It was a short distance beyond Leon that I decided to continue all the way to Santiago de Compostela. The decision was largely influenced by another cyclist. He came speeding up behind me on a mountain bike, fully Lycra-clad and was carrying half the amount of luggage I have with me. “I’m Catalan, not Spanish”. I could tell it was an important distinction to make, having asked him where he was from in Spain. I explained I was cycling to Astorga and then planning to turn south towards the Portuguese border. “Why you don’t go to Santiago? I think you must. It’s a fantastic place”. Fantastic was Gerald’s favourite English word, but he spoke about Santiago de Compostela with such enthusiasm that I wondered why I was travelling westwards in Spain, but not planning to visit this important city.We continued talking as we cycled together towards Astorga, all the time passing pilgrims walking alongside the road. Those I’d spoken to in Leon had expressed equal surprise when I said I wasn’t planning on visiting the city.It was a simple decision to make in the end. If I was taking a direct route towards Africa I should have been cycling south. There was no reason not to continue along the road to Santiago. I also now had my all important pilgrims passport, allowing me to stay in cheap hostels.Gerald didn’t really wait for me to make a decision. I could tell he was a man who liked to keep on the go, finishing his plate of pasta when we stopped in Astorga with the sweat still fresh on his brow and jumping on his bike to leave. “I must be in Santiago on Wednesday to meet my parents”. It was now Sunday and the city was over 300km away. I considered staying in Astorga for the night, but it was only mid-afternoon so continued at a more leisurely pace, wondering when I too would arrive in the city.I stopped for the day an hour or two later in the village of Santa Catalina. After the hoards of pilgrims I’d shared a room with in Leon, the Alberque here was an altogether more relaxed affair. This one had a bar serving cheap cold beer, although lights still went out early and the dormitory of eight was empty at 7am the next morning. When it doesn’t get light until 8am I couldn’t understand why so many people wanted to begin their day’s walk so early and in the dark. I realised the next day however that many hostels fill up by early afternoon as the Camino becomes busier with pilgrims walking the final stages to Santiago. I was back in my tent for the night having failed to find a bed after a long day on the road.It was my turn to catch Gerald up the next day. I found him wolfing down a packet of biscuits for lunch in a small town square. It was about midday, but this he said wasn’t lunch. “I eat lunch when I finish the cycling”. I forgot that in Spain people take their meals several hours later. He waited for me to finish my chorizo, cheese and tomato filled bocadillo before we continued together.Despite the increase in pace, I enjoyed Gerald’s company on the road. He’d learnt most of his English living in Ireland for six months. “It’s a beautiful country, but the women are horrible. I don’t find beautiful woman. My girlfriend there was from Italy”. He’d also travelled in Sweden – “the women there are fantastic,” and suggested this would be a better destination to cycle than Africa. I explained that would be a slightly bigger detour than the one I was currently making.We pedalled into Santiago de Compostela together the next day. By now I regretted not having more information about the history of the Camino, as well as the city and the Apostle Saint James. I remember reading The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho, but Santiago de Compostela was just a name then.The Cathedral here dwarfs all else in both scale and magnificence. It is the finishing point for pilgrims who stand and sit in the large plaza, admiring its grandeur as they contemplate and celebrate the end of their journey. Many enter to visit the crypt and embrace the tomb of St James, before continuing to the Pilgrims’ Office to ask for a Compostela, a kind of document that accredits the pilgrimage.Gerald’s celebration following his 2000km pilgrimage came in the form of a small black lump carefully folded in paper. “I don’t smoke this very much now. Not good for the head.” I poured him the remains of the Cognac I’ve been carrying in a small hip flask, explaining it was holy water from France. “Wow, very strong”. I thought the same of what he offered to me.We said goodbye shortly afterwards and I navigated my way back out of the old city. It really is time that I headed south, but not before I visit the post office to send home some unnecessary equipment. Morning coffee has become a ritual so I’m keeping the stove top cafitiere for now. The hip flask however has to go.