This page contains stories that pilgrims experienced during their journey to Santiago de Compostela.
There are many of us. More than hundred people stand at the beginning of the road. Me, among them. No anxiety, no commotion is seen. Suddenly it seems it is only me feeling so minor, a naive beginner to start on an 800 kilometres long walk. Then watching the crowd I realise they are doing the same as me: they are reading or washing their clothes or writing diaries and wonder what their fellow pilgrims might feel or think. We are all alike. Differences are but churn of forms constituting a colourful world. The essentials are all the same with us. I rouse up in the middle of the night. It takes several minutes for me to watch the multitude of people, hundreds of us to puff and blow in sleep and dream in different rhythm and volume. We are alike.
A fellow pilgrim started to play the guitar. Beautiful performance. I do not know who he might be, what his job is. I only know his music. Sounds fill the space revealing numerous memories and feelings for the audience of wanderers. It is so simple: somebody stimulates others, gives joy without giving his name, without request, special occasion or rehearsal. It is so simple to give; you don’t have to do anything special just be yourself: musician, poet, thinker, helper, master in some trade or art.
They say El Camino leads the wanderer on a very specific route: the Milky Way escorts us to our destination. In the beginning I did not attribute it any significance, but there were evenings and dawns when looking up the sky my heart throbbed and I felt the power of the galaxy rotating thousand millions of stars. I did feel it in my body.
When I studied the history of El Camino, I was happy to learn that King Charles IV and Dante also covered the distance. I resigned myself to this knowledge. If it was good for Dante it is surely good for me, too. It is not by chance that thousands of people have been setting out
on the way for many a centuries. No, it is not an undesigned act. People feel it is an eventuality, a possibility. I feel it, too. The question is not whether I will be granted answers but how I am going to receive them.
I was sitting at the albergue of a quiet little village. I considered my doubts in life, in myself. There were too many of them. Then I noticed the wall full of graffiti and among the plenitude of drawings and writings made by pilgrims I saw a thin red brush-pen line of sentence. There were but a few words: ’Live happily, do not haste!’ I grinned. If not this, then what is a message?