Beyond the End of the Earth, Back to the Field of Stars

There is an older path that lies beyond the terminus of the Camino de Santiago. Striking out west towards the Atlantic Ocean, the Camino Fisterra has its roots buried deep in pre-Christian culture.

At Fisterra, the End of the Earth, you can find a gateway to the underworld deep below the freezing waters. Here pagans came to celebrate the sun, watching as it fell to its death in the extinguishing ocean. Others, though, came to witness the procession of the dead -- loved ones who had departed in the previous year, marching along a dirt road and into the mysteries of the eternal deep.

Today it is a seaside resort crawling with tourists.

The road to Fisterra was a colder, harder road than the relatively pampered one I´d stumbled along to Santiago. Though only three days, the path takes you away from the catered, tourist-flooded areas and into a wilderness where you´ll be lucky to find one refuge within a day´s trekking.

Most of the time this would be fine, as historically the Fisterra walk is not as heavily trafficked as the major Camino Frances route. Unfortunately, Hape Kerkeling decided to write a book.

Apparently it was very popular, because this year saw an unprecedented peak in the number of Germans making the pilgrimage -- not only to Santiago, but also beyond it to the usually footnoted Fisterra. Albergues found themselves booked out within twenty minutes of opening for the day, even burning through their usually sufficient summer overflow options. While turning up late to an albergue pre-Santiago wasn´t a problem (most towns had several accommodation sources), the Fisterra was cruelly barren and forced stragglers to march out for anywhere between 12 and 20km for their next chance at a bed (which was probably occupied by a man called Rudolph).

To make things even more terrifying, I overheard rumours that Krekeling´s book is going to be made into a feature film sometime in the next year or so.

And it is here that I have to shake my head sadly. Not because I don´t want Germans making this pilgrimage, but because I don´t actually think that the Camino de Santiago is a true adventure anymore.

Millions of dollars have been pumped into the Camino Frances, making it one of the cushiest walking experiences, where you know that your chance of a bed at the end of the day is 100%, and that while a lot of locals won´t speak your language, at least you know that their menu is almost identical to the town you just departed.

Why then would anyone want to make a movie or write a book about what is now just a very long walk to the beach?

It may have something to do with the pagans, dancing naked on the beach as they cheered the sun onto its watery grave.

There is a lot of mystique and romance associated with the Camino, and I can definitely see why. You walk through a beautiful, everchanging landscape. You hear stories about interesting pilgrims (the two men who started at their front door in Holland, stopping every hour to drink wine and eat meat, or the man who carried a tuba all the way with him from Cambridge). You have heard the legends of St James, and of the knight Sir Roland, and it all sounds like an epic quest.

And then, there are the aphorisms that you hear along the way. Paul, a priest from South Africa told me, while massaging his swollen knee, that "you stort yor Caminoo wan you leave your front door." And Laurie, who I was later reunited with in a small restaurant 12kms short of Fisterra, smiled despite dripping with rainwater (reports suggest that this was the wettest May in the history of Spain´s weather records), saying, "it´s out here, while walking, that you see the true nature of God. It´s here, not in that Cathedral back there."

But, most memorable of all, are the words of Nora. She was the first pilgrim I met, many weeks ago, as I unpacked my bag in St Jean Pied du Port. A traveller from Belgium, she´d just arrived in St Jean that day, having not only walked from there to Santiago two years earlier, but also trekking from Le Puy in the south of France to close her personal moebius strip.

We shared dinner in a Basque restaurant, where she said to me, "Remember, no matter what happens, you were chosen to walk this Camino."

Those words stuck by me throughout my whole journey, especially when I was shivering in a wet tent, or losing my mind while stumbling that extra 12km.

For me, seeing the ocean was a lot more momentous than walking into the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. There is something electrifying about watching ancient trees peel back one by one, drawing the speck of blue slate water closer and closer towards you until, finally, it is the only colour in your vision and the sky and sea have melded into a singularity.

Despite the rain and my heavy backpack (once again plumped up to its 20kg bulk), I took off my boots and walked barefoot into the ocean, taking the last part of the pilgrimage feeling ice water and sharp sand scour my feet clean.

In contrast, the Cathedral at Santiago was a nest of tourists, clambering over eachother to take photos of golden statues. The density of money and a willingness to spend had drawn all manner of opportunists to the steps of the Cathedral, including a man dressed as a pilgrim selling lottery tickets.

Happily, though, none of them were Germans. In their defence, the Deutschlanders actually took the time to walk the entire length of the Camino. Santiago, on the other hand, seemed to have swallowed them up, leaving American pips in their place, crammed into every alley way and hotel room.

And this is why I would not recommend the Camino Frances to anyone. It has been gutted, hollowed out and transformed into a symbol for people to parade about in a series of photos and stamps. St James and his Field of Stars is top heavy with tourism, and the sense of achievement, growth and challenge that a pilgrimage should represent seems to have faded away.

Days earlier, while still walking towards Santiago, I had the pleasure of walking alongside Carlos from Barcelona. Always embodying the soul of the true pilgrimage, he said to me, "When I return home, I plan to live my life as if I was walking the camino. Everyday you wake up, prepare yourself, and then march on towards a destination. It is not like my old life, where somedays all I´d do is wake up, work, then go back to sleep. You need to keep your life´s purpose in mind, whatever it is, and walk towards it. Every day."

Santiago de Compostela, then, was not the end for me. Neither was Fisterra, despite its romantic, pagan connotations.

Or maybe I´m just grumpy and spaced out after the 17 hour bus ride from Barcelona -- but that´s a story for another day.