I have finished my Camino journey, and am now in an airport hotel in Paris, enroute home, but my heart is somewhere back in Spain.
My eyes are still taking in that first crisp morning, when dawn was breaking over the hills of Galicia. There was fog, and fresh dew, and the occasional call of a rooster, or songbirds, or a dog barking in the distance.
It was still dark, but you could hear the sound of your breath, and your shoes crunching on a dirt path, and the approaching soft clicks and steady rhythm of pilgrim hiking poles. “Hola. Buen Camino” the pilgrims would say quietly as they passed you up the hill.
We walked by stacked stone walls, and fences with barbed wire, and apple trees, and old barns. The whole of the journey was still ahead, but I wanted to suspend time.
Looking back on it now, I think my destiny changed on the train to Sarria. Or maybe it’s the only one I’m ever walking towards.