wandered through the massive but entrancing Gothic cathedral where El Cid, the city’s most illustrious son, lay buried. Between Burgos and Lyon lies the Meseta, a vast area of endless fields with no boundaries, hidden valleys, and tiny villages haphazardly dotted along the way like carelessly sown corn seed. It is a place that many choose to avoid by taking the bus the 110 miles between Burgos and Lyon, for once you have accepted the challenge of the Meseta you are open to all the elements can throw at you and for me that was to be stifling temperatures and a headlong wind that wanted to push me back like an unseen giant hand. The stony tracks were long, straight, unprotected and seeming never ending, and when you thought you had conquered one another limitless horizon appeared before you. This is part of the Camino where stubbornness and determination are your allies, and timidity and self-doubt your foes. It took me four days to cross the Meseta and I’m glad I took it on. Cantabrica was the penultimate challenge before I entered the home straight that is Galicia. Throughout my journey I had to be aware that the sun was constantly shining on my left as I plodded westward, and afford that side of my body special protection. But once in Cantabrica the mountains to my right curled round towards me like a scimitar, and I knew that these were the last real challenge before reaching my goal. By now there were more villages in my wake than I had left to pass through, yet I still had soaring temperatures to contend with. As I struggled late one afternoon through the village of Trabadelo the thermometer on the wall of the church was registering 40C, I thought it prudent at that stage to cut short the day’s walk and seek shelter.


At 1,300 metres the village of O’Cebreiro is usually clouded in mist and rain. Once more I was climbing in excessive heat, my back bent double and my hands clasped behind me supporting my pack as I struggled to the top. A few kilometres from the village I walked into Galicia, and the final


The endless plains of the Meseta leg of my journey.


It rains a lot in Galicia which means its fertile soil is covered in a patchwork of greens of varying hues. Small farms lie along narrow walled in dirt tracks that in the early morning, as the sun breaks the dark veil of night, appear as they must have to medieval pilgrim. As I made my lone journey through them only the snuffling of cattle and the lazy bark of slumbering dogs broke an eerie and mysterious silence. Farmers were praying for rain as the unusually hot weather continued and the incessant heat started to crisp the vast quantities of sweet corn that would serve as winter fodder.


At noon on the twenty-second day I entered the suburbs of Santiago de Compostela after a hard morning’s walk. Signs point- ing the way reinvigorated my aching legs as they beckoned me towards my goal. Down a steep hill past the


eccentric pilgrim’s shelters at Mont del Gozo to cross a wooden pedestrian walkway that traversed the motorway, like some Middle Age afterthought. Along the pavement and through the jungle of car showrooms, bathrooms for sale and anodyne office blocks.


Now the signs and gold coloured shells embedded into the pavement were drawing me in like a fish on a hook and I found myself walking faster and harder. I was now into streets bordered by four story glass balconied houses. One last set of traffic lights negotiated and the old town surrounded me with its sombre and self important stone buildings. A last uphill march,


taken at a gallop, before dropping


down to walk under an arch where a lone piper was blowing a lament that only a bag of cats could make sense of. Descending a handful of steps into the bright sunlight that illuminated the huge square, in which the extravagant gothic spires of the cathedral of St James paid homage to a sky of deep blue, I had finally arrived. I punched the air and clapped in self congratulation, no one took any notice, they had seen it all before. Just another pilgrim arriv- ing, but this pilgrim was me. I had sweated gallons, nursed sore feet and an aching back, and stumbled through twenty two days of dark starts. In the process I had raised over £3000 pounds for those that had made all this possible. As I entered the cool darkness of the cathedral I prepared myself to give thanks to them, for at that moment, they were all that really mattered. If you would like to contribute to Help for Heroes you can do so at www.justgiving.com/thepilgrim


‘Spirit of the Camino, On the Road to Santiago de Compostela’ by Roger Mechan is available by emailing


dousland@hotmail.co.uk , price £25 plus p&p


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