Finisterre and another way: Camino Inglés.

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The distant noises of the summer solstice celebration came back over the hill and woke me from my deeply comfortable sleep. Something good sang me to sleep at just gone ten and so I missed another youthful celebration: I would've danced the fandango in my lean and handsome years with the same enthusiasm and freedom that conquering the Aubrac meant to me now. Age is conquering me.

This is not the end, but it is perhaps the beginning of the end? Camino Inglés today. Five days from Monday to Santiago de Compostella to earn my Compostele. Some other way is calling me.

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