Nature Along the Way: Birds and Landscapes on the Camino Finisterre

“We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.”

T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets

Walking Beyond the Ending

 
When we left Santiago de Compostela in the spring of 2019, we had already arrived. For weeks the yellow arrows of the Camino Portugués had carried us north from Lisbon through Portugal and Galicia toward the Cathedral of Santiago. We had stood beneath its towers, received our Compostela and rested for a couple of days. By every conventional measure, the pilgrimage was finished, and the evident thing to do next would have been to begin the journey home.

 
Instead, before six in the morning, we put our backpacks on again and returned to the Praza do Obradoiro. The square that normally echoed with arriving pilgrims, tour groups and celebration was almost empty. The moon was still above the Cathedral, whose stone walls glowed in the warm light of the early morning, and even the pigeons seemed reluctant to disturb the silence. Several years earlier, after completing our first pilgrimage on the Camino Francés, we had wanted to continue west toward Fisterra and Muxía but had run out of time. This time there was no reason not to keep going – we had the time and longed to return to the trail.

 
That decision feels important when we look back on the journey now years later. Walking to Muxía and Finisterre was not necessary. Continuing west was simply a choice to spend several more days moving slowly through nature in Galicia until we reached the Atlantic Ocean.  By then we no longer needed to convince ourselves that stopping for birds, wandering toward an estuary or taking a longer path because it looked more interesting was worthwhile. The Camino Portugués had already shown us how much could be discovered by slowing down each day and paying attention – often in unlikely places.  Walking on was simply about the fact that we had the time and we wanted to spend it walking.

 
What remains most strongly from those four days is therefore not the sequence of villages or the distances between them. It is the gradual change in the world around us as we trekked through inland Galicia, moving toward the sea: moonlight above Santiago, stands of eucalyptus and mossy walls, clear flowing rivers, rain moving across open countryside, yellow gorse hedges, pink lupins, the first flash of the vast turquoise Atlantic, birds moving above the cliffs at Fisterra.
 
On this trek we were walked toward the edge of the land, but there was no reason to hurry there.
 

Leaving Santiago in the Morning Light

 
As we climbed away from the Cathedral, quiet morning streets of residential neighbourhoods gave way to gardens, moss-covered walls, small pastures and stands of eucalyptus. The city gradually dropped behind us until we emerged onto an open hillside and looked back across the green valley. In what was perhaps one of the most glorious mornings we have ever had on any trail, it was here that we spotted the sun, which was beginning to rise directly behind the distant Cathedral, turning its towers into a dark silhouette surrounded by golden light.  We stopped and watched in complete wonder. 

 
There was something fitting about beginning the Camino Finisterre by looking backward. Only days earlier, Santiago had filled our thoughts as the destination toward which we were travelling. Now it sat below us, and the path ahead led through countryside rather than toward another great city, and because of that - from the outset, the days and stages felt less urgent.

 
The warming day carried us through alternating forest tracks and more open rural land. At the Tambre River, the air was deliciously cooler beside the water, and the old stone bridge at Ponte Maceira stretched across the current above a weir. After the hard surfaces and bustle of Santiago, the flowing river, trees and shade gave way to us staying and photographing this spot as well as simply sitting and watching the water before continuing.

 
Beyond the river, the countryside shifted into green valleys dotted with red-roofed houses. Here, yellow flowers brightened exposed fields while eucalyptus and other woodland periodically offered shade. Some hillsides had recently been stripped by logging, leaving isolated trees standing above the bare ground, while ridges farther away carried long rows of wind turbines. The landscape was neither wilderness nor pastoral ideal. It was farmed, logged, inhabited and used, and yet its natural character existed alongside all of those things.
 

Rain Across the Galician Hills

 
The following morning brought a different Galicia. A rooster called beside the albergue while light drizzle fell beneath low-sitting clouds, and the countryside seemed to deepen in colour as we stepped outside. Newly ploughed fields appeared almost black-brown beside pale green hay fields and slopes covered in brilliant yellow gorse. Dark hedgerows divided the smaller plots, while farms and white-walled homes emerged periodically from the hills. The rain continued, and curtains of water crossed distant ridges while other slopes remained bright beneath gaps in the cloud. At times we seemed to walk between storms, watching one shower pass ahead of us while another drifted across the countryside behind. The moisture brought out the smell of soil, vegetation and wet road, changing the feel of a landscape that only the previous afternoon had seemed dominated by heat and dust.

 
Near Monte Aro, a small sign pointed toward an optional path described as a good birding area. Naturally, this caught our attention. We studied our map and tried to determine where the track might eventually rejoin the Camino, seriously considering adding the extra distance simply to see what birds might be there. In the end, we could not figure out how the detour connected with the route, so we reluctantly continued figuring that we had missed an opportunity.  The moment was unremarkable enough that it might easily have disappeared from our memories, yet it captures something essential about those days. Birds did not need to be rare or guaranteed before they justified our time. The possibility of finding something interesting was enough to make us consider wandering off route. Such is the nature of travelling slower and taking the time when opportunities presented themselves.

Farther west, the land became rougher and more exposed. Grey water filled the reservoir of Encoro da Fervenza below the hills, with cattle grazing in the surrounding fields. Pink lupins began appearing beside the gravel track, yellow gorse bushes covered broad slopes, and rocky outcrops broke through the vegetation. Along the highest ridges, wind turbines stood in long lines while a hydroelectric dam sat deep in the valley below. By late afternoon the rain finally caught us completely, and within moments the surrounding hills disappeared behind a heavy downpour. From shelter, we watched water sweep across the forested valley and watched as the weather changed the landscape again.
 

Toward the Atlantic

 
The next morning arrived with a dramatic sky filled with fast-moving clouds above the dark forested hills, colouring them pink and yellow before the sun climbed higher. Tall eucalyptus lined sections of the track, their scent sharpened by the recent rain, while gorse continued to brighten the banks beside us. Showers still moved quickly through the region, forcing us repeatedly into rain gear and limiting our chance to photograph birds, before sunlight returned just as suddenly.

 
Logging remained visible on some hillsides, with clear-cut areas beside slopes replanted in neat rows of young eucalyptus. Elsewhere the Camino passed gardens, small farms, old fieldstone walls, cottages and raised hórreos. Flowers grew beside stone walls, and birds moved between fields and woodland edges while the route threaded through a landscape that had been worked and inhabited for generations.

 
Perhaps most memorable on this day was that near the Capela de San Roque, we crested a wooded hill and saw the Atlantic Ocean. The sight was surprisingly powerful.  For days the ocean had existed somewhere beyond the hills but remained invisible. Now a bright patch of turquoise appeared between the land and sky. The colour surprised us most. The distant Atlantic was brilliant blue, almost turquoise, very different from the colder grey-blue water we knew along the Newfoundland coast. From that point onward, even when the route turned away from it, the sea became an increasingly dominant presence. Wind carried coolness, glimpses of blue reappeared between trees and ridges, and the landscape gradually began to feel coastal.

 
When Muxía finally appeared below us, the transition was complete. The town sat on a narrow projection of land beneath a rocky hill, with a long white beach curving around the bay and bright blue water beyond.  We could have stayed on the Camino. But instead, we crossed a recently harvested patch of eucalyptus and scrambled down a steep slope toward the beach.  There was no practical reason for doing so. We simply wanted to reach the water. Actually, in truth, I wanted to touch the water. I wanted to touch the ocean – one of the largest and least understood ecosystems in the world.
 

Wandering at Muxía

 
The sand was warm beneath our feet and the Atlantic cold when we reached down to touch it. After weeks of following yellow arrows, collecting stamps and making our way toward set destinations, there was something deeply satisfying about leaving the marked route simply because the ocean had caught our attention.

 
The headland beyond Muxía offered a different world from the agricultural hills we had crossed only hours earlier. Granite, wind and salt water replaced fields and eucalyptus forest. Waves built up offshore and broke against dark rock, filling the air with spray, while gulls crossed overhead the open sky.

 
Near the Santuario da Virxe da Barca stood A Ferida - “The Wound” - the monument commemorating the damage caused by the Prestige oil spill. Its fractured form stood beside a coastline that, on that bright afternoon, seemed almost impossibly beautiful. The monument was a reminder that such places can be both resilient and vulnerable, and that the sea before us had a vast environmental history as well as having shaped legends of the seas and fishing communities.

 

We spent much of the afternoon simply wandering, exploring and watching. Birds moved through the low scrub bordering the shoreline, and gulls passed overhead. Lizards scuttled between rocks warmed by the sun, while brilliant orange lichens spread across boulders near the water. As the tide retreated, small tidal pools remained between the rocks, holding shells and crabs and giving us another reason to stop.

 
There was no schedule attached to any of this. We were not compiling a systematic survey, and there was no need to write down every sighting into a species record. We crouched beside the tidal pools simply because. In doing so, we were able to notice when something moved inside it. We spotted a lizard disappear between stones and were able to follow birds weave through the scrub.   This was slow travel in perhaps its simplest form: not moving slowly for its own sake, but having enough time that curiosity could open up to the world to us.

 
That evening we returned to the rocks near the sanctuary as the sun moved toward the Atlantic. Waves gathered speed before striking the granite in explosions of white spray. Above us the sky shifted from gold toward red.   Across the ocean was Newfoundland, somewhere beyond the horizon. Within days we would stand on the opposite side of the Atlantic at Cape Spear, but for that evening the coming journey remained distant. What mattered was the sound of waves against the Galician coast, the fading light and the fact that there was nowhere else we needed to be.
 

Along the Costa da Morte

 
The next morning brought another beautiful pink sky as we followed the coast away from Muxía. The Atlantic remained visible beside us at first, white beaches curving along intensely blue waters before the path climbed sharply onto an exposed ridge. One moment we were looking across beaches and wooded hills; the next the landscape was being swept by a sudden rain shower. With little to be done but walk on, the trail descended into eucalyptus forest, where the recent moisture strengthened the trees' distinctive scent.  Not long after, we emerged from the stand of trees back into farmland, which was brightened by spring wildflowers.

 
At Lires, the character of the landscape shifted and was focused around water once more. Green fields sloped toward a tidal estuary below the village, and we stopped at a small café overlooking it. Here birds moved through the riverway and wetland while pilgrims sat outside enjoying late breakfasts, and an orange cat appeared with rather more interest in our butter than in either the scenery or birdlife.
 
Across the estuary was a fish farm which is hardly the sort of place one might identify in advance as a birding destination, yet hundreds of gulls crowded the air around it. They wheeled above the water, climbed on the wind and dropped toward the shore in a continuous movement that made the site one of the most active wildlife spectacles of the day.

 
Soon afterward the route offered a choice. The principal Camino continued toward Fisterra, while a slightly longer alternative followed the coast.  Given the time and beauty of the region, we chose the longer way.  Efficiency had very little to do with the decision. The coastal path simply looked more interesting. Ultimately, it proved to be one of the most colourful landscapes of the entire journey. Deep blue water stretched below long white beaches while the hills around us were covered in brilliant yellow flowers, occasionally punctuated by purple blooms. A cool breeze carried the smell of salt inland from the Atlantic, tempering the warmth of the spring sun.

 
Throughout this stretch, small birds moved continually through the flowering scrub.  We took the time to follow their movement through and between the bushes.   We also simply stood looking across the beaches or watching the changing light on the water. There was no destination along that section that mattered more than the landscape we were already passing through, and no reason to hurry just because the trail continued ahead.

 
Eventually (of course) we did continue on with the Camino turning inland and entering a pine forest. Here the bright coastal scrub, wind and open sky disappeared beneath a high canopy, while a dense carpet of delicate ferns covered the ground below. Within a short distance, the atmosphere had completely changed, and once again the pleasure came from experiencing those changes gradually on foot.
 

Birds at the Edge of the Land

 
During the final approach to Fisterra, forest patches alternated with open fields, rural roads and exposed hills. The Atlantic waters once more appeared periodically between the ridges, disappearing again whenever the trail turned inland. By then we were tired from the repeated ascents and descents of the stage and increasingly grateful for shade, yet the repeated glimpses of ocean around the headland kept drawing our attention outward.

Beyond the townsite of Finisterre lay the iconic lighthouse and 0 kilometre marker.  Here below the Faro de Fisterra, the rocky landscape fell steeply toward the sea. Pilgrims were scattered across the headland, sitting quietly or talking in small groups, while birds moved above and below the cliffs on the rising air. Far offshore, a small sailboat and a much larger freighter crossed the shimmering water.  

We found a place among the rocks and settled there to reflect and watch.  There was nowhere further west to walk.   As the evening light faded, the sun disappeared into the Atlantic while an enormous moon rose behind us over the opposite side of the bay. Its reflection stretched across the water as other pilgrims slowly began returning toward the lights of town. Amid it all, birds moved around the cliffs, and the ocean continued to roll below against the coastline.
 

A Moment of Reconsideration

 
Of course, appreciating the natural world does occasionally have its limits. One of our arrivals in Finisterre provided a rather memorable reminder that not every encounter with another species inspires curiosity, wonder or a desire to stop and look more closely. Sometime around two in the morning in our hotel, I suddenly woke and jumped out of bed convinced that something was crawling on me. When we turned on the light, we discovered that the bed was alive with dozens of bed bugs. By then, they had bitten me extensively along my arms and legs and several times around my left eye, which rapidly began to swell until it was almost completely closed.

 
With the bed clearly no longer an option, we spent what remained of the night on the floor and managed perhaps two hours of sleep. Morning did little to improve matters. Bed bugs were crawling on the walls and curtains around us, and although both of us desperately wanted showers, the water was ice cold. Instead, we began the grim process of sealing our clothes and sleeping bags into plastic bags, packing our gear as carefully as possible and wondering whether we were about to carry an unwanted population of Galician wildlife along with us home. I also discovered that I am very allergic to bed bugs - as my eyes were swollen almost entirely shut and I had large welts on my body.

 
We eventually escaped in search of coffee, although my badly swollen eye created another problem we had not anticipated. Sean spent much of the morning receiving suspicious looks from people who apparently concluded that he was responsible for my appearance. From there we carried virtually everything we owned to the local lavandería and began what amounted to rewashing our entire travelling world. Clothes, sleeping bags and anything else that could survive the machines went into the wash, while we dismantled our backpacks as much as possible and tried to clean them. I even resorted to using alcohol available in the lavandería on some of the bites while we waited.

 
All in all, it was an absurdly ordinary reminder that travelling slowly through nature does not mean that every encounter with it will be welcome, beautiful or profound. Sometimes the wildlife is precisely where you wish it was not, the weather refuses to cooperate, and the day's great expedition is to the lavandería.
 

Taking the Time to Notice

 
Looking back on that first Camino to Muxía and Fisterra, what remains most vividly is not the itinerary but the natural details that filled it: the moon above Santiago before dawn, sunrise behind the Cathedral, the cool Tambre River, yellow flowers on exposed hills, rain moving across Galicia, pink lupins beside the track and eucalyptus releasing its scent after a shower.  We remember the birding sign at Monte Aro that almost tempted us away from the Camino, not because we needed another destination but because the possibility of birds was reason enough to wonder what might be there. We remember the first patch of turquoise Atlantic appearing beyond the hills, scrambling down to the beach at Muxía simply because we wanted to touch the water, and then spending an afternoon among lizards, orange lichens, scrub birds, shells and crabs in tidal pools.  We remember gulls filling the sky above an industrial facility at the Lires estuary, the salt smell of the coastal wind, brilliant yellow hills above white beaches and small birds disappearing through flowering scrub. We remember choosing the longer route because it followed the ocean, and moving from bright coastal slopes into shaded pine forest carpeted with ferns.

 
None of those moments represented any great discovery, or insight, or transformation in our relationship with nature – though I admit the bedbugs in Finisterre came close to transforming my attitudes in some respects.  With that said, the main change had already taken place over years on the Camino Francés, Via Podiensis and most recently on the Camino Portuguese. What Finisterre offered was the freedom to travel according to it.  There was something wonderfully unnecessary about continuing beyond Santiago. We had already reached the official end of the pilgrimage. The Compostela was complete; there was no requirement to walk another hundred kilometres toward the Atlantic. By choosing to continue, we had also chosen several more days in which getting from one place to another as efficiently as possible was not the central purpose.

 

As such, our time could be spent watching showers cross the hills. It could be given to gulls above an estuary or a bird moving through yellow flowers. Twenty minutes beside a tidal pool did not have to be justified by anything achieved afterward. A longer path could be the better choice precisely because it was longer and followed the coast.  Slow travel, at least for us, had become less about the speed at which we walked than about realizing that efficiency did not always deserve to govern the day.
 
And so for those four days after Santiago, taking the time to notice what was around us was reason enough to keep walking.
 
See you on the Way!