Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago

by Gabriel Schirm

  “No, but it is from Galicia,” he replies. Apparently it is too expensive to bottle so most wines from this region go directly from the cask to your cup. Including the wine we are having with dinner.

  “We reuse these wine bottles. My neighbor makes the wine. I just buy it from him, and he fills up these wine bottles every few days for us,” he explains. A foodie and a passionate soul. My kind of guy.

  Day 13: Virgen del Manzano Church

  Day 14: Albergue En El Camino

  Day 15: Pilgrim Highway

  Day 20: The Cathedral León

  PART THREE

  THE PENCIL

  What would you do if

  you knew you couldn’t fail?

  Tezka, Pilgrim from Slovenia

  Trail Day 23

  The Camino de Santiago sharpens you

  into your greatest and truest form.

  Hector, Hospitalero

  Trail Day 27

  The Meaning of Life

  Trail Day 21

  After another night of half sleeping to the tune of a room full of restless pilgrims, we get back on the trail. It feels good to be walking again and the few days of rest have really helped my body. Amy and I both are already loving this decision and now being able to walk less per day gives us more time to enjoy. If our walk were a movie, this would be where the corny inspirational music would pick up after the last few days of adversity. The walk today takes us through lush green valleys filled with roaring rivers. Mountains crammed with huge green trees surround us in every direction, almost encouraging our slow progress. I can already tell Galicia is going to be beautiful.

  “Only nine days left,” I say to Amy. I try to think of an appropriate mantra for the first day of the spiritual leg of the Camino de Santiago. I was hoping to be struck with, well, the meaning of life on this journey. So far it has not come to me. I ask Amy casually, “So let’s figure this out, the meaning of life.”

  I must have been high on ibuprofen or something, but as we talk I think we might actually be on to something!

  “Love,” Amy says simply. “I think love is number one.”

  I push her a little asking, “How is that a meaning of life?”

  “Think about all of the answers to all of life’s problems,” she explains as our walking sticks steadily clunk against the paved trail. “Think of the kindness of the man who rubbed your legs with olive oil in Grañon. And The Barista who gave you things from his pack to help you continue in Pamplona. Love and kindness. That is the path to happiness, and that is one of my meanings of life. If you truly want your life to matter, then maybe it is not on the huge grand scale you are striving for. Maybe you should spread kindness and love to individuals you meet. You will make small ripples in the grand scheme of things and your life will have mattered, even if only to a few.”

  The weight of Amy’s words hits me in the face like a giant gust of wind. I pause, letting her words sink in. “Are you some sort of guru or something?” I say only half joking. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

  We continue on, passing through a small village. I notice the buildings are built from dark gray stones in this part of Spain. A stark difference from the light tan rocks we have seen throughout this country so far, the result of a changing landscape and soil.

  “I wish we didn’t have to make money,” I say. “Love doesn’t pay the bills, does it?”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t matter. Money has never motivated you or me,” she replies.

  “Maybe it should at least a little bit,” I reply. “If we had more money, maybe we wouldn’t have to work as much.”

  “You hate trust fund babies, and the rest of the rich work more than you would want to,” she argues.

  “I think I hate trust fund kids because I secretly want to be one,” I reply.

  “Do you really want to be that guy that works all the time, takes business trips, never sees his family or friends, lives for work, just so you can buy a nicer car, bigger house, pay for the sports package cable channels and buy ridiculous things to fill your ridiculous house?” She asks while pausing to look at me. “Money will not buy you purpose that is for sure.”

  “I know. I know,” I reply. “I can’t have it both ways. I just think money could buy freedom. I should start an app! It will be downloaded millions of times, and then I won’t have to work anymore!”

  Amy rolls her eyes and laughs. I have no coding experience at all, but as usual I am full of ideas.

  “OK,” I continue, “Money is not the meaning of life. What else ya got for me, guru?”

  Amy drops another knowledge bomb on me, as if reading directly from some unseen self-help book. “Don’t try to be better than others. Only try to be better than the person you were yesterday.” I stop walking again and stare at her. “Wow. Who are you,” I blurt out as I try to expand on this thought.

  “I read that on Pinterest!” she laughs.

  “I think I follow you, though,” I reply with a smile. “So, let’s see. We are out here walking to Santiago, but I have been feeling a sense of failure simply because we assume others are doing it better than us. Faster than us. Or more correctly than us.” I pause in the shade of a giant beech tree. The base of the trunk is gnarled and as wide as a small car. “But what you’re saying is, it is not about them or comparing ourselves to their journey. The meaning of life is simply improving yourself?”

  “You got it,” she replies.

  “OK, so far we have love and don’t try to be better than others. One and two. Any more meanings of life?”

  We decide to take a break, sitting on a bench on the side of the road. The trail has followed a paved road thus far, and as we stop, our line of thought is interrupted by something that sounds like a large crowd. As we listen, a bit confused, a giant group of high school kids rounds the corner. They keep coming and stream past us like a line of human ants. There must be at least 100 kids walking by, our solitude interrupted by the buzz of chatty youth.

  We let them pass and give them time to get far enough ahead, so we can’t hear them. Finally, we strap on our packs and continue on. “So, where were we?” I ask. “Any more meanings of life?”

  “I have a couple more that I have been thinking about. How about, cultivate peace?” she says. I mull over the thought in my head. “That one you are going to have to explain.”

  “No matter the circumstances of your life, find peace in yourself,” she says. She sees me struggling to make sense of this and continues, “You know! Make your own weather. You were injured. We had to stop. You can choose your reaction to the circumstances. You can be angry, throw a pity party and stew in your miserable story. Or, you can choose to learn from it, grow and cultivate inner peace.” I understand perfectly now, nodding my head in agreement.

  I guess this is why so many cultures have a pilgrimage of some kind. You suffer a little bit physically and give yourself the time to learn the lessons you need to learn, breaking out of the routine of your life. “Why were you holding out on me?” I jokingly tell Amy. “You had the answers to the meaning of life all along!”

  I am excited about these lessons and promise myself to focus on them when I get home. A task that I know will be hard to do. We arrive in Vega de Valcarce after a much easier day of walking than normal. I can’t feel my heartbeat in my feet, and my typically swollen limbs are not swollen. My Achilles’ tendon did not snap either, so I count today as a big success.

  We check into a small albergue with only eight bunks in one room. We meet our amazing hospitalero named Matt. A true Brit, he offers us a cup of tea while we check in and get our passports stamped. He walked the Camino de Santiago a few years ago and then decided to quit his desk job in London, move to Spain, and open a pilgrims’ hostel. He invites us to hang out after we have dinner in the common room upstairs, and we accept, promising to return in an hour or so.

  At the restaurant next door, we dine on fresh garlic stuffed trout and a giant bowl of lentil stew. After the meal,
we head back upstairs to find that a few more pilgrims have checked in including Melinda, a woman from Boulder, Colorado, in her late 50s. She is one of the people here who does not have a set schedule and doesn’t know when she will finish. She is taking it slow and enthusiastically explains her journey so far.

  “I carried 7 pounds of oatmeal with me from the states,” she laughs. “You know you packed too much in your Camino pack when you have to pay for overweight luggage charges at the airport!”

  “How was your meal?” Matt asks Amy and me.

  “The trout was really good!” I reply. “He told us it was fresh. He stuffed the fish with garlic, which is never a bad idea. Do you ever eat there?”

  He laughs and replies, “I am good friends with the owner. He wasn’t lying when he told you it was fresh. He takes his fishing pole down to the river every morning and catches a few trout for the restaurant. If he doesn’t sell them, he eats the fish himself.”

  We are all sipping more hot proper British tea with milk. “Why is that funny, though?” I ask.

  “Because it is illegal! So don’t tell anyone,” he motions an imaginary key locking his lips sealed. “The Spanish government is worried about the dwindling numbers of fish in the streams here in Galicia. You’re supposed to have a license, and there is a limit. Let’s just say my friend is neither an environmentalist nor someone who really pays much attention to the law. Things run a little differently here in Spain. Something I am slowly getting used to.”

  After a great night getting to know Matt and Melinda, we head downstairs for bed. Amy writes in the Camino journal: It was kind of hard to jump ahead of everyone and be surrounded by new and unfamiliar faces but I’m so happy we are taking a more relaxed approach to the last 10 days.

  Tomorrow, we climb a giant Galician mountain, which will be a challenge I hope my body can take. One thing is for sure, I know the views will be spectacular. Lying on the bottom bunk after lights out, I mull over the meanings of life we discussed today. I try to mold them into something almost tangible, tiny thoughts I can hold in my hand and stow away for later. In our barely populated room, sleep comes quickly tonight. Much needed rest comes as we get ready for another day on the trail.

  Soul of Galicia

  Trail Days 22—23

  It is a cool, crisp morning, and as the sun rises, slowly revealing the landscape, I can tell we are in for a gorgeous hike. Lush green mountains and valleys filled with puffy damp morning clouds surround us. The clean, cool air fills my lungs with energizing oxygen.

  “My body feels pretty good today,” I say while examining my heel. The swelling has almost completely gone away.

  “Knock on wood,” Amy replies. I can tell she is happy with the news. “Let’s see how you feel when we get up there,” she says pointing to the top of a giant green mountain.

  We begin a fairly steep climb on a heavily wooded trail and begin to snake our way through a dense forest. This is the first true test for my rested legs. I begin to put weight on my left knee to see if it will hold. So far, so good. My body struggles to trust my brain as it fights my attempts to walk normally.

  As we continue to climb, completely alone, I hear a loud bark form somewhere up ahead. The animal seems to be getting closer and closer. All of a sudden, a giant German Shepard with a spiked collar and no owner emerges from the woods. The dog slowly approaches us on the trail. He looks angry, bearing his gnarled teeth, and immediately, my nerves are completely on edge. He is growling, barking, and will literally not let us pass him on the trail. I try to think of a solution. I have some nuts in my pack, which might appease the dog and make him like us.

  I whisper to Amy, “What should we do? Should I hit him with Dolores?”

  Amy quickly whispers back, “No, you idiot! That will make him angrier! Don’t make eye contact, and we will walk forward slowly.”

  We move ahead at a snail’s pace, tensely, as the dog continues with us for what seems like miles. My heart rate has accelerated as I mentally wish the dog away. He continues to walk ahead of us turning to observe these two scared humans every few minutes.

  I wonder if he is the reincarnation of one of the Christian knights who would sometimes escort pilgrims through the most dangerous parts of these woods. Charged with guarding them from the Moors whom they were battling for religious control of Spain.1 The dog has now seemed to adopt us and walks ahead, scanning the thick dark woods for would be attackers. My nerves calm a little. He no longer growls at us but only at the ghosts hidden behind fallen logs, bushes, and tree trunks.

  Finally, as if called by an imaginary owner, the dog leaves us alone, and a wave of relief washes over us both. We continue through the forest until we are above the trees and clouds. It is now just us, a giant blue sky, and amazing views of the green mountains of Galicia all around.

  We make it to a small village, O’Cebreiro, at the top of the mountain and stop for some lunch. This village is dotted with Celtic looking buildings made of dark gray stones topped with roofs of tightly woven straw. The famous dish of this region is pulpo, octopus, normally served with some smoked Spanish paprika, salt, and drenched in olive oil. We order a large wooden plate full of pulpo and wash it down with two claras con limon, or drinks made by mixing beer and lemon soda. The octopus is good but not my favorite as it takes on the feeling of chewing on a rubber tire after a while. I feel slightly nauseous after such a strange meal.

  It is here in O’Cebriero where Don Elias Valiña Sampedro, the local parish priest who died in 1989, came up with the idea to mark the Camino de Santiago with the now iconic yellow arrows. They are the modern day guide that marks the many routes to Santiago.2

  This is a popular stop for pilgrims after such a steep climb, and upon seeing the line outside of the albergue, we decide to continue on. We slowly walk through the rare Galician sunshine away from town, enjoying the views and the peculiar signature buildings of this region. The landscape is dotted with cattle and goats. Scots pine mix with oak and birch trees as far as the eye can see, only interrupted by squares of farmland cut out of the forest.

  By three o’clock in the afternoon, we make it to the tiny village of Hospital de la Condesa and check into the Albergue Xunta. A Xunta is a government-run albergue, and this one has about 20 bunk beds in a large cold room. The building is in the middle of several pastures and connected farms. I do my laundry in the sink outside accompanied by a curious chicken.

  It is colder here in Galicia, and since we threw Amy’s sleeping bag in the trash in León to get rid of the bed bugs, I offer Amy my sleeping bag for the night. I simply lie on the bottom bunk wrapped in my rain jacket, still wearing my hiking clothes. When I wake up, I am a little confused. It felt like a nap, and I am already dressed. We unceremoniously head out the front door and start walking.

  “I can see my breath!” I yell ahead to Amy. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t reply. I can barely hear myself as the raindrops constantly fall on the hood of my rain jacket, drowning out all other noise.

  It is about 7 a.m., and the day has begun with heavy rain and thick fog. The light from our headlamps is filled with thousands of tiny raindrops speeding towards the ground. Even with our rain gear, we are soaked before breakfast. This combined with a steep climb over a trail covered with slick muddy rocks makes for a challenging early morning. We stop at the first bar we see and are greeted by a roaring fire and a kind smile from an elderly lady who treats us as if we are family. I look around the cozy room and on the wall see her picture in dozens of newspaper articles about the Camino de Santiago. We must have stumbled upon a gem.

  I hang my wet rain jacket next to the fire and head up to the bar. We order thick toast with butter and spread rich dark brown local honey over the bread. The honey still has bits of pollen in it and has a strong smokey flavor. The kind woman offers a smile and tells me in Spanish, “The flavor comes from the bees who love the chestnut trees in this forest.”

  White steam is rising from our rain jackets as the crackling fire wa
rms our bones. The hot coffee warms our souls. It is hard to head back out into the rain, so we spend more time than usual savoring our breakfast. “Would be a good day to stay inside and watch movies,” Amy says, thinking out loud.

  “That sounds amazing!” I reply, sitting next to the fire.

  Reluctantly, we continue on. The rain slowly lets up, and after a few hours, we pass through a small Galician farm town. Out of nowhere, a woman appears from inside of a stone farmhouse, carrying a piping hot plate filled with fresh crepes. We take two, and she shakes some sugar on top. I ask how much and she tells us donation only. We fork over a few euros, she asks us where we are from, and after a few minutes we continue on our way. “Buen Camino, peregrinos!” she yells after us.

  “Muchísimas gracias, Señora!” I yell back and wave.

  I smile at Amy. I have never been so happy walking in the rain. We continue on through lush green forests and clouds until the sun finally starts to peek through and the thick fog starts to clear. We can finally see our surroundings. The Galician weather is almost teasing us, revealing the landscapes as if for only us to see, then covering them up again with another puff of cloud.

  Today is turning out to be a good food day. We have been enjoying each region’s style of food as we have made our way through northern Spain over the past few weeks, and today Galicia is making an argument for my favorite. Through the Basque region, in the beginning of our trek, it was pinxos. Here in Galicia, the warm hearty food seems to be designed for the weather.

  We stop just before Triacastela and scarf down some delicious warm Galician stew, caldo gallego, made of white beans, greens, broth, and potatoes. We follow that with café con leche and Tarta de Santiago, the famous almond cake of Santiago. These little cakes are all topped with a powdered sugar imprint of the cross of St. James and the Galician recipe dates back to the Middle Ages. We scarf down the history forkful by forkful before heading out the door.