Journey to the End of the World

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Just about the time I feel that I can go no farther, I see the highway! I soon find the road, leading up to Foncebadón. I turn off, suddenly feeling fresh. In a short time, I come to a stone house; it's abandoned. The street now becomes mostly mud, flowing rainwater runoff, and rocks. Every place I come to is utterly uninhabitable. This is not the town where I expected to buy food and find a room in some simple hostel! It is a very small deserted village.

I have no idea how far it is to the next village. It's too late to go back down the highway. I turn around. I start back through the village and come upon the church. I notice an attached room; it has walls on three sides and about 10 feet of roof. The back of the room is out of a draft and gets no rain. Perfect.

I put my poncho on the staff to dry, throw down the plastic mat, roll out the sleeping bag, take off my wet clothes and lay them on the straw, and ease myself into the sleeping bag. I feel no great hunger. I have three small peaches and a piece of cheese that I'll save for the morning. The wind howls through openings in the church, the rain beats on the roof, but I'm soon dry and warm.

My body starts to feel calm, slack; I think now I will sleep. I had never before thought of the camino as such a dangerous place; maybe I share more than I realized with medieval pilgrims.

During the night, I am awakened by a cowbell. A cow walks across my open wall and into the church. Another follows, and then a bull. They seem to walk around inside for some minutes, and then one comes out, glances in my direction, and continues on. I breathe easily and brace myself for the next. The bull comes out. One to go! In a few minutes, the other cow slowly puts her head out. She turns in my direction, and she looks-at me? at the straw? I sit up, wave my arms, yell at her. She stands there. She takes a step.

What can she possibly find attractive in this corner? I'm giving her every sign to make her feel unwelcome. But she's so slow-and I need my sleep.

After what seems a very long time, she ambles out into the storm, out into these glorious mountains, out into the village of Foncebadón.

The Arrival
June 4, Monte del Gozo to Compostela 

Finally I wend my way to the cathedral, and find myself alone in the immense Plaza del Obradoiro, looking up at the towers of the church.Everyone still sleeps . no one disturbs the cool morning air except a few pigeons. This, too, must be a singular experience. I have never heard of a pilgrim who arrived here and found no one except pigeons. Writers describe the crowds, the babble of many tongues, the colorful costumes, the music, the merchants. Already in the 12th century, they offered shells (the traditional symbol of a Santiago de Compostela pilgrim), wine, shoes, leather bags (like modern backpacks), herbs, food. But now, not even a scrap of paper blows across this plaza. Gluttonously, I try to breathe in 20 centuries of prayer and hope, try to hear the sighs of a million pilgrims, try to envision the dreams of so many who started out but died before reaching this sacred spot.

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