29/07/2026
Our friend Larry sent a poem
The Pilgrim of the Camino
There was movement in the hostel, for the word had passed around
That the pilgrims would be leaving before dawn,
And the boots were lined in silence on the cold and ancient ground,
While the stars above the Spanish hills shone on.
There were dreamers from the cities, there were workers weather-worn,
There were strangers carrying burdens none could see,
And they gathered in the darkness, waiting quietly for morn,
With the road to Santiago calling free.
There were packs that bore the weight of all the things they could not leave,
There were scallop shells that swung beside each stride,
There were hearts still bruised by sorrow, there were souls that sought reprieve,
And a thousand private questions walked beside.
From the vineyards of La Rioja to the mountains capped with snow,
Through the wheatfields rolling golden in the sun,
They would follow yellow arrows where the western breezes blow,
Till the long and dusty pilgrimage was done.
Now among them walked a traveller, neither youngest nor the best,
With a weathered hat and purpose in his eyes;
He had come to seek no glory, nor to put himself to test,
But to leave behind the clamour and the lies.
He had carried years of duty like a load upon his frame,
He had answered every summons, met each call,
Yet the road had gently whispered that a man may lose his name
When he spends his life in service to them all.
So he crossed the Pyrenees slowly through the mist and mountain rain,
Where the track rose hard and narrow through the stone;
Every breath became a battle, every footstep brought him pain,
And he wondered why he chose to walk alone.
But a pilgrim from Navarra shared an orange and a smile,
And another took his pack across a stream;
Then he learnt that those who travelled as companions for a while
Could restore a weary traveller’s broken dream.
Through Pamplona’s ancient gateways, past the towers and village squares,
Past the churches where the candles softly burned,
He discovered that the Camino does not promise answered prayers—
It reveals the truths a hurried world has spurned.
For the strongest may be humbled by a blister on the heel,
And the proud may need a stranger’s steady hand;
While the wounded find that silence gives the hidden heart a voice,
And the lost may come to know just where they stand.
On the Meseta’s endless pathway, where the sky consumes the plain,
There was nowhere from himself that he could hide;
There were memories in the sunlight, there were regrets within the rain,
There were ghosts that kept their station by his side.
But he faced them in the open, one by one and mile by mile,
Till their voices lost the power they once possessed,
And the road that seemed so empty taught his burdened heart to smile,
For in walking he had learnt the art of rest.
Then the mountains rose before him, dark with cloud and cold with sleet,
And the wind came down like judgement from the height;
There were stones beneath the water, there was weakness in his feet,
There was little warmth or shelter left in sight.
Still he climbed toward the iron cross that stood against the sky,
Where the pilgrims placed the stones that they had borne,
And he laid his burden with them, without speech or asking why,
As the darkness slowly opened into morn.
Down through Galicia’s forests, where the rain on chestnuts fell,
And the moss lay thick and green upon the wall,
He could hear the distant ringing of a monastery bell,
Like an answer to a half-remembered call.
Every village offered kindness, every table offered bread,
Every greeting made the foreign road feel near;
And “Buen Camino” followed him wherever his footsteps led,
Like a blessing that the weary heart could hear.
At last he saw the towers of the city through the rain,
And the great cathedral rising from the square;
There were pilgrims laughing wildly, there were others bowed in pain,
There were tears from those who thought they had none spare.
But he did not feel triumphant, nor believe his journey through,
For the road had changed the measure of the man;
He had come to reach an ending, but instead he simply knew
That the finish was the place where life began.
So remember those who wander where the ancient pathways wind,
They are not merely walking through the land;
They are searching through the silence for the truths they left behind,
Learning what to carry, what to understand.
And the Camino keeps their stories in the dust and rain and stone,
In the dawn that finds them moving ever west—
For a pilgrim may set forward thinking he must walk alone,
But the road will teach him otherwise before he comes to rest.
