Friday, September 27th
Santiago Bus Station
Chris has gone, leaving on the bus for Madrid.
My bus, for Finisterre, doesn't leave until 9:30. No matter. I'm getting good at waiting.
Passing through small towns, O Roxido, Portomouro, then onto a winding forest road, Carreira, Santa Comba, Baio. Vilardomato, Dumbria, Bustello, Cee, which is a place name I recognize, there's a refugio here for the pilgrims who walk the further three days after Santiago.
The sea, beached fishing boats, we're following the coast road, Estorde, and there's a yellow arrow.
Or, in Galego, Fisterra.
Peixe do Mar
A glass of red wine, then a walk along the road leading to the edge. The End of the World.
That's it, the ritual's done. Taking off my socks, holding a lighter underneath them, they smoulder a little, then burn a little, I guess as much as woollen socks impregnated with three months worth of pilgrim sweat will burn. Rolled them into a ball, and threw them into the Atlantic. They landed on seaweed, slowly sinking with each wave.
They're gone. That's it. Finished.