had been sizzled in something tasteless. Sarah helped me disembowel the critters. As usual, the food was pretty modest, the wine excellent, and the company entertaining. We were honestly too tired to care that much.

All along our way, we passed through small farms where grapes are trellised at the tops of granite posts.

The use of wood is rare. Often, there are small fields nearby that host all manner of vegetables and other crops. They are typically tended by older people who use small machines and hand tools. Everywhere, we were greeted with enthusiasm and encouragement.

The signs of the camino are now everywhere, and the number of pilgrims has exploded. The trails have now converged for the final assault on Santiago de Compostela that will happen on our last day. The distance left is marked on many of the way posts, and we looked at them always to reassure ourselves that the end was coming.

We arrived! Alas, there were no throngs of revelers on the side lines ringing cow bells and offering water or beer. There were seemingly endless streets all going up, all with pilgrims marching along, the locals either oblivious or tolerant. We eventually found ourselves standing before the spectacular cathedral among hordes of other pilgrims. The sky was a brilliant blue, the cathedral presented itself as a monument of sorts to our achievement, and we were beyond ecstatic at the idea that we did not have to rise on the morrow and do it all again.

Our route today, 14.4 miles, seemed easy over most of the day. But, it was not easy. There were many challenging hills, some in the woods over trails stubbled with huge rocks or roots, others on pavement, and at the end many on sidewalks or streets.

There was much to see, and the trail markers ever went from over 20 kilometers toward our destination.

We became ever more obsessive about them, and they surely provided a form of encouragement. At the end, they became confusing and just a bit misleading and I think we were just a little disappointed that we didn’t see one that said “0.”

Our total mileage has been 197.15 miles. We have had the best weather we could ever have hoped for. We have avoided injury or other catastrophe, the odd blister not withstanding, and we’ve maintained decent morale. The mornings typically have been infused with enthusiasm that lasted until at least early afternoon. By then, the conversations lagged a bit, Sarah started the encouragement, and we slogged into our destination.

I would like to say more about St. James but I don’t have the energy or motivation. Tomorrow we will have a day of leisure where we’ll see the cathedral and explore some of the city. I am talking to James in my mind, and we’re all quite certain that whether he cares or not or resides here the journey has been a good one.