Camino: the path of my mother's crisis

10 April 2024. Porto to Matosinhos. 15.21km.

Camino Portuguese Diaries: Day 1: Just under 6 hours, door to door, of which 3h 45 was walking.

“Your first Camino? And you’re alone?” asked Enrique, the receptionist of my hotel in Porto. “Then I will see you again.” she asserted. “Because Pilgrims always come again. The next time longer, the next time with their parents.”

I would of course love to come back with my mother – and I must come back anyway. Enrique had passionately drawn all over a map of Porto with dedication, showing me where to eat spicy franceshina, a sort of cheese meat toastie covered in extra cheese and tomato sauce and topped with an egg. She also drew dozens of other eating places and sights to fill three days, politely deferring anyone behind me wanting to be served.

After a frosty weather arrival in Portugal and amidst heart breaking family circumstances, Enrique was a warming tonic for the soul. She assured me doing the Camino alone was best. “The Camino is for connections. If you are with your friends, you just stay in your world. But you alone will make connections.”

I was wary of connections; I had no social skills. I had started my Camino in turmoil, unsure if I should be here, or return to my mother’s side. I had flown out to Australia and witnessed her mental breakdown when her partner of 34 years had suddenly left her. After three weeks with her, she told me she was ready to try and tackle her days alone. This was the assurance I needed to finally begin the Camino, the personal health journey I had been planning for a year. Yet, on the day I was scheduled to start walking in Portugal, I received the news: she had been taken to hospital by the police.

And so I stepped out of my hostel unsure what to do. I was no longer a person who could help her, she needed more help than I was qualified to give. I didn’t know if I should be walking, I didn’t know what day it was. I was empty and distraught from waves of emotion. My mind and body knew only one thing that it had planned to do for months: go to Porto Cathedral.

Even with senses stunned it’s hard not be mesmerised by Porto Cathedral’s beautiful azulejos - blue and white tiles. The Cathedral was playing haunting classical music and as the sun’s rays poked through the cloisters and archways I was left in tears from the heaviness of my heart and the stillness of this sacred starting place for many spiritual journeys over time.

It was at the Cathedral that I received my Credencial that verified me as a Pilgrim, to gain access to Pilgrim-only hostels; with which to collect my two stamps a day that verified my progress.

Sunlight on the tiles of the Cathedral. That's my life for two weeks: the pack and the yellow arrows

Outside the Cathedral, clutching the paraphernalia of the Pilgrim, I agreed to take a fellow pilgrim’s photo at the first Camino way marker. They asked me if I wanted the same and I accepted, deep in my grief and confusion, forgetting to smile. Dismissing the sad image, I stared at the arrow in confused. Was it pointing down or left? Was it for me heading South or people going another way? Was there another way? I started to read my guidebook but quickly professed my confusion to a passing fellow Pilgrim. Russell, from Australia, was doing a reconnaissance before starting his route tomorrow and pointed out the way to go before telling me he would see me in the town of Vila do Conde some 27km away tomorrow (He wouldn’t; I took another day to get there).

Porto’s old streets along the river were beautiful. I peered up the tiny alleys, the rows of roof tiles and the laundry. I was comforted by spotting other Pilgrims - some were obvious with Camino shells tied to their packs. Others you could tell by their purposeful walk and clothes, even if their bags were being transported. Being easy to identify was helpful, a café owner called out kindly to me and people greeted as we passed.

I stopped often, for photos, to contemplate a moment, to send a message and always to take off my bag. I spoke to a ginger cat who then went for a swipe after a pat, which gave some fellow cat lovers a giggle. Along the Douro river near I stopped for a coffee, got my order wrong and ended up with a hot milkshake scented with coffee. The owner kindly gave me instructions on how to order correctly in Portuguese next time. I spotted a hooded eagle sitting outside a McDonalds. Was it waiting for pigeons before it started the day’s work? I swapped Bom Caminho greetings with a pilgrim couple who I kept leapfrogging. I climbed up some steps to inspect what was cooking, and was filled with the scent of BBQing fish and seafood that my mother would have loved. Acknowledging this smarted my eyes more than the BBQ smoke. I photographed Porto’s historic heritage tiny trams, and crouched in the coastal parks to photograph daisies that again made me think of making daisy chains in France with my mother when I was little.

While I had the energy, I clambered on rocks on the mouth of the river Douro. I had to take every photo of myself twice - the first shot always betrayed my sadness and I forced myself smile for the second.

Daisies, trauma and fish: it was a mad day for the senses.

With a few kilometres to go, my legs started to fade. The seafront cafes were full of beautiful people paying obscene prices so I headed a couple of streets inland to a plastic-table cafe, full of families eating hearty traditional food that sticks to your ribs and traditional cakes that stick to your fingers.

Matosinhos was to be my destination for the night - it was a fishing port north of Porto, lined with apartment blocks and a coastline of surf schools. My hostel was just that - a surf school and hostel that has been styled fancier than most hotels I stay at. I expect in Summer it’s impossible to sleep amongst its chipboard walls and there was one shower for about 20 of us. Lois, the host, stamped my Credencial, commiserated with me for the British passport (next time I hand over the Australian one) and assured me I’d be fine with the top bunk. Clearly this man has not seen my lack of co-ordinaton.

Forget about the feet - my first task on arrival at the hostel was working out how to fix my aching back and shoulders, for there was little I could do for my aching heart.