After that first day, I fell into a natural rhythm. I would arrive at my hotel, unpack my waiting suitcase, take a shower and explore my new town in fresh clothes. I was warned ahead of time that dinnertime in Spain begins around 7 PM. I thought that was just a story they tell tourists, it’s not really true. I can assure you, in the small towns where I stayed it was quite true.
Remember, I was still recovering from adrenal fatigue and nursing my sore throat on top of that. As interested as I was about exploring and late night eating, my body was already running out of gas, and I needed fuel, which was food and sleep.
Overnight, my clothes would dry out and I would begin my day by getting dressed and ensuring that my bag was downstairs by 8 AM as required. I would have a light breakfast, with delicious dark roast coffee (or two), and fill up my water bottle. Since I had already explored the area and my bag was gone, there was no reason to stick around, so I would get an early start on the day, heading out into the rain and darkness.
With each new day, I found that I met another pilgrim and we would walk together for hours. Having uninterrupted time just talking with a stranger who you will never see again, breaks down so many barriers. People just open up and bare everything. I felt very privileged to have the conversations that I had and trusted with the confidential information or burdens others were carrying. This was a very spiritual aspect for me.
By the third day, my sore throat and now sinus congestion were too pronounced to dismiss. By day four, those symptoms were accompanied by a fever and chills. It turns out that day four was the longest one on my itinerary, logging over 15 miles to the next town. If I were at home, I would have stayed in bed and pushed fluids. For sure I would not have gone to work. But I was alone in a strange place, my luggage was gone and I had no choice. I figured, the worst case scenario, I would walk as far as I could and either hitchhike or find a taxi.
Ignoring my chills, I slid my backpack on, and once again headed into the dark, rainy morning. I drank a lot of water and just focused on the next step. Within a couple of hours, the rain subsided, and the sun started to peak out behind heavy clouds. I took off my raincoat, and my fleece and enjoyed several glorious moments of sun and the beautiful pastoral hillsides of western Spain. I was momentarily buoyed by how wonderful the scene was. I ignored my symptoms and pressed on.
Eventually all good things come to an end, and for the sun it came all too soon. By the time the rain started again, I discovered that I was only about 4 miles away from my destination. It was a slog (like the early morning) but I knew that a hot shower and a bed were within my grasp.
Once I arrived, I realized that my legs were completely cramped up. I felt like the tin man and finally had the good sense to ask about a massage. I was in luck, in a couple of hours I was clean and lying face down on a massage table. My masseuse was in her late sixties and was from Santiago. She regaled me with stories of how it used to be, and made me promise not to buy a T-shirt or other touristy things, which in her opinion, took away the charm of the city. She kept identifying tight spots, and would say, “this is not from the Camino, you brought this from home.” She spent an extra thirty minutes on me and was kind enough to give me some eucalyptus for my sinuses.
The next morning I felt like I had a brand new pair of legs, but the cold had worsened. After suffering through another day in which I didn’t miraculously get better, I searched for health clinics nearby. There was a telehealth availability that I booked in the early hours of the morning before I left the inn. I was diagnosed with bronchitis and a sinus infection. Unfortunate, but the show must go on.
It was about a mile walk in the driving rain to get to the farmacia but I was so motivated to get the antibiotic in me and start turning the corner. I knew that I would start noticing improvements within 24 to 48 hours. I would be at the Cathedral in two days, and I prayed that I would feel well enough to make the Pilgrim’s Mass at 11 AM.
The rain was relentless and after about five or six miles walking through the woods and other secluded terrain, I noticed people walking and cars looking for a parking spot along the way. These were not pilgrims, these people were dressed up and had umbrellas, not backpacks. Curious, I continued and soon found that I was joined by dozens and then hundreds of people. I crested the next hill and realized that I had walked into a large festival. It was the Festival of St. Martin which my friend from several days earlier had told me about.
I was starving and exhausted, especially walking through all of these tents featuring roasted nuts, fresh bread, steamed octopus, grilled meats of all kinds. I found myself captivated by the scene and I spoke to a young man using my kindergarten Spanish, “I don’t know what this is, but I want all of it.” He guided me to a picnic table under the tent, and in English he said, “Wait here, and I will bring it to you.” It may have been the best meal of my entire trip, it certainly was the most memorable.
Two days later I arrived in the square of the cathedral at 10:30 AM. Just enough time for a selfie, retrieve my Compostela, and to slip into the cathedral, which was standing room only. My head was still congested, my nose was still running, but I honestly don’t remember a time when I felt more that I belonged. I took in this ornate building and tried to imagine all of the history which I was now a part of. I had made it, and it was wonderful.