Dear reader, when last I left you, we had just finished a light lunch at the edge of O Porriño—a modest but satisfying meal which we believed would be followed by a short 2-kilometre stroll to our hotel pickup point. Imagine our surprise, then, when the stroll turned out to be 4 kilometres, which is less “light constitutional” and more “unscheduled bonus pilgrimage.”
Still, after having walked 20 km already, what’s another four? We laughed in the face of our weariness (though it might have been more of a grimace), and took off with the enthusiasm of two middle-aged men who forgot how far a kilometre feels once your legs have filed a formal protest.
We were eventually retrieved by our driver — a cheerful man of many talents, as it turns out. Not only was he our chauffeur, but also our bartender, concierge, and informal therapist.
Upon delivering us to the Hostal Expo, he offered us the chance to revive our aching limbs with a restorative. David, in a moment of divine inspiration (or perhaps just survival instinct), suggested a Glen Rothes Scotch, noting that this might bring peace to our troubled joints, not to mention our souls.
Now, I, being of simple yet refined taste, take my whisky neat. This announcement caused great alarm in our multi-talented driver/bartender, who immediately launched into a multi-stage process that would’ve impressed any liturgist. He insisted on ice, which he froze further in the freezer, as though preparing it for surgery. Only after the ritual chilling of the glass did he finally pour the scotch — with what can only be described as ecumenical generosity. David had requested a single. I received three, possibly four, depending on the metric system employed.
And, being a responsible pilgrim unwilling to waste sacred Scottish spirit, I drank it all. For the healing of the nations. And my hips.
Thus fortified, we retired to the garden pool, a sparkling body of water that looked inviting and, according to the young man at reception, was “very cold.” He issued this warning with the same tone one might use when mentioning an unmedicated wild animal.
But David and I, being Canadian and of indeterminate common sense, paid him no mind. No pool is too cold, we declared. And then we dove in.
What followed was not so much a swim as an experience of baptism by glacial immersion. I can say with some authority that my pool back in Kingston never reached this temperature, not even in August with the solar heating operating. But I must also say — it was glorious. We floated, we groaned, we thawed out our legs in alternating stages. We stayed in for hours. It was, quite possibly, the finest therapy I’ve ever received outside of formal confession.
Now, one does eventually need dinner. But Spain, as we are learning, dances to the rhythm of a later clock. When I asked about eating at 5:00, the receptionist looked briefly horrified and said, “In Spain, we eat at 9 or 10. The earliest… maybe… is 7:30.” Which, to a Canadian stomach that’s been begging for mercy since 5, is the moral equivalent of Lent.
At 7:30 on the dot, we arrived for dinner like children at the school bell.
I started with a French omelette, fluffy and divine, filled with cheese and ham and perhaps a little grace. Then came a veal steak with French fries — simple, hearty, and served without apology.
And then, dear reader… the Santiago Cake.
Now, I have baked Santiago Cake. I have eaten Santiago Cake. I have even shared recipes for Santiago Cake. But never — never — have I been warned not to touch the cake.
Our server appeared, solemn and ceremonial, and said, “Do not touch.” He then disappeared, and re-emerged with a bottle.
He instructed us to stab the cake repeatedly with our forks, like culinary penitents. And then, with great drama, he poured Port wine over the cake until it was a glorious sponge, transformed into the spiritual cousin of an English trifle. It was… transcendent.
So now, as I sit here with a large café con leche and a satisfied sigh, David is already in bed snoring with the resolve of a man who knows tomorrow involves only 12 kilometres and minimal hills.
I shall soon follow him into sleep, hopeful that tomorrow brings more grace, more shade, and—if the Lord is willing — another pool.
May your own evening be filled with rest, refreshment, and cake worth waiting for.
A Prayer at the End of a Long Day’s Walk
O God of the long road and the quiet rest,
Today we have walked further than we thought we could—
one step at a time, past the aches in our bodies,
and through the doubts that whispered we’d had enough.
Thank you for the strength we didn’t know we had,
for every kind face, cool breeze, and stamp along the way.
You met us in the forest trail,
in the smile of a stranger,
in the piping of an unexpected tune.
You waited for us at café tables,
in chilled pools, and in meals served with care.
For moments of laughter,
for sips of wine and slices of cake,
for every small grace that stitched this day together —
we give you thanks.
Now, as night falls and our legs grow still,
let your peace settle over us like a blanket.
Restore what is weary.
Renew what is sore.
And prepare us for the road that lies ahead.
For we walk not alone.
You are always near —
around the bend,
at the table,
within our hearts.
Amen.