So says lshmael Villalobos, a Gitano father who explains that a Camino cannot end in Santiago.
This information was conveyed to me in “The Way”, which by now you will have realised has become like biblical canon for me.
More than 80 kilometres away from Santiago on the Costa da Morte, reaching Muxía required another journey, and this time I was determined to follow Ishmael’s instruction.
Resting well after our celebrations, I rose to wild and windy weather in Santiago, with torrential rain lashing the streets around the cathedral.
At last, those waterproof trousers were going to be worn, rather than carried.
I could have looked for a taxi to avoid a soaking stomp to the Estacion de Autobuses, but I decided to earn it by walking instead.
Almost immediately, l lost my way.
There were no more Little Yellow Arrows to guide me now, and I felt their absence keenly.
As the bus made its way to Muxía through sheets of spray, I saw a sprinkling of pilgrims along the route.
A few abandoned their attempts to walk and joined us on the bus, but a few tenacious Peregrinos continued to battle the elements.
I felt for them, and silently committed to walk this way one day too.
After a couple of hours of looping the little villages between Santiago and Fisterra, the coach arrived in Muxía.
Following a forum tip, I was staying at Hostal La Cruz, and delighted to discover that my room had a view.
And what a view.
The Atlantic waves rolled gracefully onto a golden beach, mesmerising me to such an extent that an unexpected siesta overtook me.
Shaking off the attraction of further ASMR therapy in my room, I went in search of lunch, enjoying a plate of squid and chips at A Plaia das Lanchas, entertained by a flock of Spanish sparrows battling over my bread and a seagull who sounded like a cat.
I had been disappointed by one or two other places on the Camino, having built them up to almost mythical status in my mind.
Cruz de Ferro had been one, on the Francés in 2018.
There, the sight itself did not move me at all, but there was another surprise that did.
Here at Muxía, there was nothing lacking in the moment of arrival.
The power of nature felt here was extraordinary, as bright blue-green waves crashed against enormous rocky ridges.
It was magnificent and marvellous, terrifying and terrific.
One wrong move and you would never have been seen again. This is the “Coast of Death” and its rawness was a reminder of one of the Camino’s most valuable lessons.
We are small, fragile beings, easily bruised and full of unwarranted self-regard, often forgetting our place in the natural order of things.
Time spent here will reset that.
Ishmael was right.
The Camino had smiled on me again.