After a travel day so long and so chaotic that Dante might have made it an extra circle of hell, we finally arrived at our hotel in Tui—and miracle of miracles — it was the first thing that went off without a single hitch. No lost reservations, no language barriers, no need for interpretive dance to explain dietary restrictions. Just a kind young woman at reception who spoke such flawless English I briefly suspected she’d been imported from Stratford-upon-Avon.

Now, our room did suffer the tragic loss of its air conditioning system, which had, we were told, died peacefully sometime the night before. But no matter! The heroic receptionist presented us with fans, which we politely accepted and promptly ignored, as Galicia had decided to throw us a breeze and a blessing.

After unpacking our slightly battered luggage and declaring ourselves only mildly dishevelled, the first order of business was clear: real food. Having survived on the gastronomic equivalent of sandpaper—airport chicken—we ventured out into the ancient streets of Tui in search of something edible and, ideally, deliciously Spanish.

By divine grace and sheer hunger, we stumbled into a lovely little bar-restaurant that served traditional Galician fare and, even more miraculously, a gluten-free menu. It felt like the Holy Spirit had not only guided us to this place but also whispered in the ear of the chef.

We ordered the seafood platter. Because, well, when in Galicia… And let me tell you, dear reader, it was not a mere meal—it was a liturgy of shellfish. Our waiter, with the solemnity of a Eucharistic minister, brought us a bottle of house-made white wine. I took one sip and briefly considered canonizing the vineyard.

And then, it began.

Plate after glorious plate of shellfish appeared, as if the kitchen were reenacting the feeding of the five thousand, only with more mussels and fewer loaves. Each dish seemed determined to outdo the last—razor clams, cockles, mussels, prawns—all seemingly in competition to become the patron saint of my tastebuds. David and I ate with the enthusiasm of condemned men enjoying their final meal… which, given the amount of food, was not entirely out of the question.

Dessert, or postres as the locals say, came next. David was presented with a cheesecake that looked positively angelic. My gluten-sensitive self was limited to Helado de Cítricos. But before you shed a tear on my behalf, let me assure you: this citrus ice cream was less a dessert and more a revelation. I half-expected the tablecloth to part and a heavenly choir to descend.

We waddled back to the hotel in that special kind of fullness that turns your legs into sandbags and your mind to pudding. Showers were the next sacramental act. David went first, emerging minutes later as a new man. I followed, and by the time I stepped out, wrapped in the dignity of a hotel towel, the only sound in the room was David’s snoring—rhythmic, unashamed, and utterly unbothered. I joined him in unconsciousness moments later.

Tuesday morning arrived, and I awoke feeling more rested than I have in months. The hotel breakfast—or desayuno, which sounds far fancier—was abundant. David had more options than a cruise ship buffet. My choices were fewer, but glorious: fresh yoghurt, paper-thin slices of chorizo and prosciutto, and not one, but two café con leches… and a cortado for good measure. Friends, if breakfast were a sacrament, this one would be valid, licit, and deeply satisfying.

Today, we’re at leisure to explore Tui—a medieval town that deserves more than a passing glance. Tomorrow, the boots come on. The Camino begins in earnest. And if it’s even half as nourishing—spiritually or culinarily—as today, then sore feet will be a small price to pay.

I will post a part II for this day as it goes on. For now, it is time to go and explore this beautiful place.

One defence mechanism I’ve developed over the years—besides pretending to know how to fold a fitted sheet—is the ability to laugh in the midst of discomfort. A spiritual discipline, if you will. And today, dear reader, I offer you this tale of travel, turbulence, and tailbone trauma, with the hope that you, too, might find a chuckle tucked in between the groans.

Now, those of a certain vintage may recall a cinematic pilgrimage of sorts from 1987—a delightful piece of work called Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. It starred Steve Martin and John Candy, and it chronicled the misadventures of two mismatched men simply trying to get home for Thanksgiving. As I sit here in Tui (finally), I can confidently report that David and I have now lived out a very Anglican, very real-world version of that film—except with less turkey and significantly more sitting.

Act I: The Great Canadian Launch

Our journey began in Bolton, where we departed the Rectory in the back of an Uber at the unsaintly hour of just after 7:00 a.m. (Toronto time). The car ride to Pearson was the only automotive portion of our pilgrimage, and likely the most comfortable, though even that proved a bit too plush for my condition—more on that momentarily.

Now, the airline had emailed strict instructions: arrive three hours before departure. In days gone by, such caution would have been necessary. One had to navigate crowds, queues, surly customs officers, and the occasional minor existential crisis in Duty-Free. But not this Sunday. The airport was so deserted I half-expected tumbleweeds to blow through security. There were no lines. None. Zip. Zilch. We had nearly three hours to do… absolutely nothing.

A Confession: My Cross to Bear

Before we go any further, I must share with you a private affliction. A condition passed down from my father (along with his knack for storytelling and his taste for Marmite). I call it D.A.S.—Diminutive Ass Syndrome. The Lord, in His infinite wisdom and humour, left me with a posterior tragically lacking in padding. While not usually fatal, D.A.S. becomes a serious trial when one is required to sit for long periods on hard plastic chairs.

And sit I did. For three hours. Then another hour, cramped into the coach-class micro-seat of American Eagle’s discount airline. (If those seats were any closer together, I’d have had to introduce myself to my kneecaps.) Compared to those seats, the Pearson waiting area began to look like the Ritz.

Act II: Welcome to JFK, Please Be Seated

Upon landing in New York, we discovered our next flight had been cancelled. Rebooked for a 4:45 departure. It was now 1:00. So, we waited. Again.

We ate airport food, a term I use loosely, and sat at our gate. Then, around 3:00, the screen simply blinked and erased our flight like it had never existed. A few moments later, a new one appeared. Different gate. Later flight. Another cancellation. Another three hours.

By now, I had achieved a form of spiritual levitation, whereby my backside existed on an entirely different plane of reality—namely, the one in which everything hurt.

Act III: The Patience Olympics

At 5:00, they called my name like I’d won a prize. I hadn’t. I was simply being summoned to a new gate, a new flight, a new seat-shaped form of purgatory, this time for a 7:45 p.m. departure.

Dear reader, if you’ve stayed with me this long, you’re already more patient than I was.

At 7:45 p.m., we finally boarded a plane bound for Madrid. The captain assured us the flight would take just over six hours. Six hours! A number which filled me with equal parts hope and dread. That would bring us into Madrid at around 2:00 a.m. Toronto time, whereupon we would—surprise!—wait again for a flight to Santiago.

Act IV: Lost Luggage and Gluten-Free Grace

Our bags did not make it. Of course they didn’t. They had been checked through to Santiago, and we were left circling a barren baggage carousel in Madrid. By some miracle (and the kindness of a staff member at Iberia Airlines), we were rebooked on a 7:10 p.m. flight. It was now noon. We had seven hours to… yes, sit.

David sought liquid courage in the form of a cold beer. When I requested one sin gluten, the woman behind the counter lit up and scurried off to retrieve a bottle of gluten-free goodness, as if she’d just found the Holy Grail. I could’ve wept.

Act V: But Wait—There’s More!

The final stage involved boarding a train—because of course it did—to take us 110 km backwards from Santiago to Tui, our actual starting point. We were now officially acting out the entire plot of Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, with a little bit of Waiting for Godot thrown in for theological flavour.

I must confess, I hadn’t walked a single kilometre yet on this pilgrimage, but I had sat enough to qualify for sainthood.

The Moral of the Story (or Lack Thereof)

If you’re wondering what I’ve learned from all this, the answer is simple: God does not give us patience. God gives us opportunities to learn patience. And friends, in the last 30 hours, I have been offered so many of those opportunities I am practically fluent in frustration.

But now, I lie on a proper bed, in a peaceful little room in Tui. I am stiff, sore, jet-lagged, and—dare I say it—grateful. The Camino begins in earnest tomorrow. I’ll walk with purpose, pray with intention, and yes… probably complain just a little.

But this I know: God was in all of it. In the cancelled flights. In the hard seats. In the cold gluten-free beer. Even in the silent baggage carousel. Because sometimes grace is not about ease—but about endurance.

And so, with fear and trembling (and a heating pad), I dare once again to pray:

Lord of the long road and the slow unfolding,
You know how quick my spirit is to rush,
how eager I am for resolution,
and how hard it is to wait.

Teach me to breathe deeply when the way is delayed.
Give me grace in the in-between.
When plans shift, when doors close,
when I am asked to sit still—again—
remind me that You are not in a hurry.

Shape my heart to trust You,
not only in movement, but in the stillness too.

And if You are offering me one more chance
to learn the holy art of waiting,
then help me not to waste it.

Amen.

The day has finally come.

After months of anticipation, prayer, training walks, gear lists, and heart-deep conversations, I find myself taking the very first steps of a journey I’ve dreamed of for years: walking the Portuguese Camino from Tui to Santiago de Compostela.

Day One doesn’t begin on the trail, though. It starts in the familiar cityscape of home — with an early-morning Uber pickup at 7:15 a.m., backpacks neatly zipped, passports secure, and spirits wide open. David, my trusted travel companion for this pilgrimage, is by my side. There’s a quiet kind of joy between us — the kind that comes from knowing something sacred is beginning.

We head to Pearson International Airport, checking in for our 10:44 a.m. flight to JFK in New York. There, we’ll face a 4-hour, 15-minute layover before boarding our overnight transatlantic flight to Madrid. From Madrid, the real journey toward Tui—and the trail—will begin.

It’s ironic, really. We’ve prepared to walk long distances each day for ten days through Spain, yet our pilgrimage begins with long hours of sitting. Airport lounges. Cramped coach seating. Crowds. Waiting. More waiting.

And yet, I’m reminded: this is part of the Camino too.

Coach class isn’t exactly a luxurious way to travel — tight knees, stiff backs, and not enough leg room — but in a way, it’s fitting. The Camino invites simplicity. Discomfort is part of the formation. Even now, before the walking starts, the experience is shaping us — inviting patience, humility, presence.

We wait not just for a plane, but for something deeper to unfold.

The Portuguese Camino from Tui is often called “the spiritual variant,” and it feels right to begin with this reflective stillness. There’s a grace to this first day, even in the liminal spaces of terminals and air travel.

Tomorrow, we’ll wake up in Spain. Tomorrow, we’ll make our way to Tui. But today, we begin — not with walking, but with letting go, with trusting the journey, with embracing the unknown.

A Prayer for the Journey

O God of all our journeys,
As we begin this pilgrimage,
Give us grace in the waiting and peace in the pauses.
Bless our comings and goings,
our check-ins and boardings,
our cramped seats and long layovers.

May this time of travel
be more than movement—
may it be preparation of the heart.

Hold us in your mercy,
guide us by your Spirit,
and go before us to the road in Tui,
where our feet will walk with purpose,
our spirits open to your mystery,
and our hearts aligned with your call.

In the name of Christ, the true Way,
Amen.

Tomorrow, I go.

After months of preparing, praying, packing, and walking in spirit—
now it’s time to walk with my feet.

The journey to Spain begins tomorrow,
and with it, the unfolding of something that’s been quietly growing in my heart for a long time.

But before I take that first official step on the Camino, I need to pause for one more thing:

Gratitude.

I give thanks for all of you who have prepared with me.

For those who’ve walked with me — digitally, prayerfully, and personally — through these reflections.
For your comments, encouragement, and quiet companionship.

I give thanks for those who’ve prayed for me as I prepared.
Your intercessions have been a steady wind at my back.

And I give thanks for those who will pray for me — and with me — as I make this pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

I go not alone.
I go carrying your blessings, your hopes, your stories.
I go with Christ before me, behind me, beside me.
I go as a pilgrim — not just in geography, but in heart.

This is no longer preparation.
This is pilgrimage.

And now, it begins.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: On the Eve of Departure

Gracious and loving God,

Thank you for the gift of this journey—
for the time of preparation,
for the strength to begin,
and for those who have held me in prayer.

As I go, go with me.
Walk beside me in every step,
meet me in every stranger,
and speak through every silence.

May the road rise to meet me—
and may the prayers of your people carry me
all the way to Santiago.

Bless those who walk with me in spirit.
Bless those I will meet on the Way.
And bless what is still unfolding within me.

For it is all grace.
And it is all Yours.

Amen.

Buen Camino, friends.
And thank you — for walking this preparation journey with me.
Now, let’s begin.

Sooner or later, it happens.

You’ve prepped for months.
You’ve packed smart.
You’ve broken in your boots and worn the good socks.
But still — you get a blister.

It’s one of those realities of the Camino that every pilgrim shares at some point.
And when it happens, something shifts.
You stop pushing so hard.
You walk more tenderly.
You listen to your body.

And — maybe for the first time — you begin to realize:
Pilgrimage isn’t about perfection.
It’s about presence.

We all want the journey to feel strong, smooth, and seamless.
But sometimes the places that ache the most are the ones that open us up—to grace, to help, to healing.

When you’re hurting, you’re more likely to:

• Accept help you’d usually decline.
• Rest when you’d rather push on.
• Ask for care instead of offering it.

And that, too, is holy.

Like the psalmist says:
“You have been my refuge, a strong tower against the enemy.” —Psalm 61:3
And sometimes, that enemy isn’t outside of us.
It’s our own pride.
Our impatience.
Our drive to do it all on our own.

So here’s today’s invitation:

Let your blisters bless you.
Let the discomfort deepen your attention.
Let your vulnerability open you to grace.

Because pain, when it’s held with care,
can become sacred ground.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: For the Places That Hurt

God of the road and the resting place,

When pain slows me down,
teach me not to resist —
but to listen.

In the ache,
show me how to receive.

When I feel weak,
remind me I am still on the way — still loved,
still part of this holy journey.

Let my wounds teach wisdom.
Let my blisters become blessings.

And let every tender step
bring me closer to Your gentle heart.

Amen.

In the early days of walking the Camino, it’s easy to think the goal is distance.

Get to the next town.
Reach the next landmark.
Make good time.

But then something shifts.

Your legs grow tired. Your feet start to ache.
And suddenly, the focus changes — from arriving to being.

One of the most surprising lessons of pilgrimage is this:
You need to slow down — not just for your body, but for your soul.

There’s a kind of rush we carry even into sacred spaces. A pressure to keep moving, to prove we’re “doing it right.” But the Camino teaches another way.

It says: Breathe.
Listen.
Be present.

The crunch of gravel underfoot.
The glance of a fellow pilgrim.
The quiet sound of your own thoughts, finally heard.

Psalm 71 says, “You have taught me from my youth… and to this day I declare your wondrous works.”
But those works don’t only appear in the finish line or the mountain-top moment.
They’re found in the small, quiet places — when we slow down enough to see them.

We don’t need to rush to meet God.
We need to recognize that God is already here — along the path, in the pause, in the pace of grace.

So here’s today’s invitation, as the journey unfolds:
Learn to walk slower.
Let your rhythm be set by grace, not pressure.
Let your walk be a practice of presence.

Because the point of pilgrimage isn’t just to get somewhere.
It’s to be here — heart open, eyes lifted, soul awake.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: For a Slower Walk

Holy One,

Teach me to walk with intention,
not with hurry.

When I rush ahead,
slow my steps.
When I strive to prove something,
remind me that I’m already loved.

Let the road be more than a route—
let it be a teacher.

May I find You
not just in the destination,
but in every step that leads me there.

Amen.

When we think of beauty on the Camino, we often imagine grand vistas — rolling hills, Gothic cathedrals, and golden light falling on ancient stones.

And yes, those moments exist.
But more often, beauty comes in small, almost invisible ways.

It’s a flower growing in a crack on the path.
It’s a pilgrim handing you water before you even realize you’re thirsty.
It’s a bowl of soup served without a word, just when you’ve run out of energy.

We begin our pilgrimages — both literal and spiritual — thinking we know what we’re looking for.

Clarity.
Healing.
Peace.

But the Camino has its own lessons.
And one of the first is this:
Grace doesn’t wait for perfect conditions.
It shows up anyway.

Psalm 72 gives us this vision:
“May righteousness flourish, and peace abound, until the moon is no more.”

That’s not a prayer for the spectacular.
It’s a prayer for sustained beauty.
For justice and peace to quietly take root in the everyday moments of our lives.

And maybe that’s the truest miracle of all:
Not that something big and flashy happens…
But that the Spirit keeps showing up in the small things.

So here’s today’s Camino invitation:

Slow down.
Notice.
Let yourself be surprised.

Because the beauty you weren’t looking for?
That might be the grace you actually came for.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: For the Beauty I Didn’t Expect

Holy One,

I came seeking answers,
but you met me with beauty.

In a smile,
in a gesture,
in the silence between steps —

You were there.

Teach me to walk slowly enough
to see the grace that grows in small places.

Open my heart to the unexpected,
and let peace take root in me
until the moon is no more.

Amen.

There’s a rhythm that only reveals itself after you’ve been walking for a while.
At first, it’s all planning and pacing, calculating kilometers, counting steps.
But then something shifts. You stop obsessing over distance.
You stop asking how far you’ve come or how much farther you need to go.

You just… walk.

And when the rhythm settles into your bones, something deeper starts to stir.

Not because the road gets easier—often, it doesn’t.
There are still blisters. There are still steep climbs and hot afternoons.
There are still days when your heart feels heavier than your pack.

But that’s when the Camino begins its real work.
Not by removing the difficulty, but by walking you through it.

We live in a world that chases peace as if it’s a prize to be earned.
We crave the quick fix, the instant resolution.
But on the Camino—and in life—peace doesn’t come because things are smooth.
It comes because you keep walking.

You show up, blistered and unsure, and take the next step anyway.
You stay open. You stay present.
And somewhere along the way—peace finds you.

The invitation for today is simple:
Keep going until the peace comes.
Not because you force it. Not because you earn it.
But because grace has a way of meeting those who stay on the path.

So walk.
Through the pain.
Through the silence.
Through the days that don’t make sense.

And trust:
Peace may not arrive when you expect it.
But it will.

For the Peace That Comes Slowly

God of the long road,

When the path feels heavy beneath my feet,
and peace feels far off—

Teach me to walk anyway.

Let the rhythm of each step
become a prayer.
Let silence open the door to Your presence.
Let perseverance prepare the way for peace.

Meet me, not with quick answers,
but with the quiet strength to keep going.

Until the peace comes.

Amen.

As I do the final checks on my pack—tucking in socks, tightening straps, weighing each choice—I keep hearing the same question in my heart:

“Do I really need this?”

Not just the second pair of pants or that just-in-case book.

But everything I’m carrying into this journey.
The unspoken burdens. The invisible weight.

We all carry more than what’s on our backs.

There’s so much we bring with us on pilgrimage:

• Habits we’re used to.
• Stories we tell ourselves.
• Expectations—about the journey, about ourselves.

Some of it is helpful.
Some of it is heavy.
And some of it… we’ve been carrying for far too long.

Fear.
Regret.
The pressure to prove something.
Old griefs or roles we’ve outgrown.

These aren’t things we pack consciously. But they travel with us, don’t they?

And then the Camino comes—not asking for perfection, but for presence.
It doesn’t care what you’ve done or left undone.
It only asks you to be here. Fully. Honestly.

So here’s the invitation I’m carrying today:
What are you holding onto that you no longer need?
And what might happen if you set it down?
Even for a little while?

Letting go isn’t failure.
It’s faith.

And sometimes—letting go is what makes room for grace.

Pilgrim’s Prayer: For Letting Go

Gracious God,

You see what I carry—
the burdens I name, and the ones I don’t.

Help me release what no longer serves.
Fear, regret, pressure, pride—
I place them in your hands.

Make space in me
for lightness,
for peace,
for presence.

And as I walk,
may I discover again
that your grace meets me
not in what I bring,
but in what I’m willing to leave behind.

Amen.

---

There’s something curious that happens the closer we get to setting out on pilgrimage.

The logistics become clearer—flights are booked, backpacks packed, prayers said.

But the soul questions?
They get quieter… and deeper.
Harder to name.

When I first dreamed of the Camino, I thought I knew what I was hoping for.

Clarity.
Healing.
Direction.
Some holy “aha moment” to crystallize things that have long felt unresolved.

And maybe those longings are still somewhere in me.
But lately, I find I can’t name them as easily. I walk, and I wonder. And I realize—I don’t always know what I need.

And that’s okay.

The work of pilgrimage is not to engineer the outcome.
It’s to show up to the mystery.

To walk with an open heart.
To let the dust of the road settle where it will.
To believe that the Spirit already knows—knows your grief, your hunger, your questions, your hope.

And that grace… will find its way in.

So as I continue to prepare, I’m holding the space between certainty and surrender.

I don’t need to name it all.
I don’t need to explain why I’m going.
I just need to walk.
To let the road speak.
To trust the journey to do what it’s meant to do.

For When We Don’t Know What We Need

Holy One,

I come with more questions than answers,
with longings I cannot always name.

Meet me in the quiet.
Speak through the path, the people, the pauses.

I release the need to control or define.

Teach me to trust
that the Spirit knows what I cannot yet say—
and that grace will find me along the way.

Amen.