Medieval Christians believed that if the gospel was being preached in Finisterre, then the good news had "reached the ends of the earth." Finisterre is a peninsula that marks the westernmost part of continental Europe. I was at the westernmost part of Ireland visiting the cliffs of Moher, and there was a sign clinging to the windswept cliffs that said: "Next pub: Boston!" I looked for a similar sign at Finisterre -- "Next cerveceria: Boston!!!" But didn't find one.
The ancients put Finisterre on their maps painting nothing beyond it but oceans and leviathans. Beyond Finisterre was a realm of darkness. As the German tourist brochure we were reading put it: "Reich der Dunkelheit." The sun descended into this realm every night. Only a miracle brought it up in the morning.
We watched the sun set into the grey Atlantic last night on the rocky coast of Finisterre. A lighthouse guards the treacherous coastline, as well as launching the pilgrimage route that leads from Finisterre to Santiago.
There were lots of other pilgrims huddled in the rocks watching -- and when the sun set, we all cheered.
We were cheering the setting of the sun; we were cheering the sure knowledge that it would come up the next day; we were cheering the end of our various Caminos.
We were cheering miracles, old and new.
And yes, I caught sunrise the following morning, again with a bunch of tired pilgrims. And yes, we cheered then too.
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