Camino Real Hostel feels more like a home than a hostel—socks on stairs, toast popping, and Gaby and Juan coaxing the coffee machine like pros. A sea of dark blue AG Camino T‑shirts and a swell of feelings: pride, gratitude, and a deep love for the community that’s formed step by step.

The rain begins almost immediately. Hoods up, voices low. The mood is reflective—joy at reaching the end mixed with the ache of letting go of the week we’ve shared.

Milestone ritual: I placed a stone on the 8,932 marker, released what I didn’t need, tapped it, and felt lighter. That’s the Camino—quiet changes that echo long after.

Seven miles in, we dive into our first café. No bagpipes this year, but the Santiago cake is perfect and the smiles are contagious. Passports stamped, Compostelas pre‑registered, bellies happy—we head back into the drizzle.

Moss in a hundred greens, branches like a cathedral ceiling, stream‑song and birdsong weaving together. Witches and wooden charms sway from the boughs as if the forest itself is whispering us onward.

Deep in a chat with Juan about maps and GPS when Jan yells, “Oh… nice cabbages!” To the right: a perfect allotment. Random, hilarious, and exactly the kind of moment that sticks.

Forests yield to warehouses and tarmac. A vast graveyard appears between units. Then—at last—the hint of spires on the skyline. Santiago is near.

With 1.6 km to go, the rain relents and the sun breaks through like a benediction. Fresh orange juice tastes like nectar. Lou smiles through a wicked insect bite—the Camino spirit in one expression.

Streets narrow, brass shells replace arrows, bagpipes echo beneath the archway. We spill into the Praza do Obradoiro where a sea of pink charity T‑shirts is celebrating. Tears start—Lou, Jane, Lucy, Wendy—then a hug from Jan, glistening eyes from Gaby, Alison limps in supported by John, and even Mr Map Man can’t hide his grin. We made it—together.

The cathedral towers above: ancient, patient, and witness to centuries of transformed pilgrims.