After finally extricating ourselves from the industrial skirts of León, Kathleen and I come to Virgen del Camino's startlingly contemporary church, decorated with tall, emaciated bronze statues and surrounded by frighteningly enthusiastic nut vendors. It is the feast day of the local patron saint, San Froilán, and Father Jaime Rodriguez Lebrato explains that these feast-day hazelnuts come with pardons. I am surprised, because I thought the Church had given up the sale of indulgences after Martin Luther, but I am always willing to try eating my way into a state of grace.

Day 29, 628 km — Triacastela
I am no longer alone, and even in a world as idyllic as El Camino, that is a good thing. Besides the battle-tested comrades I've collected along the route, my courageous friend Susana has flown up from her busy life in Caracas, Venezuela, and joined me for the last segment of El Camino. We met up three days ago in the pretty little riverside village of Molinaseca, on the cusp of her family's native Galicia. Good hiking gear is scarce in Caracas, and Susana brings too heavy a burden. She was also foolish to try walking 30 km on her first day, and her knees have now swelled like Karla's.

Today we learn that pilgrims must also protect their idealism from those who see them as walking wallets. As we pass through yet another nameless stone pueblo with more cows than people, an old woman offers us some Galician plain-flour crepes called filloas. Kind people often bring food to the roadside to offer passing pilgrims, and we accept one each with a smile. We stop smiling when we hear the hefty price she asks only after we have taken a bite. Non-Spanish-speaking pilgrims leave without realizing they are expected to pay, and she curses them with impressive vehemence. A few hours later, a burly young man dressed as a pilgrim notices Susana limping as we stop to buy raspberries at a farmhouse. He introduces himself as Alfredo, whips out a medical kit and treats her knees with a pain-dulling spray. Emilio, Susana and I thank him profusely. When we finally totter into Triacastela, we bump into him as we are about to enter the refugio and he confides that the place is dirty and badly managed and that we would be better off in a charming private hostel he knows on the other side of town. Alfredo's recommendation turns out to be a dismal

We could keep walking forever, to Finisterre and possibly to the ends of the earth

hovel, and we make the long walk back to the perfectly clean, sunny refugio. Of course, these shill games have as long a history as El Camino. The 12th century Santiago pilgrimage guide called Codex Calixtus warns of similar tactics practiced in this very same area, so we can't say we weren't warned.

Day 35, 761 km — Arca O Pino
Hooray — one day from Santiago and a refugio kitchen in good working order. We decide to throw a cake and champagne birthday party for René, who will turn 60 as we enter Santiago. For some reason, we had found many of the kitchens in Galicia out of commission, either broken, locked or lacking utensils. The hospitaleros apologize for the inconvenience, but some Spanish pilgrims mutter darkly about a conspiracy to channel business to local bars and restaurants.

The vegetarians are getting hungry again. Some are taking matters into their own hands and cooking over an open fire. Others take more radical measures. A few days ago, I bumped into Irini, a tall, lovely Greek Cypriot. When I first met her on the road from Logroño, on Day 8, she was a former vegan who by then had started eating eggs. But when I catch up with her again, she is walking alongside a golden, dreadlocked Adonis — and she has a new recipe for my collection. "Guess what, I caught five fish! I cooked the most romantic meal ever." I stared at her. For a vegetarian, she'd become a crack fisherwoman. "Well, really I caught six. The sixth one, he was the most beautiful fish, but when I was trying to kill him like this" — her hands twisted in a quick, bloodthirsty jerk — "he jumped back in the water and got away." Why should I be surprised? On El Camino, there's always the chance for a late conversion.

Day 36, 780 km — Satiago de Compostela
On the last day of my journey, I suit up at 5 a.m. and tiptoe out of the Arca O Pino refuge dormitory to find my old walking companions Karla, Susana, René and Wolfgang standing with a large group in the entrance hall. It will be a short march to the cathedral, only about 19 km, but everyone wants to arrive in time for the noon pilgrims' mass. Normally, it is a race out of the front door. Today, we instinctively huddle together and wait for enough pilgrims to form a little army to move out and make our final assault on Santiago.

Outside, it is too dark to see. To lighten the mood, a jolly, scholarly Canadian pilgrim named Jacques takes out his harmonica and we sing an ancient song in pilgrim patois: "Ultreïa, ultreïa, e su seya, Deus, adjuva nos!"

Blindly, our lungs bursting, we stumble after the tinny strain of our pied piper. The sound of our own hoarse music links us together and to the invisible Camino. We can tell whenever there is a hill ahead because the harmonica goes quiet for a while, the minstrel too winded to play. We sing onward through the last scraps of eucalyptus forest, onward past the sleeping airport runways and drab suburbs, onward over the last rise and across the highway overpass, onward past the cross of San Pedro and the Plaza de Cervantes. We know that the cathedral, with its symphony in stone, the Portico de la Gloria carved by Master Mateo, waits just beyond the big arch up ahead, but we also know we could keep walking forever, to Finisterre and possibly to the ends of the earth. The shopkeepers smile and the tourists stare, but we sweep on past them singing, too far gone into the realm of pure spirit to care. "Onward, onward and forward, O God, help us …"