Camino Frances: From Sarria to Morgade
A Walk Through History, Hydrangeas & Humble Beginnings
The path out of Sarria offered no grand fanfare, yet every step brimmed with significance. After years of dreaming we were finally here—boots on the ground, pilgrim passports in hand, hearts full of hope. The Camino de Santiago had officially begun.
Sarria Cemetery (opposite Santa Maria Magdalena Church) - Sarria, Spain
As we rose out of town, the morning air was crisp, gently warmed by the first stretch of sun over the Galician hills. The road climbed, giving way to sweeping views over the valley below. And then, as if to bless our journey, the small but proud Santa Maria Magdalena chapel stood silently at the turn of the road—its timeworn stones bearing witness to thousands of pilgrims who had passed before us, and yet were still to come. Future generations whom will remain unknown to us, but who will also follow this same journey that we are on.
We paused, caught not just by the view but by something quieter—a cemetery perched off to our right, unlike anything we’d seen back home in Australia. Graves were built high into walls, some five tiers tall, engraved with names and dates that long predated our own country’s founding. Time here ran deeper, older.
I’ve always found myself fascinated by cemeteries—their stillness, their stories. Even when visiting Dad’s resting place in Hopetoun, my attention used to always drift to the older graves nearby: early settlers, families who laid foundations in silence. I found myself wondering: Who were these people, lying on this Galician hillside? What roads had they walked? What was their story?
Back on the way and we weren’t alone in our wonder—or our walk. The clicking of walking poles, rhythmic and persistent, accompanied us like it’s own birdsong. There was a strange comfort in the sound. Strangers, yes, but companions all the same, each of us answering the Camino’s quiet invitation in our own way.
As we descended into a wooded patch, we crossed a narrow creek, its water whispering below a little stone bridge. The pavement gave way to dirt and gravel, and the scenery shifted again. On our right, a train track mirrored the Way, as if offering a faster route for those who had somewhere to be—unlike us. Our only job today was to walk. To observe. To be here.
The path led into our first wooded glen, where the light dappled through the trees and fellow pilgrims stopped for snapshots in front of gnarled oaks and crooked tree trunks. The laughter of a group posing with a particularly twisted tree broke the morning quiet.
Then came a shift in smell—livestock. We were well and truly in farm land now. The faint pong drifting on the breeze instantly reminded us of our uncle’s piggery, prompting a round of teasing aimed at our cousin. We laughed about how that particular scent used to waft across the schoolyard back home, right in the middle of Saturday netball and football matches or those 40-degree afternoons on the tennis court. Strange, isn’t it, how certain smells can pull entire chapters of your childhood into focus?
“On the Way” - Sarria to Morgade, Camino Frances
The landscape opened once more, revealing open fields recently harvested. As the path curved it’s way though the field it became apparent just how many others were on this same journey. The field led back into a wooded area before passing stone buildings, farmers tractors and vegetable gardens. Sometimes it felt like we were walking through people’s backyards, their homes seemingly built into the Way itself. Bright blue gates stood out against cinder block walls, and bursts of colour came from pink and purple hydrangeas, blooming boldly as if in celebration of each passerby.
The rhythm of the walk settled into something familiar, almost meditative. Every few kilometres, the scenery offered something new—shady forest patches, trickling creeks, sleepy hamlets with red-tiled roofs. The Camino may be one continuous path, but it felt like walking through a hundred tiny worlds, stitched together by nothing more than footsteps and faith.
We stopped when the timing felt right—when our bodies said “enough for now.” Small roadside cafés offered cool relief, shaded tables, and icy bottles of lemon iced tea that disappeared faster than we could savour them. We proudly collected pilgrim passport stamps, grinning like schoolkids earning gold stars and made sure to take photos at every opportunity to ensure that memories of this trip would last forever.
By early-afternoon the sun was starting to rise higher, the trail growing warmer, and our feet had definitely begun to feel the days steps. But then, almost suddenly, we rounded a bend and found ourselves in Morgade—a humble hamlet, more a siding than a town, yet it felt like a finish line.
Our accommodation was a simple hotel and bar, located directly along the trail. Check-in was swift, our packs had arrived before us, and the glorious trio of a hot shower, cold beer, and salty crisps became the reward we didn’t realise we needed.
The Little Church and open fields - Morgade, Spain
Morgade didn’t ask much of us. After freshening up, we wandered just far enough to see what little it had to offer. Just down the Way, a small building caught our eye—a modest structure marked by a cross above the door. It offered quiet shelter for pilgrims, a sacred pause along the journey. Inside, a simple altar was covered with stones, photographs, and handwritten notes—tiny tributes left behind by those who had walked before us. The internal white walls were covered in names and messages written in a patchwork of languages, each one a reminder of the many footsteps that had passed through this place.
I paused for a moment of solitude, stepping inside while the others continued ahead. Sitting quietly on the doorstep, I let it all sink in. We were really here. Traveling wasn’t new to me, but this felt different already—more intentional, more present. Our days in Madrid had been a blur of excitement and movement, but something shifted yesterday and today. We were beginning to slow down. The only thing we had to do was make it to the next place—no rush, no schedule, just the rhythm of our own steps.
Yesterday, a train and a bus had delivered us to Sarria. But today, our feet and legs had carried us the 12 kilometres—through farmland and forests, alongside fellow pilgrims, through history and hydrangeas. As the soft lowing of cows drifted in from a nearby field, I realised this was all we needed. This, right here, was enough.
Helpful Links to help plan your journey
Omio (affiliate link) - Central location for you to access train timetables for easy booking of train journeys to and from the start and end.
Booking.com - All your accommodation options in the one location. Search by hotel or by city map to help you navigate your stay easier.
Raw Travel - We booked our camino adventure through Raw Travel. They take care of all your accommodation bookings and luggage transport needs.
