THE lesson (in 150 words).

I don't know what I was expecting from this final leg; not exactly fanfares and trumpets, but not far off. The reality has been very different. The stench of manure is ubiquitous in Galicia. Dwellings are astonishingly humble for a modern European country. The descent into Santiago was singularly disappointing. But THE lesson has been reinforced: this journey has been made worthwhile by the encounters, experiences and occasional moments of clarity along the way, not by the destination. Fixating on a destination is the same as fixating on the future - a pointless exercise. The future is a mental construct; we never experience it directly, and when it becomes the present, it is never how we imagined it. 'Our time is here, is now'; if we can't be happy in the present, we will never be happy. I still slip up most of the time, but at least I have become more aware of it.

Galician shepherd.

Descent into Santiago de Compostela.

The cathedral, mostly hidden by scaffolding.

Main entrance to the cathedral.

Human geography.

Between Salzburg and St. Jean Pied-de-Port (the French-Spanish border), I only met 5 other people walking to (or back from) Santiago. In Spain itself, that has changed considerably. I must confess that my heart does not leap for joy when I meet other pilgrims; I'd prefer to meet local people, but the locals often seem jaded. The vast majority of pilgrims here are, bizarrely, Korean. But I have recently been walking with a brilliant, though also rather fragile, Spanish-Iranian girl. I met her outside León, an incongruous figure in electric blue skiwear framed by an ocean of mud.

Physical geography.

From Castrojeríz I climbed up onto the meseta of Castile. On a beautiful frosty morning, on towards León, whose cathedral is immensely impressive. The outskirts, however, are another story. The village of Valverde, whose name appears in Unamuno's lyrical novella 'San Manuel Bueno, Mártir', could scarcely have been more disappointing. For two days, the Camino runs alongside the N-120 highway, with its thundering trucks. Then a climb up through hill country to the foggy, snow-covered villages either side of the Monte Irago pass. Down again, then up over O Cebreiro, and down once more into the rolling hills of Galicia. 

Climbing onto the meseta.

Frosty morning in Castile.

León cathedral.

Valverde - Miguel de Unamuno would turn in his grave.

The village of Foncebadón.

Pilgrim descending into Galicia.

The rain in Spain...

...does indeed fall mainly on the plain, currently in the form of stinging droplets driven by gale force winds. I have crossed La Rioja, which may bring to mind the cheerful wines of the sun-drenched south. But I found it very depressing - a poor, desolate and wind-swept region whose fields, reeking of nitrate fertilisers, alternate with strips of industrial wasteland. I passed through Cirueña, a ghost town of luxury apartments that have never been lived in, haunting reminders of the housing boom and the crisis. It felt truly post-apocalyptic - one of the saddest places I have ever been.

A boarded-up brothel beside the Camino.

Fields and industrial parks.

Tea with Wilfred.

Back on the road, and limped into Pamplona, after 46km. Was feeling quite pleased with myself, until I read Wilfred Thesiger's book about the Marsh Arabs; with no medical training, he performed thousands of circumcisions, and once removed a man's eyeball. But that's ok, they were giants in those days (though admittedly those days coincided with my own - as a teenager, I regularly had tea with Wilfred). Then, this morning, I read about Ricardo Abad, who completed 100 iron men* last year. And in 2012 he ran 500 marathons in 500 days. Take-away lesson? Best not to compare oneself to others.

* 1 iron man = 3.8k swim, 180k bike ride, 42k marathon run.