We didn’t walk the Camino.
Let’s get that out of the way upfront, before the walking boot brigade starts firing off emails about “missing the point.” We drove to Santiago. All 88 diesel-chugging kilometres from Coruña, powered not by faith or spiritual awakening, but by the promise of hot showers and a decent laundrette.
And maybe — just maybe — because Mary wanted to “see what all the fuss was about.”
I’ll admit it: arriving in Santiago de Compostela in a campervan feels a bit like turning up to a silent retreat with a karaoke machine. Everyone else had that lean, sun-weathered look of people who’d carried their lives on their backs for 800km. I had a mustard stain on my fleece and a crick in my neck from sleeping sideways.
Still, the place hits you.
You step into that old city and everything goes… quieter. Not literally — it’s full of street musicians and clacking walking poles — but inside. Something shifts. It’s all stone and shadow and the distant smell of incense, and even Kevin didn’t talk for the first ten minutes.
We wandered without a map, letting our feet do the thinking. Kevin muttered something about ley lines. I pretended not to hear him.
At the cathedral square — the Praza do Obradoiro — we watched a group of pilgrims arrive together. They dropped their rucksacks in unison, like some sort of silent ritual, and burst into tears. All of them. Hugging, laughing, full-body sobs. One woman just lay down on the cobbles and stared at the sky like it owed her something.
Mary cried too. Not dramatic, just a single tear, which she wiped away like she’d spilled something. I didn’t ask why. Didn’t need to.
We sat on the steps and ate stale crackers while Kevin tried (and failed) to take a photo of the cathedral without someone in hiking sandals walking through it. Then we found a tiny café run by nuns — actual nuns — who served us coffee and almond cake like we were long-lost cousins.
It was probably the quietest meal we’ve ever had.
That night, we parked the van in a campsite just outside town. Mary lit a candle. Not for anyone in particular, just because it felt like the right thing to do. Kevin, of course, tried to fix the fridge and ended up electrocuting himself mildly. Balance restored.
We didn’t become pilgrims. We didn’t find God or our chakras or even a decent wine shop. But Santiago got under our skin in a different way.
Later, in bed, Mary whispered, “If I ever walk the Camino, will you come with me?”
I told her I’d drive alongside and meet her at every tapas bar. She laughed.
Then we lay there, listening to the rain, and for once, didn’t need to say anything else.
