It was just the right temperature to walk: not too hot; no rain.
The fields of northern Spain were fresh and green, like home.
And if you are going on a pilgrimage, then there is no better company than people from home, out on the same path, the ancient path of the camino.
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We took the Portuguese route – started with a dinner on the Portuguese side of the border, then headed back to sleep on the Spanish side. A minute’s journey; an hour’s difference.
And the first day was magical. Think woodland paths in dappled sunshine, baby fists of purple grapes on the vine.
Bolshy roosters heckled us as we walked by.
The path took us down back alleys, past dusty bins and old pots stuffed with pink and purple geramiums; baby goats gambolling in a field.
We were two hours in when a woman in a village opened an upstairs window and cried “Hola” to welcome us in for a coffee break and a toilet.
Water fresh and cold on the tongue, the joy of a clean toilet, a café con leche for energy.
Then we took to the hills again.
We’d practised for the camino, yes. But I thought that this was the Portuguese route – the coastal route. I wasn’t thinking of hills.
“Think Fountain Hill,” my cousin had warned me, and anyone from Derry – where most of these pilgrims hail from – knows what that means.
Years ago, I almost lost my little VW Polo in the snow on that very hill. I was trying to drive up and it was slipping backwards.
So the hills were a challenge.
But the sun lit the fields, geese squawked at us and we were glad of the walking poles.
A pilgrim up ahead whipped his stick up into a tree and brought down an apple to enjoy.
“Fruits of the journey,” he said.
We were glad too of the woodland trails – the cool shade of trees, the trickle of a stream, the crunch of white gravel under foot.
How many hundreds of thousands had walked this route ahead of us?
There were walkers from Colombia, from Tenerife, from Slovakia. We shared a smile when language failed.
Two women from Brazil took time to chat. One had studied law at Maynooth for a year. Now, she runs her own banana farm back home.
“The law comes in handy for that,” she said.
The other said she worked as a tax accountant – you need those in Brazil, she laughed.
On and on over the hill and the craic was good.
Uphill was hard, downhill and your knees screamed blue murder.
They had warned us about out feet. We had vaseline and compeed plasters – a witch’s cauldron of potions. My friend had brought the needful.
Every night we bathed in epsom salts, slathered our sore hips and calves in the famous Uddermint and lay for half an hour with our legs up the wall – to ease the swollen ankles.
There were moments when spirits plunged.
At the end of a long day’s walk, the trail around a river seemed to circle forever like God was playing a dirty trick.
When we got to the town, a taxi sounded like the perfect idea. But my friend is a pilgrim to the core.
I had to smother the urge to hit her over the head and dump her into the boot of the closest taxi, then drive to the hotel.
The camino, said my brother, will teach you. It sure did.
It was a humbling experience. People older than me were swifter of foot and firmer of intent.
They had a faith so strong that it carried them on over the hills, across dusty roads, on and on into Santiago da Compostela.
It rained as we walked singing into cathedral square – more than just fellow travellers by then; friends who had shared the journey.
Would I do it again?
My friend is keen. I’m not sure. It was no stroll in the park.
What I will remember is turning a corner to meet a field of sunflowers smiling up; a shy child waving from a garden; the red and yellow and purple rainbow tights of the girl from Slovakia, hardy as a mountain goat, as she clambered over the hill.
I shall remember sipping gin in the company of new friends in a beautiful old square.
“Sure think about it,” says my pilgrim friend.
And I will.
