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.

On the bus, got the ticket, and yes, it's hugely overpriced. 17 euros, there and back, and I've just been handed the 'return' timetable. Don't know how long I'll spend out there.
Strange, you plan things, say you'll do things that sound right at the time, like, yes, when I get to Finisterre I'll be burning my socks. But when the time actually comes, it just feels stupid.
Feeling like a bus pilgrim.

Moving out.

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.

A bar
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.