Day 37: Lugo to San Roman (19,6k)
- Frida Stavenow
- Oct 12, 2022
- 3 min read
Day 37 is about food, wine, music, wine, friends, lying in the grass, and wine, with some extra time for lying in hammocks. Singing songs. And drinking wine.
But also, we book our flights home. Oh my heart. It’s time. Waffles and I had both kind of assumed that after reaching Santiago we’d continue to Finisterre, aka the end of the world, where pilgrims traditionally burn their clothes while staring at the roaring Atlantic Ocean below. But then Waffles and I had both kind of been lost. Had both kind of not known what the hell else we were going to do after the Camino.
And now we do. Both of us. Our service to each other is over. We barely even discussed it; we both just started looking at flights, and very naturally, they became booked for Wednesday. We will walk into town Saturday and then have three days to decompress. Catch up with Fake Vegan, who’s arriving Sunday. The Polish model, who is planning to arrive Saturday, too. And probably a bunch of other people we haven’t seen since passing them, or being passed by them, or leaving them as we departed from the Norte.
Aaah. So that’s it. The journey has an end date.
It feels good. I feel ready. I am so glad I feel ready. I thought for a while (ok, the first four weeks basically) that I might freak out 30k before Santiago, feeling I was not ready to no longer be on the road.
I suppose I might still. But the way I feel, on day 37, is thankful, but getting towards done. Getting towards not wanting to walk 25k a day every day anymore, or share a room with twenty-one strangers, or wear the same completely misshaped t-shirt and fake wool trousers and stained snowboarding fleece every evening. Those are going in the Santiago de Comostela bin, trust my words.
Unless, of course, we decide to throw our own pagan burning fest by a fountain.
Anyway. Here’s breakfast. We had it in a beautiful old bar with high ceilings at seven thirty in a still-dark Lugo, sharing the space with three policemen, two dozen pilgrims and about ten bedraggled teenagers who still hadn’t gone to bed after enjoying San Frolán 2022 to the max. It reminded me hard of my Barcelona days. Oh, youth.
Also, oh, Spain.
Even though today was a comparatively short 19k, we were so hungry when we got to the albergue that we did what I haven’t done since rookie day one and ordered a whole ass menú del día. Look at Waffles’ fucking starter. Haven’t wanted to eat pig so bad since Madre Ayahuasca told me not to in 2019.
Yes, that’s me, Waffles and Beard Braid having had a bottle of wine each. Since I’m from Sweden, where a bottle of wine costs about a day’s salary, I can’t not finish one that’s given to me. Hence avoidance of daytime menús. Cause good luck getting me to do a thing for the rest of the day.
After this, I unsurprisingly napped for about three hours. In a hammock, under these trees. Listening to Waffles play his own half-finished songs on the guitar, reminding me of Pete Doherty’s demos from way before The Libertines were formed, such as the beauty that is Love Reign O’er Me… oh wow I can’t figure out how to link text in WordPress. Sleek. Well here it is, go hear it because it is more important than anything Pete did afterwards (including Kate Moss): https://youtu.be/X1od_z5iqFw.
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