It was light rain at first, but we kept our rain gear on the ready. The trees along the country road offered a natural rain break. Uphill, a few kilometers from Teo, the drizzle turned into a downpour. We hastily put on our rain gear. The wind made it more trying. It blew my flimsy poncho about and hampered my walk. We dashed toward a thin stand of trees and took shelter. The cover wasn’t much, but it broke the gusty wind. All we could do was huddle and wait for the rain to pass. Thank goodness, the downpour is brief; maybe 10 minutes at most, and eased to a drizzle.

It was exhausting all the time, mostly uphill, some 300 meters hills as our guidebook noted, and exactly as the Australian couple at the Casa Parada warned us. When we thought the shower was over, another downpour caught us near a warehouse. Other pilgrims have sheltered under one awning. We found refuge in the open garage of a warehouse. The laborers watched us as if we were sodden puppies. The rainstorm was brief. We have been told that’s how these storms are. There’s little solace or peace of mind from that information other than to slog onwards.

The nature of the route would change from highway tarmac, tree-lined promenades, eucaplytus woodland, and urban forests; into hamlets, and others that looked like industrial parks. We walked through highway underpasses and under a railroad trestle. Hardly the image of an ancient path. I bet the hundreds who have taken the path shared the same sentiments. Halfway to Santiago, we arrive at the town of Milladoiro. It showered again. We could see other pilgrims scramble for cover. We took refuge at the nearest cafe. Some customers, who saw us dripping wet, offered their table to us, but we declined. We would flood the floor with our dripping raincoats, which was our flimsy excuse. We took off our ponchos and set our backpacks at one corner of the cafe and ordered hot drinks. Pat had tea, and I ordered hot chocolate. Never was it so comforting; to sip the hot, thick Spanish chocolate, and feel it travel down your gut to warm it up. An American couple across observing us, greeted us hello. What a hardy couple, they said. No, we said, just trying to get dry and warm. Not too long, the downpour became a drizzle. We don our wet gear and joined the rest of the pilgrims toward Santiago.

We kept to the road, maintaining our bearings, keeping sight of the spires of the Cathedral peeping through the rooftops. We were so close, but the rain was still troublesome. Keeping track of our direction was another. To avoid getting soaked, we had to watch out for buildings with eaves to shelter under; to stay in the right direction, we monitored the pilgrims ahead of us, trusting that they knew where they were going. This became our modus operandi. At one shop doorway, we sheltered with a nicely dressed couple who were talking to each other in Italian. Trying to make light of our situation, I mustered my best Roman Italian and greeted them, “Buon giorno. Buongiorno. È un po ‘bagnato. Si?”. Surprised, the man answered. “Ah si, de Romano.” He detected the Roman accent. The only other time my Italian was complimented was when I met the Roman husband of my daughter’s friend Julia. He could detect the intonation. Many years ago, the whole family spent a year in Rome during my dad’s writing fellowship. I learned the language. It felt nice, that kind of affirmation, especially now, when we were slogging our way, with much discomfort, to reach the Cathedral plaza.

We were wise enough to invest in quick-dry hiking pants. They don’t stay wet for long and self-dries while walking. But our shoes are not fully water proof; we discover. Our socks oozed with water, emitting that unpleasant squishing sound at each step. Getting to the Cathedral plaza and to our hotel was urgent. We knew we were close when the Cathedral’s spires disappeared behind the tiled roofs of the surrounding buildings. We were now near Santiago’s center. The high walls that shielded whatever sunlight could pierce through the cloudy skies, created a medieval-like, dimly lit, cobblestone alley. The sense of ancientness was palpable (deju vu during my first visit to Oxford’s quad). The doorways were narrow with heavy wooden doors, and the windows were high and small, set on heavy limestone walls. The alfresco cafe umbrellas gave away this moment in time travel.

We hurried past the courtyard of the medical university, one of the earliest. For now, it’s of little interest. As we turn the corner, the plaza loomed before us. On our right was the Cathedral, gray and imposing.

We half expected people lounging on its steps, but now it was gated with an iron fence. Instead, people were milling about the plaza, taking pictures, greeting each other, shouting ‘‘VIVA” or something like it. At the further side of the Cathedral, a melancholic tune came from a bagpipe player, pilgrims raptly listened while waiting for their companions.

We took in the sight with so much relief. At last, after 21 days, 211 km we finally reached Santiago, our journey fulfilled. We celebrated with a selfie, hugged each other, and sought our hotel. I was not feeling well and exhaustion was waiting to take its toll. The weather has not improved with a pesky drizzle.

We have yet to locate our hotel which was nearby; the guidebook said. As usual, the guidebook was not helpful. We went first, behind the Cathedral, the hotel was not on that side. We walk past the steps where pilgrims, some of them in armchairs, listened to the bagpipe music and waited for friends to arrive. Each time someone shows up the hill and arrives at the threshold, they shout VIVA!

I walked back towards the end of Plaza, down the steps, thinking that the church at the bottom of the steps was the landmark. It was not. Pat had lingered behind. When she caught up with me later, she was full of excitement. On the steps where the bagpipe player was, someone hugged her from behind. Surprised, she recognized one of the young sisters we have met in Pontevedra. She had arrived earlier and was now all dolled up. Delighted to see Pat, she wanted to congratulate her for reaching Santiago. According to tradition, welcoming an arrival is to extend the Camino’s blessing. It added special meaning to Pat’s pilgrimage.

From the end of the Plaza, we turned towards the main road and followed the road sign, which clearly pointed to where our hotel’s direction. Once more, our guidebook misdirected us. We checked in. I climbed into bed, exhausted. Our luggage has not arrived.