Somehow I had imagined Spain’s Cape Finisterre – “End of the Earth” – to be like a finger of Europe pointing westward toward the open sea. But it isn’t. It’s more like an appendix, hanging “down” from north to south. And that’s part of the magic. The pilgrim who augments their Camino de Santiago (the “Way of Saint James”) by walking an additional 90 kilometres westward eventually turns south toward the point, through the charming little town of Finisterre. To their left is the familiar land from which they have come. Over the hill to the right, the western cliffs plunge precipitously into open ocean and empty horizon. It’s not hard to see why, for millennia, Finisterre was a revered destination in its own right; a threshold between the known and unknown worlds.

Pilgrimage, at least in the Western tradition, usually means walking toward some place of special significance. Hence “Camino Finisterre” is often described as unique in that it leads away from Santiago’s cathedral. But there’s another way of looking at it. Centuries before the dawn of Christianity, indigenous Iberians, then Celts, then Romans, gathered among great stones on the heights of the promontory to mark the setting of the Sun. Celts thought of paradise as being somewhere beyond the sunset. Romans appropriated the stones as Ara Solis, “Altar of the Sun”: a place to reflect on the afterlife as the Sun sank into the Mare Tenebrosum, the “Sea of Darkness”.
From Roman Empire to Church of Rome
Veneration of Sol – the Sun god – was the most important cult of imperial Rome, but when Constantine declared Christianity as the new official religion, pagan legends had to be replaced. Ara Solis became Piedras Santas (Holy Stones), where Saint James was said to have preached to the heathen until the Virgin Mary appeared to convince him to return to Jerusalem where he was executed. The miraculous return of his body to Spain became the story behind the pilgrimage to his tomb at Santiago de Compostela. Before a lighthouse was built on the point, fires would be lit on the summit to assist mariners navigating the treacherous Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death, into the safety of the sheltered port that is now Finisterre (Fisterra in Galician). The promontory became known as Monte Facho, Galician for “torch mount”.
From Crucifixes to Crosses
A striking feature of the four-day walk from Santiago through the wooded Galician hills was – for me at least – a gradual cultural shift from the elaborately decorated Roman Catholic churches and shrines along the Camino de Santiago to a more subdued Celtic atmosphere: a greater sensitivity to the natural and feminine. Fewer crucifixes portraying the dying Christ and more empty crosses suggesting his triumph over death. Equally suggestive was that although almost all mention of Finisterre’s spirituality focuses on sunset and mortality, the 5th Century saint, San Guillermo, built his hermitage on the eastern side of Monte Facho, facing Jerusalem, sunrise and the promise of rebirth.
Holy Ground
To beat the inevitable tourist influx I had set off from lodgings in the town at dawn. Arriving at the headland an hour later I paused to take a photo of my backpack and faithful pilgrim staff resting against the iconic “Kilometre Zero” milestone.
A Portuguese couple cycled up, and after we had taken each other’s photos, I strolled beyond the lighthouse to visit the famous bronze boot and the spot where pilgrims used to burn their old travelling clothes to symbolize leaving the past behind. By the time the first tour group arrived I had enjoyed leisurely contemplation of the fog-shrouded horizon and was ready for morning coffee at the little hotel in the former research station. Then, a walk up the gravel road to the top of Monte Facho, flanked by brilliant yellows and purples of gorse and heather.
Later, as I sat among the stones of Ara Solis, reflecting on the Celtic belief that all nature is alive, rocks and all, a long forgotten phrase came to mind. In Jewish and Christian tradition, when Moses stood on Mount Sinai to receive his Ten Commandments, God first commanded him to “Take the shoes from off your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy ground”. Somewhat self-consciously, even though no one else was around, I sheepishly removed my boots and socks. The result is hard to put into words really. There was something indescribably moving about concluding a memorable pilgrimage which had begun in Portugal three weeks earlier, standing barefoot at this ancient liminal spot; grounded on cool, solid rock; feeling oneness with the good Earth; gazing out on the vastness of the sea where all life began.
There is much wisdom in some of those ancient stories, regardless of literal truth, and simple rituals can evoke lovely moments. On that day it was a wave of utter contentment and gratitude. Ready to begin the journey homeward.