Day 27: el Port de la Selva to Cap de Creus (The End)

It ended how it started: too hot.

With the heat, campsite lights that stayed on all night and kids running around screaming, I didn't get to sleep until 11pm. At 3am a large group returned making plenty of noise, so I took the opportunity to eat something as I was hungry anyway.

The alarm went off at 6am, as did the campsite lights that had been on all night. I fumbled around in the darkness packing my bag, a well-rehearsed routine that I could probably manage with my eyes closed. I was away by 6.30am.

I wanted an early start because of the heat. By 7am it was already 25°C as I tackled the day's main climb.

One of the shortest stages of the trip, with the least ascent and descent, yet within an hour I looked as though I'd just stepped out of the shower. There was no point lingering. Today's walk was more hot, dusty tracks with little to savour. The sign said four and a half hours but, after less than three, I topped out on a rise and saw the silhouette of Cap de Creus lighthouse on the horizon.

It was relief more than excitement. The last few days had simply been too hot, too dry and too repetitive. The GR11 has some extraordinary scenery, but you have to take the spectacular with the monotonous. The opening days and the closing days were more about putting one foot in front of the other than admiring the view. Not somewhere I'd have chosen for a standalone holiday, but as a complete journey the GR11 has been one of the best experiences I've had. Endless mountain passes, 45 kilometres of ascent and the same again descending, long hot days, heatwaves, thunder storms, snow covered passes, wild campsites, comercial campsites, refuges, the daily routine of walk, eat, sleep, repeat, and the people I met along the way. Having the time to disappear into that rhythm for nearly four weeks has been a privilege.

With the last few kilometres slipping away, that routine was about to end. About 1km from the end I met a Dutch walker who was just starting. He smiled and said, "Don't expect fireworks and a grand finale." He was absolutely right.

At the lighthouse I followed the guidebook's instructions towards the end of the Cap de Creus peninsula, apparently marked by a faded red and white circle painted on a rock, although I never found it. The metal markers were old and weathered, the path barely defined, so I relied on the GPS on my watch.

Soon I was scrambling over rocks until there was nowhere left to go. Just the Mediterranean stretching out in front of me.

The romantic idea of taking my shoes off and paddling into the sea to celebrate quickly disappeared when I saw the slippery seaweed and the drop into the water. Instead I dipped the soles of my shoes into the sea while clinging onto the rocks, managing to soak one foot completely as a wave rolled in. It seemed a fitting enough ending.

I'd done it.

The GR11 completed. Around 880 kilometres in 27 days across the Pyrenees. There was no fanfare, no finish line and no welcoming committee. Just me, standing on a rock at the easternmost point of mainland Spain at 10am on a Thursday morning.

That was enough.