Tag: Camino Fisterra

Camino Diary: Walking The Camino Francais Day Forty Eight

DAY FORTY EIGHT: 25 November 2012 Muxia to Santiago de CompostelaIMAG1502 (2)I was sitting on an escarpment in Swaziland in August 2012 when I first saw this pilgrimage; a trail laid out across scrubby, foreign land, a long, long walk leading all the way, I imagined, to the sea and a sailor in a pea green boat.  Over the subsequent months I had followed the clues to arrive in Galacia and I am now curious about this rocky shore the end of the walk.  What would the reality of the metaphor be?  Could my sailor be Miel the policemen from San Sebastian in his high tech fluoro green walking jacket or is it the soul of Ireland on the distant horizon or perhaps something else all together?  What colour is pea green anyway?

I had dinner with Tobias from Denmark after the Marea documentary in Restaurent de La Lolo.  This was the classiest restaurant with a pilgrim menu so far.  Sleek, modern ecletic style more suited to hot Summer days than chilly winter but the heating was on and the staff were pleasant.  The 3 course menu proved to be pleasantly different from the usual pilgrim fare and the wine seemed extra special too. If we weren’t in pilgrim attire we could have been mistaken as a couple; me the cougar and Tobias my toyboy.  Tobias is polite, good company, has great manners and a Colgate smile.  He has a face that will only grow more handsome as he shape shifts into his life whatever that may be.

Miel is Tigger in the morning, eager for breakfast and company but my preference, Restaurent de La Lolo of the night before, doesnt sit well with him.  I hold my ground and have breakfast to my delight on my own.  I am assimilating this trip. I want to savour the last drops of it dripping slowly and honour it’s closure.  A short walk from the town is the headland where the Virgin Mary came to assure Saint James that his mission to convert the population of Fisterra from their pagan worship of the sun had been a success.  I have no intention of being blasphemous but my guess is that Mary was a mistress of metaphor while poor old James was getting all bogged down in the logical reality.  A bit like me and my sailor in his pea green boat.

Mary’s boat is said to be still here, petrified on the headland below the imposing coastal-Gothic style church of Our Lady of The Boat.  I was curious to see it.  Sure enough there are are three huge stones one of which definitely looks like the upturned hull of the boat and another has a look of a sail.  The third stone, supposedly the rudder is a little less convincing.
IMAG1527IMAG1529I suppose it is no surprise that my original curiosity to follow the Camino to the sea was spurred by an imaginary sailor man.  Muxia and Fisterra are fishing ports after all and where there be working boats, there be pleasure yachts and handsome sailors.  Over lunch of whole baby squid, slathered in butter I muse the symbolic currency of this stone boat with the romantic talisman of my imagination.  At the day’s end the boat I left on was a modern day coach, a behemoth of a vehicle muscling its way through the narrow arteries of Galacia’s rural rocky roads back to Santiago de Compostela.  And my companion? Miel in green, both of us passengers back to life.

Camino Diary: Walking The Camino Francais Day Forty Seven

DAY FORTY SEVEN: 24 November 2012 Lires to Muxia on the Camino Muxia.IMAG1472I braved the wet, dark rain to eat at As Eiras, sparky with the tatters of community, a smattering of pilgrims. Designed for efficiency rather than warmth and comfort, it would be a quick visit on this dreary November night before repairing to the warmth and comfort of my stone walled room in Casa Luz.  I had never been sick on this Camino, not a hint of a cold or the gyrations of a dicky tummy but in the morning when I woke I felt an angst and nervousness in my bowels.  It didnt feel like anything I had eaten more about the impending unknown and not so much the unknown of the path from Lires to Muxia but the unknown of life after the Camino.  This was my last day of walking.  It was a strange to experience my body crumple in fright about the expansiveness of life opening up again.  Rationally that excites me but my reptilian brain screams no; I am reminded of tandem hang gliding in Rio De Janerio, I was so excited to do it, to float in the air captured against the back drop of the famous Sugar Loaf.  Once strapped in my instruction was to power through my legs and run off the cliff.  In my mind I did.  When I heard the instructor’s ‘fuck’ and the plummet as the cliff edge disappeared I was surprised.  Witnesses later told me that I ran about two steps and my legs crumpled, my knees glancing the ground as we plunged over the edge. My body sabotaged my brain.  Fortunately my co-pilot was a hero so I am still here to tell the tale.

The remnants of rain were all around; sodden earth, dripping wires, saturated hedges, happy puddles but the rain clouds were gone and the sky wiped into a fresh powder blue.  It was Saturday, a white washing day and less than 15 kms to Muxia. Stepping out I felt alone in the world, like it was all mine so I was a little miffed when a jaunty walker, more like an SAS militia man stomped into the vicinity with gusto and bravado.  At the pace he was travelling I was consoled that he would breeze through my bubble with the minimum of interference.  I was wrong, like a moon trapped in my orbit I wasnt able to shake off Miel for two days.  He was a boisterous bouncing puppy of a man from San Sebastian.  He had the raspy tones of Asear, the cabellero I met in Bar La Pena, Rabe but any charisma was drowned out by  neediness to connect and be connected. It didnt surprise me to find out he was a policemen, I was more surprised to discover he was a garrulous companion who spoke no English; he muffled and mumbled and swallowed his words. I was grateful to realise that although I wasnt going to shake him off he didnt need me to participate in the conversation.  He had the innocent glad heartedness and delight of honey – which is what I thought his name was until he checked into the hostel and I saw that it in writing – Miguel.

Miguel’s spirit nudged mine to soar a little and there was a rush of pleasure on the last stretch of this Camino through the long strand of the fishing village.  I dont know if it was the weather or Miguel but Muxia was positively spruce and stylish compared to Fisterra, less world weary and more magical.  I had decided that I wanted to stay at the new hostel Albergue Bela Muxia and for a half an hour or so I thought I had lost Miguel.  He didnt want to walk to the farthest end of town or pay the premium rate for this new designer hostel.  Sometimes I cant explain why I want to stay or eat somewhere that I have never been or have a personal recommendation for but there are times when an inexplicable certainty wills me beyond my normal thresholds.  I am drawn towards rustic, cosy, budget but Bela Muxia is more modern, corporate and market rates.  Bizarre.  As it turned out I loved the open hearted welcome, my private cubby hole of a bunk with personal locker, light and charging points.  The personal touch was incongruous in this space designed for efficiency and business.  I was aware that I was a customer but it that was conveyed in the nicest possible way and I couldnt resist the garish pink and blue Bela Muxia octopus t-shirt and my leather camino bracelet.  I could feel the bubble of delight rising in me a realisation that I had done it, I had walked the Caminos de Santiago, Fisterra and Muxia.  Or perhaps it was because there was Miguel again, jaunty and happy to see me.  We are captured for posterity in the Bela Muxia hall of fame.IMAG1533I still had to walk down to Punta da Barca (Boat Point) and check for the sailor in the pea green boat (as opposed to the hiker in the pea green jacket!) from the dream that first called me to this journey, but that is a journey for the morrow.  Right now it is a dash to the local community hall for a showing of Marea a documentary about the impact of the sinking of The Prestige Oil tanker of 2002 and the volunteer response.  Muxia was ground zero.  The documentary is in Spanish but this is a sociable event; people are here to see themselves on screen, to remember, relive and to celebrate solidarity.