Journey to the Edge of the World

We slipped out of the Albergue early enough that most everyone was still sleeping. Rather than wake The Irish Boys for a proper goodbye, we left a note that we would make good on a promise, and off we went to Finisterre.

Finisterre. Finsterre. Finisterra. Finis Terre. Literally The End of the World, no matter how you spell it.

In just under three hours, we covered about four days distance worth of walking. Our Hungarian friend put it very well. Paraphrased here: It´s as if our minds and hearts are go at certain speed. We are so used to being at the speed of walking, it´s almost like our feelings are behind us trying to catch up when we ride the bus.

Perhaps they will meet us on the beach at Finisterre.

When the Camino was young, Europeans believed that the world ended at the coast of Spain. They would walk from all corners, prostrate themselves at the Cathedral, and then continue on to the this edge of creation as they knew it. It is powerful enough to feel the wind sweep across the Atlantic knowing that home is across the water. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for those early pilgrims standing where the earth falls into the sea. For them that wind must have seemed the very breath of God.

Finisterre is a rocky cape, very similar to the west coast of Ireland. It is wild and lovely with equal measure of gentle beaches for swimming, sheer cliffs, and hidden coves. The village itself is, at first glance, a resort town, but only a little time reveals that it has the bones of a fishing village gently tumbling into the sea as brightly painted boats bob in the harbour.

We have had remarkable luck with timing. Pamplona just before San Fermin, Santiago during the international clown and street performance festival (sorry that didn´t get more airtime, it was great!), and Finisterre in time for the local seafood festival. We feasted - yet again - on local Galician specialties and watched contraband fireworks shooting up from an alley to reflect on the sea. We even ran into the Englishman who helps pilgrims by scaling the wild peaks in his camper van with tea and cookies. He was there on holiday, but still seemed pleased to see some of "his" pilgrims. We retired to our room accompanied by the music of a rolicking street dance. The music continued until nearly 5 AM, but it didn´t bother us. Spain does everything with passion, be it work, fiesta, or siesta. We felt lucky to be in the middle of it all.