Welcome again, dear reader, to this humble chronicle of my day-to-day walk of faith. Now, you might think that a priest on vacation has little of theological merit to say—after all, there are no sermons to write, no pastoral calls to make, no altar to set. But in truth, that is perhaps one of the most important lessons any of us can learn: God is present not only in the soaring sanctuaries and sacred liturgies but also in the ordinary, sometimes absurd, moments of daily life.

Vacation has reminded me of this in spades—or perhaps I should say, in nine-irons. The week began with a family reunion, where food and laughter flowed more abundantly than the iced tea (and that is saying something). Then it carried on with four rounds of golf with friends. Now, one might suppose that a golf course is a strange place to find spiritual insight. But I assure you, there are few places that teach humility, patience, and the need for divine grace quite as efficiently as the eighteenth hole—especially if you, like me, tend to visit the sand traps as often as the fairways.

In fact, I am convinced that golf may be the perfect metaphor for the spiritual life. Every shot is a chance to start again. Every lost ball (and I have contributed generously to the golf course economy in this regard) is a reminder of the parable of the lost sheep—only in this case, the shepherd rarely finds the missing one. And every unexpected putt that actually drops is a quiet miracle, proof that grace abounds even when our skill does not.

So, whether in church or on the course, around the reunion table or in the silence of prayer, God is there. The truth is simple but profound: the sacred and the ordinary are never far apart. For those with eyes to see, the whole of life shimmers with the presence of Christ—even on vacation, and yes, even on the back nine.

Hello again, dear reader.

As the days stretch out after my walk along the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, I find myself reflecting more and more on the whole adventure. One truth stands as clear now as it did with every step on that dusty road: I was walking that path in the company of Christ. From the first step out of Tui, to the last aching stride into Santiago, the whole experience was begun, continued, and ended in Jesus.

But—because the Lord is never content with giving us only one lesson at a time—another reality slowly came into focus. It is the one the Collect for All Saints’ Day puts so well: that God has “knit together His elect in one communion and fellowship,” surrounding us “with so great a cloud of witnesses.”

Now, because I am a musician (and have spent most of my life surrounded by other musicians and those who at least tolerate us), this “cloud of witnesses” often came to me through music. As I walked, suddenly a hymn would lodge itself in my mind—sometimes gently, sometimes with all the force of a brass band that had been waiting for the downbeat. And with every hymn came the memory of some saint of my own life, now in God’s nearer presence.

Take, for example, the Pilgrimage Hymn from Hymns Ancient and Modern, “He who would valiant be.” At various points along the Camino, my feet dragging and my blisters protesting like union workers on strike, the words would suddenly ring out in my head:

He who would valiant be ‘gainst all disaster,
Let him in constancy follow the Master…

It buoyed me more than once, reminding me that hobbling along the Camino was, after all, a valiant thing to do. And then, inevitably, the second verse would pipe up—the one about “hobgoblins and foul fiends.” I could almost hear my old friend George Turcotte chuckling beside me. That was his favourite verse, and George, being something of a character himself, always maintained that the church doesn’t sing nearly enough about hobgoblins.

On other days, different hymns surfaced—ones dear to my parents, or to beloved parishioners from years past. Each melody carried a face, a memory, a blessing. And with each one came the gentle assurance: you are not walking alone. This was not merely my pilgrimage; it was an act of faith that stretched from the church terrestrial into the church celestial.

Perhaps that is why, when we sang the words “Santo, Santo, Santo eres el Señor” at the pilgrim’s Mass, I felt so undone. It was not just that Christ was truly present in the sacrament (though He was, gloriously so). It was that I was also surrounded by the community of saints—those who had walked with me in life, and who now walked with me still, though from a place I cannot yet see.

One night, David and I even raised a small glass of Scotch in honour of our dads, who—if I know anything at all—were definitely keeping step with us. It seemed only right. After all, the Sanctus reminds us every Sunday that heaven and earth, church militant and church triumphant, raise their voices together: “Holy, Holy, Holy.”

How incredible it was, then, to walk with Christ, and to know with every blister, every hymn, and every hobgoblin, that I was also walking in the fellowship of the saints.

Although I am still, at least in theory, on vacation from my parish duties, dear reader, I found myself wandering back to church the other evening. Not to lead worship, not to sit in a vestry meeting (thanks be to God), but to join in on our monthly Community Dinner.

Now, some might say that if you are on vacation, you ought to stay away from the parish entirely. But really, how could I? The dinner regularly gathers nearly a hundred souls from across Bolton—young and old, well-heeled and struggling, lifelong locals and newcomers — drawn together around folding tables in the church hall for hot dogs, hamburgers, summer salads, and, of course, the high sacrament of Canadian summer cuisine: the ice cream sandwich.

Alice and Owen had come to stay with me overnight, so naturally they were swept along as my guests. I am not sure they were prepared for the profound liturgy of ketchup bottles, the offertory of mustard jars, and the benediction of pickles, but they managed admirably.

Being in the company of two young teens, my table naturally became the “kids’ table.” Elo and little Evi joined us almost as soon as they arrived. Evi, being all of three years old and in her full chatterbox glory, supplied a running commentary on life, supper, and anything else that crossed her mind. Surrounded by this lively company, the five of us laughed our way through burgers, chips, and stories. And honestly, dear reader, I wouldn’t have traded it for the most dignified “adult” table in the hall. Sometimes the kids’ table is exactly where grace chooses to sit down.

As for me, the evening became a kind of homecoming. Mike and his friend had a host of questions about my Camino pilgrimage. Isabel had questions too—though hers were sharper, more pointed, the sort that keep a priest honest. And as I answered, it dawned on me that what makes this dinner so holy is not the menu (though the coleslaw was outstanding), but the unmistakable sense of being at home.

I looked across the hall and saw Gerri, who has been a faithful member of Christ Church for over sixty years. Poor health had forced her to move to live with her son, but friends had gone out of their way to bring her back for dinner. As she left, she held my hand and said, “I’m so glad you did your pilgrimage. I know you wanted that for years. And you know, this place will always be home for me, no matter where I live.”

Then she added something that struck me deeply: “It is good to be home. But it is better to have a spiritual home; a place where your soul can find rest in the middle of all life’s busy-ness.” Down through the years, just as my body has had many homes, so my soul has enjoyed many spiritual homes. I have been truly blessed; many places where upon entry, my soul simply says, “I’m home.”

There, dear reader, in the church basement with the smell of burgers still hanging in the air and the laughter of neighbours ringing in my ears, I realized she was exactly right. My Camino ended in Santiago. But in a very real way, the last step of my journey home was taken here—back in Bolton, in the family of Christ, around a table that felt like home.

Well, dear reader, as so often happens when families gather, there were more stories flying about than could possibly fit into one tidy post. But one in particular deserves to be shared.

My father’s cousin Darrell arrived at the reunion clutching an important-looking envelope. With all the solemnity of a man bearing sacred relics, he said, “Don, you need to see this.” I braced myself for something dramatic—a long-lost genealogy, perhaps, or a note from the Crown announcing my elevation to Lord Davidson of Bolton.

Instead, it was a letter. A letter of such preposterous creativity that it reminded me instantly of Monty Python’s Holy Grail. You’ll recall the plague scene — “Bring out your dead!” — and the poor old fellow protesting vigorously, “But I’m not dead yet!” Well, this letter was of the same genre.

It turns out that I, Donald Davidson of Canada, had apparently died. Yes, dear reader, news of my demise had spread as far as England, where an enterprising accountant was in desperate need of another Davidson to inherit the millions of U.S. dollars that I had so thoughtfully “squirrelled away” before expiring.

After reading the account of my untimely passing, I felt strongly moved to reply to the author: “Sir, I am not dead yet! Kindly keep your hands off my millions, and do not put me in the cart before my time.”

We laughed uproariously as the letter was passed around the family circle, and I must confess that laughter was a good tonic. But beneath the humour lies a sad truth: the world is filled with schemes designed to rob people of hope, trust, and money. Jesus warned us about wolves in sheep’s clothing, and here they are, alive and well, typing up nonsense in some dimly lit office.

Yet, as Christians, we are not called to live in fear of such tricks. We are called to laugh at folly, to cling to truth, and to remember that our real inheritance is neither dollars nor pounds, but the Kingdom of God itself.

So, dear reader, let me assure you — I’m not dead yet. In fact, by God’s grace, I am very much alive, and though I certainly will not dance (I’ve always had one Methodist leg), I rejoice in the One who is the Resurrection and the Life.

Well, dear reader, there are few joys quite like arriving home from Spain, and even fewer that compare with collapsing at last into one’s own bed. After weeks of hostels, hotels, and beds of varying degrees of penitential hardness, mine felt positively celestial—like resting in Abraham’s bosom, only with a better pillow.

But August, as you know, is not for resting. It is prime time for family gatherings, and the Davidson clan was circling like migratory birds who know exactly when the picnic tables will be set. On Saturday, I was back on the road to my sister Jane’s house, where together we were to host the annual Davidson Family Reunion.

Now, upon seeing my poor, Camino-bruised and blistered foot, Jane gasped in horror as if I had presented her with a relic of some third-century martyr. She immediately marched me to the nearest walk-in clinic, convinced I was at death’s door (or, at the very least, at the door of amputation). The doctor examined it with all the gravitas of a priest inspecting a dubious miracle. He prescribed antibiotics, a daily ritual of salves and bandages, and then gave me a look so stern I thought perhaps he was channeling Moses on Sinai: “And do not stop taking these pills until they are finished.” I half expected him to add, “Thus saith the Lord.” For a moment, I wondered if my regular doctor had phoned ahead to ensure obedience.

With that sorted and my foot duly anointed, I returned to Jane’s for the evening. Sunday morning came early—the crack of stupid, as some call it—and my dear sister issued me my orders: “Get the children moving. Direct them. Keep them on task.” And so, armed with the Divine Right of Mom delegated to me, I ruled as a benevolent despot. Orders were barked, chores were accomplished, and morale hovered somewhere between reluctant compliance and outright rebellion. By nine o’clock, the eldest child turned on me with the weary wisdom of the oppressed: “We could have slept an extra hour and still been ready.” I must confess, her tone contained less admiration for the efficiency of my regime, and more indignation at the theft of precious sleep.

By one o’clock, the yard was full. Cousins, uncles, aunts, and every imaginable Davidson filled the space with laughter, stories, and the occasional reminder of why family reunions are best spaced twelve months apart. It was glorious, though—so much better than the usual reunions we clergy tend to preside over, where the family gathering involves casseroles and a casket. No, this was the kind of reunion I prefer: life, joy, and far too much food.

As the day wound down, I found myself plotting one last adventure: a round of golf scheduled for Monday morning. And there, I knew, would come the true test of my healing foot. If I could walk eighteen holes without divine intervention or a golf cart, then surely the Lord had been merciful.

Monday dawned bright and clear, and with it came the promised trial by golf. Now, dear reader, some might think that after walking nearly 300 kilometers across Spain, a gentle saunter around eighteen holes would be child’s play. Let me assure you: golf is no gentle saunter. It is a spiritual discipline that combines patience, humility, and the regular need for confession.

Armed with my bandaged foot, a borrowed cart, and what I like to think of as “cautious optimism,” I set out with my fellow golfers. The first tee went well enough—my drive even managed to stay on the fairway, which felt like divine affirmation. But by the second hole, it was clear that my Camino blisters and golf shoes were not in a state of holy union. Each swing was accompanied by a prayer, some of them unprintable, though God, in His mercy, understands even those sighs too deep for words.

Still, as the round went on, I found myself laughing more than limping. The companionship of family, the beauty of the course, and the sheer absurdity of trying to knock a tiny ball into a hole hundreds of yards away reminded me of the Camino itself: we don’t always walk straight, we don’t always stay on the right path, but eventually, by persistence and grace, we arrive at the goal.

At the eighteenth green, as I tapped in my final putt (and by “tapped,” I mean “took three extra strokes”), I looked heavenward and whispered: “I have fought the good fight. I have finished the course. I have kept the faith.” St. Paul might not have been thinking of golf when he wrote those words, but I’m convinced he would have understood.

And so, dear reader, the Camino continues—sometimes across Spain, sometimes through airports, and sometimes around a golf course in Ontario. But always, always, with God walking beside us, blessing our steps, and occasionally chuckling at our missteps.

Well, dear reader, I keep assuring you that this will be the final installment of our ill-fated journey home… but by this point I am beginning to suspect I am writing the Anglican Book of Never-Ending Travelogues.

We rose at the delightful hour of 3:30 a.m. — a time normally reserved for milk deliveries and bad decisions — to catch our Uber to JFK. It was only then that I noticed something that made me a little suspiciour of our bargain hotel. All through the day the place was empty. There was no sign of life. At 3:30 in the morning, it was a beehive of activity. There were scantily-clad young women being picked up and dropped off in the lobby every few minutes. They were all on a first-name basis with the guy on the front desk. Ive never seen a hotel lobby as busy as this at such an hour of the day. I guess some questions are perhaps better not asked. Our uber driver was cheerful and chatty, which, at that hour, is an act of heroic optimism. We arrived early, which was a good sign… until we met the check-in kiosk.

Because the online check-in had refused to cooperate during our Queens exile, we had to do the whole process there. All went smoothly — until the system demanded a fresh $35 USD “hostage fee” to accept our bags. This was particularly galling because we had already paid for them to be checked through from Santiago to Toronto days ago, before American Airlines misplaced both our itinerary and our faith in modern air travel. After two unexpected hotel nights in New York and Uber fares large enough to fund a parish pancake breakfast for a month, the $35 felt like an unnecessary poke in the ribs.

But finally — oh finally! — boarding passes in hand, we joined the security line. Now, for some mysterious reason, JFK’s security system seems to have my name on a rotating “Special Guest” list. I am, with very suspicious regularity, “randomly selected” for extra screening. David now chuckles every time a TSA officer snaps on fresh gloves, as though I am about to star in my own low-budget crime drama. I have been swabbed, patted, and prodded so often that etiquette demands at least a dinner invitation. From now on, I am returning to travelling with my Clerical collar on.

Once cleared, we rewarded ourselves with Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Now, many people swear by Dunkin’, but after the rich café con leche of Spain, this particular brew seemed less “coffee” and more “boiled shoe leather.” Still, it was warm and caffeinated, and at this stage, that was enough.

Gate 38 greeted us like an old parish hall you’ve visited too often — familiar, comfortable, and staffed by people who by now greet David like a long-lost cousin. Our flight to Charlotte was filled with fellow exiled Torontonians and a hopeful list of nineteen standbys, making the gate agent’s day less “glamorous airline career” and more “triage nurse at a church picnic brawl.”

The flight south — yes, south to get to Toronto — was smooth. I still find it theologically perplexing that one must head in the opposite direction of one’s destination, but perhaps there’s a parable in there about God’s ways not being our ways.

Charlotte airport, I will say, is beautiful — airy, bright, and filled with rocking chairs, as though to say, “Sit a spell, pilgrim. The journey’s not over yet.” Our next flight, mercifully, would leave from the same gate we had arrived at. No cross-airport trek. No security line déjà vu.

We even discovered a pub directly across from the gate. As it was late enough in the morning, we ordered a light snack and — yes — a drink. The bartender, Courtney (already in David’s growing circle of airport friends in his Christmas card list), asked for my ID. I am sure this is just North Carolina law, but I choose to receive it as a blessing. Perhaps being footsore and a little grumpy takes years off my appearance. And no, dear reader, do not ruin this happy delusion.

Courtney, our new best friend and gate-side publican, was in the thick of it. The morning rush had descended on her like the multitude at the Feeding of the Five Thousand, minus the loaves and fishes but with the same level of urgency. With admirable discernment, she officially designated David and me as her “long-sitters.” This meant we were to remain in our seats, guarding them like the Levites at the temple, thereby preventing any further flood of customers. It was a vocation we embraced with a certain holy resignation. I’m rarely a long-sitter anywhere except my desk at work, but I took to the task as though ordained for it.

Courtney kept us laughing the whole time. When I asked if I could take her photo for this very blog, she paused mid-pour and declared, “Let me fix myself up—I might meet my future husband on there.” (If that’s you, dear reader, please note she has a great sense of humour and an excellent pour.)

In the midst of our laughter, David leaned over and asked, “Check your email. Make sure there’s no alert saying we’ve been rerouted through Anchorage, Alaska.” So far, nothing—no delay, no detour. Keep those prayers rising, dear friends.

After lunch in our new “local”—where David is rapidly becoming the Norm Peterson of Charlotte Airport—we wandered back to the gate. Naturally, it was at that precise moment that the delayed-flight email arrived. A mere nine minutes, they said. Hardly worth mentioning. But moments later, the voice on the loudspeaker summoned us to learn that we’d be getting a different aircraft entirely and—joy of joys—new seats. At this point, I didn’t care if they strapped me into the luggage compartment, as long as it took me northward.

We settled in, and—being who we are—struck up a conversation with a couple nearby. David mentioned our lunch at the pub, and the woman immediately said, “Oh! Did you see the man dancing?” I bowed my head in second-hand embarrassment. Yes, dear reader, the mystery dancer was David. Our new friends, the Millers, turned out to be from a lively Episcopal parish in North Carolina. We passed the time sharing Camino tales, and I said, “Every day on the Way we met new people, and then somehow, every day after, we’d see them again.” The husband grinned and said, “I can’t imagine you two making friends.” Ah, the spiritual gift of sarcasm—best received with humility.

David made an observation worth remembering: one of the greatest joys on our final day in Santiago was welcoming fellow pilgrims and congratulating them on their arrival. We all came in different ways—at different speeds, with different stops, and yes, some of us took “creative detours” (mea culpa). Some had harder days than others. But all reached the goal. It reminded me of the Collect from the Book of Common Prayer after the Eucharist: “Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings with thy most gracious favour, and further us with thy continual help, that in all our works begun, continued, and ended in thee…” When the goal begins, continues, and ends in God, how can we go wrong? Even the ill-fated journeys home become part of the pilgrimage.

Before we boarded, David insisted on saying farewell to Courtney. He returned, grinning, and said, “Make sure you say goodbye to my gluten-free babe.” That’s not a title I’ve ever held, but it’s apparently one I now own by association. Our friends the Millers came up behind us in Pearson Airport as we were just our usual selves. The husband, once again in sarcastic splendor said, “You two guys need to lighten up. You are too dour.”

As I write, the plane is aloft, and we are finally headed toward the True North, strong and free. This time, I believe we are truly on our way home. What a journey it has been—full of grace, laughter, and the unmistakable presence of God. Thank you for walking it with me in prayer.

Well, dear reader, if being stranded for 36 hours in a city you never planned to visit can, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a blessing, then this was exactly that sort of blessing—albeit one with a surprisingly high price tag.

Our hotel in Queens was the only place with a vacancy anywhere near the airport. The booking site described it as “economy.” I am now convinced that “economy” in this instance referred not to the price, but to the sheer number of amenities one could economize out of existence. There was no soap. No shampoo. No television — though David did ask about one, and the desk clerk cheerfully announced, “Oh, those don’t work.” It was clean, the beds were comfortable, and, I reminded myself, the Apostle Paul made do with worse.

By morning we were hungry, so we ventured out into the streets of Queens in search of breakfast. Just around the corner we found a gem: Mama’s Café, proudly advertising “Mexican and American Food.” I opted for the Mexican side—eggs, coffee, and extra plátanos instead of toast. Mama herself cooked everything fresh, and I was as content as a pilgrim with dry socks.

Next to our hotel was a laundromat. Since I had the time, I decided to do something rare in my travels — return home with laundry so clean it could pass for new. Inside, a young woman was selling fresh empanadas at the door, which I mentally bookmarked for later. I bought a small bottle of Tide for the wash, used a single capful, and then realized I’d be leaving the rest behind.

It was then that another woman came in — her clothes told a story of someone with little to spare. I offered her the almost-full bottle, and she lit up like I’d given her gold. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said. Friends, it reminded me that grace doesn’t always arrive in the grand gestures; sometimes it comes in the form of laundry soap, offered without condition.

The rest of the day was spent in quiet — an unhurried nap, which in my life is about as rare as hen’s teeth. Come evening, we set out for supper. Most of the promising restaurants on our list turned out to be take-out only. So, back we went to the empanada stand.

The woman running it spoke no English. A young friend — very pregnant and very patient — stepped in as translator until she suddenly accused me (in Spanish) of understanding far more than I let on. Caught out, I switched to Spanish, and we managed to place an order. without any problem. What we carried back to the hotel was nothing short of heavenly.

After supper, with no baseball for David (and no functioning TV anyway), we packed up for our next installment of the “Getting Home to Toronto” saga. Tomorrow’s goal: fly to Charlotte and make the connection home. If all goes well, I’ll make it to my family reunion on Saturday. If not… well, tune in tomorrow. On pilgrimage or off, the journey always has its surprises.

So, dear reader, you might be excused for imagining me now seated comfortably in my study in Bolton, coffee cup in hand, quietly composing this final chapter in the saga of our Camino adventure. That was, after all, the plan. But as you may have learned from your own life — and certainly from reading mine — good adventures rarely travel in a straight line to their conclusion. They prefer scenic detours, inexplicable delays, and the occasional complete change of script.

Tuesday night we celebrated in proper pilgrim fashion — one last lovely meal in the oldest quarter of Santiago — then retired for what we hoped would be a refreshing final night’s sleep in Spain. We awoke at six (bags already packed, halos polished) and enjoyed a farewell breakfast, complete with those last precious cups of café con leche.

The cab to the airport was mercifully quick. We checked our bags with only a slight pang of separation anxiety, though I confess it stung a bit when the airline insisted on confiscating my walking stick. My poor, blistered feet would now face the airports unaided, which I considered both unkind and un-Christian. But such was my fate.

The flight to Barcelona was lovely; the connection to New York even lovelier — so much so that we arrived at JFK twenty minutes early, with a generous three-and-a-half hours before our Toronto flight. Enough time, we thought, for customs, baggage claim, re-check, security, and perhaps even a sandwich.

Ah, how innocent we were.

There were two passport control lines: one for U.S. citizens (which vanished faster than the last slice of cheesecake at a parish potluck), and one for “Visitors, Green Card Holders, and Permanent Residents.” This latter queue could have been mistaken for the line to Noah’s Ark: long, winding, and with no visible forward motion.

After an hour, we had just reached the cattle chutes — those winding barriers apparently designed to test a pilgrim’s patience as thoroughly as the Camino itself. And here, David’s particular spiritual gift came into play: striking up conversations with strangers. He began chatting with a sweet, young airport worker who was clearly bored enough to talk to absolutely anyone. After a few moments, she looked around, leaned in, and said, “You two come with me.”

It was like a scene from the Exodus — two weary travellers led out of the wilderness into a shorter line, three or four people from the front. And then, just to confirm David’s standing as Patron Saint of Airport Staff, she went to an opening desk and declared, “My friends, you come over here.” Passport control: conquered.

Our luggage was waiting for us, though mine was alone — David’s walking stick had apparently decided to extend its stay in Santiago. We hauled everything up two storeys to re-check it with the very same airline, then joined the security line, which made the passport queue look like a drive-thru.

Eventually — because even the longest line ends — we were freed into the concourse with a little time for a light supper. A pleasant conversation with the server lifted our spirits… until the emails started arriving. First delay: thirty minutes. Second delay: another forty-five. By the third, I was beginning to suspect the airline was sending these as a form of entertainment.

By now, factoring in time zones, we had been awake for 24 hours, so when the announcement finally came — “Flight to Toronto is cancelled” — we received it with the calm despair of people who have run out of emotional energy.

At the rebooking counter, the agent told us the next available option was a Friday morning flight to Charlotte, with a connection to Toronto later that day. I asked what we were meant to do for the next two days. “You’ll have to work that out yourself,” she replied, handing me a slip of paper with the American Airlines Customer Service number on it, as though this was the golden key to Narnia.

When I mentioned that our luggage — and all our medication — was now in the belly of a plane going precisely nowhere, something clicked in her mind. She tapped away at her keyboard and miraculously produced our bags.

On my phone, I found what I am convinced were the last two affordable hotel rooms in Queens. The Uber to get there cost a mere $90, which I shall attempt to forgive by next Lent.

We slept soundly, our pilgrimage now officially upgraded from Camino de Santiago to Camino de JFK. We were woken several times through the night, not be the peaceful sounds of Bolton waking for the day, but by the screaming sounds of endless sirens in Queens. The coffee was of a decidedly lower grade than we were now accustomed to, but the adventure will, God willing, resume Friday— unless, of course, something remarkable happens here in Queens.

And given the week we’ve had, dear reader… I wouldn’t rule it out.

Well, dear reader, for those of us who are “of an age,” I feel a bit as though I am about to write the Search for Spock episode of the old Star Trek movies. The reason is simple: tomorrow, I know I must write The Journey Home.

Like any good Starfleet officer—or, in my case, a slightly arthritic Anglican priest—today has been filled with a mix of anticipation and reflection. I can almost hear the swelling orchestral music in the background as we near the final scene. The boots are scuffed, the walking sticks are worn smooth in the grip, and the knees (David’s) and hips (mine) are staging a quiet protest about the working conditions. And yet—here we are—on the brink of arriving at the great Cathedral in Santiago, the earthly end-point of this pilgrimage.

It’s funny how the Camino, much like an old Star Trek film, is full of unlikely friendships, strange encounters, moments of breathtaking beauty, and at least one or two episodes you would rather not repeat (the “industrial area” being our Wrath of Khan). But every step has carried with it the quiet truth that we have been walking toward something more than a building, more than a certificate, more even than Santiago itself. We have been walking toward the heart of God.

After breakfast, we set out for the Cathedral—only about a kilometre from our hotel. Now, a kilometre is not usually something worth writing home about after weeks of walking 20-plus a day, but I will admit I felt a little like a marathoner who has reached the final lap, still trying to look graceful while every joint and tendon is screaming, “Let’s just sit down on this cobblestone and call it holy ground.”

We made our way around that magnificent edifice to the Oficina de Peregrinos, where we joined the long line of dusty and beaming travellers being officially registered as having “finished the course.” St. Paul came to mind—yes, I know, dear reader, that may surprise you. I’ve never been his most devoted fan, but when he said, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith,” I suspect he may have had a blister or two himself.

After receiving our Compostela, the plenary indulgence, and our mileage certificate (proof that this was more than just a scenic pub crawl), we made our way to the Pilgrim’s Mass. The walk had been short, but the emotion was not. Since my heart attack, my capacity to master my emotions has… well, let’s just say it’s taken early retirement. Today, the tears came freely—every time the reality of this journey met the presence of my Lord.

During the Mass, I knew every response in Spanish, but each time I opened my mouth, a lump arrived uninvited in my throat. When the celebrant raised the Sacrament, if my hips had permitted, I would have fallen to my knees in awe. Instead, I made as deep a bow as my hip joints would allow, and the tears came again. Every step of this difficult road, Jesus has walked with me. And now, here in this ancient cathedral, His presence was as clear as the sunlight through the rose window. Señor, ten piedad.

After the Mass, I went to the crypt to pray at the tomb of St. James the Less—praying for my dad, who died eleven years ago, for my sister-in-law’s father, who would have been 90 today, for friends and parishioners, and for God’s guidance in the ministry I began 33 years ago on September 1st. God has been so very good to me on this road.

Throughout the day, we kept bumping into friends we’d met along the way—Julio and Stephy from Barcelona, the Irish ladies, Claudia and Laura from Sicily, the “You’re the guy!” fellow, and more. I realised most of these connections were because of David. His habit of offering encouragement to the weary, a helping hand over a tough step, or a fist bump at the end of a stage had blessed so many. I was simply reaping the friendship harvest of David’s generosity.

The rest of the afternoon was… well, let’s call it a theological lesson in perseverance. My sister had asked me to bring her back a pilgrim’s talisman—a Jacinto de Compostela stone. The shop she recommended looked at me as if I’d just asked for a live unicorn. We tried one jewellery store after another, each one politely but firmly dismissing the idea.

Finally, deciding I needed my own souvenir, we found the oldest tattoo parlour in a city where the word “old” is not thrown around lightly. There, I received the traditional pilgrim tattoo: the cross of St. James over the scallop shell. (If I meet Paul in the next life, I’ll have something to show him.)

Our search for the stone continued with a little help from Chatty Kathy—my Google Maps voice—whose sense of direction rivals only that of a drunken goose. At one point, the GPS assured us we were “just around the corner” from our hotel, while the distance on the screen kept going up. We stopped for gelato—partly for the refreshment, partly for the therapy—and wouldn’t you know, across the street was yet another jewellery shop. This time, the woman paused, thought for a moment, and said, “Ah… Chispato stone. Not far.”

One kilometre later, we had it. The elusive pilgrim’s talisman was finally in my hand. We returned to the hotel, where David bandaged my blistered feet (merciful man that he is) before we cleaned up for supper.

I think I’ll leave you here for tonight, dear reader. Supper will be the introduction to “The Journey Home.” I can promise it will be light on orcas but full of sea creatures nonetheless.

Buen Camino, friends. I prayed for you today.

Well, my dear reader, we left Padrón before the sun was fully awake, hoping to outpace the heat. The smoke of distant wildfires lingered faintly in the air — a reminder that even in beauty there are sorrows. Our task was clear: 27 kilometres stood between us and the great city of Santiago. Having learned from yesterday’s little navigational… “creative detour,” I was meticulous about asking directions. This time I wanted no adventures that involved climbing unnecessary mountains just for the scenery.

The Dossier had already warned me we would be climbing almost 1,500 feet today. That seemed quite enough exercise for one’s spiritual formation. The first 10 kilometres passed quickly, and before long we arrived in Parada de Francos. David and I had made a pact not to take a single photo until we reached a milestone marker in the single digits. Eventually, the road curved and there it was: Km 9.976. Naturally, we had our photo taken. It turned out to be something of a social hotspot—David soon found himself conscripted as the official photographer for every pilgrim within a hundred yards.

The day became a reunion tour. We bumped into so many friends made along the way: the “You’re the guy!” fellow who greeted David as though he were an old rugby mate; our delightful young friends from Rome; the couple from Charlotte; the gentleman from Barcelona who insisted on removing David’s hat to confirm his identity by the state of his baldness; two German ladies from our earlier walk into Padrón; and the entire Irish contingent, whose laughter could be heard long before we saw them.

The heat grew fierce, and soon we adopted a spiritual discipline of “bench discernment” — every wooden plank or stone slab that looked remotely sit-able was received as a sign from the Lord to pause and rest. This worked well until David became uncharacteristically unwilling to stop at all. His focus sharpened, his pace quickened, and I realised the truth: he wanted to finish.

So I reached into my pastoral toolkit and deployed the magic words:
“David… we need to find a place where we can get a nice cold beer.”

His head lifted; he sniffed the air like a bloodhound on the trail. For a moment he was tempted by a burger joint, but then his eyes fixed on a Bar-Café up the street. We were barely a kilometre from our hotel, but the Spirit was clearly moving—so we stopped. I will testify before any court in the land that it was the finest, coldest beer I have ever tasted.

After showers and a brief resurrection of energy, we ventured out for dinner. At a place charmingly called Paris, we ordered Caldo de Mariscos and a grilled seafood platter for two. The caldo arrived first—rich, fragrant, and utterly filling. My appetite, already diminished by the heat, politely excused itself and went to bed early. David, bless him, soldiered on and consumed about 90% of the seafood platter without complaint or visible injury.

We returned to our room in the soft evening air, exhausted but content. David slipped into a seafood-induced coma, and I wasn’t far behind.

Tomorrow, dear reader, we will walk the last short distance to the Cathedral, receive our Compostela, and join the great cloud of witnesses in the Pilgrim’s Mass. It will be a day of thanksgiving—another step, and perhaps the most important, in the journey God has been walking with us all along.