Well, my dear reader, it appears I am one post short of completing the account of our pilgrimage—and there is, I assure you, a very good reason for the omission.
It began on what was meant to be a beautiful, straightforward Sunday stroll from Caldas de Reis to Padrón. The guidebook said “mostly flat,” which is the pilgrim’s equivalent of “you can’t miss it.” How hard could it be?
Stepping out of the hotel, I scanned the street for the familiar yellow arrows that mark the Camino. None were to be found. I returned to the desk and asked the lady which way to go. Without so much as lifting her eyes from her paperwork, she murmured, “A la izquierda.”
So, obediently, we went left. And left. And left some more. We went left for five kilometres, climbing steadily up what could only be described as the Spanish cousin to Mount Everest. The path was empty of pilgrims, the markers were still nowhere to be seen, and my guidebook’s promise of a flat day was beginning to feel like satire.
Then David, who has the keen eye of a man who knows when things have gone terribly wrong, stopped. He pointed across a deep valley—about two kilometres away—and said, “Don… look over there.” And there it was: the Camino. The actual Camino. Not under our feet, but far away, where it had clearly been all along, enjoying its own pleasant and sensible route without us.
We trudged into the next small town, and I approached a man who looked as though he might know where lost pilgrims should go. In my best Spanish, I asked, “Con permiso, soy perdido. ¿Dónde está el Camino Portugués?” He laughed—not unkindly—and gave directions that boiled down to: “Turn left past those two houses, cross a small bridge, stay on that road for 2.8 kilometres, then cross a big bridge, and the Camino is on your right.”
Which is to say, not only had we climbed a significant mountain entirely unnecessarily, but we would now need to backtrack about three kilometres to find the trail again.
By the time we rejoined the Camino, the day was already 92 degrees, and shade was but a fond memory. We carried on under the sun, eventually spotting a small café. By then we were just one kilometre from Padrón—but I confess, dear reader, I was nearing the limits of my endurance. A wave of heat exhaustion was setting in, and so, with a pilgrim’s humility (and a healthy respect for my own well-being), I called a taxi for that final stretch.
We arrived at a beautiful hotel with a pool that seemed to shimmer with heavenly invitation. But I, utterly spent, fell into bed at 3:00 p.m. and did not so much as glance at that pool until the next morning. Dinner passed without my attendance, and sleep became my only prayer that night.
David on the other hnd did partake of both the pool and the dinner that was on offer. HE began conversations with our fellow travellers as he usually does. He brought me a take-out meal, but I couldn’t manage to raise myself from the bed. I did over the course of my very long sleep manage to sip down a cold Coke Zero.
It was, without question, the hardest day of my Camino—physically humbling, spiritually instructive, and a perfect reminder that in both pilgrimage and the Christian life, even wrong turns can be redeemed… though they may involve a mountain you didn’t need to climb.