66th Hiking Day
On the way from Olveira either to Finisterre or to Cee. The tree population is getting bigger and bigger. Almost only wooded hills can be found here. Yesterday, Yanga said to me while we were talking about beer, wine, the pilgrims menu but moreover about the fact that I write while walking: "You are going to be successful." Would not mind that at all. As far as writing is concerned, I've already manufactured some kind of broad foundation. Outwardly, that only comes apparent in fragments. But I can't complain: I'm always busy and I just don't like advertising. I once read somewhere that an author has to work in his dark chamber for 10 years before he is published. However, I am part of this game now since 17 years. The desire to be published by a renowned publisher seems so abstract and intangible to me that I feel reluctant to write it down here. Maybe it's also because of my feeling that nothing would change much after that. Let's say you get your 3-5 thousand euros on the bank account and of course you can experience a nice feeling of elation, but after that you do exactly the same thing as you do now. That would be writing.
My wish for today: there is none. Totally happy.
I have this vague feeling today that emotionally Finisterre will be the end for me. If you want to know from people why Muxia is so much better: "It's bigger." "It's especially nice." Yet, it is not the fucking end of the world.
Just talked to Yanga again. Such a funny guy. When he finishes he wants to sit down by the sea in Finisterre and drink wine or vodka. Why? Because he really likes the end scene of "Knockin 'on Heaven’s Door". If Till Schweiger only knew about this. That a South Korean wants to finish the Camino because of this scene. Tomorrow he has to go back. I hope he makes it to Finisterre by sunset today.
I just swam in the Atlantic Ocean before entering Sardineiro. At first I was in the water only up to my knees. Then I thought: fuck it. Took off everything except my underwear. Then forward march! Anyone who has walked 1,600 km on foot doesn't mind the chill (13 degrees air temperature) and these ridiculous waves. Cold also completely unimportant. Surprisingly swift march into the water. Head under the waves, I hit the water with my fists and then arms up in the air. Scream of jubilance. Wonderful feeling. King of the world. I swam a few decadent laps: you there, Atlantic ocean. What harm could you possibly do to me? In retrospect, however, I could have stayed there 5 minutes longer. But it's of no use. Later, at sunset I want to drink my 3 Budweiser at the lighthouse. Until then, another 8 km. But I really don't want to complain at this point. Meanwhile, strapped my underwear to the backpack to let it dry.
Come on. Beer, cookies. Not much else I want. I remember the "2 km" to the lighthouse to be shorter.
I'm sitting here at the end of the world and think to myself: actually a great idea from Yanga. Turn on "Knockin 'on Heaven’s Door". But no internet here. Well, I just have to hum for myself.
What do you write in the fading daylight? Ideally nothing at all.
I'm sitting here thinking to myself: "Yes, one could do as such." There is a chuckle in my throat. 1600 km. Indeed. One could do as such if one is in the mood for it.
And now I have to think about the time in 10th grade, when Malte tried to sing "Knockin 'on Heaven’s Door" in class. The least melodious thing you could possibly imagine. "High, high, high, high, high, high, high." Even years later, we had to laugh about this.
Nonetheless, wonderful clouds here. Like in a painting. A nice moment.
Internet at last. Played "Knockin 'on Heaven’s Door". A happy ending after all. By the way, everything is better with music. The 3 beers are gone now.