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“Buen Camino”, the good wishes of the elderly couple that overtook me with exceptional ease echoed. I returned mumbled sentiments whilst amazed at their congeniality and walking prowess despite the duo both needing mobility aids. The morning’s dew embedded my grassy path and the dampness of the day found refuge as it nestled in my nose. The uncomfortable familiarity I had with the darkness before dawn provided a dim light that I bolstered with a flashlight that had been forced upon me my by lioness mother prior to my departure despite several failed attempts to ‘forget’ it. I struggled to see how this ‘walk’, which by the way is barely a walk and is in fact much more hike-like, was going to fulfil the prophecies I read online of self-discovery and enlightenment, nonetheless, one pillowy blistered foot at a time I journeyed onwards toward my destination. Each day brought with it a different season as the indecisiveness of late September bestowed a concoction of climates, fog embraced every tree like an old friend, sharp wind declared itself like an orchestral concert, sheets of rain revived the grass underfoot and balmy breakthroughs had pilgrims competitively shuffling in the shade. The unpredictability appeared thematic as each kilometre lent a new backdrop to my adventure. I walked along unloved highways and then through forests so dense I awaited Robin Hood and his band of thieves. I wriggled through twisty-street, cobbled villages that emulated ghost towns whilst their locals indulged in siestas. Human interaction was unavoidable despite my mastery of such in my everyday life. I learnt quickly that language barriers simply don’t exist in the dictionary of the Camino. I heard the world. Conversations however, went far beyond tongues and the puzzle of broken English, with a smile, the gifting of clean socks to a stranger or the provision of a bruised peach saying much more than any amount of words could muster. The path of the Camino is one walked alone despite finding yourself surrounded by a sea of people. It’s easier to get lost in your thoughts than to get lost on the journey itself and yet at times I found my mind welcomingly silent. After some time, I fell in step with a man named Adrik, a fifty-something year old who told me of his origins in Suzdal - a town northeast of Moscow. He’d started his ‘way’ almost a fortnight ago near Lisbon, my 6 days trekking from Porto paled in comparison. We found commonality in our reasoning for finding ourselves here which was finding ourselves. Adrik however, was blatantly more optimistic than I, in his outlook: “Sometimes in life, you have to undertake journeys on your own and they can be difficult. There will be nobody that can walk the way for you, but many people along the way will be there to help you, even if you don’t know”. We stopped to share a beer in one of the roadside cafés that speckled the worn trail before parting ways. I sat awhile and watched as Adrik became but a dot on the horizon, limping forth on bandaged knees. What worlds collided to bring such an unlikely pair together I pondered before swigging the end of my bottle, gathering my dusty valuables and rambling ahead. I did eventually reach Santiago and its wholly impressive façade. I stood beneath the towering cathedral and recalled Adrik and the conversations we’d had. I wondered if or when he had stood here too and how he felt knowing it was done. It was then I realised. The synergic purpose, the ancient history that built the path, the simplicity derived from mere existence and that walk day after day into the unknown was what it was all about and not the glittering beauty of the city. The Camino is so much more than its destination and I am so much more than me.