You weren’t with me on my Camino – and you’d been dead for some 20-odd years – but you were along for the walk all the same. Trudging through Galicia in the rain, I felt the long, painful slog that your life was. Laughing with pretty women in cafes, I felt a glimpse of that odd charm you had. Sitting by the sea in Finisterre, I asked your forgiveness, and I gave you mine. I set us both free.
Your ghost had long been a weight I carried in my backpack, but it’s no longer a stone – it’s become a feather as I carry you to places you never got to see. I hope you’re enjoying the trip.