Feather quill thumbs bleed 8-bit ink,

prose that seeps into pixel parchment.

Words that once dried onto candlelit vellum,

now hum beneath amorphous blue glass.

Binary and biblical, the hieroglyphs flicker,

at sixty hertz and in silicon psalms.

Each keystroke a prayer, each typo a tremor,

For hands unto heavens with a phone in their palms.

The everyman gazes at clouds that rain colour,

And though aware of no Torah his scripture is scroll.

His sentience, it buzzes in lithium-ion,

but he cannot identify what's left of his soul.

He kneels before a cached reality,

seeking warmth in electrical pulse.

Lifeblood that surges through his fibre veins,

an addiction that without, his senses convulse.

A sermon illuminates his blue light confession,

for the algorithm forgives all who engage.

Meaning, anointed on modernity's altar,

a social standard he dare not enrage.

He writes not with hands, but with algorithms

that dream, of calligraphy and breath.

His thoughts sculpt data, rendered into light:

The fuck am I talking about (this poem's pure shite).

Uhh, not sure came over me there... I'm not exactly religious at all. Don't get me wrong, I used to worship Mr Bean and Maoam pinballs (hell yea!), but sadly that's not an option you can really choose on the census or any inclusivity surveys. I'm not sure I can really say that I believe in transcendence either, but part of me does want to believe in believing. And therein lies an irony. Believing that some form of enlightenment can exist on a tourist trail in Northern Spain of all places is, frankly, ridiculous. But consider for a moment that the world is built to laugh at itself for even looking for meaning in the first place. And when it comes down to it, isn't it a thought we've all had, that which drives the very human condition. What *does* any of it really mean? Could all of this just be... futile? Whether you realise it or not, you probably already live by some private creed about meaning. You must, or you’d never bother even getting out of bed. For you, maybe that creed is honey nut Cheerios, or ferret racing, or recreational voodoo, or one of countless pointless pastimes. But, why? Is this really just... it, or is there anything more to why we're here?

Feeling sick yet? Don't worry, I've wiped away my existential snot, and flicked it gleefully into the crowd. Regardless, I'm not here to pursue some mythical enlightenment at all really...

I've come to see travel blogging as an expression and a freedom. At its core, it’s never really been about what it was that I was doing, or even about where it is that I've been. It's been a sort of cross-section of my being, a mark of the person I am, the person I have been. Isn’t that kinda cool!? I like to think it’s been a lived experience, a wide-eyed view into a contradictory world, and what I wanted from it in my confused and mildly deranged voice. The scotched egg of meaning wrapped in my very own sausage meat of sarcasm, if you will. In a way then, this is my pilgrimage of creativity, in meaning through writing, rather than hiking alone.

At this point, you're probably wondering 'has this man swallowed the world's most pretentious poetry anthology, when did his screws get so loose?'. (I've started reading philosophy books okay, so uhh blame them for the self-indulgence.)

Cartographically speaking, the Camino de Santiago is a revered network of ancient paths, criss-crossing Iberia and converging at the sanctified tomb of the apostle St. James. They say it's not just a walk; it's meditation, faith, transformation... a pilgrimage through landscapes and oneself all at once. (I bet it's actually shit, isn't it.)

Still, enlightenment has been on the bucket list for a while now (right next to 'fix my sleep schedule' and 'buy some new socks'). Plus, watching YouTube shorts in bed has been getting reaaaal boring lately, so I do fancy a little walk (and it was either this or slog to big Sainsbury's).

Join me then for the Camino de Santiago, done my way: the metaphorical screwdriver, a final trip to tighten up the loosies before my 25th birthday (and full development of my pre-frontal cortex!). I’ll catch you on the Way.

Pain shoots up my shins before I've even left Oxford. If I was a superhero then my special ability would be the power walk, granted it does come with a 2 month cool down period while the shin splints subside. At least I'll make my train on time. Oh. Sike ! Cancelled. Thanks, British Rail. 

Fine, whatever. I shoehorn my poor body into a train heading to Marylebone instead. This leg goes about as expected, although it does open my eyes to the world of teenagers' social media. I overlook a girl's phone as she somehow jumps between messaging some twenty boys all at once, still visibly longing over one boy, Paddy, who'd never replied to her last message.

Delayed in London’s ratruns, I race to Baker Street, get lost, somehow resurface at Liverpool Street, panting like I’ve just done the first stage of the Camino already. Okay, Stansted Express next, 19:15 arrival gives me 1h25 to spare, that's doable.

The train rocks my vegetable head, lost in some half-formed poetry, when a tannoy jolts me back to reality: ‘Tickets at the ready.’ I leap out like a man reborn onto the platform of... Bishop’s bloody Stortford. Brilliant. I’m 30 minutes from the airport with 45 minutes until my gate closes. I'm toast. 🍞🍞🍞

Shin splints turn to thin sprints as I speedrun security, parry the shuttle bus, and flash my boarding pass at the cabin crew just as the gate is chiming shut, still frantically googling 'travel insurance' as the plane creeps onto the runway.

Late hours awake in the liminal spaces of Santiago airport conjure hallucinations of breakfast, and the flickering ghosts of closed cafés that do nothing to satiate my biting hunger. But before too long, morning reveals its sympathetic brow from beyond a forested horizon. A gentle bus ride carries me through the rolling green hills of Galicia, which mutate into the thorny vineyards of León province. 

I am now in Ponferrada, a 205 kilometre jaunt from Santiago. But where's everyone else? The streets are empty, the shops are closed, even the pigeons seem to have clocked off. The people I do see insist on speaking Spanish to me (are they stupid?).

My albergue host assures me this is in fact a normal Saturday, but that only raises more questions. Why is there a rock band playing in the main square? Why are my shoes on the wrong feet?

I find a kebab shop, the finest dining establishment within a one-minute walk and call it a night.

I share breakfast across from a woman named Ozzy. She's from Thurso in the far reaches of Scotland, a town so north that even the midges haven't fully discovered it (or so she tells me). She's walked the Camino every which way, the del Norte, the Francés, the Invierno - you name it.

'What do you think it means to be a pilgrim?' I ask, between mouthfuls of tortilla and cake. "I think it's more about walking with a purpose," she says, after mulling over my question. It's not about walking for a destination exactly."

I'm a little skeptical to her response, and visibly so. I've always thought I shared that philosophy about distance walking, but I've never considered myself a 'pilgrim' so to speak. That term seems to carry a heavier weight. "Maybe it's the community," she continues. "People react to you differently, they shout Buen Camino! from across the street. Many albergues are run by volunteers, and in the evenings we share why we walk."

This softens my understanding. Strangers used to react to me differently on my Europe walk, the scale of that mission made me feel like I had a story worth telling, and that and I was 'something', maybe that same something that pilgrims feel here. After six or seven more glasses of orange juice (as if I were trying to fend off scurvy), it becomes apparent that Ozzy is walking with lung cancer. She's been walking for over a month now, and in her condition she can't even buy travel insurance.

Breakfast feels quieter after her admissions, and after chatting a while longer, we head off on our separate paths and wish each other well.

I step out into the umbral black of dawn, my waymarker the nine-pronged scallop shell, its yellow glow blazoned on concrete pillars and plastered walls. It navigates me through sleeping streets and uninhabited alleyways onto a tarmac path where yellow flowers, filaments of them, breach the arid rock and juxtapose the scrub that lies in decay at its side.

After a while, my bones embrittle with ache as my feet strike the bitumen over and over again. The air tastes metallic with rain, rain which taps the top of my hood and dulls my senses. My hands clam with sweat while raindrops roll  down my forefinger, drooping from the tip of my thumb.

Flecks of orange and green tremble in the wind, they are leaves variegated in shades of yellow and brown. It's not long now until they'll all have withered away. But the forest doesn't chase the leaves that fall, for it trusts in the seasons that lie ahead.

I stop for coffee in Cacabelos. The man sat at the table over swabs another cigarette into his ash tray, his brow furrows as he inspects newspaper after newspaper. I pull out a book of my own and watch the world as it passes. It's peaceful. But the church bells soon chime and nudge me on my way.

Ahead, clouds linger in distant valleys. I feel invited to look softer until I realise that I don't see what they conceal and I contemplate that maybe I was never meant to. When I look closer, moss grows where time lies dormant and sparse vineyards stipple earthy soil that falls away into Villafranca del Bierzo, my day's destination.

In the evening, I go for dinner with German midwife Susi, French humanitarian Stefane, and South Korean Chukyu. Hours pass as we titillate and cantanker, toasting our differences and trading our stories until the candles gutter and wine runs dry.

After some time, I ask that same question I asked from the morning, 'what do you think it means to be a pilgrim?' There's a pause, a quiet one, before they each answer in turn. A theme runs through their words: they all want to leave something behind in one way or another.

Chukyu, in particular, talks of 'finding himself'. Again, I can't help in my skepticism - clichés are a little much, even for me. Susi asks if he's found what he's looking for yet, and he says no. A part of me wants to interrupt to say that I've been in that headspace myself, that he's probably not going to find an answer, at least not out here. Eventually, Susi asks me back 'what does it mean to you, to be a pilgrim?' and I realise I'm not even prepared to answer my own question, and maybe that's why I ask it.

But who cares about the inner journey when an outer one offers pilgrim menus - three courses for £15!? More tiramisu, please!

How to become public enemy number one of the Camino:

Step one: never carry cash.

Step two: don't know a single word of Spanish.

Step three: wet the bed.

Step four: profit.

Haven't mastered that whole plan yet, but clearly I had done enough to tickle the moustache of my Spanish waiter this morning (who looked suspiciously like Manuel from Fawlty Towers btw). He hurls me a plate in disgust (it's a breakfast called sadillas, because he's already stolen the 'Qué¿'). I'm just kidding, it's cake. So I have my cake and eat it too before slipping away into the dark.

I teeter along for half a mile when I realise that I'm not even wearing my watch, and I've left my credencial back at the albergue, an unholy trinity of stupid.

The world is still a bruise-coloured blue when I start over. Lichen encrusts tree trunks like an old man's bogies, and leaves pile beneath pine needles like hay in a needle stack. Sweet chestnut casings kick along the ground like inanimate hedgehogs and mist fuzzes the edge of the landscape's hazy features. Bagpipes wail like a distant call to prayer as I cross into Galicia and then O Cebreiro, which at 1300 m is the high point of my trek.

Up until now I’ve actively been choosing to walk alone, but today I decide that my sociability probably ought to extend beyond giving pilgrims the side eye while playing Subway Surfers.

First, I meet a man so Scottish I think he might bleed Irn-Bru and have a clan name like 'McTartan'. He started the pilgrimage as a sober vegetarian; one month in, he’s a raging caffeine addicted alcoholic who craves Marlboro Reds like holy communion. I suggested he should end his anti-pilgrimage by doing a line of cocaine off the steps of Santiago Cathedral. He either laughs or curses the English again (I can't tell through the accent).

Later, I find myself walking with the most insufferable American in history (or at least since the last American I met). He claims to be homeless, yet describes his lifestyle in Dubai like a millionaire who forgot where he parked the yacht. (But hey, what do I know about entitledness, I'm just a humble travel blogging legend.) Next, I ragebait an Italian by telling him how much I love kiwi on pizza, something I’ve never even tried by the way. It works. He piches his fingers and flails his hands about in an undeniable rage. (🤌) I resist asking him when his Dolmio day is.

As the sun finally breaks the overcast and with Michael Palin and Louis Theroux yapping through my headphones, I descend into Triacastela. In my albergue, I meet American, Jane. We chat away for a little while and she tells me she’s been walking the Camino at the same time as her parents (but refuses to walk near them because they 'like Donald Trump too much.') Can't argue with that.

We head out for dinner, and in an ironic twist of fate, her parents walk into the same restaurant and sit directly next to us. Jane spends the entire evening mocking me with an exaggerated British accent while I pick away at a gelatinous plate of Octopus (that's the last time I give Spanish culture a go). Her dad eyes me like I’ve just voted for higher taxes (or anything moral at all for that matter, given that he's a Trump supporter).

P.S. My phone has become diabolically glitchy (🤧). Writing this has been a motherfucker, I fear it could be the last update. :( Remember me as the man as the man I always aspired to be (a bastard).

The End.