{"id":53982,"date":"2025-10-24T02:04:14","date_gmt":"2025-10-24T01:04:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/londoncult.co.uk\/?p=53982"},"modified":"2025-10-24T02:04:21","modified_gmt":"2025-10-24T01:04:21","slug":"the-camino-where-the-journey-really-is-the-point","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/londoncult.co.uk\/en\/the-camino-where-the-journey-really-is-the-point\/","title":{"rendered":"The Camino \u2013 where the journey really is the point"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I had set off on foot from Lisbon five weeks earlier. I wanted to see what it would be like to walk every day and forget the world. The first two weeks I saw very few fellow peregrinos<\/em> (pilgrims) on the path. As I moved north the signage on the paths improved, and I began to bump into other peregrinos<\/em>, although mostly in the evenings. After Porto there were a few more, but the majority who start their Camino in Porto choose the coastal route, and I was on the inland route, which is quieter and calmer though growing in popularity. From the Spanish border at Tui the inland route became progressively busier. The coastal and inland paths converged by the sea at Arcade and, with only a few days to go to Santiago, the walk intensified. At 9am each day the path was thick with people but as the morning wore on the faster walkers moved ahead, and the slower walkers fell behind, and everything fell into a steady rhythm. The walk was the focus, but the conversations with fellow peregrinos<\/em> who walked at your speed were the icing on the cake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now arrived in Santiago\u2019s central square I made a video of the cathedral \u2013 too big for a photo to do it justice \u2013 to post on social media for the friends who had loyally followed my progress. I was sad it was over. Even five weeks wasn\u2019t quite long enough. I realised I was tired. My back ached, as it had begun to do towards the end of each day\u2019s walk. What I really wanted was an ice cream and a lie down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know why I like walking so much. Perhaps it\u2019s hereditary. My father was a hiker when he was young. I wonder if it quietened his mind as it quietens mine. An ex-boss of mine once complained, \u2018she has ideas all the time!\u2019 The practice of following a route, with a fresh view on every turn of the path, leaves less room for the noise of an overactive brain. I don\u2019t get on with meditation. A friend sent me some recordings to try, and I thought to myself, \u2018I can do the dishes while I listen to this.\u2019 But I\u2019ve found I do get on with walking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For many people the Camino is a spiritual quest. Spiritual doesn\u2019t necessarily mean religious. People find their own meaning. Many come again and again because of what they get from it, trying out the different routes. For the busier routes it\u2019s often the camaraderie in the hostels and on the path, the communal meals, the challenge of finding somewhere to sleep when you decide you\u2019ve walked enough for the day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"Portugal.<\/a>
Photo by Dorothy Crossan<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

That was not for me. I wanted a calmer experience. I had arranged this through a company. All my accommodation was booked, my timetable organised, my belongings moved by car every morning at 9am. All I had to do was the actual walking. That\u2019s not to say it was all smooth sailing. I got lost, particularly in the first couple of weeks, where the signs are few and far between and other people were scarce.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A taxi was booked to take me out of central Lisbon, to avoid the main roads and junctions, to start the walk on the boardwalk by the river. It was late, by three hours, but once that was sorted out, and I was started north, all that was forgiven and forgotten. In those early days, as the built-up areas and industrial estates of greater Lisbon disappeared behind me, I reached an expansive area of flat farmland. I was puzzled by the villages I passed through. On my left would be a row of small houses with uneven numbers. On my right a man-made concrete mound stretching through the village and beyond. Eventually I realised that the even-numbered houses had been demolished to make way for the mounds, which were flood defences against the river on the other side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I pondered this, and other mysteries (why do such small villages need such massive churches?) I frequently wandered off the path or failed to notice a turning. The advice in such cases is to backtrack to the point where you went wrong, but who wants to do that? The app told me whether the true path was to my right or left, and I\u2019d look for cut-throughs. I became more keen on sticking to the path after reading the advice for an encounter with a wild boar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018If you encounter a boar do not attempt to pass it, walk away quietly. If it looks like it will engage with you, do not run. The boar may take it as an invitation to chase you. Climb a tree to a height of at least two metres.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Walking I can do, tree-climbing is not a skill I ever acquired. However, boars like to snooze during the day and get out and about at night so stick to daylight and all should be OK.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"Portugal.<\/a>
Photo by Dorothy Crossan<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

I also read that there are wolves in Portugal, but I did not encounter them either, thankfully. Just barky dogs and the odd cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back to the churches. It is of course the whole point that it\u2019s a pilgrimage, built around Catholic beliefs. As I continued North through the towns and villages, I often saw signs of religious celebrations: banners and flags being put up or taken down, loudspeakers outside the Templar church in Tomar; flower-strewn streets in Redondela; fireworks in Padron. Perhaps there is some symbolism in always being there just before or just after these events since I\u2019ve always been on the edge of religion, interested in learning about it, but never falling in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One not so religious festival I was relieved to miss \u2013 although also intrigued by \u2013 was in Azambuja. As I headed into the village to start the day\u2019s walk, I saw the main streets were spread with sand, access to side roads blocked with solid wooden fences, ancient banners hanging from balconies. There would be a bull-run that day. My host the previous night had warned me to \u2018watch out for drunk people\u2019 but I missed that too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Azambuja was by far the liveliest village I walked through in Portugal. Many of the smaller villages were silent and empty, beautiful old houses crumbling. Friends who live in Portugal say the young have gone to the cities. I also heard that the owners of those old houses are often reluctant to sell them, but don\u2019t have the funds for restoration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had started my journey later in the year than I intended, and it was becoming hot. On the warmest days I rose early and aimed to get the walk done before the hottest part of the day. When I reached larger towns or cities, I\u2019d spend the mid-afternoon at the local air-conditioned self-service launderette where I invariably found a kind local person willing to explain to this village idiot how to work the machines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"Cathedral<\/a>
Photo by Dorothy Crossan<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Waiting for my washing to dry I had thinking time. They say the Camino will give you what you need. I pondered this. Presumably not the two kilos lost, seven blisters found, grazed shin from walking into a stone table, or the bruised ribs from slipping on the path and landing on my walking pole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nor was my experience improving my paltry efforts at speaking Portuguese or Spanish. I had copied some key phrases from Google Translate into my phone notes: an explanation that egg yolk gives me a migraine and I must avoid eating it; a request for a small bottle of sparkling water, or some chilled white wine please (depending on the time of day).<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By far the most used of my stored statements was this: \u2018you have been very kind, thank you so much\u2019, because what the Camino gave me, was people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kind people:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

    \n
  • The guesthouse owner in Azambuja who explained that the place I was looking for, with the same name, was yet another kilometre further along the road and, on seeing my face, said, \u2018I\u2019ll get my car.\u2019<\/li>\n\n\n\n
  • The lady whose garden I complemented as I walked by who signalled me to wait while she went indoors and emerged with a bag of homegrown nectarines, pressing the bag into my hand with an insistent \u2018eat\u2019.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
  • The lady with the caf\u00e9 in Valada who told me she wasn\u2019t doing food and then made me an enormous cheese and ham sandwich.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
  • The taxi driver who dropped me off where I had stopped walking the day before, who talked to me on the way about the Portuguese novelist who was born there, and who found my much-needed Tilley hat in his car and came back to find me along the path. Who then showed me the eaves where the swallows nest every year as they dashed and swooped around us.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
  • The medical receptionist at the hospital (with my bruised ribs) who was frosty at first, but after a while seemed amused by my inability to follow instructions. When I left \u2013 armed with a satisfactory x-ray and a prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories \u2013 I said, \u2018you like me now\u2019 and she laughed. \u2018Yes, I like you\u2019, reaching out to shake my hand.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n

    Quirky people:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

      \n
    • The bistro owner in Coimbra who admitted the French fries were overcooked, before I even ate one, and brought me a glass of wine as compensation.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
    • The man who explained to me, in mime, that I must eat the right things to be strong for my walk. I guessed banana straight away, tuna took a little longer, but his impression of a chicken laying an egg was so good I could hardly get my words out.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
    • The quinta<\/em> where I had to make an appointment with a glass of wine \u2013 I booked it for 7.30 to go with the cheese sandwich I\u2019d brought, there being no restaurant, and it turned up, reluctantly, at 8.25.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n

      Camino people:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

        \n
      • The American family who appeared on the path to Porto from Coimbra and generously included me in their evening plans all week.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
      • The young man from Colombia who wanted to be a monk who spoke to me of God and Jesus. \u2018Are you preaching to me?\u2019 I asked. \u2018Yes\u2019. He replied, looking hopeful. \u2018It\u2019s not working,\u2019 I replied.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
      • The man from Germany who, over a morning\u2019s walk and lunch, told me what he was looking for in life, having come to terms with his past.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
      • The Spanish woman who had come to get away from the stress of divorce who I would often see paused on the path, staring into the distance.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
      • The older Portuguese man who waited for me on the path after I had fallen and walked with me for an hour even though I was slowing him down.<\/li>\n\n\n\n
      • The French lady with a toy hedgehog attached to her backpack which would sway drunkenly as she walked. I eventually pointed this out to her, and we laughed loudly \u2013 in front of the open doors of a church where Sunday mass was being conducted.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n\n\n\n