A 4-day travelogue featuring stormy weather, scenic highlights, and the journey to the “end of the world.”
July 1, 202618 min read
A detailed account of a 4-day hike along the Camino Finisterre by Andrea and Gert Kleinsteuber, who walked from Santiago to Cape Finisterre, the “End of the World,” in September 2013. The hike was an extension of the Camino Primitivo starting from Santiago de Compostela.
The sun rose blood-red behind the silhouette of the cathedral as we left the guesthouse that morning. The night had been quite restless, as Jörg kept coughing. And when I finally did fall asleep, I had a dream that almost cost me the rest of the trip.
The short version: I’m walking my dog when suddenly a fox with foam at its mouth comes out of the bushes—rabies—no doubt about it! I panicked and tried to keep it away from my dog, but somehow I couldn’t move forward (– well, of course, I was lying in bed!). The fox kept getting closer, and I kicked out at it. I barely managed to stifle the scream of pain I was about to let out. I was wide awake in an instant. Because I had kicked the bed frame and stubbed my toe so hard that it was bleeding, and I feared it might be broken. I hobbled to the bathroom to at least take a closer look.
But in the morning, the all-clear was given. I was able to walk just fine, partly because my shoes were big enough and my toes didn’t bump against the front, as had been the case with last year’s model. I’d like to thank the shoe salesperson at Globetrotter in Berlin who advised me. I would never have bought this shoe in such a large size on my own.
It’s just a short drive out of town. You quickly find yourself back in the lush, green countryside, which I prefer to the cities. From a hilltop, you get another beautiful view of the cathedral, next to which the sun was already shining brightly.
steeply upward once again
Suddenly, Jörg had disappeared behind us. He usually ran ahead of us because he was much faster. So we stood there in the eucalyptus forest and waited. After more than 10 minutes, he finally caught up with us. We had already started to worry, and I wanted to go meet him. But while taking photos, he had simply missed a signpost and lost sight of us; before we knew it, he had already walked back down the mountain about 800 meters.
The rest of the way went smoothly, apart from a pretty steep climb before Carballo, which really made me break a sweat again. But hadn't Jürgen said there wouldn't be any more significant elevation changes until Finisterre?
But even that was nowhere near as challenging as the climbs and descents on the Primitivo.
Maceira Bridge
One of the highlights of this stage is undoubtedly the village of Ponte Maceira, with its medieval bridge of the same name spanning the Tambre River. The bridge was built in the 13th century on the foundations of an older Roman bridge. It has five large and two smaller arches and spans the river next to a weir and the associated old watermill. The village itself also consists largely of medieval buildings. Together, they form a harmonious whole and offer many picture-perfect views.
Following the Tambre River more or less, we reached Negreira very quickly. We chose to stay at the “San Jose” hostel. It’s located a short distance off the trail on the ground floor of a new building, and the path leading there is well marked. We were greeted warmly in German with a Swiss accent. And there was still plenty of room at the hostel. So the feared rush on the Camino Fistarra had apparently not materialized. All the better! This meant our journey could continue in a very relaxed manner. The hostel is very spacious and modernly furnished. The beds are spaced far apart and distributed across three interconnected rooms. There are plenty of showers and toilets, and the steps leading to the restrooms are lit by night lights, which I found very pleasant and practical, especially given my battered toe. The common room, complete with a built-in, fully equipped kitchen, also made a spacious and tidy impression. It was a comfortable place to be, even at full capacity—though we were far from that on this particular day.
Jörg, Andrea, and Jana went to the nearby supermarket to buy groceries for the evening. The well-equipped kitchen was just begging to be used. Meanwhile, I took care of the laundry. I then spent a long time chatting with a very nice pilgrim from Franconia. The only slightly annoying thing was a pilgrim’s first attempts to coax meaningful melodies out of a nose flute he’d obviously just bought yesterday in Santiago. Every beginning is hard. And: “Music is often perceived as disruptive because it is always associated with noise,” to quote the great German poet, illustrator, caricaturist, and humorist Wilhelm Busch.
Finally, pasta again
Jörg made pasta and vegetarian tomato sauce—enough to feed half a company. We could only convince two fellow pilgrims to join us for a bite. One of them was Franz from Schwedt, whom we asked in the dormitory if he could understand us. “Of course—every word!” he replied promptly, despite our strong Saxon dialect. And just like that, a conversation to get to know each other began. He had walked the Camino Francés in 24 days starting from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and was now a bit worn out, which I could vividly relate to, knowing the route. He had taken a full 10 days less than we had—wow! But even on his young body, this route takes its toll, so he decided to walk with us tomorrow, taking a more leisurely day. It remains to be seen how calm he’ll be…
2. Tag Negreira – Olveiroa
Well, I’ve piqued your curiosity enough now. I’ve already mentioned this day twice in my report—just now, and in connection with my feet/socks/shoes combo. During the night, you could already hear that the wind had picked up considerably. It also seemed to be raining a little. After Jana and I polished off the leftover pasta for breakfast (I really can’t understand why some people shake their heads at that?), we went outside and had a bad feeling when we saw the sky. Thick, heavy clouds were being driven across the sky by a strong, gusty wind. In the city, you could barely feel it yet. But that was about to change.
Threatening clouds on the outskirts of Negreira
After the rest of the team had finished breakfast at a bar in Negreira that was already open, we headed out of town and immediately felt the strong wind blowing in from the side. Well, at least it’s not raining… But no sooner had I finished that thought than it started pouring so hard that we had to take cover under a balcony overhang to put on our ponchos. By the way, I was quite happy with this inexpensive (€19.90) poncho from Decathlon, because it has real sleeves and you can open it completely at the front with a zipper. In theory, you should be able to put it on all by yourself, but I never managed to do so (probably because I’m so clumsy). I even needed help taking it off. For some reason, I could never get it over my backpack. I can’t say for sure if it’s truly waterproof, since I was sweating so much that the inside was almost always just as wet as the outside. At home, I tried it out in the shower, and it was waterproof there. But what lay ahead of us was the ultimate test for any outdoor gear. And I think any gear would have reached its limits that day. There were gusts of up to 70 km/h, and the rain was coming more horizontally than from above. It often felt as if someone were dumping a bowl of water in your face. I was wearing shorts under the poncho. Long pants would have been soaked through in seconds anyway.
heavy rain showers and a storm
Up until now, my shoes had been waterproof. To make sure they stayed that way, I pulled out the gaiters that Martin from the pilgrim forum had given me. That worked pretty well at first. They were waterproof and kept my calves warm, even though I looked really funny in them, as I later realized when looking at the photos.
My gaiters and I
But I didn’t notice that the straps tying the gaiters at the top of my calves had come loose, and the water pouring down from the poncho onto my leg just above them had a clear path all the way down to my socks. The purpose of the gaiters was quickly reversed. Whereas they had just been protecting the shoe from the outside, they now acted like a funnel, directing the water into
soaked my shoes. It felt as if I had buckets of water on my feet. But the others weren’t faring any better. No sooner had our pant legs dried in a lull in the downpour than the next deluge hit. And the wind grew ever stronger. Since several large branches were already lying on the road, we avoided walking through the forest. So we stayed on the roads, at the risk of a gust blowing us into the traffic. The large backpacks and ponchos acted like sails, so we had to brace ourselves on the road with our hiking poles. Moving quickly was out of the question. And of all days, today’s route was 34 kilometers. Luckily, Jörg had a GPS app and the Camino’s GPS track on his iPhone, so we didn’t run the risk of getting lost on the unmarked roads. We treated ourselves to a longer break to catch our breath at a bar just past Santa Marina.
What does "Grog" actually mean?Spanish? That would have been the right thing to do in this lousy weather. Every attempt to get my socks or insoles dry was completely pointless. Everything was just wet, and things really couldn't have gotten any worse. That was also why we didn’t stay at the hostel in Santa Marina and walked another 12 kilometers to Olveiroa. We couldn’t have gotten any wetter. At the hostel, just as much water was soaking out of our underwear as out of our socks.
We've arrived—wet but happy
We didn’t realize just how good a decision it was to keep going until the next day. Most people had either hitchhiked further or given up in Santa Marina. But there was no electricity there, and thus no heating, no hot water, and no way to dry our things, because the hospitalero had neither wood for the stove nor newspaper to dry our shoes. It was a completely different story in Olveiroa, where we stopped at the private hostel “Horreo.” There, the newspapers were already laid out, along with a trash bag for collecting wet clothes to put in the washer and dryer. Even before we had paid for the hostel, thanks to Jö
There was a bottle of rum on the table. After that battle—yes, that’s what I’d call it—we’d earned it. Franz was also glad to have company that day, and Hartmut greeted us with a beaming smile at the door. Several times during this stage, I asked myself why I was putting myself through this, but I kept walking anyway. Andrea always says, “It doesn’t do any good—let’s keep going!” And that attitude is what keeps you going. By evening, you’re proud to have made it through and have plenty of stories to tell. If everything in life were easy, it would get boring pretty quickly.
“Warm-up round”
But we did find ourselves hoping for a bit more peace and quiet over the next few days—especially that the storm would let up. But that seemed like a distant prospect as we sat in the hostel’s small bar, reflecting on the day that had passed.
By the way, contrary to the report that there are no longer any shopping options in Olveiroa (in the update to Raimund Joos’s pilgrim guide), I can confirm that the “Horreo” hostel operates a small tienda, allowing pilgrims from other hostels to stock up there.
Oh, and my feet/socks/shoes combo: It worked out fine, even though my socks were wet. I was worried I’d get blisters from wearing wet socks. But after checking, I could give the all-clear.
3. Tag Olveiroa – Cee
The first thing I looked at that morning was the sky. It didn't look much better than the day before, but at least the wind had died down. I eagerly pulled the crumpled newspaper out of my shoes. I had replaced it again during the night, and the shoes were still wet. But now they actually felt quite dry. Only the insoles, which I had wrapped separately in newspaper, were still damp. So it wasn’t very pleasant to slip my dry socks into the shoes. I could feel the dampness right away, but once the shoes had warmed up, I got used to it pretty quickly.
Massive Horreos in Olveiroa
But before setting off, we enjoyed a hearty breakfast in the hostel’s small bar. As we walked through Olveiroa—a walk we’d understandably had to skip the night before due to the weather—we were immediately struck by the many horreos, which here are built of natural stone. They stand in rows, imposing and side by side, adorning nearly every courtyard.
Such is the Rio Xallas
Beyond Olveiroa, the terrain rises again toward a few wind turbines, and to the left you can see the valley of the Rio Xallas with its dam. Unfortunately, it started drizzling again, but it was nothing like the day before. In any case, it wasn’t worth putting on the poncho, so the rain jacket was enough. Just past a small bridge, after another short climb uphill, you arrive in Logoso, where the local hostel is located right at the entrance to the village. Here, you’ll find a scene you don’t often see. In an open farmyard, several cats and rabbits were frolicking alongside the dog, all in a colorful jumble, just like in the wild. The cats were eating from a bowl together with the rabbits, and everything was going very peacefully. I’d already noticed several times that dogs and cats get along better here than they do back home. Mine, at any rate, always turns into a beast whenever he sees a cat. It’s still going uphill the whole time. Surely I should be able to see the sea soon? I thought to myself, expecting to see it after every hilltop. But beyond each one, the road just kept going uphill.
Muxia Junction
On the left, an ugly black block with a chimney jutting out of it suddenly came into view, billowing thick black smoke. It was a very strange sight; this ancient industrial complex seemed completely out of place in this deserted, green area. After reaching the AC 3404 highway, near Hospital de Logoso just before the turnoff to Muxia, we stopped for a second breakfast at the bar located right next to the industrial complex. There, we were immediately informed that there would be no other places to stop for the next 16 kilometers all the way to Cee. The same information is also displayed on the signs behind the counter. In the bar, we overheard a loud conversation between two German female pilgrims who were on their way back to Santiago and a German male pilgrim who was heading in our direction. The word “frequent flyer” immediately came to mind. These are people who’ve seen it all, who know everything (better) and feel the need to tell everyone—even if they didn’t ask—about it. Without consulting each other, we seemed to agree that it was better not to join in the conversation. Only a “Buen Camino” came out of our mouths as we left the bar. Despite how annoying this encounter was, we had at least learned which hostel was “very clean.” We Germans (at least many of us) are a strange bunch: we spend our money seeking adventure abroad, yet expect the same conditions as at home. This is certainly not nearly as pronounced on the Camino as it is in the all-inclusive hotels of package tour vacationers. But you run into them here too—the people who reach for the Bild newspaper and complain when there are no German channels on TV at the guesthouse. But we’ve learned to be a little more tolerant, and at the same time, I’ve taken a hard look at myself to see how much of that mindset and behavior is still within me. The ugly industrial complex was long behind us. The paths grew wider and often wound straight ahead through thickets and pine forests that grew progressively shorter—a sign that the sea couldn’t be far away.
Cape Finisterre in sight
Then, suddenly, a dark horizontal strip appeared out of the haze on the horizon. That had to be the Atlantic Ocean. It stood out only slightly against the gray of the sky. But it was clearly visible. A little to the right, we then caught our first glimpse of Cape Finisterre, unmistakable with its large lighthouse. Everything was still very far away and shrouded in haze. Nevertheless, Jörg and I tried to take the first photos of it. As we continued on our way, a herd of goats and their shepherd, accompanied by his numerous dogs, came toward us right in the middle of the path. The goats gave off a terrible stench and scattered, bleating, as I walked right through the middle of the herd while filming. The shepherd greeted us warmly, and we were happy to have such a nice photo opportunity. At the next pilgrim’s cross, where pilgrims had left many offerings, Jörg used the self-timer to take one of the rare photos in which all four of us are in the frame.
View of Corcubion
We stopped for a short break at the little “Capilla da Nosa Senora das Neves.” After that, we took another long, straight path up to the spot where you can see Cee and Concubión, and from there the trail drops quite steeply down into the town. Here, you also get your first glimpse of the rugged Atlantic coastline to our left. The descent was quite challenging, and we had to be very careful, as the loose rock had become even more unstable due to the downpour the day before.
The route through Cee wasn't that easy to find. The hostel we were heading for, located on the outskirts of town toward Concubion, had put up some signs, but they were very sparse. We had long since lost sight of the scallop shell markers. But actually, it was quite simple, because you have the Atlantic Ocean as a guide, and it’s big enough. Even as we were heading toward the hostel, we didn't really like Cee. Most of the buildings were very new, but they didn't make much of an impression on us.
The new private hostel is located on the way to Concubion. A steep paved road branches off to the right at a monolith, and after just 30 meters, the hostel is on the left. The hospitalera was still cleaning. She assigned us our beds in a very straightforward manner; we were quite amused to find the German words “Beschäftigt” (occupied) and “Freischaffend” (vacant) on opposite sides of the little signs hanging by the beds. You can just walk in here and claim your bed by flipping the signs—that’s what it says on an information board by the entrance door. They immediately made us coffee and handed out cookies from a large jar. There’s a small kitchen, and the windows offer a beautiful view of the bay—everything is very, very nice. A stroll around town after taking care of the usual tasks at the hostel didn't do much to improve my overall impression of Cee either. There is a large shopping mall and several shopping streets, some of which feature high-end brand-name stores.
Downtown Cee
Cee is an industrial city, so there’s a bit more money circulating there. We split up again so we could explore the city on our own. Jörg went to the pharmacy, since his health unfortunately still hadn’t improved, and I was on the hunt for a new pair of sandals. My beloved Regatta sandals had unfortunately given up the ghost in Santiago. I finally found what I was looking for at a Chinese market. They were a pair of rubber clogs that stank terribly of chemicals but would surely serve their purpose all the way to Finisterre. Above all, they were one thing—light. With deep sorrow, I tossed the remains of my sandals into a trash can in front of the market. Concubion looked better from a distance than Cee, so we decided to go there for dinner.
Port of Corcubión
Our stroll along the promenade confirmed our impression. Concubion has a beautiful old town center and somehow looks more authentic. Right by the harbor, we found a small bar that got quite crowded in the evening. They served us excellent calamari, and the local wine was good.
We walked back to the hostel along the harbor promenade in the dark. It was almost completely full. Late that evening, a German woman had taken the bed diagonally below mine, and she kept me awake all night. I do snore from time to time, at least according to my wife, but the noises this petite woman made during the night were unbearable. So I climbed back down to search my backpack for the earplugs I’d almost forgotten about. But there was another reason why they were necessary. With the window open, the traffic noise outside the house was unusually loud. That, however, was the only complaint about the hostel.
4. Tag Cee – Finisterre
Today was the final leg of our journey, because after Jörg told us he probably wouldn’t be joining us in Muxia due to his poor health, we decided to stay in Finisterre as well. We had only booked two nights at the guesthouse, but maybe we could work something out. We had agreed that we would stick together. And to be honest, I wasn’t unhappy about it either. Feeling completely at ease—knowing, first, that we didn’t have far to go, and second, that we had a safe place to stay—we took another stroll through Corcubión that morning, where we stopped for breakfast at a bar.
the home of a Camino enthusiast
The trail from Corcubión climbs quite steeply through a damp ravine up to Amarela. Following the road—partly on it, partly alongside it—through the forest, the path descends back to sea level, which we reached at Estorde. Here, we took a narrow path to go to the beach for the first time. It still wasn’t exactly beach weather, but it was late September, we were in Galicia, and it was the Atlantic—you can’t expect a Mediterranean climate or the corresponding water temperatures here. So we decided to skip the swim in the sea. I know, we’re wimps. In the nearby town of Sardineiro, the blue house of an obvious Camino fan really stood out. It was absolutely brimming with motifs related to the Camino de Santiago. Beautiful blue-tiled designs adorned the facade, and a statue of St. James graced the property.
Lanosteira Beach
Beyond the next hill, the long beach of Playa de Langosteira finally lay before us. Each of us walked this final stretch of our journey on our own, surely reflecting on how the past few days had gone. Now the end of the journey was just ahead, and from the moderate pace at which we were moving, it was clear that none of us wanted to arrive too quickly. But the best was yet to come. We had planned to meet up with Philine, Hartmut, and Franz at the cape to watch the sunset. But a glance at the sky told us that the sunset probably wasn’t going to happen. We’ll see!
Once we arrived in Finisterre, we immediately set out to find the address we’d been given, where we were supposed to pick up the key to the apartment. We were a bit at a loss when, despite using the GPS, we couldn’t find the address. A friendly staff member at the private hostel on the way to the harbor helped us make a phone call. But she couldn’t get through either. Even the locals had no idea where this address was in Finisterre. Well, we still had until 4:30 p.m.; by then the office should be staffed, and the phone would surely be working. So, partly because it was raining heavily again, we looked for a bar to grab something to eat. Andrea had El Salada Mixa, Jörg and I had a huge tortilla, and Jana had mushrooms in garlic sauce—which kept us all full for a very long time. Man, what a garlic breath! Then we went back to the nice lady at the hostel. I watched her on the phone, and when her face lit up, I knew we had a place to stay.
A short time later, the landlord arrived in his car and drove us to the apartment complex. He spoke a little English and explained that he was offering us an upgrade; since it was September and everything was empty anyway, he was putting us up in a higher-end complex right on the beachfront, at no extra cost, of course. We thought that was very kind and gratefully accepted. When we saw the apartment, we decided to book an extra day. “No problem,” said the landlord, and collected the €15 due per day. Considering the prices at some hostels, this seemed like a real bargain to us. He also offered to drive our groceries to the apartment if we dropped them off at his office. We thought that was all very kind and said goodbye after a brief orientation. One glance from the balcony and we realized there was also a covered pool in the garden. So we’ll be able to go for a swim in the sea after all! The water wasn’t much warmer than the Atlantic’s, but we had to take advantage of it.
Port of Finisterre
Our subsequent stroll through town and down to the harbor included a quick stop to drop off the necessary documents at the landlord’s office. He drove me and the groceries straight to our lodging. At the municipal hostel, you can get the Finisterre pilgrim’s certificate. We were surprised by the hostel manager’s dialect. He was from Dresden and asked us to come back in an hour, since things were pretty chaotic right now. “Sure, we’ll do that,” we said, and headed back to the harbor. Just as our documents were being drawn up, Philine suddenly showed up—she already had a bed here. We then walked to the cape together. The weather kept getting better, and patches of blue were already visible in the sky—a sight we hadn’t seen often enough in the past few days. Maybe we’d get to see the sunset after all?
on the way to the cape
On the way to the cape—which we didn’t travel alone—we were treated to beautiful views of the bay time and again. There was even a rainbow in the sky. The area was bustling with people, and we passed various buses, cars, and RVs along the way. "Well, it’s going to be quite a crowd on that narrow rock," was my first thought.
Pilgrim's Cross at Cape Finisterre
When we arrived at the cape, however, there was a pleasantly relaxed bustle in the air. We immediately noticed plumes of black smoke rising from a spot where the pilgrims were burning some of their gear. We joined in on this ritual, with Jörg burning his hat and Andrea burning her beloved socks.
Sunset at the Cape
We soon found Hartmut and Franz, too. They had found a nice spot behind a rocky outcrop. We climbed up there and saw that we were in for a treat with the sunset today. And what a sunset it was! It’s actually impossible to describe. Pictures really speak for themselves.
Group photo at the Cape
Everyone sat in a circle with their wine or beer, gazing at the horizon and looking deeply moved. This moment belonged to each person individually, and so everyone was lost in their own thoughts. Andrea proposed a toast to Inge, an acquaintance from the Camino Francés, who had to give up just before reaching this magical place last year and is still suffering from the health consequences. She wished that Inge could also see this place someday. Finally, we drank a toast to
“Health, Money, and Love!”
And with that, I’d like to bring my travelogue to a close. You should quit while you’re ahead. And that’s exactly where I was at that moment.
On the last two days, we took advantage of the better weather to visit a beach on the north side of the cape, and we enjoyed a lovely dinner that Jörg had prepared at our lodging, along with Philine, who stayed with us for one night before continuing on to Muxia. On September 28, our bus drove back along the coast to Santiago, where we bought a few souvenirs and had lunch. Then it was just the bus to the airport and the flight via Mallorca to Leipzig, where our son, Jana’s new boyfriend, and Jörg’s family were waiting for us.
And just like that, the 2012 Camino Primitivo was history. Those were unforgettable days spent on fantastic trails in indescribable surroundings. There were encounters with wonderful people and interesting conversations. All of that outweighed the aching feet and backs, the sweat pouring down as soon as we started climbing, the lack of fresh air in the stuffy hostels, and the lousy weather beyond Santiago.
A good friend from the Camino Francés wrote to me saying that his immune system gave out when he saw my photos of the Primitivo online, that the Camino “virus” had struck again, and that all he has to do now is convince his wife that he wants to set off again.Well, luckily my wife is suffering from the same virus, so now it’s just a matter of “which way” and “when.”
