Chapter Six: The Final Leg – From Manresa to the Saw-Toothed Sentinel

The cool air of Manresa still held the faint tang of last night’s indulgence as the pilgrim, Daniel, rose to face his final day. A familiar “wobble,” a hangover much like the one that had marked his departure from Olot, tried to cling to him. Yet, unlike the deep unease of that earlier start, this felt different—a mere echo, a passing cloud. “It’s me. It’s who I am,” he’d admitted, acknowledging a pattern of self-struggle, but crucially, adding, “I didn’t fall.” It was a quiet triumph, a testament to the resilience he had forged on the miles between. The journey itself had become a process of managing, of moving through.

Before truly setting forth, a sacred ritual: coffee, the effervescent sting of Vichy Catalan, and a croissant, a small, perfect breakfast of quiet sufficiency. A fleeting thought of adding orange juice brought a fresh note to the morning’s tableau. Properly fortified, he contemplated the journey behind him, distilling the essence of each stage into poignant, almost poetic lines: “Figueres I fig-get, Olot I like a lot, Manresa I managed.” A profound simplicity in those words, encapsulating the very human experience of his wanderings.

Soon, the path called. For the first time on this pilgrimage, the wilderness demanded a raw, unadorned response to a primal need. Deep within nature, near a cleansing Font, Daniel performed the most basic of human acts. It was an embrace of the untidy, a full immersion into the organic flow of the Dao, culminating in a cleansing ritual that felt entirely natural.

The path led him on, soon perfumed by the heady scent of fennel, growing wild by the river El Cardener as it wound its way towards the Llobregat. Each sensory detail rooted him more deeply to the earth. Moments later, he found himself beneath the concrete arteries of the C-55, a liminal space where the hum of modern traffic mingled with the ancient whisper of the earth.

And then, as the track opened out, a sight that stilled the very air: Montserrat. The serrated peaks, once a distant promise, now stood clear and undeniable on the horizon. It was a moment of profound recognition, a physical manifestation of his long-sought destination. A passing train, a rush of contemporary life, momentarily blurred past a simple path marker – "CONEXIÓ GR 151," its red cross symbol denoting a specific Catalan long-distance route. He was on the Camí Abat Oliba, on his connecting thread to the sacred.

The path grew muddier, the earth clinging to his sandals, oozing between his bare toes. His cap, an old Kangol mini check, grew heavier with sweat and memories, a tangible artifact of his journey. Yet, the steady rhythm of his steps continued.

A welcome respite appeared: a small stone building, a potential refugi or ermita, beckoning with the promise of rest. He indulged in another simple feast – fried eggs and tomàquet amb pa. He'd wanted specific, fresh tomatoes, perhaps, but the prepared dish was "sufficient," an acceptance of what was, echoing the broader acceptance he sought for himself. With a final, practical thought to the dwindling availability of water sources ahead, he cleared his bowels, preparing his body for the final ascent.

As Daniel prepared to resume his walk, he paused, a question surfacing from the depths of his wandering mind: who was the very first human to look upon Montserrat? To have seen those astonishing peaks with primal awe and wonder, to have found orientation in their unique silhouette. He was following in ancient footsteps, a modern pilgrim traversing an ancient landscape, drawing ever closer to the legendary mountain, his heart filled with both the quiet sufficiency of the present moment and the profound weight of history.