It is another morning on my journey to Santiago de Compostela. I realize that each step I take fills the footsteps of millions who have walked this route before me. And with each step, I am enveloped by conflicting emotions. The world around me is drowning in the turmoil of self-destruction. Yet, amid the chaos, I find myself in a personal oasis of peace.
It's a paradox that engulfs me with guilt and grief, for how can I be at peace while the planet has a fever for which we are not willing to provide the available cure and while billions of us suffer as a result? This inner conflict drives me to continue my pilgrimage beyond the classic end of Santiago and go to Finisterre, the "End of the World."
It is a name so fitting for this situation that I decided to make that my end destination, even while knowing quite well that arriving at the end of the world won't offer me solace, not this year, nor will it when we reach the end of life on this planet as we know it.
I haven't defined what I hope to find at the world's final limit. There is the risk that I like it there, find a cozy hostel, enjoy the view, and will later remember the end of the world as something to look forward to, like the pilgrim who recently mentioned joyfully during a coffee in one of the many Camino cafes, that countries agreed on "the aim" of reaching global warming of 1.5 degrees Celsius.
Several readers of my newsletters have asked me to write a book. I don't know if it will ever come to that, but just to be sure, I make notes, as I always make far more notes than I can ever use in my writing.
But if I write the book, it will contain elements like this:
Every morning at eight, my iPhone alarm pierces the silence I enjoy in Spain's nature, and I take a moment to capture the essence of the present moment in a photograph and share it on Patreon or Substack. This morning was no different; I stopped in my tracks as the alarm went off, took a photo of what I saw ahead of me, but then turned around to catch the sunrise in the enchanting landscape in the golden hue of the unfolding dawn.
The resulting picture may not have been a prize winner, but I was not unhappy considering the randomness of time and location. On the other hand, it was not hard to get a good result since I walked in the lovely, picturesque region known as El Bierzo, west of Ponferrada. It is a fertile area nurtured by a unique microclimate that bestows abundance upon the land. I saw plums, figs, pears, and tomatoes. And amid this beauty, I encountered something I had not seen since leaving the Rioja region: vineyards, reminding me of the El Bierzo wine they produced.
And my book, if it ever comes to it, will contain elements like this:
Entering a cafe on the Camino, I see locals and pilgrims alike enjoying their morning coffee. Nobody pays any attention to the oversized television screen informing us about life in the first phase of the Anthropocene; temperature records are broken worldwide. While the young woman behind the bar asks me about the preferred milk temperature in my coffee, the unnoticed newsreader on the big screen shows a shocking graph of ocean temperatures that go completely off the charts: the ocean is five degrees Celsius warmer than it should be. He continues to inform a not-interested cafe audience about record low sea ice in the Antarctic and adds that June was the hottest ever recorded. He looks into the camera when he adds that scientists expect the situation to worsen.
I expect him to give a sigh, like a street artist that can't draw an audience, but he doesn't show any emotion until he reaches the following topic: the Tour de France. He expects that it gets the attention it deserves. I wonder if he somehow knows that two men at the bar shifted their chairs and now give him his full attention. I may imagine it, but I am sure the professional newsreader shows some emotion when he informs us who will wear the Yellow Jersey tomorrow.
And my book may contain elements like this:
Just minutes before my eight 'o clock photo, I passed a small village where I also took a picture. It may be even less price-winning than the next one I would take, but I didn't take it for its beautiful view. It was just that I seemed to contain so many elements in one picture that I captured the moment.
Walking the Camino, each pilgrim develops a sixth sense for detecting the yellow arrows of the Way to Santiago that guide us on our path. Here is a classic one, but someone was so helpful to add another huge one to ensure we wouldn't go astray.
Then there is the quaint stone church, a sight nearly as expected along the pilgrimage route as the yellow arrows. Adorning its walls, a mural depicts a pilgrim treading the sacred path; it is one of the countless murals I have passed. And then, look up, amidst this scene, a stork's nest perches high, with three curious storks observing this humble pilgrim, trying to immortalize them in a photograph. Though my zoomed-in shot might not be the best, it gives an impression of the many storks and their nests I have seen on my journey.
Just an hour later, I would pass one where the storks had used lots of plastic to construct their nest.
At times, animals adapt better to the Anthropocene than we do.
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