Much of the indigenous oak woodland has been replaced by eucalyptus which is a fast growing cash crop. Pilgrims often leave pebbles on top of way-markers.
Another misty autumnal day; a lovely walk from Cee to Finisterre via the pretty historic village of Corcubión on the other side of the estuary.
Then a long slow climb over the hills and sudden views of the sea and sandy bay of Estorde, where I stop for a coffee and meet the Belgian guy again. The beaches are deserted; just a few gulls looking at the view.
Suddenly I’m walking by the sea beside pine trees.
The waymarkers indicate I’m nearing Finisterre and I stop for a celebratory beer at the end of Playa Langosteira and watch the steady stream of pilgrims walk along the beach towards the town. It’s moving; some will have walked hundreds of miles to get here.
A celebratory beer followed by grilled razor-clams.
I book into the Hostel Oceanus where I stayed three years ago and where I collected the well-water for the SEA WELL installation. The simple joys of a clean comfortable bunk with a cotton sheet and a towel.
Hostel Oceanus in Finisterre
For old times sake, I eat a plate of baked razor clams for lunch (navajas). Then wander into the wholesale fish market (Lonxa) where fishermen watch digital screens displaying current fish prices, overlooked by a magnificent statue of the Virgin and child pulling drowning fishermen from a tumultuous sea. The waves here must be huge; next stop New York!
The wholesale fish market in Finisterre.
A life-size statue of the Virgin overlooks the fish-market trading floor; this coast is called El Coste del Morte for a reason. The fog descends in seconds making the granite cliffs perilous in heavy seas.
At about seven I look at the weather forecaste and unexpectedly see rain for tomorrow, so hurriedly set out for the Cabo (cape).
Typical harbour views and an aerial photo showing the Cabo (cape) which is about 3Km to the west of the town.
It’s uphill all the way, but an easy gradient; I meet the Belgian guy walking down.
I arrive at the Cabo about 8pm with hundreds of others to watch the sunset, at what was once the most westerly point on the known world, until Magellan (or if you prefer Eratosthenes of Cyrene) discovered otherwise. What a seismic change of consciousness that must have been; to suddenly discover you live on a globe spinning in space.
The Cabo is often shrouded in mist, but a break in the clouds revealed glimpses of the setting sun. The only sounds are the wind and the distant waves below and snatches of languages from all around the world.
The sunset is slow and undramatic; the cloud-covered sun stains the grey sea pale orange and before it finally slips into the dark ocean. Night falls momentous. I trust its alchemy.
The final way-marker reads 0.000Km; the end of the Camino de Compostela. The statue of the pilgrim greets walkers as they reach the summit.
I’m reminded of one of my favourite poems…
“... And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”
The pilgrim route to Finisterre is thought to be far older than the one to Santiago; there are remains of Neolithic sun temples on the surrounding cliffs and the scallop shell is an ancient symbol of fertility.