Dear reader, our day began in what I like to think of as the “Camino Goldilocks Zone”—up before the sun, showered, and strategically loitering at the door of the dining room so that we could be the first ones in at 7 a.m. sharp.

The server took one look at me and, with the solemn air of a man announcing a royal decree, said: “Room 207. Sin gluten.” He then followed me into the dining room carrying what can only be described as a laundry basket full of gluten-free provisions—bread, biscuits, crackers—enough to feed a small coeliac army for a week. I, being a man of simple (and rather carnivorous) tastes, ignored most of it and set to work on the chorizo, prosciutto, salami, serrano ham, and yoghurt. His efforts were largely wasted, but I appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

We left immediately after breakfast, well aware that today would be no stroll along a seaside promenade. We had at least 24 kilometres ahead of us, with two “provisional paths” (which, dear reader, is Camino-speak for “absolutely beautiful but adds extra work”) that would each tack on an extra kilometre. Memories of our industrial park adventure still fresh, we chose the scenic detours without hesitation. We had also been warned about “some significant climbing” today—ominous words for hips and knees of our vintage. What no one mentioned, however, was that this would also be the hottest day since we set foot in Spain.

The three factors combined—distance, altitude, and heat—created a day that was both deeply rewarding and rather like walking through an oven while wearing a backpack.

Still, grace came in many forms. As an extreme introvert, I rarely end a day speaking of “all the new friends I made.” But when one is travelling with David Smith, it is inevitable. People we’d met days before seemed to pop out of side streets and cafés just to say hello. Late in the morning, two very cheerful Italian women from Sicily approached. One, Claudia, looked straight at David and declared, “Whiskey!” She remembered him from the night before, attempting to find a decent Scotch in a Spanish pub. She was travelling with her friend Laura, and soon we were deep in conversation.

Laura was filming snippets for Instagram. David, ever the helpful accomplice, announced, “Don posts to Instagram every day.” She promptly asked for my handle, and within seconds was peering at her phone: “Reverend. You are priest.” And just like that, the conversation turned from whisky to faith—a far more satisfying topic, in my opinion. We crossed paths with them several times throughout the day, each meeting another gift of laughter and insight.

By late afternoon, however, our pace slowed to the speed of treacle in January. The heat was unrelenting. At one point, we stopped at a small pub beside the Way, where the sound of riotous laughter caught our attention. It turned out that many of the younger pilgrims had discovered the vineyard’s irrigation system and were joyfully running through it like children on the first day of summer. In the spirit of Christian solidarity—and possibly heatstroke—David soon joined them.

We arrived tired, hungry, and a little sun-baked, but the day had been full of prayer, companionship, and joy. On the Camino, you learn quickly that these are the true provisions for the journey.

Long before we entered the city of Caldas de Reis we encountered the sign on the highway that it was 40 km to Santiago. When we got to our hotel, the Camino Marker told us even then that we were still 46 kilometers away. Walking the camino is much different than the straight lines of highways we are used to. Perhaps that is another lesson that the Camino teaches. Life takes us on winding routes at times, and that is simply the nature of life. Just keep walking. God bless you, dear reader.

Buen Camino.

Dear reader, once again I must begin by waxing theological about the Camino, because frankly it insists on being theological whether you like it or not. This morning, hundreds of pilgrims set out from Arcade. Some were off like a shot — I suspect they were hoping to get to Santiago in time for lunch. Others, like David and me, adopted what might charitably be called a “measured” pace. We are of an age, you know. Our pace is less sprint and more polite shuffle, the sort of gait you’d adopt if walking behind royalty or carrying a very full cup of tea.

And that, I realised, is just fine. The Camino — like the walk of the baptized life — is not a race. Nowhere in the Gospels does Jesus say, “Blessed are the swift of foot, for they shall inherit the first shower at the albergue.” We are called simply to make progress, each at our own pace, and preferably without collapsing in the ditch.

We were joined this morning by Rob, the genial Welshman we’d shared dinner with last night. He walked with us for an hour before, I suspect, our pace proved spiritually edifying but physically intolerable. Off he went, striding into the distance to find someone with knees that bent at a more agreeable speed. And that, too, is a Camino truth: some companions walk with you for a lifetime, others for only a short stretch. Accept both as gifts.

Grace also has a way of appearing in many forms along the trail. Today it looked like Gopeekha from Hawaii and Marissa from New York, whose laughter could be heard half a kilometre ahead — a sound that makes the heart glad even before you see the faces. Grace was Sarah from Ireland, who, upon learning I was a priest, decided to discuss her faith with me over coffee. It was the cool breeze that found me when I was walking alone. It was the pilgrim who pressed a bag of fresh peaches into my hands at a café. On the Camino, as in life, grace comes in many disguises — and sometimes we are called to be the disguise for someone else.

But back to the day. Though our stage was a mere 13 km, those kilometres were of the “uphill both ways” variety. My arthritic hips lodged their usual formal complaint at every incline, while David’s knees began composing a letter to Amnesty International during each descent. This naturally required us to stop at every café we found — purely, you understand, for the sake of fellowship and not at all for the café con leche.

At one such stop we met Sarah from Ireland, and two pilgrims from Denmark who asked about the Chapel of St. Martha, where, they told me, priests are often pressed into service to celebrate Mass for the pilgrims. I explained that I was Anglican and therefore unlikely to be asked, which led to a brief but efficient theological summary involving ordination of women, clergy marriage, and marriage equality. Sarah, still sipping her coffee, simply said, “Well, I’m Roman Catholic, but I have to say I agree with your church on all of those.” And thus another spirited Camino conversation was born.

Later, we ran into Gopeekha and Marissa again near the day’s fork in the road. A local had told us earlier, “To the right — shorter, but all on the road through the city. To the left — one kilometre longer, but through the woods, beside a lovely stream.” Without hesitation they said, “The woods, of course.” It was clear they, too, had learned the great truth of our ill-fated industrial detour: shorter is not always better.

We are now at our beautiful hotel in Pontevedra with several hours before dinner — which in Spain, of course, is served sometime between sunset and the Second Coming. Tomorrow’s walk is mercifully flat, but stretches for 23 kilometres. Pray for us, dear reader, as we will pray for you — though perhaps at a slightly slower pace.

Prayer for the Unhurried Grace of God

Gracious God,
You have set before us a path to walk,
and You know the measure of our steps,
the strength in our legs, and the pace of our hearts.

Thank You for those who walk beside us—
whether for a few moments or many miles—
and for the laughter, kindness, and conversations
that refresh the soul as much as any rest or drink.

Teach us to welcome grace in all its forms:
a cool breeze on a steep climb,
a kind word from a fellow traveller,
or the joy of shared silence along the way.

When we grow weary,
remind us that this pilgrimage, like the life of faith,
is not a race to win, but a journey to share with You.

Bless our steps tomorrow, O Lord,
and let our walking be both prayer and praise,
until we arrive at the home You have prepared for us.

Through Christ our Companion,
Amen.

Now then, dear reader—lest you, like my sister, are under the impression that this is simply an elaborately costumed pub crawl across Spain with the occasional prayer thrown in — allow me a moment of theological reflection before returning to our regularly scheduled tales of aching joints and surprising geography.

This morning over breakfast, something quietly beautiful happened.
We sat in a dining room of ten pilgrims:
Two from Spain, two from Germany, two from France, two from Canada (yours truly and companion), and two from the United States. Ten people. Ten languages or dialects. Ten ways of expressing gratitude for strong coffee and clean socks. And yet — we were all heading in the same direction.

We may speak differently, dress differently, and disagree on whether a croissant counts as sufficient protein — but we are all walking a path, spiritually and literally, that leads us toward God.
The Camino does that. It reminds us that while we journey in many ways, we are all, at heart, pilgrims in search of grace.

Now, on to the comedy.

While gathered in that little breakfast room, our host asked where everyone was headed for the day. Eight of the pilgrims proudly proclaimed their destination: Arcade — a fine town and, as we would soon learn, a formidable one.

David and I, perhaps a bit smugly, replied: Redondela.

Our host’s face lit up with relief.

“Ah, lucky you! Only 14 km. The others? Almost 30!”

David and I chuckled into our café con leches with the quiet satisfaction of two men who had outwitted the calendar and outwalked the rest. A short day! A gentle climb! What could go wrong?

Ah yes… elevation.

It turns out that the route to Redondela involves a 500-foot climb, followed by a 500-foot descent.
Now, this may not sound like much to the sprightly, but to my arthritic hips, it felt like summiting Everest in sandals. Meanwhile, David’s knees, never ones to miss a dramatic moment, began protesting with every blessed step downhill. If my hips were singing the blues, his knees were composing a full requiem.

Eventually, we reached Redondela, sweaty but triumphant, and found shelter — a bus shelter, to be precise — where we decided to check the final distance to our hotel.

I tapped in the address, expecting directions to a quiet little inn just up the street. Instead, my phone boldly announced that our hotel was… 14 kilometres away. In Arcade.

Yes, dear reader, it turns out we had chosen the wrong town.
We had misread the itinerary, misjudged the map, and now found ourselves only halfway through what was meant to be our “short day.”

I double-checked the dossier in disbelief. Sure enough:

“To reach your hotel in Arcade, continue for 14 km. Includes moderate climb and descent.”

Well. At least it was consistent.

David, ever the realist, shook his head and said,

“So much for the record I set yesterday for the longest walk to get a beer.”

And off we went—limping, chuckling, and fuelled by the promise of another café con leche.

By the time we hobbled into Arcade, we’d earned every blister, every smile, and every seat at the table. We found our fellow pilgrims, old and new, and shared a glorious supper at a local restaurant, swapping stories, nursing sore limbs, and realizing that this accidental extension of our day had led us to a deeper kind of Camino.

As we sat to eat, we noticed a fellow at a nearby table who appeared to be alone. We invited him to join with us. A few minutes later we saw a young woman we had met on the way who was from Barcelona, along with her friend. They were also alone. We invited them to join our little team as well. As the night went on, we were gathering quite an impressive crew.

Tomorrow, we cover just 13 km. A gentle stroll, they tell us.
But if it turns into another pilgrimage-within-a-pilgrimage, I shall offer it up—perhaps with a glass of Albariño in one hand and a walking stick in the other.

And for now, dear reader, I must rest.
I am not sure if I’ll be walking tomorrow, or simply leaning forward with intent—but either way, the road continues. And so shall we.

Buen Camino.

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 freezeralong with my glass so that it could be adequately chilled, 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.

Welcome back, dear reader. You now rejoin the ongoing saga of a much relieved pilgrim — a man who has survived the day he feared most with hips still attached and spirits remarkably intact.

Yes, today was the one — the 22-kilometre gauntlet, the Everest of this pilgrimage (minus the altitude and the snow, but plus the sun and suspicious industrial smells). With my arthritic hips and David’s melodramatic knees, we were both poised for what we imagined would be a cross between Chariots of Fire and an orthopaedic infomercial.

We woke early — by which I mean before the coffee had brewed itself properly, which, in Spain, is practically a violation of the Geneva Convention — and we brought our backpacks downstairs for transfer. We received our first stamp in the all-important pilgrim credential, which confirms not only our movement through time and space, but also (eventually) that we haven’t just been bar-hopping through Galicia pretending to be spiritual.

Then upstairs for breakfast, and dear friends, let me say: if heaven has a buffet, it likely resembles this one. Fresh fruits, wheels of cheese, aged meats that smelled like the Holy Spirit might have blessed them individually, thick yoghurt, orange juice squeezed by angels, and coffee that I suspect came directly from the Eternal Roast.

Suitably fortified, we set off.

A few kilometres in, a local man waved us over to what can only be described as a tiny café birthed from a garage, run by his family. There were chairs, coffee, and—you guessed it — a second stamp. We, of course, stopped. Because one does not simply pass by good coffee in Spain. Nor does one pass up a stamp when one’s knees might revolt before the next one.

A few more kilometres on, deep in a forest, we encountered a Guardia Civil car parked under the trees — its two officers standing with expressions of profound seriousness and… a stamp. One imagines their law enforcement briefing that morning:

“Men, your mission today: stand quietly among the pines and validate passports for the weary.”

Naturally, we obliged. It’s not every day you get officially endorsed by the Spanish police and the Catholic Church within the same morning.

But it was the sound just beyond that checkpoint that moved me most. From deep within the trees, like the haunting call of my ancestors, I heard… bagpipes. Yes, bagpipes, here in southern Spain. David glanced at me and quipped, “Even here, you Scots need to be piped in!” And sure enough, there was a piper in full regalia playing Scotland the Brave, looking only slightly sunburnt and entirely proud. And yes—he had a stamp too. (And a tip jar. Which is just sensible theology.)

At this point, we had stopped counting kilometres, partly because we didn’t want to know, and partly because I’d left my Apple Watch at home, which has proven to be both spiritually enlightening and wildly inconvenient.

Eventually, we came to a fork in the trail — and like all good biblical metaphors, we had a choice. To the left: the routa alternativa — 6.55 km of forested path, shady and scenic. To the right: the “Area Industrial” — 1.1 km shorter, and paved. I consulted a group of young Spanish women walking near us. “Nature,” they said wisely, “is beautiful.”

But our aging joints had already voted. Expedience won. And thus, dear reader, we entered the industrial park — a sacred labyrinth of cement, heat, and exactly zero trees.

As the sun baked us like communion wafers left on a dashboard, I said to David, “The moment we see a café, we stop.” Which would have been a fine plan — had there been any cafés. But alas, industrial parks, like vestry meetings, are designed for work, not refreshment.

Eventually, just as we were about to surrender ourselves to the pavement, we emerged, hobbling, into O Porriño, having clocked in at over 20 kilometres. And there, like a vision of the promised land, stood a restaurant offering cerveza, vino y tapas.

We sat. We sipped. We sighed.

David looked over his beer and said with deep sincerity,

“This now holds the record for the longest I’ve ever walked to get a beer.”

We still had 2 km to go to reach our hotel, but after 20, what’s another two? A cool-down lap. A postlude to the liturgy.

So I’ll leave you here, dear reader, glass in hand, sipping what may well be the tastiest glass of Albariño I’ve ever had — and preparing for the last bit of today’s journey.

There may yet be more to this story. But first: lunch. Then a nap. And maybe… a hymn of thanksgiving.

And so, dear reader, in the great tradition of pilgrims everywhere — and by that I mean those motivated primarily by caffeine — we once again set out into the afternoon sun of Tui in search of that most sacred of Spanish sacraments: a really good cup of coffee.

Fueled by an optimistic disregard for topography, we wandered down the winding streets from our venerable hotel to the edge of the Miño River, blissfully unaware that every delightful step downhill would soon become a penitential uphill return.

The riverfront, I must say, was glorious. The view of Portugal, reclining lazily on the far bank like a smug neighbour who finished their chores before lunch, was absolutely lovely. The breeze danced across the water like a hymn, and somewhere in the distance, a bell tower rang the Angelus, prompting my Canadian stomach to declare, quite unilaterally, that it was suppertime—even though in Tui, not even the flies had stirred from their siesta yet.

The streets, in fact, were so empty I began to wonder if some ancient Iberian custom forbade movement before sunset. Perhaps everyone was inside praying. Or eating. Or waiting for the weather to turn its wrath elsewhere.

In our continued wandering (or as I call it, liturgical strolling), we found a charming heladería. Naturally, I ordered a café con leche and a scoop — or three — of gelato. The young woman behind the counter nodded and began assembling this holy offering.

But then, just as I was about to indulge, she froze (pun unintended), gasped, and dashed over as if I’d just asked for pineapple on a tortilla.

“You said… celiac?” she asked.

I nodded, half a spoonful from joy.

With the solemnity of a Eucharistic minister intercepting a dubious wafer, she confiscated my gelato. Then she disappeared into the back for several minutes. When she returned, she was triumphantly bearing a new bowl of gelato — this time assembled from unopened, untainted, immaculate containers. Truly, dear friends, it is easier to keep kosher in Galicia than it is to navigate a potluck back home.

By the time we made our slow, heroic ascent back to the hotel, the bells were striking seven, and the town had begun to come alive. Locals emerged from doorways like actors entering stage left—all freshly dressed, well-rested, and suspiciously cheerful—as though the day’s heat hadn’t happened at all.

Inspired by their liveliness (and by the sudden pang of hunger triggered by the smell of garlic in the air), David and I decided to reverse the natural order of things. We had already had our postre — gelato — and now we would enjoy our supper. A backward meal for a backward hill.

The local café we selected featured a “Russian salad” as the special. Now, when one hears “salad,” one thinks perhaps of lettuce, tomatoes, a cucumber if you’re lucky. But no—this “salad” was, in fact, a majestic mound of fresh tuna, lightly supported by some modest vegetables, which seemed to have stumbled into the dish by accident. It was delicious, mysterious, and deeply unRussian.

By some continued miracle—possibly the Camino itself at work — my blood sugar remained remarkably steady, even after wine, seafood, and enthusiastic gelato consumption. No insulin needed again. I am now convinced the Camino Diet may become a spiritual discipline at home. Wine, walking, and whipped tuna—it’s practically sacramental.

Now back at the hotel, knowing that tomorrow holds the longest walk of our pilgrimage, it is time to retire. The sandals are off, the feet are up, and my soul—which has been trailing slightly behind me since Toronto—is finally catching up.

So I leave you, dear reader, with this simple prayer:

A Prayer for Letting the Soul Catch Up

Lord of the long road and the quiet evening,
Thank you for this day of simple gifts —
a breeze on the river, a quiet bell, a scoop of ice cream.
Let my heart be still long enough to notice
where You’ve been walking beside me all along.
Help my soul catch up with my feet.
And tomorrow, walk with me once more.
Amen.

You might be forgiven, dear reader, if you’ve come away from these early blog entries believing that my primary focus on this pilgrimage is not penitence, nor prayer, nor even blister prevention — but rather, the noble art of eating. I assure you this is only partly true. The rest of the time I am either thinking about food, talking about food, or walking in search of food, which is, spiritually speaking, a kind of prayer.

David and I set off this morning to explore the medieval city of Tui — a charming town which, while not particularly large, is positively overrun with ancient stones, crumbling grandeur, and the very specific type of cobblestone that exists solely to remind you that orthotics are a blessing.

We are staying at Hotel A Torre De Xudeo, a structure so old and venerable it probably remembers when pilgrims still travelled with donkeys and spiritual baggage rather than hiking poles and gluten intolerance. The grand stone staircase in the reception area could well have been climbed by Saint James himself — though judging by its incline, he probably only did it once.

This hotel, I might add, is ideally situated. By “ideally,” I mean it is so close to the Cathedral that one need only stumble down the steps (trying not to fall), take a sharp left past the Poor Clares, and you’re practically there. Speaking of the Convent of the Poor Clares, it sits just up the street — humble, closed, and silent. I assume the sisters are inside praying, baking, or quietly judging the footwear of passing tourists.

A few hundred metres further on stands the Cathedral of Santa María, a structure of such majesty that one approaches it not with footsteps but with awe. The bells — vast, noble, and likely audible from Portugal — hang overhead like iron archangels awaiting a signal. Inside, the space is cavernous and dark. The stone walls are measured in feet of thickness, presumably to keep out the cold and modernity. The windows, bless them, are charmingly small — as if the builders feared light might distract the faithful.

Despite its gloom, the cathedral’s presence commands reverence. I stood in silence for several minutes before being distracted by the entirely secular but deeply theological thought: “Is it lunch yet?”

We meandered down through the twisting medieval streets, which were charmingly uneven and very nearly ankle-threatening, until we reached the Miño River, gazing across to Portugal with the wistful air of pilgrims who are entirely aware that there’s probably a good café just over there, if only they had time to cross.

And then, naturally, it was time to eat.

Now, in this part of Tui, every other establishment is either a restaurant, a bar, or some glorious hybrid of both. We selected one with the air of quiet confidence and a promising wine list. The waiter, who clearly sized us up as men in urgent need of refreshment, brought David a beer so cold it seemed to glisten with virtue.

As for myself, I inquired about Vinho Verde, my Portuguese go-to. The waiter, not missing a beat, explained that here in Spain, the equivalent is called Vino Albariño, made with the same grape, but presumably blessed by different bishops. One sip took me back ten years to Mira, Portugal, and an unforgettable lunch with my friend Rev. Silvário, who—like this wine—was bold, sharp, and went very well with shellfish.

And shellfish, dear reader, is precisely what we ordered.

We enjoyed scallops and octopus, both cooked to perfection. I would go so far as to say that the Galician diet, heavy on seafood and wine and light on stress, may be the most effective wellness regimen I’ve yet encountered. My blood sugar levels, normally prone to dramatics, have been perfectly behaved. My insulin remains untouched in my bag, sulking quietly while I enjoy another meal it did not earn.

It may yet be that St. James was onto something. A long walk, a reverent heart, and a good lunch — with wine that tells stories and seafood that sings hymns — might just be the recipe for holiness.

Tomorrow, we walk. But today, we eat, pray, and marvel.

There is likely to be a part C today, as we are about to make a foray out to find a café on the Miño river to go and enjoy a nice espresso. I’m sure we will find many other interesting things along the way to the river. Stay tuned…

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.