The End of the Wrong Camino.

Ever since Cahors a theory has developed I found my freedom in the terrors the way found for me between Puy and Aubrac. Something singular and significantly pastoral.

Just a tidy seventeen kilometres today. Puts me at two stages beyond the Canadian devil. Stopping - Finished for today. Donativo 3 on the bounce. In a wilderness of persons I escaped alive and with wit.

Busy bee. Couple of beers with Daniel from Barcelona; father Liverpool and mother Catalan. After popping to the supermecardo cooked a paella with red peppers, onions, rice, chorizo picante, pancetta, white wine, herbs provence, salt. Sat down with a stick of bread and el coto crianza 2008. Legendary supper. Shared the fayre with 5 others. I hardly know their names. Did a meal unlike Wednesday night. Not lacking depth and textures. Great Vino makes a significant difference.

Helene, one of our hosts, enjoyed the supper while Pierre emphasises the need to donate €7. I was hoping you weren't a vegan and doesn't drink wine. How can I improve on this? I will leave a substantial donativo.

Extreme bump to my head. This happens verily every time I get to a new Auberge/Hostel. Can't be hastled to shower again. It's obsessive for people walking miles sweating constantly. Changed into summer attire as the weather alters to warm with a pleasant breeze. A swarm of school boys comes onroute to the sweet shop. I pass through with Nina before the plot of the movie is lost in translation. Between Daniel and the winebar owner we discuss via Daniel: from Barcelona, the objectivity/subjectivity of wine interpretations. I am blind folded and tested. I found the wine beyond me unamazing but how can you say this when you expect the wine is something very special indeed. Well I thought I had dry white, a light red maybe rosado and another white. Truth is they were all instant blends of white and red. My leaning towards rosado was correct-ish, but I really wasn't thinking that opaquely. None was so significant. I explained that in Britain we are really fortunate to be able to try the whole worlds wines. In La Rioja it is Tinto or Blanco from around these parts. The Rueda Vedajo was still outstanding and this is where my ideal was coming. Mouth full of rocks - Les Silex.

Early to bed after another brilliantly simple supper. Asparagus Blanco and olives in a salad, two small glasses of vino tinto(€1.30 a bottle) table wine. Nina still has the dry dusty cough that repeatedly brings you out of low level sleep. Finally slept until 5am.

Looked about the town in the late afternoon and think the town is like a wheel with spoke like arteties coming to the central hub. Belrado Parish Albergue is a converted theatre; you prepare your supper on the stage and then consume it in the stalls. Loud fairweather Italian Pilgrims in one room. Things are changing in my head. Got this feeling that this pilgrimage is coming to an end with the floods of persons breaking from vents in the crust; I'll hit Burgos then ... See the longest day in Finisterre! Traveler on the A1.

The convictions I have to end it somewhere a conclusion can be made. I dissolved in France and then I am unconnected in Spain with the symbolic and shambolic. I will place my singular tent at the end of the world and watch the sun take all souls to the land of the Valinor; I am the last of the fellowship in Gray Havens. The curtain fell on my journey last night with Daniel: a reflection of what I had decided my pilgrimage meant to me. The clouds hang low and heavy as we come up to the plateau. My mind broke free of these chains. I have the 21st to reach the sea. A final supper. As the mists clear Yorkshire and Europe are behind me now. I will end of On the Road and the end of my world as the dusky sun sinks into the blackened ocean.

I found my way; monomania. Autobus, walk to Plaza Espania. No. 43. Estaciòn FF.CC. Flying through huge Burgos. The man throwing stones at my feet close to Rock has carped and collided kharkis, but will not prevent me finding my own simple end. Two days from a shower and I start to smell my own residue; bring the brine and Jesus Nuñez is a cold saviour. Through tenements and absent blocks; blankly blanketed and blackened columns force me beyond all red lights, crossings and sneakered feet. Bring me away to so distant a Estaciòn. Back in macro molecular blindingly unhappy nowhere station. My wait and journey will cost most of the day. In the middle of the centre completely nowhere. No wifi. No shower. Back to horrible egocentric and monoblocular Burgos to eat, drink and kill time. Shrug my shoulders into the end of grey and barren multi directionless conduit and conceitedly unhelpful adif. Gibberish. Cold welcome. Ticker tape states bienvenidos a la estaciòn "Burgos Rosa de Lima": which without English or eye contact is untrue. So I must wait five minute before it fades away.

Bleeding day for swinging fifty separatists ways. So what was Burgos? Now I am under the steps of ya catedral and looked for post Camino fun. No one knows what is glimpsed by yon travellers. Is there an alt dive for us at the end of someat. My vivid dreams of france are no longer just a mistress. I used to dream with a certain almost reality; I would just accept that like or not I had been half way along that northern coast; along and alone.

I'm I wrong to have played out my first pilgrimage my way? Some have helped me deal post Aubrac; yet most enough not ken? Hello haloed Santiago. I have eaten a lot of canned heat. Tonight, Duncan, I ate calamari from San Xoãn and part took alberino. Dead. And seldom significant. I am off to drink my death tomorrow. Sign off. Nice squid rings too.

Mexicans 3ing a five piece. Musical weekend. I need to see within the catedral. It is some end. All this pinchos and minimal vino. I couldn't be more emotionally lost. Bit of me finds muzak somedays apart.

One o'clock and I am full of rose rouge wondering what to see that saint germain.

Santiago is a trap for the arrogant. This morning I left my apartment of the evening. The previous evening didn't really let me in. A random lady took me to her h'erbergment where I slept still in my secure sleeping bag, €20, I am reminded of the old lady in Split and my grateful slumbers. There is no silence on the street where you find Oficina del Pelegrino. This was not the conclusion I had thought I expected. Some things are simply too good to be true. Once my credentials are stamped I'll away to the coast. Rituals gather dust away in the less colliding sight and only pilgrims queue in line waiting to stamp their Créanciale where the mind lacks it's own relief; and It feels like a post office queue but the voices are bold and trancelike. I follow after. Coffee strains my mind and I feel utterly sick of the untruth even here so I leave the untruthful for a throne in which to leave my Pelegrino hopes. I stood back in that false discord for a brief thought. Coffee, Churas and Paracetamol calls me to prepare for noon exit to the end of the world: where I will bathe.

Dead fish are going with the flow following the final expectant steps of the Camino. Me, half filled of figs and green/purple tomatoes, fly beyond the clouds and fight against the turmultous tide.