Strangely moved- the last day to Santiago

It should have been a short and relatively easy day, but my leg was swollen and painful, so I walked slowly with a strange flat footed gait. Rosemary had lent me her walking stick which had been useful for threatening dogs and crossing muddy streams, but now came into its own as a support.

The quiet woods and shady lanes of the past few days gave way to new towns and building sites, with road works and new tarseal obscuring the Way. After going up a steep hill on a new road, beyond MillaDoiro, I could see no Way marked, so chose 'down and north'. Not a good choice as I ended up by the river I wanted to cross into Santiago, but no bridge. So up the hill again, asked for help from two people who gave me contradictory advice, decided to head for the nearest bridge, and limped off. Later I learned that this spot was the scene of three separate assaults on women travelling alone, only a few weeks ago. Each had hesitated, trying to find the way, and a man had offered to show them - leading to complaints to the police and an arrest.

The guide book had been promising the uplifting sight of the Cathedral spires in the distance, but all I could see in the rain was chimney pots aand cranes. The bridge was for the highway but I was determined to get across, so I faced the traffic and forged ahead, finally crossing a huge roundabout and heading up the hill along Avenida de Xoan carlos 1,to the old part of Santiago.

Through a forest of umbrellas I found the old city gate of Porto Faxiera, and clomped up Rua da Franco.You can imagine the late Saturday shoppers all dressed up and going about their business, and here am I, yet another pilgim, uncertain of the exact way, desperate to get to the cathedral, the end of the long walk. A smiling shop assistant stood at the door of her gleaming cafe and offered me some 'tarte de santiago'. I took a piece gratefully, and said what I had said so often this week, 'Soy peregrina, gracias' (I am a pilgrim, thank you)

'Bon Camino' she replied automatically.

My camino was almost over, this part of it anyway. I followed the winding street to the vast south facade of the Cathedral. Up the steps, in the door and sat on the simple wooden seats. I was there.

It was quiet, dark, cool, but full of atmosphere. My eyes pricked with tears, as I saw other pilgrims come in, take off their packs,and jackets, and sit, just sit. It is over, we have arrived.

Other well dressed people come and go, a tour group bustles past, the lights are low, the gold of the sanctuary gleams, we are here. I am strangely moved, yet strangely detached. It feels as if all around me are the others who have been here before, here on earth. I am aware of my grandmothers, my sister and friends who have died and of many others I do not know, other pilgrims- the great crowd of witnesses surrounding me on many sides. I would like to stay in this great quiet place for a while.

Tomorrow I will come and join in the midday Pilgrims' mass. Today it is enough to just be here.
I walk outside to find the Pilgrims' Office, to have my credencial verified and be issued with my Citation or Compostella issued by the Canonicus Deputatis pro Peregrinis. That is the photo above.

George Sand said, 'What is more beautiful than a road?"