Our last push into Santiago always gets billed as “just a short day,” but let’s be honest: five hilly miles on pilgrimage legs still count. Add in a night of sauna-style “air-conditioned” lodging (translation: the A/C existed, but not turned on) and a music-festival rumpus thumping outside till dawn, and you’ve got the recipe for Grade-C sleep. My solution: a wet paper towel across the forehead and a travel fan on full blast. Not great, not terrible.
Ready to go for the last day.
Morning broke cool and crystal-clear. I led Josie and Bernadette through the winding suburbs, pointing out every church tower in the distance with a dramatic gasp of “There it is!” They caught on to my false-spire tradition quickly; at one particularly convincing bell tower, Josie sighed, made peace with the fakeout, and marched on. When the real façade finally exploded into view, both girls went wide-eyed. I won’t name names, but one young lady’s eyes got a little misty.
It's tradition for us to walk at least the last mile barefoot. Gus, Jude and Bernadette did it the whole last day.
We soaked in the square’s morning energy: pilgrims hobbling in, some cheering, some weeping, everyone scanning for familiar faces. To stretch the moment, we fired up a ChatGPT-generated photo scavenger hunt and spent an hour collecting snapshots: boots dangling from backpacks, triumphant poses, pilgrims with two water bottles, a couple mid-kiss, and the jackpot, barefoot pilgrims (two points!).
I thought these two were going to kiss.... guess he was more interested in giving me daggers
Compostela certificates in hand, we queued early for the noon Pilgrim Mass. Rule of thumb: arrive an hour ahead, park half the crew to guard seats, send the rest exploring. Gus, Jude, and I locked down a pew in the second row while Jeff and the girls circled the cathedral. Mandatory stops: the crypt to pray at St James’s tomb, then the stairs up to hug the gleaming statue behind the altar, our annual “thanks for getting us here alive” embrace.
Got the paperwork!
Mass itself proved quite interesting. Mid-Communion, a gentleman tried strolling back to his pew with the Host untouched. One five-foot-tall sister seem to vault the communion rail (no really, but she opened the gate with amazing speed) to correct him and make him consume the host. They guard the Eucharist like secret-service agents in habits. Also, second-row seats meant the giant silver censer whooshed directly overhead, drenching us in smoky frankincense.
Post-Mass tradition demanded celebratory calories, so we bee-lined to Goiko Grill for Kevin Bacon burgers—brioche, double cheddar, and the half beef half bacon paddy that tastes exactly like victory. Checked into our final albergue, grabbed souvenirs then closed the evening with wine and tapas at a bustling market, swapping greatest-hit stories until the sun started to set.
Waiting for the Kevin Bacon
Every Camino writes its own recipe of beauty, grit, and unexpected community. The Portuguese Way was no exception. I’m grateful beyond words to have shared it with a handful of my kids. Footsteps overlapping, jokes compounding, memories soldered in place for the rest of our lives.
Next up: lessons learned and a full debrief on Portugal’s path to the Apostle. For now, my heart and, let’s be honest, my stomach are gloriously full.