Finisterre
– nothing prepared me for this day of surprises at the End of the Known
World. Rain fell in torrents throughout
the night and right through breakfast and on goes the poncho so I can reach the
coach stop which is a ten minute walk away.
I am fortunate, not first in the queue, but in the four front seats sit
three friends; I claim the fourth seat right there in the front, almost under
the little swinging bruja who hangs
from the rear vision mirror on the windscreen.
I set her a task, she who hangs there with her miniature broomstick, please sweep away all the rainclouds before
we reach the end of the world.
I am
grouchy inside, tired. People are late,
the guide is stressed, time ticks past the witching hour scheduled for our
departure. Stuff them, I think darkly, I
would leave them behind. Planes don’t wait for no shows, Satyananda once
told us, and the logic of his comment gave me such boldness that years later
when I was in Urfa waiting for the coach of tourists to arrive so I could join
them for a tour of Harran I waited for seven minutes past the departure time
and demanded to go anyway.
When I had
booked the trip earlier the man said the tour would go even if I was the only person. I pressed the case, reminding the Turkish
travel agent of his own words –the Kurd standing behind him laughing
hugely and silently at my challenging a Turk, the historical oppressor in their land – and I
was given a taxi. All to myself and no
extra charge. I sat begum-like in the
back all the way to Harran and the eighth century, was gifted a hoopoe feather
from a cloudless sky at the temple ruins of the moon god Sin, and given the
keys of the Renault 12 by my handsome, chivalrous, Kurd driver when I told him
I had the same model car back in Oz. He had
seen the hoopoe feather fall, seen the cloudless, birdless blue sky, spoke of
special signs and the Eye of Allah, became intensely solicitous of my footfall
amongst the jagged and uneven ruins.
Back
in the office he waxed lyrical to his colleagues of my driving, my negotiating
the labyrinthine alleys of Urfa and everyone, including the Turk, was in great
good humour. I was given their delicious
apple tea, blowtorch sweet, and told the coach had broken down anyway, somewhere
east of Nemrut Dağ.
Much
too late we leave, the stragglers are a honeymoon couple for whom time is a
notion that belongs far beyond their rosy world. Each time we stop for the sightseeing along the way my legs complain at having
to get up and walk. Gene and Sandy sit
behind me, they are also tired and our couple of days rest has proved our legs
far less than infallible. I am more
tired than I know.
Ponte Maceira, waterfalls,
Cee, forgettable Muros, all with a guide whose English is unrecognisable as my
mother tongue. Her words delivered as
bullet sound-bites without nuance or punctuation render them
incomprehensible. A most excellent
accent with barely a trace of English ...
Was that church bombed or struck by lightning? Did Napoleon rape and pillage or restore and
improve? Which war? World War Two, the Spanish Civil or the
Christians and Moors? And telling us in
English what to look out for on the right as we passed whatever it was two
bends back because the Spanish explanation took a kilometre to say ... all
rather vexing.
I
asked her when was lunch. Uh oh! Two o’clock, she snaps. Two o’clock!
I gasp, remembering breakfast was at seven o’clock. Lunch
in Spain, she fairly growls, she’s obviously met the lunch-at-noon brigade
before, is two o’clock; you are in Spain,
we lunch at two o’clock, don’t you know.
I was in Spain for breakfast I reply, but it doesn’t stop me being hungry after 5 hours. Golly, it will
be seven hours without food, I feel a coma coming on!
But,
here we are at Finisterra. The rain
stops; the blueness of the sky astonishing in its clarity. The very earth is different. I step on to it and feel a sizzle, an amalgam
of goose bumps, and I am alive. Gone my
grouches, my grumbles, my aches, my lurching on the walking stick, I am on the
Camino path and it carries me. It is true, so many pilgrims say it, the Way
will carry you, it is true.
The
0.00 kms sign on the last milestone is one thing, the Faro de Finisterre
another, the lonely Cross a third. Being
given the sello for the End of the
Known World brings an upwelling of tears to all of us who had walked so far
knowing our limitations would prevent us the final difficulties of walking the
four days to Finisterre. I am so glad I
came.
I leapt from the coach and fairly
hop from craggy rock to boulder to see signs of fire pits and smouldering ashes
and then, round a particularly sheer and rugged protrusion, a curl of
smoke. Two young men are burning their
pilgrim clothes. I congratulate them,
they are brimming with light and joy, one asks if he can take a photo of me
with my camera at the end of the world.
I demur, I have not walked to it, but then, oh yes please falls out of my mouth – I am here! My gratitude glowed,
tears flowed. The two young men are
Italians, from that region of Switzerland.
Down
then to the town, my spirits transformed, I grin at the tour guide, tell her
the place is wonderful, she is Galician, compliments for her country melts
stone. She smiles back, we are
fine. Sandy and Gene and I choose an
empty restaurant on the quay, we are hungry and think the service will be
quicker.
We learn from the moment we are
rationed to portions of bread for two given to three the reason the restaurant
is empty. Gene, the most affable of men,
asks for a portion of bread divisible for three and is served with a volley of
words in which, yes of course I’ll just
cut some more for you, is not discernible.
The dishes are as mean and measured and poor and pricey. We do not intend to leave a tip.
But as we sit alone and obvious in this empty
restaurant one of those moments occurs: Cindy! How lovely! I call, for here she
is, and as pleased to see me. She comes to
sit with us awhile. She has not met
Sandy or Gene, not once along the 500 miles.
Isn’t it curious who we meet and who we miss even walking the same path
at the same time. Cindy and I had not
hoped to meet again after our sharing at breakfast days before, had not bumped
into each other, yet here she is. She
had caught a local bus to Finisterre yesterday and will walk the long day to
Muxia tomorrow. I promised my body I wouldn’t push it anymore but we had a little talk
and decided we could manage one more day!
We laugh, swap emails.
Cindy
is from Boulder and when she hears I am from Glastonbury laughs and tells Gene,
who commented that Boulder is a bit left of field, that Glastonbury is the last
word in way out there and makes Boulder look boring. We hug, take photos, wave goodbye and she
calls out: start from Le Puy, your smile
will get you through France, a smile speaks twenty languages!
And
so on to Muxia, named for the monks of an 11th century Benedictine monastery. The rock, the sail belonging to the Virgin of
the Boat, is clear to see, but no going through the narrow hole nine times for
me; Men-an-Tol cured me of crawling through little holes in or under rocks for
all time. I love the legend though: St
James, Santiago, came here in despair thinking he had failed in his mission and
the Blessed Virgin appeared sailing in to the land in a small barque to console
him and say indeed he hadn’t failed at all.
Each
one of us feels this to be the true end to our long walk; each of us sit on the
sea pounded rocks lost in reverie and sea spray, silently. My pilgrimage is over.
Almost
...