Toronto, Canada

 It’s an odd feeling.  I’m about to leave for the journey of a lifetime, walking the eight hundred kilometre ancient pilgrim’s route to Santiago de Compostela, and my strongest emotion is fear - - fear that I won’t be able to make it because of blisters, a sore leg or exhaustion. 
“Why am I going on this pilgrimage?” I ask no one in particular.  “Why did I ever consent to go?”
It had all seemed like so much fun ten months ago when my husband,  Austin, suggested that we go on the pilgrimage together.  A person who enjoys physical activity, I had quickly taken to the walking routine for building our strength and stamina.  Then there had been the fun of finding just the right walking boots and carefully selecting what items would be included in a backpack that Austin insisted should not weigh more than fifteen pounds. 
         Having walked the camino on his own once before, he had gradually prepared me for the challenging trails, the basic, even primitive dormitory-style sleeping quarters along the route, called refugios.  However, the pilgrimage had been months away.
         But now it’s here and I’m scared.  To assuage my fears, I use a previously tried and true method for dealing with anxiety.  I clear up all the paperwork in my office, knowing I’ll be gone for eight weeks.  And as that isn’t enough, I go home and clean the entire house the next day.
         I have my hair shorn to about a half-inch length.  It reminds me of  when, at age thirty, almost a quarter of a century ago, I returned from a wonderful holiday with friends in Florida, went out and cut my waist-length hair short, bought a bright red business suit from a trendy boutique in Yorkville and began a new career, after two years of  foundering around as a waitress.
         The night of our departure, I have a dream:

          I am pregnant but my dream self thinks that this 
                  cannot be possible for a woman in her fifties.

When I awake, I feel moved by the dream, and hopeful that new life will be born out of this pilgrimage.

Day 8

I awake early in the morning from a fractured sleep, constantly interrupted by a cacophony of snores.  My only recourse now is to fantasize that I stealthily tiptoe to the bed of the worst offender, gently place a pillow over his face, hold it firmly and wait for the noise to stop.  This fantasy fills me with delight, and I drift off to sleep.
        We awake at six o’clock and leave by starlight and a full moon.  As we trek up a gentle incline, the sky begins to grow light, revealing shades of soft pink and blue.  Birds begin their morning round of song.  We continue climbing....and climbing...and climbing, and finally we see a magnificent panorama of mountains in the distance, and farmland below. 
         Above we see gigantic white windmills dotting the top of the mountain we’re climbing, like tiny whirring children’s toys.  The climb lasts about four hours.  We arrive at the summit, where we find life-size metal cutouts of pilgrims and a cheerful group of three live ones trying to keep their hats on in a fierce wind.  No sooner do we arrive than we begin the precarious descent over a path of loose stones for several kilometers.  I do not care.  I am exhilarated.  I take wing and move rapidly down the slope.  I have never felt so free and unfettered.
        We walk several more kilometres, losing some of our earlier zeal, and arrive at the outskirts of a small town, Uterga.  We spot a table in the open countryside, set with tablecloth, water pitcher, glass, a bottle of wine and clusters of plump purple grapes.  Like others before us, we’re hooked by the sight and we go into a dining place in a private home and see a number of fellow pilgrims enjoying an afternoon lunch at a long wooden table.  We sit down to bocadillos (delicious large sandwiches), red wine, ripe red tomatoes, fresh grapes and the ubiquitous cafe con leche.  We have seven kilometres to go to our refugio at Puente la
Reina, but at this moment, our day feels complete.

Day 9

We leave Puente la Reina early the next morning over the ancient Roman bridge, with weeping willows silhouetted against the banks of the river.  This is one of our most difficult stretches of trail and we lose our way, compounding the day’s distance of over twenty-two kilometres. 
All due to Austin’s suggesting that we take a shortcut!  I am hot, exhausted and furious with him.  I stomp ahead of him, wondering how I ever thought he had any sense of direction.  His attempts to appease only make me more furious, and I fling the remains of a small yogurt
into a garbage can. 
           After what seems like an endless walk, we arrive at Estella, only to find that we must walk several kilometres through an ugly industrial area on the outskirts of the city.  We are both
exhausted, our leg muscles have seized up and gone into spasms, and we are not on peaking terms. Strangely, the seemingly endless walk brings out a fierceness in me.  I determine I will go the distance. 
           We arrive dog-tired at the refugio, to be met by fellow pilgrims who greet us like long-lost friends, and Charles.
                                                                               This is the same Charles who, as we were leaving Chartres, barged into our train compartment and talked non-stop the entire way to Paris.  The same Charles who bought four heavy rooster plates in Chartres, then went to Lourdes and secured a bottle of holy water, and was carrying plates and water in his already
oversize pack on the camino.  The same Charles who, as we were leaving the church in Roncesvalles, came running up to us, having carried his forty pound pack over the Pyrenees.  Charles who, as we were climbing toward Puente la Reina, appeared out of the blue, threw his arms around us and shouted, “I love you guys,” then disappeared up the trail. 
          It is Charles who later meets us in Puente la Reina and reads us the pilgrim’sprayer in lilting Spanish.  Charles who loses his passport and money in Pamplona, but travels to Madrid to secure a new passport and is now back on the camino.  Outrageous, brilliant, vulnerable, generous Charles.  He has, he now informs us, planned a feast for us and ten other friends.
        We wait for several hours while Charles performs his magic.  The dinner consists of pasta with red peppers and shrimps, a salad of lettuce, tomatoes, avocados, olives, potatoes and sliced eggs.  I have brought ice-cream, and another pilgrim has bought several bottles of the

notoriously delicious and cheap local red wine.  There is complete pandemonium as more and more pilgrims join our lively crowd. The evening becomes an endless well of gaiety. 

Day 28

Rabbanal del Camino.  We have found a refugio run by a kind German woman from the Confraternity, a volunteer organization in London, England, responsible for the staffing of many refugios.  This one is small --thirty-four beds -- and has a lovely open courtyard with hollyhocks,
holly, irises, lavender, a mimosa tree and a pear tree.  It is a beautiful sunny afternoon and I sit on the upstairs balcony, looking out across the landscape.  The place feels like what all refugios should be -- an oasis.
        In the evening, we attend the little church next door and hear vespers -- Gregorian chants by three white-robed priests.  We return to the refugio for a very sparse meal -- two pieces of chocolate, and one coveted bag of Earl Grey tea, which has been stowed for a month in
Austin’s backpack.  Such a thoughtful soul!
        The German woman notices our slim pickings and offers us a wonderful treat: pears from her pear tree, soaked in red wine.  She wonders if we would like some yogurt with that?  Food has never tasted so magnificent.  She lights a fire in the study, which warms the dormitory, and after savoring the pears, yogurt and tea, I head for my bunk and sink blissfully into my sleeping bag. 
          Throughout the night the church bells ring out on the hour and the half hour, as they have all along the camino, but rather than disturb my sleep, they fill me with a deep peace.
        At seven o’clock I awake, and Austin beckons for me to come out onto the balcony.  It is pitch-black, with millions of stars blanketing the sky. Down below, classical music is playing. Wonderful smells are wafting up from the kitchen.  We dress and are treated to a breakfast of
toast, butter, jam and tea, rarities on the camino.  We leave in the dark and climb steadily, then turn and pause to watch a magnificent sunrise.

        On our way, we pass a marker for a pilgrim who died of a heart attack there, at age seventy-eight.  Not a bad way to leave this world, I think to myself. 

Day 45

Santiago de Compostela (at last)

We awake aware that the journey has been completed, and  talk of our sadness at its being almost over.....
        The pilgrims’ celebratory mass begins.  The cathedral is filled with pilgrims and curious tourists.  A nun in a white habit walks quietly to the altar rail and breaks  into a song, which is so exquisite that I feel my heart breaking open.  Then the bishop comes forward and reads
the names of the pilgrims in the cathedral: two French people who have travelled from  Versailles to Santiago, three Spanish women who have come from Pamplona; a Dutch man who has travelled from Holland, two Norwegians who have travelled from Roncesvalles.  Then, finally, two Canadians who have travelled from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago. 
         We glow as we hear our names read aloud.  Prayers are read in Spanish, Dutch, French, Norwegian and English, the languages of all the pilgrims assembled this day.  Another song is sung and we start the slow, winding procession up to the front to receive the  Eucharist.
         I am also experiencing this moment as a joyous celebration of a truly magnificent chapter of my life, with all the texture and delight of a lifetime.  My heart is open in a way I’ve never before known.
        After Mass  we linger in the cathedral, saying good-bye to our fellow pilgrims.  Then, hand in hand, Austin and I leave the cathedral through the door.  Our faces are happy and radiant, like two souls who, having lived a full, rich life, might appear at journey’s end.
        This journey has ended, it’s true, but at this moment, it feels very much like a new beginning