Pray for Me in Santiago: Walking The Ancient Pilgrim Road to Santiago De Compostela

Pray for Me

in Santiago

Pray for Me

in Santiago

Walking the Ancient Pilgrim Road to Santiago de Compostela

Theresa Burkhardt-Felder

Fremantle Arts Centre Press Australia’s finest small publisher

To my husband Gérard, whose idea it was

Contents The Pilgrim with Peas in his Shoes

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Carrión de los Condes

163

‘The Real Camino, the Inner Camino, Starts in Santiago’

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The History of Spain from Emanuel

167

The Passionate Man’s Pilgrimage

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Sahagún

183

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France

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León

195

St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France – Roncesvalles, Spain

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Villadangos – Astorga

206

Burguete – Pamplona

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Maragatería

212

Pamplona (Capital of Navarra)

41

Rabanal

217

Puente la Reina

49

El Acebo – Molinaseca

225

Estella – Viana

60

Ponferrada – Villafranca

235

Logroño (Capital of Rioja)

68

Villafranca del Bierzo

243

Monasterio de Valvanera

79

O Cebreiro (Galicia)

252

Nájera – Azofra

82

Bonadeo

258

Santo Domingo de la Calzada

89

Samos

262

Belorado

96

Sarria

266

Monasterio de San Juan de Ortega

103

Portomarín

267

Burgos (Capital of Castilla)

115

Palas de Rei

276

San Pedro de Cardeña

125

Santiago de Compostela

285

Burgos – Castrojeriz

139

Credencial — Pilgrim’s Passport

296

Castrojeriz – Villalcázar de Sirga

149

Bibliography

298

Villalcázar de Sirga

156

About the Author

301

The Pilgrim with Peas in his Shoes Why go on a pilgrimage? What is the Camino?

A pilgrim walked with great difficulty. ‘What is the matter with you?’ enquired another pilgrim. ‘The peas I put into my shoes give me such pain.’ ‘Oh, I put peas into my shoes too,’ answered the other pilgrim, ‘but I cooked them first!’ Friends entertained us with such stories as we were getting ready for our pilgrimage from St-Jean-Pied-de-Port in France, across the Pyrenees to Santiago de Compostela, in the north-west of Spain, a trip of about a thousand kilometres. People from whom we least expected it telephoned to congratulate us on our project. A very good friend of my husband expressed his hope that we might have the courage — and humility — to give up when we could bear it no longer; he even proposed to pick us up from wherever that might be! ‘Which vintage car will you be taking?’ another acquaintance asked, confusing the Ancient Road across the north of Spain with a car rally route. Tough businessmen expressed their envy and admiration. Others wondered whether we were that pious. ‘You must be very Catholic,’ a Jewish friend remarked. I told her about interviews a French television program had conducted

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with pilgrims on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, where the apostle Saint James — who travelled to the Iberian Peninsula to preach Christ’s message shortly after His death — is believed to be buried. By far, not all the pilgrims interviewed had been Catholics: there were also Protestants, dissenters, freethinkers, agnostics, even atheists. Some admitted seeking spirituality and one American woman put it most pragmatically, ‘It is good for the body and the soul.’ As for us, we wanted to do it for cultural, historical and spiritual reasons, though not necessarily in that order. My husband, Gérard, saw it as an overture to a new phase in his life. Ever since he had learnt about the Ancient Road from a Spanish friend some years before, he had been captivated by the idea. It appealed to me too. I was attracted to the idea from a spiritual point of view. Fondly, I recalled pilgrimages I had made as a young person in my native village and countryside; they still held a certain magic for me. And this time I would be walking through Spain, a country that had become so dear to me over the last thirty years. My sense of adventure was aroused. Where would we start? How would nature treat us? Would we manage to walk the entire distance? Pilgrims’ tales of blisters, tendonitis, exhaustion, even broken limbs, were hardly encouraging. Fitness — and good luck — seemed to be essential. We decided to deal with the first requirement and started to go for long walks and hikes in order to be well prepared. We chose the year 1999, a Holy Year — Año Santo as they call it in Spanish — which is whenever the day of Saint James, 25 July, falls on a Sunday. That year was also the last year in the millennium; and in our private lives was the year of my husband’s sixtieth birthday and the celebration of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The receptionist at the Hostal de los Reyes Católicos in Santiago, where I made a booking fifteen months in advance, told me that they were almost full. He said that they expected ‘millones de

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peregrinos’ during the Holy Year! Why this enthusiasm? Had it always been this way? Throughout the ages, commoners and royals, sinners and saints, merchants and artists all walked the Ancient Road. A pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela — Santiago being Spanish for Saint James — was deemed as important as one to Jerusalem or Rome. In 1985 UNESCO declared it to be a ‘Way of Cultural Interest’ and in 1987, the European Union declared the Camino to be the ‘Road of Greatest Cultural Importance in Europe’. It is said that the Camino, as the Ancient Road came to be called, is the path of a stellar knowledge that goes back to very ancient times. Indeed, alchemists, for whom it was a must to travel the Road, named their work either Milky Way or Way to Compostela. Spain has always held a special attraction for me, for us. My husband went to work and study in Madrid in 1960 and I lived and worked in Andalusia in 1969. When we met, twenty-eight years ago, we were delighted to have this common passion. Spain touches a chord in our souls. We love its medieval villages, pastoral countryside, biblical shepherds, ancient monasteries, lazy siestas, mystical processions, exuberant fiestas, pulsating folk music that gets under the skin, harsh tableland and countless mountains. And most importantly, we are very fond of our Spanish friends who live in different parts of the country. We had travelled widely in Spain and already knew parts of the pilgrimage route well — however, only by car! We had even visited Santiago de Compostela on a grey, rainy day in November, when the wind howled across the ancient square, Obradoiro, meaning work of gold, and the sounds of the Galician bagpipe, the gaita, faded away into a misty sky. Santiago’s singular ambience had captivated us and we had liked spending time in its famous cathedral that hid a serene Romanesque interior behind its elaborate Baroque façade. In smoky and vaulted cellar bars, we had enjoyed

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drinks with Galician friends and ate in what must have been the tiniest restaurant in Europe, bearing the impossible name of El Asesino (The Assassin). There was, of course, a story as to how the restaurant came to carry that name, the details of which escape me now, but it had something to do with killing chickens. I do, however, recall the owners: three elderly spinsters in the tiny kitchen, cooking traditional food over open fires and welcoming each guest like the proverbial lost son!

‘The Real Camino, the Inner Camino, Starts in Santiago’ A Resumé, or To Begin Again in Continuation

For people like my husband and me, middle-aged and comfortably ensconced in our private and professional lives, this pilgrimage was a challenging undertaking. We allowed ourselves two months in order to absorb, without haste, the enchantment of the journey. Spiritual rejuvenation arose almost imperceptibly as we progressed. Walking the Ancient Road was for us a journey through many different fields of culture, religion, history and relationships, a journey however that unfolded only gradually. At first, the newness of the situation, the encounters with fellow pilgrims, the caprices of nature, and our bodies’ needs were overwhelming and had to be dealt with before contemplation could set in. It was not unlike a mini lifetime with all its ups and downs! It taught us to listen to our bodies and open our hearts to all people who cross our way. Walking the Camino was also a celebration of life and movement. More than ever, we had the desire and the intention to live our dreams. Whilst my discipline was continuously challenged, I

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rejoiced in the freedom that this walk gave us. Being a source of continuous surprises, it has taught me to be more in the here and now and trust the tomorrow. It was also an exercise in patience as you can only progress as fast as your legs allow you! And last, but not least, I have learnt to carry a pack on my back with dignity — even feeling a sense of detachment at the thought of it containing all my belongings. The friendships we made while walking represent special blessings. There was Carlos, the artist in Pamplona whom we inspired to exhibit in Madrid; Nuntchi, his wife, who called up every albergue to find out how we were doing; Jaume, the aspiring lawyer we met in Villalcázar who left little gifts for us at various places but misspelt our name so they never reached us; Jean, the businessman from Madrid with a penchant for spiritual things who shared with us what he described as a special day in his life; Franz, the Swiss executive whom we encountered in the Meseta who pursued the inspirations he received while walking, which was to help the handicapped and less fortunate; Rosa, the Doña from O Cebreiro who kept repeating, ‘Mi casa es vuestra casa,’ my house is your house; Evelyn, pilgrim and poet from São Paulo whose affection and love for the Camino deeply impressed me; and of course, Loquis and Cecilia, our old Gallego friends, who made our time in Santiago even more special. And there are those whom we only know by their first names, like Federico in Villafranca, Frau Hildegard in Belorado, Günther in Burgos, José-Maria in Cardeña and Angel in Peñalba, and the many more who remain anonymous but not forgotten, for they all helped, inspired and encouraged us. For all of us, many roads lead to Santiago — and each has its rewards. ‘So go with God, dear reader, and please, pray for me in Santiago!’

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The Passionate Man’s Pilgrimage Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope’s true gage, And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body’s balmer, No other balm will there be given, Whilst my soul like a white palmer Travels to the land of heaven, Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains; And there I’ll kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink my eternal fill On every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before, But after it will ne’er thirst more; And by the happy blissful way More peaceful pilgrims I shall see That have shook off their gowns of clay And go appareled fresh like me. I’ll bring them first

To slake their thirst, And then to taste those nectar suckets, To the clear wells Where sweetness dwells, Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality, Then the holy paths we’ll travel, Strewed with rubies thick as gravel, Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, High walls of coral, and pearl bowers, From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall Where no corrupted voices brawl, No conscience molten into gold, Nor forged accusers bought and sold, No cause deferred, nor vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the king’s attorney, Who pleads for all, without degrees, And he hath angels, but no fees. When the grand twelve million jury Of our sins and sinful fury, ’Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death, and then we live. Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder; Thou movest salvation even for alms, Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms. And this is my eternal plea To him that made heaven, earth, and sea, Seeing my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next moon, Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head. Then am I ready, like a palmer fit, To tread those blest paths which before I writ. Sir Walter Raleigh, c. 1552–1618

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St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France French joie de vivre In anticipation of our adventure, we had climbed every mountain, run up every hill, and walked every forest. We had also read every book we came across on the subject. In my endeavour to get super-fit for the pilgrimage I hurt my hip and, three days prior to our departure, after a sleepless night full of pain, had to rush to a Feldenkrais colleague for a functional integration session at seven o’clock in the morning. Less physical problems also arose: renowned astrologers and esoterics forecast immense trouble for the world on the days we would be beginning our pilgrimage and particularly for those countries where on 11 August, a total eclipse of the sun would occur (England, Austria, Germany and France). One well-known Parisian personality was reported to have moved out of Paris for fear it would be hit by a meteor. On the evening of 11 August, the television newsreader started the news somewhat cynically: ‘Ladies and gentlemen — I am happy to be able to report that the world still exists.’ Gérard was working hard, delegating business and private affairs and trying to detach himself from the office. As usual, urgent matters came up at the last moment and he was so busy that we quietly postponed our departure for

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two days without telling anyone. Our plan was to remain incommunicado for two months, leaving just a few telephone numbers of monasteries and hotels where we planned to stay, in case of emergency. As we walked, we would send postcards to a few people close to us so they knew all was well. I had slept very little the last few nights, overcome with apprehension about our impending adventure. In nightmares, colossal, giant Pyrenees haunted me. On the eve of departure, we packed and unpacked till midnight, were short-tempered with each other and by two in the morning, fell exhausted into bed. The high-speed train left Paris for St-Jean-Pied-de-Port early in the morning. The huge backpack crushed me, dwarfed me. Never having worn a backpack before, except for a small knapsack when hiking in the Swiss Alps, I felt conspicuous. People seemed to stare at me, at us. Devoid of my usual make-up and wearing shoes that I would hitherto have called penitent’s sandals, I felt different already: humble, weird, strange, bewildered, but quite determined. Was this the profile of a fledgling pilgrim, I wondered? Thankfully, my hip no longer hurt and I was not worried about it. After all, my Feldenkrais colleague had generously offered to come to my aid on his motorbike wherever I was — preferrably though to the Pyrenees where he had spent his childhood! At the railway station, we weighed our backpacks. Mine was 12.8 kg, Gérard’s 13.9 kg. My back hurt already. Gérard’s knees worried him. I began to question the wisdom of our undertaking, feeling quite ambivalent about it all. We boarded the train. Racy Navarrese folk music, dancing in the streets, fireworks, delicious foie gras, sonorous Basque singing … Where am I? What overture to a pilgrimage is this? Well, we are in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port in south-west France, one of the traditional points from which to walk the Ancient Road to Santiago de Compostela. A classic stop on the pilgrimage

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route, it owes its name — Saint John at the foot of the mountain pass — to its location at the foot of the Pyrenees. Its cobbled streets, medieval houses and city walls form a proud city. St-Jean-Pied-de-Port is also a lively city, as we have been witnessing this weekend. It is now close to midnight on Sunday and St-Jean is in fiesta mood, celebrating its annual fête du village this very weekend. This celebration was not part of our pilgrimage plans but we take it as a good omen for our enterprise. Last night we arrived late and dinner was no longer being served at our inn. They advised us to go to the Hôtel Central which was still open, and where we were tempted with succulent menus. If I had harboured any reservations about pilgrims indulging in good food, Gérard quickly dispelled my concerns: ‘Who knows what sort of food we shall get over the next few weeks? So let’s enjoy it.’ And we certainly did. The festive mood was contagious. People of all ages, dressed mostly in white garments with red scarves or belts — the Basque colours — danced in the streets, on sidewalks or squares to music played by small bands of musicians. Street cafés burst with patrons. Open-air discos beckoned. In high spirits, we walked back to our abode over a medieval bridge spanning the river Nive, and settled down for a restful night. But it was not to be! Neighbours under a vine-covered pergola were singing, laughing, talking, rejoicing. The ancient city walls reverberated with lively music. Briefly, we toyed with the idea of joining the exhilarated crowds, true to the motto ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ but abandoned the project for need of rest. So we lay awake — in passive enjoyment! At six o’clock, all quietened down at last; silence settled in — for a few hours. In the morning, we visited the refuge, French for pilgrims’ hostel, situated at the crest of the old town, in order to have our credenciales, or pilgrims’ passports, stamped. The volunteers, two women and a man, all in their forties, told

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us that we might easily take eight hours to cross the Pyrenees. Down the cobbled streets of St-Jean, which still retains the layout of an early medieval stronghold, a door caught our attention. It opened to a long and dark hallway at the end of which a sign read something about the Jacobean route, another name for the Camino. All this seemed to ring a bell and indeed it was the office of a pilgrims’ association run by Madame Lourdes, mentioned in The Pilgrimage, a book written by the Brazilian best-selling author Paulo Coelho, one of the first books I had read on the topic of the Camino. I was very excited to have the opportunity of meeting a personage cited in his book. Madame Lourdes was of slender stature, well-mannered and charming, quite different from how the author had unflatteringly portrayed her. In fact, Madame Lourdes was none too pleased with Coelho who, according to her, had mentioned her real name in the original Portuguese edition. ‘I wonder whether he really walked the Camino — and his guide, vous savez bien, one does not have a guide for the Camino, it is something one does with oneself only as guidance, eh bien …’ She hesitated, then continued: ‘The original title, The Diary of a Magus, was an appropriate title for his book. To call it in his later editions The Pilgrimage is in my view improper since his journey is not indicative of what the Camino is.’ Madame Lourdes sounded quite upset. Accordingly, we did not tell her that we had read in the Spanish press that an influx of several hundred Brazilian pilgrims was attributed to Coelho’s book. Changing the subject, I asked Madame Lourdes how long she had been involved in the Camino. ‘Oh, for almost fifty years!’ Her face lit up. ‘Since 1951, to be exact, when the Ancient Road was a thousand years old. My mother, a schoolteacher, regularly brought her family to the French Basque country in winter. After the war, I decided to stay and make my life here.’

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Madame Lourdes expressed regrets about what she called a certain commercialisation of the Camino: ‘With hostels offering free accommodation or for a nominal fee only, people now take advantage of going on a cheap holiday. Be careful in hostels.’ She approved our plans of staying at monasteries off the Camino and told us of the poor monk in San Juan de Ortega who had recently been required to make garlic soup for several hundred pilgrims. ‘He adores French cigarillos,’ she said, smiling. In her small studio, countless books and documents relating to the pilgrimage route were piled on every available surface. Catching my eye, she said apologetically: ‘Je vais déménager — I am going to move.’ Madame Lourdes added the stamp of her association to our credenciales. We thanked her and said au revoir.

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St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France – Roncesvalles, Spain Our first day ends well

To our consternation, it is still pitch-dark when we rise at five o’clock in the morning. Nervously, we pack and repack our belongings. We discard any papers that are not absolutely essential, but find it really difficult to leave anything else behind. We have already sent off some brochures and books. Having settled the bill the night before, we silently step out of the hotel and cross the sleepy town, which must have a massive hangover. We head for the Pyrenees, towering darkly above us. Two pilgrims, middle-aged men, pass us. They look grimly determined, somewhat morose, and barely nod bonjour. Is this going to be the typical pilgrim, I wonder? From the back view of one of them, Gérard gets inspiration about how to fix our water bottles on our backpacks. We have opted for the Napoleon Route, the more beautiful but also the more difficult of the two roads across the Pyrenees. It goes back not only to Napoleonic times, as its name suggests, but was also part of the Roman Via

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Traiana, linking Burdigala (Bordeaux) in France with Asturica Augusta (Astorga) in Spain, a distance of over one thousand kilometres. We enjoy the pure alpine air and the stillness that surrounds us. Slowly, the day begins. Roosters crow, and in farms and barns, things are stirring. We look back over an undulating pre-alpine countryside where pretty Basque houses, whitewashed and with red shutters, adorn the scenery. The ascent is steep. We walk well. The weekend has done wonders for us and given us back our energy and enthusiasm. St-Jean-Pied-de-Port is way below us now. The Spanish King of Navarra once owned it but gave it away to the French. He found it too cumbersome to cross the Pyrenees each time he wanted to pay a visit to his subjects. The top of the Pyrenees, still a good thousand metres above us, is in haze. We stop to admire silver thistles, each in the shape of a star with a deep purple-coloured heart. I take off my backpack, which has been causing unbearable pain in my left shoulder. However, after doing some relaxation movements, the pain goes quickly and we continue. During our morning tea stop (chamomile tea and biscuits), two pilgrims join us. One is of Andalusian extraction, living in France, and during a short conversation with us, he deplores the rapid changes that have taken place in his motherland since democracy. When General Franco, the right-wing military dictator, died in 1976, the transition to democracy was smooth apart from a hiccup, which the Spanish King Juan Carlos handled brilliantly, when an attempted coup was successfully aborted thanks to his skilful intervention with the armed forces. Soon after, Spain joined the European Union, of which it is now probably the most enthusiastic member. We lived in Spain under the Franco regime and again when it became a constitutional monarchy. The Spanish expatriate is right: the changes in Spanish society are enormous. Friends who

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settled in Spain in the sixties like to say that Spain leaped from the nineteenth century directly into the twenty-first! As we wander on, a representative from the Association of Friends of the Camino drives up in his car and tantalises us with talk of how he organises pilgrimages for people who do not wish to carry anything, who sleep in bivouacs or tents at night and take meals at farmhouses or around a fire. He talks of vandalism, and we recall Madame Lourdes telling us yesterday that more than two hundred bicycles had been stolen last summer. She warned us that pickpockets would abound. We are determined, however, to make our pilgrimage without fear and resist the temptations of the man, although my shoulder aches at the thought of a pack-free journey. By now, the fog that had been above us has encircled us and is growing deeper. A frail old man and a somewhat younger woman emerge through this greyness. Their English is halting and we try every language we know until we find out that they are Brazilians. I bluff them with my few words of Portuguese. They have the ambitious intention of reaching Santiago within thirty days, walking slowly but steadily. Thick ferns now grace our path. Ewes graze on the alpine meadows and make me think of the tasty Pyrenean cheese which is produced here. Early in the afternoon, we approach the Spanish border and walk through a forest of moss-covered stones, much to Gérard’s delight. The roadside is lined with red erica heath. The fog gets thicker, enveloping us totally, and our view encompasses only a few metres. The mountain beeches look ghostly. Suddenly, in this spooky, claustrophobic atmosphere, big beasts appear in the fields. Looking closely, we detect horses, a Basque breed called Pottok (pronounced Potchok). The form of their heads reminds me of prehistoric cave paintings. They wear bells. Another being crystallises in the fog, this time human, a French hiker, crossing the Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.

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The Spanish border is marked with barbed-wire fencing, but this is more symbolic than anything else. In earlier days, many dramas used to take place here. Smugglers, poachers, bandits, refugees, people fleeing the Nazi occupation in France or the Civil War in Spain — they all struggled through this area. Now the border appears quiet, almost boring. Smuggling nowadays, I am told, takes place in modern trucks, driving across Europe. We pass fabulous forests of old and rugged beeches; like a veil, the fog hangs over the leaves and branches. Gérard tries in vain to photograph a spider web sprinkled with raindrops that sparkle like diamonds. But on the whole, the countryside has definitely become more sturdy and rugged since we crossed the border. Whilst we congratulated ourselves for having reached the Spanish border so early and easily, the journey now seems endless. The Pyrenees are a clutter of mountain passes, peaks and valleys, so it is difficult to estimate how far we have yet to go. For over seven hours, we have not seen a house. I remember a young Canadian whom we met last year when we were crossing the Pyrenees by car. He stepped from the woods onto the paved road where we were admiring the view. Crushed under a twenty-kilogram backpack after a walk of over six hours, he enquired whether it was still far to go to the nearest pilgrim accommodation! I recall Coelho’s book in which he takes seven days to traverse the Pyrenees. Of course, it was all part of his magical plan; but right now I find it disconcerting. Ancient sources say that the Pyrenees soothe the feelings, pacify the tempers, heighten the spirits. Admittedly, there is something magic in this wild, secluded landscape. These thoughts manage to dispel my impatience and once again I am aware of where I am, and concentrate on what I am doing. Years ago in Paris, on our way back from an excellent meal at the Brasserie Flo, we came across a tower where once had stood the church of Saint-Jacques de la

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Boucherie, and a plaque which Spain had offered to the City of Paris through the initiative of the Société des Amis de Saint Jacques de Compostelle: De cet endroit où s’élevait l’église Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie, partirent depuis le Xème siècle des millions de pèlerins de toutes nationalités vers le tombeau de l’apôtre Saint-Jacques à Compostelle. From this place, where stood the Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie church, and since the tenth century, millions of pilgrims of all nationalities have departed for the tomb of the apostle Saint James at Compostela.

When we seriously began to consider the pilgrimage, this monument came to my mind and I pictured ourselves wandering around Paris, getting utterly lost, taking hours, even days, to escape its hectic pace, reaching the outskirts in a state of total exhaustion, continuing on the hard bitumen through triste and endless banlieues … I love Paris but felt totally discouraged at the thought of starting a pilgrimage there. So I was relieved when Gérard suggested we start out at another traditional spot, St-Jean-Pied-dePort. As it was, the Pyrenees were giving me enough of a worry! Finally, the descent to Roncesvalles begins and the weather clears up. With a shock, we see in the distance a huge red stone. Was it a fire? Upon coming closer, we discover it to be beautifully overgrown with erica. In a forest clearing I rest, leaning my spine against a huge beech trunk, trying to draw strength from it. Gérard lets himself collapse on a soft grassy spot. The descent to Roncesvalles, first destination in Spain, is more arduous than expected. At six o’clock, after twelve hours of walking, albeit with many stops, we finally catch sight of a cluster of imposing grey stone buildings from

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which the thirteenth century Colegiata monastery stands out. It claims to have had one of the earliest pilgrims’ hospices, and it seems to have been a busy and affluent one since records maintain that in 1660 alone it served over thirty thousand pilgrims. It still looks busy as pilgrims from France are now joined by the Spanish contingent, starting their walk here. Gérard suggests that I go and ask at the Posada inn for a room. ‘Spaniards are more sensitive to a woman,’ he says. I have to laugh and remember a time in the seventies when we drove to Spain in two cars, both loaded with furniture and goods, to install my father-in-law in Spain. No problems were anticipated with the customs since we had a letter from the Spanish consulate. Yet we were tired and loathed the idea of having to unpack or explain to customs at great length. Thus, when entering Spain, we decided that I would go first, driving through customs. Gallantly they waved me through, but they stopped Gérard, taking him aside to check him. Quickly, I rolled down the car window and shouted back in a loud and clear voice, ‘Es mi marido — he is my husband,’ whereupon they released him. Perspiring and feeling rather humble, I take off my backpack in front of the Posada for Gérard to look after, and go to the reception. To lift my spirits, I try to recall elegant movements I had been taught during Feldenkrais training. In my best Spanish, I enquire about a vacant room, knowing there is not a chance. Still, miracles happen, I remind myself. The young hotel owner does not say no outright, but tells me to come back at six-thirty, since they hold reservations at the hotel only until six o’clock. I need a tonic at the bar to revive me. To be perfectly candid, I would prefer a gin and tonic but feel I should not yield to such temptations. In a short while, we go over to the monastery to collect the stamp for our credenciales. Downcast, I ask the young monk at the Colegiata monastery hostel for a double room. ‘No, only dormitories for twelve people each,’ he says, but kindly calls up the

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other inn and lo and behold — I do believe in miracles! — its owner mentions one last room available in the next village. He enquires whether we are a couple since the room has a double bed only and he had been asked for a room by two men just now but could not give it since it had a double bed. Our luck! We are prepared to walk the extra 4.5 kilometres to Burguete but the innkeeper offers instead to drive us there. How very kind! Burguete is a charming Basque village with lots of flowers and very neat houses. It was always a real village, whereas Roncesvalles consisted mostly of the monastery complex, nowadays with also some small hotels. Our room is in an old, but newly restored, spacious house. Its richly polished dark wooden floors are impeccably clean. The lady of the house rents out seven rooms on the first floor at three thousand five hundred pesetas (about thirty-five Australian dollars). A hot shower is simply bliss and we feel in a great mood although Gérard has shivering attacks and needs to be covered with lots of blankets to get warm. He recovers in time for dinner at nine o’clock when the landlady’s husband gives us a lift back to the inn in Roncesvalles. We have vegetables, lamb, salad and good wine for four thousand seven hundred pesetas and after dinner the innkeeper kindly drives us back again. Needless to say, we sleep well and are very pleased with our first day.

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Burguete – Pamplona Sleeping under the stars

When we appear shortly after eight o’clock, feeling slightly embarrassed for having slept in, our motherly landlady reassures us that we have done well to take time to recover. Outside, it is foggy and nine degrees. We are clearly in the mountains. Twenty-seven kilometres are ahead of us today but we feel quite rested and nothing specific hurts. No doubt, the arnica homoeopathy capsules that we began taking yesterday have helped prevent stiffness. Some kilometres further on, we stop for a cheese and bread breakfast on the edge of a meadow. Many pilgrims pass us with a ‘buen provecho — enjoy your meal.’ ‘Qué tal — how are you doing?’ another one asks. ‘Es un calvario — it is a calvary,’ Gérard jokes whereupon a pilgrim answers, ‘Piensate que te ganas el cielo con ésto — just think that you are earning heaven with this.’ Though he says it tongue-in-cheek, we must admit that the idea of being mendicants of heaven has not hitherto occurred to us. The surrounds of Roncesvalles seem to reverberate with echoes of the Chanson de Roland. Many variations of this legend exist, legend which is not only imprinted on the minds of the French, but Germans, Austrians and English

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people know it well, too. Modern historians might disagree that Charlemagne was actually in Spain but the legend persists. History tells that on 15 August 778, the rearguard of the Carolingian army, after a successful expedition to Zaragoza, and having dismantled the walls of Pamplona, was attacked by the Basques at Roncesvalles. This was Charlemagne’s first defeat and moved the French nation. Mythologised, altered and transformed into an epic, the story of this defeat became the most popular legend in the Occident. Legend has it that Charlemagne, still in Spain, upon receiving the emissaries of Marsil, the King of Zaragoza, who bring him offers of peace, entrusts Ganelon, stepfather of Roland, with his response. However, Ganelon allies himself with Marsil and together they plan treason against Charlemagne in order to take revenge on Roland whom Ganelon hates. When Ganelon returns, orders are given to return to France. Roland is left in charge of the rearguard. As they cross Roncesvalles, the Moors attack. Although they defend themselves valiantly, the French are losing the battle. Finally, only Roland, the archbishop and Oliveros are left. That is when Roland decides to blow his horn of supernatural qualities, an oliphant made from the horn of a unicorn. The sound carries over mountains and valleys and reaches Charlemagne who is way ahead in the Pyrenees. Charlemagne is perturbed, wants to return at once but is dissuaded from doing so by Ganelon. Oliveros and the archbishop are killed. Roland tries to break his sword against a rock. Instead, the rock splits! When he finally dies, with his face turned towards Spain, his soul is lifted by God to heaven. At last, Charlemagne returns and pursues the enemy’s armies until they are annihilated. God helps him by extending the daylight. In single combat, he kills Marsil. Marsil’s wife, the Queen Bramimonda, is taken to France where she is baptised in the name of Julienne. Ganelon the traitor is tried and executed in France.

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The Silent Slain We too, we too, descending once again The hills of our own land, we too have heard Far off Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain, The first, the second blast, the failing third, And with the third turned back and climbed once more The steep road southward, and heard faint the sound Of swords, of horses, the disastrous war, And crossed the dark defile at last, and found At Roncevaux upon the darkening plain The dead against the dead and on the silent ground The silent slain Archibald MacLeish, 1892–1982

On this our second day, we walk through forests richly grown with beeches, oaks and pines. Pleasantly shady paths lead through lovely undulating countryside. The Spaniards have taken great pains to restore the Ancient Road to its original beauty. We come across the Brazilians again; she is a vivacious university professor of linguistics in São Paulo and her frail husband, sixty-eight years old, a medical doctor. As we walk the path together, a Frenchman with a notepad says bonjour from his resting place on the wayside. We enquire about his writing. When the Brazilians have gone on, he confidentially tells us that because of the snoring of this Brazilian man, he has not slept one single minute at the monastery’s hostel. ‘I am so glad you believe in miracles and insisted on a good room last night,’ Gérard whispers into my ear. ‘Nor did a most charming French woman,’ the French pilgrim continues. ‘She decided to abandon her pilgrimage after such a night. But then,’ he adds, ‘she also has health problems which troubled her again during the night.’ He had met the young French lady in the Pyrenees,

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literally stumbling upon her in the thickness of the fog as she was passionately saying farewell to her boyfriend, who had gallantly carried the backpack up the mountain for her. ‘Quel brouillard! On touchait le ciel avec nos têtes — what a fog! We were touching the sky with our heads,’ he exclaims poetically and then tells us that he must do the pilgrimage alone, but wants to walk with us for a while. He talks incessantly. ‘My wife,’ he confides to us, ‘after bearing me four children of whom the two youngest ones are only three and four years old, abandoned me after twenty-three years of marriage for someone with blue eyes, leaving me alone with the children. Cela a été dur! — it has been tough!’ ‘Now, each of us has the small children every other week since my ex lives only five minutes away from me. At the beginning, the knowledge that she lived so close yet away from me was terribly hard to deal with. So many people divorce in France; I think more than half of all married couples split. After a while, the man finds it difficult to cope on his own, manages for about a year or so, then takes another wife, usually much younger than he is; he has children with her, only to find that this marriage does not last either. A vicious circle! This has to stop,’ he cries out into space in despair. He talks as if to himself and asks in between whether we have children too. ‘Yes, I have a son. He will join us in Sarria,’ Gérard says. Before a road bend, Gérard and I stop to take a photograph but our French pilgrim, oblivious, walks on. He has told us — fellow pilgrims — the story of his life. Much later, we pass him again as he happily lies in the grass, writing. ‘I now feel inspired!’ he calls. A flash encounter, brief but intense, between anonymous humans; one of many we shall experience on our Way. At Viscaret, a village which shows off some fine old mansions, we buy a sandwich filled with air-dried Serrano ham, the Spanish version of Italian prosciutto. The

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Brazilians and other pilgrims have stopped for lunch as well. Wives and girlfriends are busily rubbing suncream on their partners’ faces. On top of Puerto de Erro, a mountain pass, we decide to rest, hidden from the road by hazelnut bushes, brambles and beeches, before making our way through a kind of canyon, composed of layers and layers of limestone and slate. Groups of young pilgrims from France and Spain pass us. Everyone greets each other cheerfully, encouragingly. There is a spirit of camaraderie, of solidarity. Young Spanish cyclists — are they aspiring to become another Miguel Indurain in the Tour de France? — brave the path and promptly have one puncture after the other. I must take care not to stumble on the stone layers which form at their bottom a very narrow, washed-out path. This makes the descent long and tiresome. A young Frenchman walks slowly and in pain, but two friends keep him company. We make it to Zubiri and though this is not the guide book’s destination for today, we decide to call it a day. But alas, no vacant rooms are left at the inn and at the bar (a bar in Spain may be just a bar, but more often is also a restaurant and sometimes even a small hostel), Gérard is offered their last room but passes it on to two Colombian girls who come in after. They travel without sleeping bags. Gloria and Juan from the Canary Islands have found a room in a private house, but by now it is fully occupied too. Gloria is limping. Her toe is in great pain and she is going to see the pharmacist. At the village fountain, Gérard and I discuss the possibilities for the night. With envy, we look at the French youths who head for the river Arga for a swim. They are staying at the albergue, the pilgrims’ hostel. ‘Why do we have to be so complicated?’ moans Gérard, but we are just not mentally ready yet to sleep in dormitories. So we go back over the small Gothic bridge of Zubiri, look longingly down to the cool waters and carry on in search of a place to sleep.

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‘Only five kilometres to the next village,’ the owner of a large house tells me. ‘I do not rent rooms.’ The next village is Larrasoaña where, according to our guidebook, there is only an albergue, by now surely full. After that, there is nothing until Pamplona, another twenty-five kilometres away. So we dearly hope to find an adequate camping place nearby. We have to look for possibilities off the route since closeness to the river might result in a mosquito invasion. Gérard wanders off, following a small country lane, while I pray for a good outcome. My knees hurt. I feel tired, and have a sensation of being covered in dust. I ponder on what a village man told me when we crossed the small Gothic bridge of Zubiri. They call it the Bridge of Rabies because it would cure cattle miraculously from that disease, thanks to the relics of Saint Quiteria being buried underneath its foundation. The ritual consisted of turning the cattle in circles three times in the middle of the small bridge. Gérard comes back. He has found a camping place higher up, nestled amongst big trunks of beeches and hidden behind brambles. It is not as romantic as it sounds and we first have to clear the ground, but we are grateful for having a place to sleep. Dinner consists of what we happen to carry with us: bread, a tin of tuna fish, some dry Swiss sausage and for dessert, a few raisins. At nine o’clock — it is still daylight — we slide into our comfortable sleeping bags that were made in New Zealand and bought in Switzerland for their lightness — quite appropriate for the international mix of pilgrims. Gérard is glad we are in a beech forest and not in a pine forest which might have been dangerous in case of fire. As dusk falls and the first stars appear, I am reminded that in the Middle Ages, the Camino was also called the Via Láctea, for people said it followed the Milky Way. The warm sun on my face wakes me up. Quickly, we gather our things and commence our twenty-four-kilometre walk

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to Pamplona. The Colombian girls appear, wondering how and where we slept. We chat with the French and Spanish groups seen yesterday. They all go into Larrasoaña to buy bread — a wise move, as we find out later. We pass stately Basque houses built of granite, engraved with their year of construction and emblazoned with the owners’ coats of arms. One dates back to 1747. Gardens are full of colourful summer flowers. For a long and pleasant time we walk along the river Arga in the shade, delighting in its peaceful flow in the midst of the natural riverbed. The crystalline water reflects the branches and leaves of the overhanging trees. It is a narrow path, just one person wide, and at times leads over big stones, roots and rocks which could be dangerous in rainy weather. Shortly before Zuriáin, a small hamlet, the Spanish group stops to eat their boccadillos (sandwiches). We have no bread and ask a group of local Spanish people in the village whether there is a bakery nearby. ‘No, there won’t be any until shortly before Pamplona.’ ‘Well, then we must go hungry,’ I reply jokingly, whereupon one of the younger women detaches herself from the group. ‘I can give you some dulces — sweet cakes.’ She opens her car and hands us small cakes in all forms and shapes. We are overwhelmed, almost embarrassed by such spontaneous generosity. She even goes and picks tomatoes for us in her garden. About a kilometre further on, we enjoy our donated lunch, followed by wild blackberries. It is a nice place that Gérard finds, and he was right to insist that we should wait for an appropriate spot despite my getting irritated and hungry. Refreshed, we continue. Gérard points out herbs and flowers to me. Here is the narrow-leafed lungwort which has little blue flowers and distinctive leaves; there, pennyroyal with small pale purple flowers; green horsetail, shaped like a bottlebrush and tall, trumpet-shaped mallow.

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‘All these plants have curative properties,’ Gérard says while looking at Indian cress which grows in the shadow of bushes and resembles large jewels in orange and gold. Old black poplars rise high into the Navarrese sky. Butterflies accompany us and lizards lie lazily in the sun before dashing for cover. We see cats in the fields waiting for mice to come out of their holes. I am glad we have not opted for a pilgrimage on bicycle — one of the three accepted modes of doing the pilgrimage (on foot, bicycle or horse). We would never have managed those paths and would have had to follow the paved national roads, which are full of trucks. The Camino is extremely well marked with yellow arrows and occasionally with a sign showing a yellow concha (shell) on a blue background. There has been no time up to now to engage much in contemplation and meditation. All one is concerned about is one’s body, feet and legs. Gradually, I get used to the fatigue and discomfort. Gérard adjusts my backpack for the nth time — it helps relieve the pain in my shoulder. In the evening, my clavicle hurts and is swollen at the acromioclavicular joint but the pain fades away during the night. Luckily, my hip has not given me any trouble so far. I may be fatigued but I feel well. Is this a contradiction? We stop at a venta (stall) run by local children to buy a lemonade and some biscuits. The Colombian chicas arrive and insist on buying us drinks in gratitude for last night’s room. They are a trifle disappointed with their motherland, as they call Spain; it is not always as clean as they had expected and has expensive food. They come from Medellín, once called the ‘orchid capital’ before it acquired the notorious name of the Colombian ‘drug capital’, but they are quick to point out that life under the Guerilla — in charge of the city now — is worse than living under the drug barons. The younger girl is fairly expensively dressed and very well spoken. The other woman, in her late thirties, appears less urbane, more rustic, and carries the backpack,

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just one for both of them. Could she be the younger person’s maid? A small path leads us now through fertile countryside high above the river, surrounded by orchards and vegetable gardens, past elegant mansions with mature trees, manicured gardens and lawns of the deepest green I have ever seen. Most houses and farmyards have walls and gates around their properties and quite often keep ferocious guard dogs. A farmer tells us that this is for security reasons against pilgrims who do not deserve such a name. Two Japanese girls catch up with us. They live in Toledo, learning the art of damascening, which is metalwork inlaid with gold or silver, a Moorish tradition typical to Toledo. They are doing the pilgrimage out of curiosity, the same sort of inquisitiveness that might incite tourists to visit Kyoto and its temples. However, they plan to go only a small part of the way and shall complete their walk in Pamplona.

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Pamplona (Capital of Navarra) Hemingway’s city — the Basques — a painter

The Trinidad de Arre Basilica, whose nuns would surely have offered us accommodation, is closed. When we did part of the pilgrimage route by car last year, in the opposite direction, I trembled at the thought of having to cross Pamplona on foot. It looked so huge. People told us that pilgrims routinely got lost there. Right now, I am glad when the Spanish group catches up with us and offers to show us the most direct way to the albergue, right through Pamplona’s busy centre where we have to look out for traffic. After the peaceful countryside, it takes a while to get used to the hectic life in the city. We want to spend two nights in Pamplona, but albergues only allow one night’s stay. The pilgrims’ hostel in Pamplona has one room for one hundred and twenty people, and in the past it has occasionally accommodated up to two hundred and fifty people! Because we will need to stay in a hotel, we transform our backpacks into travelling bags and groom ourselves as well as possible. The albergue assistant writes down taxi numbers for us and advises us to call the hotels from the petrol station. I almost break my back carrying the

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travelling bag. It was much more comfortable to carry my belongings on my back. Well, well, I am learning lessons here! The petrol station warden is awfully helpful and the taxidriver is happy that we like the wine of his region. At the hotel Yoldi, we are informed that we just got the last room in Pamplona. What a luxurious feeling to have a shower — but even before that we bathe our feet in cold water to reduce the swelling. Dinner is very disappointing. By mistake, we were directed to a tourist tavern. The minestra, a vegetable soup, looks like overcooked vegetables swimming in grease. In the middle of the night, Gérard wakes up from a piercing pain, travelling from his feet to his head. A painkiller we carry with us helps but we go back to sleep rather worried. Pamplona is notorious for the Fiesta de San Fermín — made internationally famous by Hemingway’s book, Death in the Afternoon — which starts on the seventh hour on the seventh day of the seventh month every year and lasts for seven days. A herd of fierce bulls is let loose in the old town and directed through barricaded streets towards the bullring. Locals and aficionados from all over the world run in front of them and either maintain a safe distance from the animals or else risk being seriously hurt — quite a crazy and dangerous adventure, to which I can attest since I participated when I was in my twenties. I shall never forget the excitement and exuberation that took hold of the city (and me!) during those festive days. The fiesta had more of a local character in those days whereas nowadays, it has become hugely popular with tourists. Notwithstanding, the entire population of Pamplona still takes time out during the fiesta. There is, however, much more than bulls to this elegant, cultivated and industrious city. It exudes a feeling of affluence. People are well groomed, the cafés look inviting and the shops offer expensive goods. We understand there is little unemployment and the per capita income is above

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the national average. People are proud of their efficient health system and particularly of their university clinic, reputed to be amongst the best in Spain, and run by Opus Dei, a conservative Catholic organisation. Opus Dei also maintains a private university here. ‘But the fees are hefty,’ muttered our taxidriver. Pamplona was originally a crossroads, an encampment of many nations and cultures that were moving through Europe, such as Celts, Romans, Visigoths and Arabs. Habitually, old settlers rebelled against new settlers. The city was destroyed several times. Today, Pamplona is not only the capital of Navarra but also the cultural — but not political, as people are quick to point out — capital of the Basques. The Basques, called Euskaldunes in their own language, have always been an independent people. Even the Romans left them alone, merely negotiating with them to enlist a division of Basque soldiers in the Roman army. Their language, Euskera, is highly complex, their blood group, I am told, rare if not unique and their true origin a source of speculation even today. At the Pamplona cathedral, to help increase restoration funds, they charge three hundred pesetas for a guided visit. Assertive young women, expressing themselves beautifully in Castellano, the classic Spanish, show us through. As we admire the Mausoleum of the Kings, the guide explains that the dogs at the feet of the queen’s sculpted image symbolise fidelity and loyalty whereas the lions at the feet of the king indicate power. If sculptures are shown with two dogs fighting over a bone, they refer to the queen being French, and represent Castilla and France fighting over Navarra. In the past, Navarra was an independent kingdom, and today it is an autonomous province with many special rights and privileges granted to it through history. There is a statue of Ignacio de Loyola who founded the Society of Jesus (the Jesuits) in 1540. Later we shall see the house where he was born and where he recovered from being wounded as a captain. During his recovery, it is said that

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the only books they had for him to read were the Holy Scriptures. He meditated on them and forthwith dedicated the course of his life to spiritual matters. Behind the altar in the cathedral is the area where, in the Middle Ages, sick and tired pilgrims were treated. In the Rococo sacristy, mirrors are hung high and slightly inclined from the wall, apparently to enable priests to check the fitting of their robes before reading Mass. We pass on to the cathedral’s museum where we are fascinated with the many wooden statues of the Virgin Mary, representing the Romanesque and Baroque periods. In the winding, narrow streets of the old city, we come across the Spanish pilgrim group who had led us into the centre. In a desire to avoid the hot and arid Meseta (Spain’s Northern Plateau region), and because of time constraints, they will take the train to Ponferrada, a city about two hundred kilometres before Santiago, and resume the pilgrimage from there. We wish each other well. We shall probably never see them again but walking together has created a bond. We wonder how the Brazilians and the Colombian girls are doing. During our stroll in the old quarters, we discover the San Ignacio restaurant and are attracted to its polished wooden floors and its interior decoration. A pretty waitress serves us sautéed wild mushrooms, sepia (cuttlefish) with garlic and cuajada, a kind of fresh cheese, served with honey, all very delicious. ‘Who is the painter?’ we ask the waitress, pointing to the numerous paintings decorating the walls. ‘The gentleman behind you; he is the husband of the restaurant owner.’ We look back and a handsome Spaniard nods cheerfully. As we’re leaving the restaurant, Gérard stays behind and I discover him chatting with the painter. Carlos, casually but elegantly dressed, must be in his fifties, and is slightly balding. His blue eyes are full of radiant curiosity. His speech is fast; he lisps his Castellano in a manner peculiar

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to well-educated Spaniards. Painting is his hobby; in his working life, he runs an advertising agency. Gérard would love to see his more recent work. Spontaneously, he drives us to his home just outside Pamplona, a lofty, big apartment, spacious and light. Nuntchi, his wife, offers us Pacharán, a delicious liquor made of sloe berries, while Carlos shows us his recent work where he has used a special technique, leaving parts of the canvas unpainted yet cleverly integrated into the overall theme. Gérard wishes to buy some paintings to which we both are particularly attracted, which prompts Nuntchi to tell me an anecdote: ‘Do you know the difference between men and boys? Men’s toys are more expensive!’ We laugh conspiratorially. I like the solidarity amongst Spanish women. Nuntchi, long-legged and slim, with an olive complexion and a mane of curly hair that has the colour of ripe chestnuts, moves with the grace of a deer. We indulge in universal women’s topics such as love, beauty, health; and she tells me the story of her cook who continues to live with her ex-husband, simply because he cannot exist without her! Meanwhile, Carlos has drawn a sketch of me and Gérard has made a down payment in cash, drawn from our ‘iron’ reserves kept in his belt. To celebrate Carlos’s first sale, Nuntchi invites us for dinner at her restaurant. She also proposes to safeguard the paintings until we are able to pick them up. Nuntchi and Carlos speak Castellano together. Indeed, their generation speaks hardly any Basque. General Franco discouraged local or regional languages which he believed worked against a united Spain. Before he was proclaimed king, Juan Carlos, according to his biographer, asked Franco for advice on governing Spain, but Franco told him that he had to find his own style. There was only one thing he would like to ask from the future king, and that was to safeguard the unity of Spain. However, there is a reaction now to Franco’s way of governing and, as elsewhere in Europe, regional languages are very much ‘in’.

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An eagle cruises over an abandoned castle. King of the skies! Spellbound, we watch it draw its majestic circles in the air. On the ground, a group of Englishmen catches up with us, one of them a mathematics professor who regularly spends his holidays on a farm in the Western Australian wheatbelt. Small world, as we have a farm in that part of the country! On the horizon, the Pyrenees hide behind veils. Looking across the undulating countryside, along the Cantabrian mountain range, we detect reefs of a prehistoric sea. A Brazilian woman and a Basque girl talk with us about Coelho. There again is the question: has he walked the pilgrimage or not? Certainly, some of his meditation exercises are excellent. I carry them with me. It is very draughty where we eat and we try to hide from the wind behind a Romanesque church. Hungry dogs beg for a bite. Gérard feeds them with bread and cheese. Alvaredo, a naturopath who wrote a book about medicinal plants that grow along the pilgrimage route, joins us. He studied in Canada, the USA and in France and has gathered much knowledge. He offers to send us a copy with his compliments. At the top of Alto del Perdón, the Pass of Forgiveness — which we have to cross — there are about two hundred windmills. Not Don Quixote ones, but huge modern fans which produce electricity. I am almost blown away by the wind as we cross the pass. On the other side, we encounter a climate that is drier and air that is perfumed with lavender, rosemary and thyme. Even the sky seems bluer. Although we are still in the same province, the Mediterranean atmosphere is unmistakable. Gérard experiences a new feeling and wonders whether it is that of a pilgrim. He finds it difficult to put in words but says that there is definitely greater clarity of mind, a sense of harmony, and contentedness. As he wipes the sweat from his forehead, he adds that it also feels like going through a detoxification process. I can sympathise as I seem to be going through a similar process. What a relief, though, that

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the pain he felt during the night in Pamplona has not returned. Cyclists pass us. How courageous of them to ride down the hill where so many pebbles are loose! Sometimes they have to jump over big stones. Lunch beckons in an old farmhouse in Uterga where the daughter of the house serves salad and omelette to hungry pilgrims. The owner, a man of slow reactions, and giving the impression of being older than the sixty years he tells us, shows us around his huge house that has a grand staircase made of dark wood and colourful azulejos (hand-painted and glazed ceramic tiles). The roof is covered with ancient tiles. He is particularly proud of his chapel on the first floor where sometimes a holy mass is held. The statue of the Virgin goes on processions every 8 December. He shows us old mass books, and rooms he has prepared for pilgrims who want to stay overnight. ‘Don’t you wish to stay the night?’ he asks and insists I play the piano, which is covered in dust. Happily, I oblige and play a simple tune. ‘Qué hacen — what do you do?’ he asks. Gérard tells him about farming in Australia since this is what he will be able to relate to best. As farming is run on a smaller scale in his village, he marvels at the dimensions. When we prepare to leave, his wife comes into the room and passes him some medicine. Learning from her husband that we are from Australia, she says that she would love to receive a postcard and asks us to pray for her husband in Santiago.

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Puente la Reina Struck by angels’ voices in an ancient Templar church

The wind has not stopped blowing since Alto del Perdón. Upon arrival in our lodgings in Puente la Reina, where the four pilgrimage routes from France converge and form one Camino, Gérard falls into a deep sleep while I quickly unpack, wash our clothes, sort papers and plan the next day before we start exploring the town. Already it is six o’clock, but this is not late in Spain where churches and monuments only open at five, and close at eight or nine o’clock. As we open the door of the Iglesia del Crucifijo — the Church of the Crucifix — we hear a woman vocalising with such purity, fervour and intensity that we are awe-struck. Feeling like intruders, we quickly slip into an empty bench. Her voice carries beautifully. The acoustics in this small and dark Templar church are very powerful. It is said that lower light levels sharpen the hearing and a single voice can come back as a choir — or more poetically, that a single voice travels to heaven and the angels reply! ‘Did you sing tunes by Hildegard von Bingen?’ I ask her when she is about to leave the church. Her singing reminds me of a CD I have.

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‘Sólo cantaba lo que salía de mi corazón — I only sang what came out of my heart.’ Her face shines, her eyes sparkle. She must have enjoyed the experience of singing with the angels! The sound of her voice lingers on even after she has left. Finally we collect ourselves as an unusual crucifix has aroused our curiosity. It is put together out of rough tree branches. Oral tradition maintains that in gratitude to the apostle for having stopped a plague, this crucifix was to be carried from an unknown German town to Santiago. In Puente la Reina, however, it refused to be moved further. Outside we admire the main street — ‘the most beautiful street in the world’ — the locals are proud of their Calle Mayor. Indeed, it is an elegant street, with emblazoned houses and ancient churches, which leads directly to the bridge which has given the village its name. It was built by Queen Doña Mayor, wife of King Sancho III (1000–35), so that pilgrims would no longer have to wade through the deep river. It glows in the golden evening light, and we ponder the destinies of the millions of pilgrims who have crossed it. A pretty legend surrounds it, the legend of the chori. In the centre of the bridge, there once was a very small tower containing a Renaissance carving of the Virgin of Puy. From time to time, the Virgin received the visit of a chori — a little bird, which cleaned the statue of spider webs with its wings and washed the Virgin’s face with its beak, moistened in the water of the river. In time, the chori’s arrival caused much celebration in the village. Unperturbed by the fuss, the little bird would always scrupulously complete its ritual. We pass a lady doing her evening walk in the company of a nun. I ask her where we can buy bread. ‘Oh, the shop has just closed, but wait a moment. Rosario,’ she calls into a building where the gate is down, ‘our friends would like to buy some bread.’ Sure enough, the supermarket manager himself comes out, lets us in through the back door, opens the cash

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register again and sells us bread, cheese, biscuits and almonds for our lunch tomorrow. Later we ask a passer-by where to eat. He switches to French since he lived in France and wants to practise it. He offers to drive us to his favourite restaurant but we do not like it. It is too noisy. We thank him and go and eat a pilgrim menu in a restaurant near the hostel consisting of lentil soup, roasted chicken and ice cream. Wine, water and taxes are included in the price of one thousand one hundred pesetas per head (about eleven Australian dollars), the usual price for pilgrim menus. Never before in my life have I given so much attention to my feet. I have become acutely aware of what their small surface has to carry. Every morning, I massage them lovingly and respectfully with a special ointment of deer grease and beeswax, and give them a cooling bath upon arrival at each destination. As we check out of the Hotel Jukea in the morning, the hotel owner looks questioningly at Gérard and says, ‘Tu te vas con calma; hasta Estella son solamente cuatro horítas — go in peace, take it easy; it is only four short hours to Estella.’ Well, he must have wanted to give us courage as it will take us seven hours, admittedly with many stops! Breakfast as usual is eaten somewhere along the way, since Spain awakens late and we want to leave early. It consists of bread and cheese, followed by wild blackberries. They blacken our lips and fingers and gathering them is time consuming. ‘But who cares?’ Gérard says. ‘We are free and independent and have all the time in the world!’ We meet up again with the couple from the Canary Islands. Gloria’s toe, awfully bad back in Zubiri, has since healed well and they are walking swiftly. Her sixty-year-old husband, Juan, is an architect who works in Tenerife but is actually of Navarrese extraction. An aficionado of the Fiesta San Fermín in Pamplona, he has gone there every year for the last forty years. ‘It is something very serious,’ he says,

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and the fact that he broke his leg and other bones on one or two occasions is of no concern. His wife laughs goodhumouredly, trying to keep up with the pace he sets. With rich, auburn hair framing an almost wrinkle-free face, she looks young for a mother of four grown-up daughters. More blackberries, swollen purple and tasting both sweet and tart, beckon from under threatening brambles. We cannot resist. In the shade of olive trees, we have a little rest before continuing on the dirt track which leads us through vegetable plots, orchards and olive groves. Over a small Gothic bridge we enter Cirauqui, which in Basque means ‘vipers’ nest’. Apparently, this refers to the rocky hill upon which it is built. The village itself is rather enchanting with its winding alleys and stately houses. Last year, when passing through here by car, we visited its two thirteenthcentury churches situated on top of the hill. This time we merely stop to buy bread and take photographs with Gloria and Juan. From Cirauqui, the route is flanked by cypresses and leads along a stretch of the old Roman road towards a Romanesque bridge. The day gets hotter. The cool and prealpine climate of high Navarra is definitely behind us. The countryside is very pretty though. Harvested wheatfields and vineyards greet us. Gérard’s beard is growing and, with his scarf loosely tied around his head, he resembles Lawrence of Arabia. A sign on a house offers food for pilgrims. Exhausted from the midday sun (I have re-written the old saying: ‘Only mad dogs, Englishmen, “and pilgrims” go out in the midday sun’), we enter to buy something to eat. I remark plaintively to the cheerful countrywoman who serves us, ‘Es duro — it is tough.’ She looks at me with an envious smile ‘Pero tan boníto — but so very lovely!’ Her words remind me of how lucky I am to be able to do this walk. In the next village, Villatuerta, we spot a huge tree and yield to the temptation to rest in its shade. Our scarves help keep the flies away. They are as invasive as in some parts of Australia. In Lorca, there is a village fountain to fill

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up our water bottles. Oh, what fresh water now means to us. Luckily, the Camino has so far provided us with plenty of fuentes, as the fountains are called, around which pilgrims gather to fill their bottles, exchange impressions and have a chat. I am reminded of an incident last year when we walked the idyllic ‘Path of Switzerland’ around the lake of Uri and stumbled upon an American family where a plump little girl cried out, ‘Daddy, I wanna Coke!’ when her father encouraged her to drink from the fountain. At last, we walk into Estella La Bella, as it was called in the Middle Ages, and head immediately for the albergue to collect our stamp for our pilgrims’ passports. It is a restored building, situated in the old French quarter, and whose cool marble floors look particularly inviting on this hot day. All our fellow pilgrims concur that the last bit of the Camino was especially arduous. We follow the Calle de la Rua — the Road of the Road, literally translated, and also called the pilgrim road, cross the river Ega and continue to our booked room at the Pensión Christina, situated in the first floor of a residential building off the main plaza. I am unusually impressed by its shiny parquetry floors. To me, covered in dust, they look impeccably clean. Gérard has negotiated a quiet room at the back which opens to an inner courtyard where washing is hung, but the tiny room gives me claustrophobia. In addition, every noise can be heard from the other apartments in the building, even the TV. The sheets resemble voile curtains and the mattresses do not even deserve such a name. Gérard finds it — though only at first — nostalgic, recalling his student days in Madrid. We change to a more cheerful room in the morning, facing a busy square; but, being Sunday, it might not be too noisy. As we are dying of thirst, we head for the plaza and join the two Brazilian and Basque women we had seen at Alto del Perdón who are enjoying a coffee. Evelyn from Brasilia tells me that she is walking the Camino for the third time

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within three years but this time to Nájera only, where she will help out in the albergue to give back to the Camino a bit of what it has given to her. She says it changed her life. When she walked the Camino for the first time, she was divorced and greatly unhappy, suffering terribly, both physically and mentally. In the ‘Portagnol’ language as she calls it (mixing Portuguese and Spanish), she describes her experiences: ‘I met such wonderful people who helped me, encouraged me. For me, the Camino was healing. Such an emotional experience! There was a man who suffered aching knees and terrible blisters. At the albergues, I would help him with the bandages and massage his legs so that he would be able to continue his journey. I lost sight of him in Santiago but later learned that he was a real prince from Germany — but he never let on to me. We were just two pilgrims walking the Road.’ Back in Brazil, she got her life back in order, started a new job, became more creative, began to write poetry and became reconciled with her ex-husband. ‘I feel serene now, happy and in control of things; and what’s more, I have time, the luxury of all things,’ she smiles. She is about forty-five years old, good-looking, and has changed, as I have done, into a dress. I am also wearing sandals which, when staying in cities, I prefer to my hiking boots. Together we sit on cane chairs in the plaza bar, watching the people on the main square and talking for a long time before going over to the church of San Juan Bautista, where we meet Hans, the German pilgrim, who has been mentioned to us as one of the unusual pilgrims walking the Camino. About thirty years old, very slim, boasting a huge and twisted moustache and accompanied by a faithful German shepherd dog, he is on his way back from Santiago and plans to continue to Jerusalem and Rome, and even to Mecca. ‘In the morning when it’s cool, I walk for twenty or thirty

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kilometres, then I rest during the hot midday sun and walk another twenty kilometres or so before night falls. I sleep outside. I carry my tent with me. This is why my backpack is so heavy, about thirty-five kilograms,’ he explains in his soft-spoken German. We look at the huge backpack and wish him well. ‘Alles Gute!’ Inside the church, we search in vain for its Romanesque baptismal font and, upon leaving, walk into Hans and his friend Roger, a Canadian judging by his accent, who have positioned themselves by the church door, begging for money. I am astonished, and when his friend pressures us for money, I am quite taken aback. We observe poorly dressed Spanish women giving them coins, faithful to an old tradition that whatever you give to a pilgrim you give to Saint James and to God, but are Hans and Roger, both young and capable, allowed to exploit such a tradition? I am not sure and am even more confused when I notice on our walk to the pilgrims’ eating place their two backpacks in front of a drinking pub, guarded by the German shepherd dog. Dog and backpacks are still there when we return two hours later. Pilgrims or vagabonds? The restored Kings’ Palace of Navarra, a Romanesque building, houses a museum dedicated to Gustavo de Maezta, a twentieth-century Spanish artist who spent his latter years in Estella. His paintings are not to my liking. I much more enjoy the special and free exhibition of church paintings of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, gathered from surrounding churches and monasteries. Gérard would dearly love to see these paintings restored to preserve them for future generations; and indeed, most of them are in great need of attention. Downstairs is an exhibition of Picasso drawings made in the thirties, called the ‘Suite Vollard’, inspired by Marie-Thérèse Walter, later Picasso’s companion. The Iglesia San Pedro de la Rua rises high on a cliff, facing the royal palace. This church is famous for its Romanesque cloister of which, sadly, only two thirds

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remains. King Felipe II partly destroyed the cloister when building his palace. In 1920, the alcalde (mayor) built a road nearby, which is very noisy. He had to go to prison for that. Only recently, a French tenor refused to continue singing in a concert being filmed for television because of the noise from the road. ‘It was very embarrassing,’ the people at the tourist office admit, but they assure us that a decision has been made to close that road. The cloister once owned a relic of San Andrés. Relics were revered in the Middle Ages and represented a source of income for any church or monastery. ‘Pués — well,’ the church attendant continues, ‘the relic got stolen a long time ago but in the early nineties, I forget the exact year, an Italian pilgrim, hearing of it, intervened personally with the Pope so that we would be given a new relic. Y así fue — and so it happened!’ He ignores my question as to what the new relic exactly is. We visit the Iglesia San Miguel, which stands in the Navarrese quarter where narrow streets have kept its medieval character. The tympanum shows carvings of people with expressive faces and perfect drapery. Cathedral entrances are structured to attract people. In the days when most people could not read, they understood the symbolism of images and recognised the persons represented by statues. In this way, the people could read the history carved into cathedral reliefs. Today, much of this knowledge has been lost. We are joined in our admiration of this Romanesque masterpiece by a French couple holidaying in Spain who want to know everything about our daily life as pilgrims. ‘What do you do about the washing?’ she asks. When I tell her that I wash our things every day in the handbasin of wherever we are, she pulls a face as if to say ‘this is not for me’. I can understand her. A few months ago, I would have had the same reaction. In the evening light we go to visit the Gothic church, Santo Sepulchro. Standing alone and unencumbered by other buildings, it allows its beauty to be fully appreciated.

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Its main portal is pure Gothic. Estella became affluent because of the pilgrimage road, and a king granted it special privileges in the eleventh century, which in turn attracted Jews and French people alike. They settled on the right side of the river, still lined with stately buildings. In the fifteenth century, Estella became so wealthy that the king introduced laws against display of excessive luxury in dresses. Today, however, Estella does not convey an impression of affluence. In the centre, many shops are closed. In fact, it looks run-down. ‘Here is a city which has the most picturesque river flowing through its centre, flanked by medieval palaces and houses. If only they made an effort and cleaned up the rubbish,’ a visibly upset German tourist mutters, as we stand together on the bridge. We had decided to take a bus to the Monasterio de Irache, but the bus driver says that he won’t be stopping there. Gérard suggests hitchhiking. What an unusual idea! But he approaches a Spaniard in a parking lot and asks how to get to Irache, whereupon the helpful Spanish father, with son, offers to drive us there. On the way, he enlightens us on the history of Irache. ‘Can you see the Montejurra mountain range? It is a symbol for the Navarrese Carlists. You know about the Carlist movement?’ ‘Por favor, explíquenos — please tell us.’ ‘Pués — well, in 1814, King Ferdinand VII, son of Charles IV, a Bourbon king, who had had to abdicate in favour of Joseph Bonaparte, Napoleon’s brother, was restored to power. When he died twenty years later, he deprived his brother Don Carlos of succession in favour of his infant daughter Isabel, whose mother, Doña Maria Cristina, became regent. Don Carlos took this badly and so the first Carlist war started. The second Carlist war,’ he says, turning towards us in the back of the car and gesticulating so enthusiastically that we get worried about the traffic on the road, ‘was about ten years later. But the Bourbon dynasty

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survived. Nuestro Rey Juan Carlos — our King Juan Carlos is the grandson of Alfonso XIII and Alfonso XII was the son of Isabel II. Do you follow me?’ he asks as he turns into a side road leading up to the monastery. ‘Benedictine monks settled here in the tenth century but I think it already existed at the time of the Visigoths. I know it was very powerful in the eleventh century and its university was muy famosa — very famous in Spain. But then came times of upheaval, Napoleonic troops, the Peninsular War, the desamortización, no doubt you heard of it?’ We nod. The desamortización, which occurred around 1835, was the conversion from religious to civil ownership. ‘Today, Irache is run by the government.’ We have arrived at the parking area of Irache and thank him for having been so helpful and informative. ‘Pray for me in Santiago,’ he cries after us, engine roaring. We enter the serene Romanesque church built in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It has an unusual, small crucifix where Christ is attached to the cross with ropes. The twelfth-century Madonna statue is superb and is a copy of a Madonna which still resides in the parish village where it was made. Two lively children run around, interrupting us in our contemplation. As I am admiring the statue of the Virgin Mary, the little girl is standing nearby looking impatient for some reason. Then I hear her pray loudly, ‘Dear Virgin Mary, please remove the señora from here so that Daddy can take a picture of me!’ Adjacent to the monastery, the Bodega Irache has installed, next to a water fountain, a wine fountain for pilgrims, as a means of fortifying and strengthening them! When I first read about it, I thought it was a joke. ‘Obviously,’ Gérard says, drinking the wine from the fountain, ‘it is not a reserva wine that is pouring out, but it is quite decent.’ A car stops. A Gypsy woman approaches the fountain

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with a 1.5 litre plastic bottle to get water, as she pretends, but it is quite obvious that she really wants to fill it with wine. A man joins her. They are impatient for us to leave. Finally, they cry, ‘We are pilgrims but have not much time, so we go by car to Santiago,’ hurriedly fill their bottle with wine and rush off — in the opposite direction! Nobody stops to give us a ride back — but with no backpacks to crush us, the five-kilometre walk is a breeze.

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Estella – Viana Sensing the energy in the Santo Sepulchro in Torres del Rio

We are off to an early start. It is still dark. Our walking canes resound in the stillness of the morning. Spanish cities can be so quiet at dawn. Los Arcos is twenty-five kilometres away. It will be hot today, over thirty degrees. We say bonjour to the French people seen at the restaurant last night, a family of four from Poitiers where they live in a prieuré (priory). The father walks with his teenage daughter while the son accompanies his mother. In the distance, limestone cliffs are lit by the morning sun. Gérard spots a big bird and describes it to me, as I am short-sighted: ‘It is probably a common buzzard but I am not quite sure. It has a tail that looks like a triangle with a brown stroke on both sides of the triangle and a light brown, almost white on the inside of the tail. It is of medium size. What a gorgeous sight in this clear blue sky.’ ‘Buen camino,’ the cycling pilgrims shout across the street to us, a greeting we hear often. In Ireland, they would say: ‘May the road rise to meet you!’

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In Azqueta, a man standing in his garden next to a Maltese cross calls out to us. He is Pablito, known to invite pilgrims into his house for coffee. There we meet a young Frenchman from Paris who used to work for French televison and who is as inquisitive as a reporter. He has good words about the Spaniards whom he finds tolerant and welcoming, and is not so sure whether his French compatriots would behave in the same manner. ‘Il est un peu fou — he is a bit crazy, they would most likely say of a pilgrim who walks!’ Pablito himself did the Camino in 1951. He looks younger than his age and his huge beard becomes him well. ‘I used to be an antiquarian,’ he says. ‘My wife, Clara, is a teacher.’ Clara is very slim and dressed in a mini-skirt. They wonder why Swiss–Australians know Castellano and we tell them about Gérard’s studies and work in Madrid and Barcelona, our life together in Spain and how much I enjoyed my work in sunny Andalusia, especially after rainy Brussels. Before long, we discuss changes that have occurred in Spanish society since Spain became a democracy, and we challenge them with what the French pilgrim of Spanish Andalusian extraction had told us back in the Pyrenees: ‘My countrymen have allowed pornography to enter their living rooms as easily as the Virgin Mary.’ Strong words! Clara disagrees. ‘In the past, there often used to be a false morality. People were obliged to follow the Church because the Church and the crown would always take sides together. These days, those who want to be spiritual are so because they truly want to be so.’ It is not really surprising that the Spanish Catholic Church would take sides with the crown as its leaders usually came from the same aristocratic background. The church also sided with General Franco. But I like what she says, that those who want to be spiritual are so because they truly want to be so. Clara adds, ‘We did not bring up our two daughters

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religiously — we wanted to allow them to choose for themselves.’ Upon hearing this, the French reporter, hitherto passively listening to our discussion, looks at her. ‘Madame, I am all for a liberal education. But the Christian faith is part of our tradition and cultural heritage. We have an obligation to impart this to our children. At least, we must give them a spiritual platform so that they can choose for themselves later which religion or philosophy they want to adopt.’ I think he has a point. I for one am glad to have been given a spiritual platform by my parents. Two pilgrims call up to us from the depth of the exotic thirteenth-century Fuente de los Moros (Fountain of the Moors). Sitting at the bottom of the wide steps of the barrel-vaulted cistern, they are bathing their feet in the cold water. I am tempted to join them but Gérard is attracted to the elegant Baroque tower of Villamayor’s church and wants to have a closer look. Pablito told us to knock at the first door on the right at the entry of the village and to ask for the key to the church. The woman opens the church very willingly but she is impatient for us to leave. Finally, she runs out of the church, comes back and explains that she is waiting for the mobile shop to arrive. Small villages in Spain nowadays are dependent on vans passing through periodically, offering all sorts of goods for sale. While she keeps an eye and an ear out for the van, we contemplate the Romanesque church which has only one nave. I like it; its lines are pure and simple. A jewel in the church is the processional cross made in the twelfth century from beaten silver; it is considered to be very precious in terms of quality and rarity and is still used for processions but otherwise kept behind iron bars in an illuminated niche. We decide to have lunch in the shady grounds of this lovely church, where we have a grand view of the undulating countryside below. The village itself is nestled into a hill topped by the ruins of a castle. It looks

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prosperous and clean, with stately old houses and wellmaintained gardens. The few new houses are built in the same style as the old, thus fitting harmoniously into the medieval setting. Rare in Spain! Vineyards, olive groves and wheat fields with rich fertile soil in a deep red surround it. We continue our walk and as we descend, pass a big winery, prompting Gérard to contemplate life in a winery in the north of Spain, complete with vintage car museum. ‘One must always have projects and dreams,’ he says when I look at him questioningly. The path, now resembling a farm track, takes us through vineyards, all impeccably maintained. But what hard work for the back during wine harvest! A farmer, driving a tractor in the vineyard, tells us that he does the harvesting mostly with his own family, selling the grapes to the big wine estates. When I see the amount of pesticide being sprayed in this vineyard, I make a mental note always to wash grapes thoroughly. In fact, I may give preference to organic wine. We approach a huerta, a vegetable garden as pretty as an oasis, set amongst the surrounding wheatfields. It has flood irrigation, which means that it is watered by small canals that surround the property. Sliding shutters control the amount of water going into each field, and the ground gets flooded each time. This method is also used in orange tree plantations and was introduced to Spain by the Arabs. Soon, the Camino rises to nine-hundred metres before gradually descending to Arcos. For about twelve kilometres there is no village in sight — and no shade either, except for some haystacks where we rest for a moment before tackling the last bit going over the Portillo de las Cabras, the goats’ crossing, which is arduous walking. As we enter Los Arcos at four in the afternoon, only the noise of our walking sticks resounds in this otherwise siesta-quiet town. Not a soul is to be seen. At the albergue, our pilgrim companions give us a big welcome but we still do not have the courage to stay. The hostel’s administrator — a

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Belgian, temporarily helping out — shows us to a private hostel nearby where a young, fat woman with a kind face takes us up the external staircase of a whitewashed house to a room complete with its very own private terrace overlooking an orchard. The bathroom is downstairs. It is not too clean; but considering we shall be the only occupants, this is fine. Gérard goes off in search of food and water. I try to rest my feet; they ache terribly. On our way to mass we pass an old man sitting on a stool outside his house. He is eager for a chat. As he talks, he displays one lonely yellow tooth. At the church, a group of elderly women, all dressed in black, recite the rosary in a monotonous voice. Punctually at eight-thirty, the mass begins, conducted by a young priest, full of fervour, who asks everyone to pray for the pilgrims. After mass, he gives special blessings to the pilgrims present. He calls us all to come forward and hands us a special prayer written in the mother tongue of each pilgrim and featuring a picture of a statue of Saint James on the front. Lord Be for us A companion on the journey The guide on the intersections The strengthening during fatigue The fortress in danger The resource on our itinerary The shadow in the heat The light in the darkness The consolation during dejection And the power of our intention, So that we may under your guidance, Safely and unhurt, Reach the end of our journey and Strengthened with gratitude and power, Secure and filled with happiness,

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Rejoin our home. For Jesus Christ, our Lord, Amen. Apostle James, pray for us. Holy Virgin, pray for us. I feel very vulnerable tonight; tears run down my cheeks. With some of the other pilgrims we go in search of Saint James’s statue, depicted on the prayer leaflet, and find it upstairs in the choir section of the church. The priest asks whether we have any problems and Wolfgang from Germany speaks. We had seen him earlier in the day, walking through meadows and fields with the aid of a very tall staff, carefully avoiding other pilgrims, seeking solitude. Someone translates for him. It appears he has lost his staff. The priest laughs reassuringly. ‘Life will give you many more,’ he says, and opens the Gothic cloister for us. The sight of countless red roses in full bloom is stunning. Clouds of bewitchingly sweet fragrance reach us — and engulf us. The late evening light renders the flowers almost translucent and bestows an enchanting atmosphere on the cloister. As we leave, the priest draws our attention to the carved relief of Saint Mary who sits above the main entry of the church in her own Greek temple portal. ‘Every 15 June,’ he says gently, ‘a ray of sunshine caresses the statue of Mary.’ Back at our abode, the perfume of the night jasmine invades our terrace and a full moon rises behind the orchard. As we sit quietly on our terrace savouring these elevating moments, a traditional Gaelic blessing comes to mind: Deep peace of the running wave to you Deep peace of the flowing air to you Deep peace of the quiet earth to you Deep peace of the shining stars to you Deep peace of the gentle night to you Moon and stars pour out their healing light to you Deep peace to you

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At Torres del Rio, the church, Santo Sepulchro, is said to be one of the architectural jewels of the Camino. Again, we have to ask for the person who holds the key and then go in search of that person’s house, hoping she or he is available. We are lucky, the woman immediately agrees to come and open it. The church is indeed a gem, small but tall and octagonal, which brings to mind the Templar order that guarded the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Experts say it may have had a connection with the Monastery of Irache, which was very powerful in those times. ‘Look, this is geometrical perfection!’ a German pilgrim exclaims, pointing to the star-shaped cupola. Decoration is sparse but we cannot help admiring a crucifix dating back to the thirteenth century, which is of great simplicity, showing a serene and peaceful Christ. Interestingly, the Romanesque crucifix shows four nails, not three, and the feet of Christ are not crossed. The Spanish woman who opened the church for us says quietly, ‘Dicen que da mucha energía — they say this church radiates with energy.’ We, too, feel its powerful energy and do not wish to leave this blessed spot, but must go on. The Camino takes us through groves of biblical-looking olive trees with huge, gnarled trunks and silverish green leaves, looking solid, conveying a feeling of timelessness. In five-and-half hours, we advance another twenty kilometres and have now achieved a total of one hundred and fifty kilometres in seven days. Apart from side trips, about eight hundred more! To encourage ourselves, we think of the distance we have already walked and not of what is to come. Shortly before Viana, we rest for lunch. Gérard takes out his mat and sleeps a bit. He is wearing a short-sleeved shirt today. No matter how much suncream he applies, he feels the burning sun. Pilgrims pass, worrying. ‘Tódo bien — all well?’ Two of them, a portly, grey-haired Spaniard and his daughter, elect to stop nearby, and we exchange

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experiences and impressions. Between the two of them, they have sent twenty kilograms excess baggage back to their home in Murcia. Now, they weigh each item. Every gram counts. Although used to fine hotels, they have made it a habit to stay at the pilgrims’ hostels, to remain in touch with other pilgrims. In Pamplona, however, they stayed at a five-star hotel and were pampered with massages and saunas. ‘One never knows when the opportunity might arise again!’ The father talks of the dedication the hostel people have, and mentions one in particular who massaged his blistered feet and bandaged his aching knee. We wonder what items could we possibly send away? Really we need it all, being two months away and ending the pilgrimage in mountainous Galicia in chilly October. The sleeping bags are the heaviest items, but they will come in useful at the albergues once we are ready to sleep there, and, of course, when sleeping à la belle étoile, under the stars, in the desert climate of the Meseta, which is something we are looking forward to. Having visited Viana last year, we continue on the road without walking up to the old city which is full of grand old mansions and palaces one would wish to be in a better state of preservation. At a petrol station where we get some fresh water, a Spanish cyclist, doing the pilgrimage with his girlfriend, asks me in a mockingly pitiful tone, ‘tienes frío — are you cold?’ when he sees me with my long-sleeved shirt. Of course, the Spaniards are tanned and used to the sun — the reason his girlfriend wears a low-cut T-shirt without sleeves. The midday route, mercifully, leads through some shady pinewoods where at an old hermitage a pilgrim cyclist is resting. Too soon we are in full sun again, and it all seems endless. I make a conscious effort to walk with awareness and care in an effort to be kind to my knees.

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Logroño (Capital of Rioja) Fine Rioja wine, museums and a Michelangelo painting

Three kilometres before Logroño, our feet and legs protest with such urgency that we call a taxi at the petrol station and ask the driver to take us to a hotel he can recommend. We get a mini-tour of the hotels — two are luxuriously sterile, one too old and one too expensive or ‘bad value,’ as Gérard calls it. A suitable one is already full. Finally, we find one that offers us an excellent deal for two nights. We are delighted — and so is the taxidriver, who wants to participate in the good deal by overcharging. The porter — a bespectacled and awfully intellectual-looking young man — on seeing the backpacks, asks respectfully, ‘Son Ustedes peregrinos — are you pilgrims?’ He asks us to give a beso, a hug, to the apostle when we arrive in Santiago. Gérard goes to get the pilgrim’s stamp at the albergue where he is surprised to find a marble fountain at its entrance for pilgrims to rest and bathe their feet. What are we missing? The assistants were most welcoming, he reports, and showered him with information and pamphlets on Logroño. Logroño is a lively city and has an entire street of tapa

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bars. Tapa bars are an institution in Spain, serving tapas, small appetisers made up of seafood, tortilla (omelette), airdried ham or mushrooms grilled with garlic and usually enjoyed with a glass of red wine. Chatting with friends, one goes from one bar to the other, sampling its specialities. At Gabrieles, we select a menu for two thousand pesetas, consisting of summer salad, sepias in their own ink, a favourite of ours, and flan, Spain’s delicious caramel pudding. Wine would have been included but we are anxious to select a fine Rioja wine. After all, we are in the Rioja region. Gérard selects an excellent bottle of 1983 crianza that costs only one thousand one hundred pesetas. A merry group of Germans has joined us. They do the pilgrimage by alternately walking and riding a coach. It has been a long day and I am grateful for the comfort of a good bed. Breakfast at the hotel includes honeydew melons, freshly squeezed orange juice, pan con tomate, which is bread with fresh tomato pulp and often eaten with air-dried Serrano ham, delicious ricotta, cakes, coffee and manzanilla, chamomile tea. In Spain, chamomile is very aromatic and is drunk quite frequently at bars in the morning — not only by women but also by men — or ordered after a meal. It has a sweet aroma that embodies the flavour of the Mediterranean countryside. Most importantly, modern research confirms its healing potential for the nervous and immune systems. After breakfast, we decide to visit a few of the seventeen churches Logroño has and to sample the atmosphere in the capital of the Rioja wine region. The cathedral, La Redonda, is closed for repairs. They are putting in new heating, explains the priest, whom we happen to meet in the street. Seeing my disappointment he suggests we follow him, lets us enter the sacristy and tries to open the safe where a Michelangelo painting is kept. But he does not know the combination. ‘Come again tonight,’ he says, ‘by then, I shall be organised.’

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I like the nearby Bartolomé church, built between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, which has pure and simple Romanesque characteristics and a very fine Gothic portal which features outstanding carved sculptures. An old priest prepares to read mass. How can he possibly see in this darkness? He must know the words by heart. Sitting or kneeling on benches, people pray. An austere ambience reigns. We stay for a while to pray and meditate. Outside, we pass run-down houses inhabited by Gypsies, before reaching the church, Santa Maria del Palacio, built in the twelfth century. Its main altar was created by Arnoldo of Brussels in the seventeenth century and is richly adorned and elaborate as is so typical of the Baroque age. Gérard discovers the Virgen del Rio and is fascinated with its story. In the nineteenth century, this twelfth-century statue was found in the Ebro River by a lavadora (a laundry woman) who saw the face of the Virgin and thought at first that she was hallucinating. The statue radiates serenity. At two o’clock, the warden arrives to lock up for the afternoon. In Logroño, and this is exceptional nowadays in Spain, churches are open all day except during siesta time and at night. After a lunch of fruit and a rest for our feet, we are off again to visit the Santiago church, which we quite like. It is in Gothic style, built in the sixteenth century, and shows on its south façade Santiago, Saint James, as a pilgrim and as Matamoros, riding a spirited stallion. Legend has it that Santiago appeared to King Ramiro de Asturias in a dream prior to the Battle of Clavijo in 845 and told him, ‘Te ayudaré a Clavijo — I shall help you at Clavijo.’ It was a crucial fight in which the Moors were successfully beaten. The soldiers claimed Santiago appeared on a white horse and helped them beat the Moors. Hence the name Matamoros, killer of the Moors, a very cruel nickname indeed which stopped Gérard, years ago, from buying a statue of Saint James in an antique shop in Barcelona. At the church exit we are met by a young beggar and

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Gérard asks him why he does not work. ‘I have no papers,’ the lad answers in good Spanish. Is he an illegal immigrant? Anyway, Gérard is adamant: ‘Qué va, surely you can find work. You are young and strong.’ Catching my glance, Gérard says somewhat defensively, ‘Yes, Theresa, I know Jesus said, “What you give to the least of My brethren, you give to Me”.’ But I simply cannot bring myself to encourage young people who look healthy and fit to just stand around and beg. Of course, you could argue that this is his life and he can do with it whatever he wants. Okay. But I have the freedom to disagree and to refuse my support.’ The priest at the cathedral greets us smilingly. ‘Ahora sí, puedo abrir — yes, now I am able to open it.’ The painting shows the Calvary scene. At first we are almost disappointed — was this painted by the famous Michelangelo? On a sheet of parchment, written in Gothic letters, the history of the painting is explained. It was created at the request of a noblewoman and later came into the possession of a bishop, an avid art collector, who finally entrusted it to the safety of the cathedral. The priest adjusts the lighting to allow us to see better and also shows us other works of art in the cathedral, including a Madonna painted in the Flemish tradition of the sixteenth century. Gérard wonders where the twelfth-century copies we saw were made, and we are given the name of the workshop in Madrid, the Taller Grande of the Bellas Artes. With a donation, we thank the priest for his time. A nun has now also appeared and both ask us to pray for them in Santiago. On our way back from a bad dinner at the Portuguese bar that advertised pilgrims’ menus, we notice babies and small children still up, screeching and screaming with delight as they get passed from arm to arm. Until midnight they are attended to and pampered. Who said children had to be put to bed early? Logroño may be formal but is definitely lively; weekend celebrations in its busy street cafés start on Thursday.

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The Museo de la Rioja is housed in an old restored palace. Entry is free. Noticing our enthusiasm for contemporary paintings, the helpful museum secretary gives us the addresses of the painters. There is a special exhibition on Santiago with emphasis on statues and reliefs from parish churches and monasteries. Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque art are shown, and we enjoy studying the particularities, the idiosyncracies of the various art styles. As we leave through another room, we come across a telling painting from the nineteenth century called Interupción de una Boda, where a peasant girl turns up at the lavish wedding of her ex-lover, obviously unexpectedly and to the consternation of the guests, and especially of the bridegroom. The poor girl is lamenting and looks as if she is pregnant and about to collapse. I wonder whether this is synonymous with the ‘good old times’. ‘Por ahí, por ahí — through there,’ the street-cleaner, a small woman, cries; and she walks with us to make sure we take the short cut to the pilgrimage route. Signs are hardly visible as it is still dark. Another person stops to guide us; and farther on a third person walks with us for about a kilometre to ensure we are on the right track. We never fail to be touched by these spontaneous gestures of helpfulness. The full moon, first white then golden, beckons us to follow before it disappears behind the Sierra. In German, ‘moon’ is a masculine noun, yet in all Latin languages the moon is feminine, and one talks of the feminine energy of the moon. I have yet to find out why in German the sun is feminine and the moon masculine. Nature calls and we stop, taking the opportunity to readjust the backpacks. My shoulder hurts again. A car comes up, ignoring the ‘no entry’ sign. ‘Do not take any notice of us, we are in a fiesta mood,’ says the young Gypsy driver of the Valencia-licensed car. Then he laughs at our pilgrims’ staffs. ‘Qué, with these skiing sticks, you want to go to

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Santiago?’ His girlfriend, a striking gitana (Gypsy girl) glides like a cat out of the car, scolds him for being tonto (stupid) and in a husky, longing voice wishes us ‘buen viaje — happy journey’ while her boyfriend caresses her full breasts, barely hidden under a crocheted top. A red sun has now appeared in the sky, and Gérard and I debate the meaning of a red sun in the morning. I maintain that it usually means bad weather by the evening. Soon we come to a recreational area where conifers, junipers, pine and eucalyptus trees grow and blackberries and rosebuds abound. Gurgling brooks have been turned into cascading waterfalls. Fish in the water snap for air, and ducks and swans swim in the ponds. Feeling proud and happy with ourselves for having made fifteen kilometres in three hours, we reach our first destination for today, Navarrete. We decide to stop and enjoy a café con leche, which is a delicious Spanish cup of coffee enriched with hot milk, a bit like a cappuccino. The sandwiches, tortilla and chorizo (omelette and a sort of spicy salami) on crusty baguette bread, which come with the compliments of last night’s hotel, are delicious. Later we wander through the city. Navarrete has many noble houses and Gérard is particularly interested in their casa de cultura that harmoniously mixes modern and traditional building elements. He likes the frameless glass panel doors leading to an entry which is paved with cobblestones. An unusual yet harmonious blend. The second half of our day’s journey proves to be a little bit harder than the first and thirty-five kilometres is probably too much for us to walk in one day. From the Alto de San Antón, a hill, we see Nájera in the distance; but the closer we get the farther it recedes, like a mirage. The midday sun is merciless but at least we feel protected, having anointed ourselves with factor 60 suncream. We have taken magnesium, thinking it might be good for our muscles, and rattle with mineral tablets which were recommended by a pharmacist back in Logroño. Despite all

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this goodness in and on us, we plod along effortfully, cannot afford to stop, must go on, since stopping would only prolong the agony. The Road to Santiago is definitely not a Sunday stroll. Agotados, drained and exhausted, we reach Nájera, which in Arabic means ‘place between the rocks’. It was won back from the Arabs in 923 and made capital of the kingdom of Navarra in the eleventh century. The old city nestles against a wall of deep red rocks and caves. The albergue people are charming and its presidente tells us where to eat well. ‘If you do not look after your body, you cannot be a good pilgrim,’ he says. He recommends well. The food is indeed delicious at the Mono restaurant where I enjoy a kind of ratatouille omelette; but to the well-groomed clientele, I feel we must look like vagabonds. Back at the albergue, housed in a restored building which is part of the monastery complex, we are astonished to hear from two young English assistants that in addition to the Via de la Plata from Sevilla to Santiago, they have walked the Camino Francés twice already. They have also walked the Cantabrian Way, which takes the pilgrims through the mountains in the north along the Atlantic coast. A couple of horse-riding pilgrims have just arrived at the albergue. Having been a keen rider myself for many years, I do envy them this experience somewhat. One of the horses carries the luggage, the other one has a huge wound just above the eye. Silently, the pilgrims treat the animal. They must be wondering whether they will be able to make it to Santiago with the horses. It makes me realise that every pilgrim has his or her challenges. I wish them well and ask the albergue presidente how we can possibly reach the Monasterio de Valvanera this evening. He suggests a driver, as it is about forty kilometres off the Camino, in the mountains. The chauffeur, a local man in his sixties, arrives with a car and we drive off, soon passing a junction where the road leads to San Millán de la Cogolla. This reminds me of last year’s visit.

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San Millán de la Cogolla claims to be the cradle of the Spanish language because it is there that a monk wrote for the first time in a Latin dialect that became Castellano, which is what the Spanish language is called in Spain. There are two monasteries in San Millán: the monastery of Suso is up on the hill, and the monastery of Yuso is down in the valley. Suso was consecrated in 984 and inhabited by Mozarabic monks. Unfortunately, it was closed to the public when we were there due to urgent restoration works, so that we could only dream of the beauty for which its Visigothic and Mozarabic origins are renowned. Instead, we spent some time visiting Yuso, another, much younger, treasure recognised by UNESCO. Our guide, a young, enthusiastic and knowledgeable monk, with a good sense of humour, showed us holy mass books weighing over fifty kilograms and sadly pointed to a missing half-page, cut off by a visiting tourist in the days when everything was freely accessible. ‘No more visits without supervision,’ he declared and went on to show us the cupboards where the books were kept. They had a natural air-conditioning system. Limestone was placed into them to absorb the humidity, and into the upper half of the cupboard filigree rosettes were carved to facilitate the flow of air. Underneath and behind the books, passages had been created to allow cats to slide through and catch the mice before they could eat the leaves of the books! The cats’ presence — no, in fact, the cats’ odour — keeps the mice away. Mice will become immune to mouse poison within three generations, but they will never get used to the odour of the cat. It is amazing what ecological means were employed in those so-called dark and illiterate ages! There is a story that the King of Nájera wanted to have a relic from Suso transferred to his palace in Nájera. When the transport of the relic reached Yuso in the valley, a miracle occurred. The relic could not be moved any more, not even an inch. Our guide, more pragmatic than

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superstitious, thought it was a plot by the village people: since a relic meant income, and this particular relic had already been with the monastery for a hundred years, the village was not about to let go of it. The guide also told us of the poor foundations and the immense problems the monastery faced in reinforcing them. The solution was to create eighteen-metre-long inverse columns by injecting concrete into the foundations in an attempt to stabilise them. The church bells, we learned, weigh several tons and cannot be removed except perhaps by helicopters. The organ too is very special, with pipes showing engraved heads; the mouth openings serve to let out the sound. But Augustinian monks — who now live in the monastery — do not sing Gregorian songs like the Benedictines, and the organ is rarely used. In the sacristy, the guide pointed to the Baroque paintings on the wall and ceilings. They looked as if they had been restored yesterday but the guide said they had not been touched since they were created two hundred and fifty years ago. All other paintings, whether on canvas, wood, or copper plate and regardless of size, looked equally fresh, as did the polychromatic gilded altar. What was the secret? Two things: firstly, all windows were placed so that only the morning sun could enter; and secondly, the alabaster floor compensated for heat and humidity. An excellent climatisation system dating back to the early eighteenth century. The guide told us that fifty Napoleonic troops had camped with horses in this very sacristy for two nights. They caused relatively little damage to the room, but they departed with over four hundred kilograms of relics and items of gold and precious stones. Napoleon had given strict instructions to take only things that were easy to transport and easily turned into cash. If we were to follow the range of mountains through the Sierra, we would eventually arrive at Santo Domingo de los Silos where the monks are world-renowned for their Gregorian chants. Its twelfth-century cloister is of such

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exceptional grace and beauty that an unknown author wondered: Who made you, Exquisite arcades and capitals? Poets or sculptors? Or angels come down from heaven? On the night of our visit to Santo Domingo de los Silos last July, opening the window in our austere bedroom which looked over the village square, I saw a full moon rise above the Sierra behind the monastery. All was eerily quiet. Not even the barking of a dog could be heard. I watched mesmerised as the countryside began to glow in the moonlight, assuming a touch of phosphorescence. Serenity seized the air. Time ceased to exist — so propitious on a birthday!

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Monasterio de Valvanera Retreating to Holy Grail country

‘Aquí estamos, Señores, el Monasterio de Valvanera — Sir, Madam, we have arrived at the Monastery of Valvanera,’ the driver says. In front of us is a solid and rather stern-looking medieval complex, totally surrounded by high mountains. Catapulted into yet another world, expectantly and pensively, we mount the steps of a huge granite staircase, at the top of which a portly monk cheerfully welcomes us. ‘Bienvenidos, peregrinos.’ When Gérard enquires about their liqueur production, the friar serves us at once two generous glasses of the herbal liquid and tells us that there will be a romería tomorrow. ‘What is a romería?’ I ask. ‘Bueno, it is when an entire village makes a pilgrimage to the Virgen de Valvanera, the patroness of Rioja.’ I realise now that the Spanish language, like the German, has two words for pilgrimage, one is peregrinaje (Pilgerreise in German) where not only the destination but also the journey matters, and romería (Wallfahrt) where the destination is all-important (Lourdes, Fatima or in this instance, Valvanera). Soon we are blissfully settled into our austere room,

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bathing our feet, putting on ointment and breathing in the pure mountain air at one thousand metres above sea level. This is Holy Grail country. I remember having read that the first Holy Grail fortress was situated in the neighbouring Sierra. Two weeks on our way! It seems much more, much longer. It is total escapism for us to be in this remote monastery, a huge structure, situated in the Sierra de la Demanda, where Benedictines have prayed and worked — with an interruption of fifty years in the nineteenth century — for over a thousand years. They are mostly autonomous, with their own spring water, electricity, vegetable gardens, bees, cattle, and the whole of Rioja bringing them food. The people also donate money to the much adored Virgin of Valvanera, a statue dating from the ninth century, created by an unknown Visigothic artist and unusual in that the child Jesus does not look in the same direction as his mother, nor does he look at her, but looks to the side as if giving his blessings to people at the edge of the viewer’s vision. Gérard deplores the fact that such an ancient statue, dignified in its simplicity, is surrounded by garlands and decorated with a modern crown, but the pueblo, the village people, want their Virgin adorned. I am told that the image was discovered amid a swarm of bees in the branches of an oak tree. At Valvanera, the hospedería adds to the monastery’s income — or should I rather say, helps it survive. All rooms have their own baths and the kitchen offers good country fare with the habitual bottle of Rioja wine on each table. The staff is helpful and the monk in charge is Hermano Martin, of medium height, with a little belly, double chin and cunning eyes. He is the perfect PR man, oversees everything, shakes hands, touches the head of a child, wishes buen provecho, explains romerías, tells off the maid, praises the cook, looks after a young novice, speaks formal Castellano ‘soy un Español clásico — I am a classic Spaniard,’

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makes fun of us because we are punctual, and tells us jokes: ‘Si quieres matar a un fraile, quítale la siesta y dale a comer tarde — if you want to kill a monk, take away his siesta and serve him lunch late!’ For reading and writing, Hermano Martin has generously granted us the use of a century-old hall with vaulted ceilings and splendid views over Valvanera — the Valley of the Silver Veins. Gérard takes delight in being shown how the monks make the Valvanera liqueur and is pleased to see that they make the honey the same way he does in Australia. The Spaniards, however, prefer a somewhat liquid honey. To this effect, the monk in charge stores a week’s supply in a forty-five-degree heated cupboard. ‘Up to sixty degrees, it is harmless,’ the monk says. Unfortunately, we have to reject his farewell gift of a jar of honey. It weighs too much.

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Nájera – Azofra

architectural squares for the purpose of walking, meditating, praying, conversing or simply for enjoyment. They made them beautiful so that the cloister’s harmonious lines, light and shades, ornamental features and statues could help them elevate their reflection, prayers and conversation to levels of truth, beauty and clarity.’ His words bring back to me the beauty of the rose and fragrance-filled cloister in Los Arcos. Gérard, however, has already fallen into a deep sleep, his head against a tall and slender stone column, oblivious to the monk’s words and to the lacy plateresque arches above him. He has already entered a higher plateau of appreciative rest.

A thunderstorm and a tiny pilgrims’ hostel

The drive from Valvanera to Nájera is breathtaking: red rocks frame gorges; ancient stone villages are squeezed between them; tiny hamlets are perched on cliffs. The pleasures of such magnificent views are, however, moderated somewhat as Gérard becomes extremely unwell due to a combination of winding road and too much Spanish black coffee for breakfast. The driver, oblivious to Gérard’s condition, tells us how the village people accomplish their annual pilgrimage to Valvanera, to their Virgen de Rioja, sometimes walking as far as sixty kilometres, mostly during the night when it is cooler — and how bars and restaurants stay open all night to refresh them, while family members and friends accompany them by car or coach in case someone breaks down en route. The albergue in Nájera being temporarily closed, we take tickets to visit the Monasterio of Santa Maria la Real, where Gérard collapses in the patio of the Claustro de los Caballeros, the Gentlemen’s Cloister. ‘A place for the spirit,’ comments a tall and rather handsome monk as he sees me standing here, rather forlorn, ‘religious orders built these serene

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This monastery was the subject of much destruction during the Napoleonic wars and again during the desamortización in 1830, when the Spanish government ordered all monks to leave the monasteries and declared

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the monasteries the property of the people. The library was plundered, statues were beheaded, paintings stolen, silverwork damaged, tombs opened, cloister statues smashed, and wooden beams used for firewood. In the 1880s, the government reversed its decision. Though the monastery of Nájera is now placed under the protection of ancient monuments, restoration, we are told, takes place with agonising slowness. In short, whenever money is available. As we tour the monastery, our guide tells us a lovely legend about its beginnings: ‘One day in the eleventh century, Don García, the young king, was out hunting and curiously followed his falcon into a cave in pursuit of a partridge. In the depths of the cave, he found a beautiful statue of Saint Mary. An oil lamp burned before it and a vase of lilies perfumed the air. The falcon and the partridge sat at either side of the statue, at peace with one another. The king took this as a celestial sign of protection in his attempts for the reconquista. The following year, he won a decisive battle and used the booty from the Arabs to construct a monastery and a church.’ We follow the guide through small passages into a cave, where in a vaulted area on a raised rock is the statue, still radiating energy and goodwill. In the splendid royal pantheon which contains the tombs of the kings of Navarra, I am particularly attracted to the skilfully sculpted twelfth-century sarcophagus of Doña Blanca de Navarra, a great-grandchild of El Cid and a much loved queen, who married at the age of sixteen and died in childbirth at the age of twenty-one. Her distressed husband had his unbearable sorrow carved in an inscription on her Romanesque tomb and followed her into death two years later. A small spiral staircase leaves me, slightly dizzy, at the upper level of the church where I admire the delicate carving of the choir stalls in walnut. The carving is so fine that even fingernails, hand veins, are visible. At last, Gérard joins me in admiring what remains — and bemoaning what has been lost.

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Meanwhile, the albergue has opened and Evelyn, whom we met in Estella, has arrived to run the pilgrims’ hostel for a week. It is lovely to meet her again. She offers Gérard a bed to rest while I attend to administrative matters, run to the post office, buy lunch and picnic supplies. With renewed élan we take off again around four o’clock, enjoy the perfume of the pines, the view over vineyards and undulating wheatfields until we notice very dark clouds looming closer and closer. Gérard, who has always had a good eye, spots a tiny hut on a hill, no more than a rough shelter put up by farmers to eat and rest. The rear wall is the hill itself, and the walls on either side are piled-up boulders picked up in the fields. The open front offers an awe-inspiring one-hundredand eighty-degree vista of the surrounding vine and wheat country. The storm is approaching from the side, which means the open front will not be a problem. It is utterly romantic to be installed safely and warmly in this hut while watching the slowly approaching storm. We lay out our sleeping bags and prepare to enjoy the experience of thunder coming closer and closer, lightning flashing hugely across the sky. We see less fortunate pilgrims pass below us on the pilgrim road, too far away for us to attract their attention; and we pity them for having to walk into the storm and simultaneously congratulate ourselves for having found this hidden spot. We are warm, and dry, and cosy, and snug. Suddenly, without warning the wind turns and blows the rain directly into our tiny abode, which transforms itself at once into a muddy puddle. Aghast, we leap to our feet, gather in haste our sleeping bags and crouch against the back wall, where we manage to escape the worst of the rain. We hastily repack our belongings to protect them, then wait for the storm to pass. Suddenly, we break into laughter, unstoppable laughter. Nature certainly played a trick on us. Energised and deeply inhaling the air that has been purified by the storm, we resume our walk and approach

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Azofra, where an albergue was put up with the help of German people from Cologne. Gérard thus thinks it might be particularly efficient, but it appears small, chaotic and disorganised. Odours of tiger balm and camphor cream greet us when we enter the kitchen. Pilgrims are massaging each other’s feet and legs. A bit bewildered, I ask a young Spaniard whom I take to be the man in charge (in fact, there is no on-site caretaker), ‘Hay sitio — is there room for us?’ ‘Sí, sí, come with me,’ and he takes us to a room the size of a small bedroom where nine bunks, three on top of each other, are installed. The Spaniard goes out of his way to rearrange his things so that Gérard and I may sleep on the same level, in the middle tier. A tanned, distinguishedlooking man in his fifties is already in bed at the bottom, wrapped in a white sleeping bag. He looks annoyed. ‘Perdone la molestia,’ we mumble apologetically and try to find a place for our backpacks on the floor. Two rooms, two showers, two toilets, sixteen people. Gérard and I look at each other helplessly, and decide not to have showers. Where have we landed? Why did we not stay at the spacious albergue in Nájera where our Brazilian friend was going to stage a singing party tonight? ‘Vengan, hay pasta, vino, sirvanse.’ The Spanish pilgrims invite us for pasta and wine. Too dispirited to join them, we eat yoghurts and bananas and climb into our bunks. I have a distinct feeling of claustrophobia. How on earth will I manage if I have to get out of bed during the night? In despair, I touch Gérard’s feet, which are at right angles to me, just to feel something, somebody familiar. He feels awkward, too. Then the snoring of the two elderly men in the room begins. I cannot stand to have earplugs in my ears so I get the full impact of the concerto. Since this is no way to spend the night, I start to pray to calm myself. Outside, the children use the hill on which the albergue stands for rollerskating and make a noise of an express train going by. Later, disco music comes on.

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‘Hay fiesta en el pueblo — there is a fiesta in the village,’ one of the elderly men whispers into the darkness. It is only half-past ten, early for Spain. I know that these noises will continue until midnight when children go to bed. I distract myself by thinking of the little shelter in the fields, by now so wet. Surely, we are better off here! Finally, a body scan meditation comes to mind which, mercifully, transports me to sleep. At five o’clock, our roommates start getting up, except the one with the tanned body in the white sleeping bag who is still sleeping when we leave. Generously, the Spaniards insist on sharing with us tea, cakes, tomatoes — well, the entire contents of the fridge — before they take off to walk another forty kilometres today. A young French couple looks disconsolate; the extremely slim woman has terrible trouble with her knees. They say that their backpacks weigh about twenty kilograms each, far too heavy for them. ‘No more than a tenth of your weight’ is the rule of thumb, a rule we all disregard; and subsequently we suffer. For Chantal, I estimate, this would translate into four or five kilograms! She is envious of our hiking sticks. A cyclist pilgrim looks reproachfully up at the sky. Her tyre is flat. We give her a hand repairing it. Getting lost, despite the lessening dark, we notice a woman behind blinds who points repeatedly in a specific direction. We get the hint and walk into a landscape of sharply contoured mountains and freshly harvested fields that show geometrically striped patterns in beige, green and brown. Newly planted vines are of a delicate light green which is in sharp contrast to the intensely red soil. Dark green pine groves, called piñadas, are scattered over the countryside. Their scent is earthy and spicy. In a muddy puddle on the gravel road, Gérard spots a crab and transports it to a safer place, into the little canal created for flood irrigation. The morning sun is warming our backs as we are heading west. Two herds of sheep graze on the harvested fields, one

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big, the other small, each with its own shepherd and some dogs. Startled, we hear shots. It is the hunters, shooting partridges in the harvested wheat fields. One appears carrying seven birds on a special leather belt around his waist. A cyclist pilgrim catches up with us and we walk uphill together, complaining about the heavy packs we carry. ‘I would have loved to do the pilgrimage by horse,’ I tell him wistfully, ‘but my husband convinced me that it would be difficult to part from an animal that had become so close and precious during our journey.’ ‘If the Gypsies got their act together, they would provide donkeys and horses for the pilgrims,’ Gérard muses. ‘Qué va,’ laughs the Spaniard, ‘today, they travel by car. Look at them over there.’ And indeed, on a slope nearby, a clan with three cars has laundry spread all over the harvested field. The women are building fires and cooking while the men sit around smoking. Dark-eyed children play and shout. They evoke an echo of Carmen — despite the cars!

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Santo Domingo de la Calzada A white rooster in the cathedral brings good luck

Santo Domingo de la Calzada (Saint Dominic of the Causeway), after whom this town is called, was eleven years old when he left his native village to study at the monasteries of Valvanera and Millán; but they did not accept him as a monk so he led the life of a hermit, looking after pilgrims and building roads, hospitals and fine bridges. He was a gifted engineer and is nowadays Spain’s patron saint of public works. In our haste to arrive, we step into the first albergue we notice in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. It is run by Cistercian nuns and has only recently been opened. Our Cistercian nun is very smart; first, she puts a decorative stamp into our credenciales and if we do not like to sleep in a dormitory — well, she can provide us with a private room and bath. Through a courtyard, she leads us to the guesthouse, which is called Santa Teresita. And now, I remember! Last year, when visiting Santo Domingo de los Silos by car, we felt we should prepare ourselves psychologically for the pilgrimage by staying at very modest hotels. At that time, however, the room at Santa

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Teresita looked so depressing to us that we drove immediately back to San Millán de la Cogolla where, within the walls of the Yuso monastery, a new four-star hotel offered a lot more atmosphere and refinement than this dépendance of the Cistercian nuns. How our priorities have changed! The room with its dark brown bedcovers, its cold stone floor and tiny shower still looks uninviting but it offers privacy and I can hang my washing out on the roof terrace where elderly lady guests call me señorita. The Santa Teresita Hostel is run by Mother Purificación. By mistake, Gérard calls her Mother Purissima, which brings a smile to her stiff lips. Gérard’s legs are swollen but we find good remedies in the pharmacy. Thus encouraged, we decide to have a meal at the parador, which will cost us twice as much as the Santa Teresita room, but what a treat after our weary journey. The Rioja wine we drink is indeed invigorating — we can feel the strength coming back. One glass of wine would be enough, the second glass is pure indulgence! We almost fall asleep over coffee in the grand salon — in retrospect I think we might have had a little nap — but we raise enough energy to go and admire an exhibition at the cathedral of Spanish/Flemish paintings, all of which come from places along the Camino. This cathedral, of Santo Domingo de la Calzada, is famous for housing a white rooster and a white hen within its walls. There they are, in a late-Gothic carved niche with wrought-iron bars, known as the gallinero or chicken coop, about three metres above the floor. The white rooster seems a bit indignant, irritated by all these tourists urging him to crow. But then he obliges, expanding his chest proudly and crowing in a loud and mighty voice, to the delight of everyone in the cathedral. And it means good luck to pilgrims: they will make it to Santiago. This tradition goes back to a miracle that occurred in the Middle Ages when a German pilgrim family — parents and their son, Hugonell — passed through town. The innkeeper’s

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daughter took a fancy to the young man and fell in love with him. Unfortunately for her, the young man did not respond to her advances and she plotted revenge. While the pilgrims slept, she put a silver goblet in his bread-bag and, in the morning, accused him of being a thief. Punishment was draconian in those days and Hugonell was sentenced to death by hanging. The grieving parents left for Santiago and upon their return, passing again through Santo Domingo, looked up the spot where their son had been condemned to death. To their great surprise, there was Hugonell, still miraculously alive, telling them that Saint James was holding him up by the feet. They hastened to see the judge, who was just sitting down to dinner, and told him the extraordinary tale. ‘Your son is no more alive than the roasted cock and hen on my plate,’ the judge exclaimed, whereupon to everyone’s amazement, the hen became alive and the cock crowed mightily. They all hurried to untie Hugonell, who was indeed still alive. This is one of the better-known miracles that occurred on the Road to Santiago. On a more pragmatic note, the hen and rooster are exchanged every eight days. We happened to see where the replacements, another two sets, are kept in town. They are all of the finest white. An amazing story, and more amazing still that today a hen and a rooster are kept in a cathedral. It seems possible only in Spain. At dusk, we go to the pilgrims’ hostel which has been run for the last nine hundred years by the Confraternity of Saint James, these days represented by a group of local business people. The ‘albergue father’ tonight is a middleaged man of fine intelligent features and mild manners. ‘Only when you have arrived in León, another two hundred and fifty kilometres from here, will you be able to say that you are going to make it,’ he and his wife tell us. And they must know as they walked the Road several times before dedicating themselves to the wellbeing of the pilgrims. As we talk a tall, gaunt, ascetic-looking man enters the

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room. The local paper announced his arrival: a seventythree-year-old Jewish man from Germany, a survivor of Auschwitz and a Russian prison camp. In his early fifties, he decided to stop working in order to walk. He claims having now walked almost six hundred thousand kilometres, an achievement which will provide him with 1.8 million Swiss francs, according to a deal he made with Swiss businessmen a few years ago. The sun rises majestically, like a fireball, and delicate lace borders of white clouds glow in its light. Walking makes you grow more sensitive to nature’s delights. About an hour on our way, we encounter a man who collects sloe berries. Is he going to make jam or jelly from them? ‘Es para licór — it is to make liqueur,’ he explains and gives us the recipe. ‘Take a litre of anis del mono dulce (sweet anis liqueur), add a generous handful of sloe berries, eight roasted coffee beans and half a stick of cinnamon, close the bottle well and let it stand in the sun for one month. Delicioso! Y no es caro — and it is not expensive!’ We thank him for the recipe, promise to try it out as soon as an opportunity arises and drink a glass to his health. ‘Are you going to Santiago?’ ‘Tenemos la intención,’ we answer, and he asks us to think of him when meeting Saint James at our destination. We promise and continue our walk, accompanied by his good wishes. Whenever someone asked us at the beginning whether we were going to Santiago, we would answer yes; but of late, having more experience and having seen so many pilgrims’ feet crippled with blisters and inflammations, we have become more cautious and just say that we have the intention, ‘tenemos la intención’. So far our feet and legs have carried us splendidly. For us — and others — it is not so much walking as carrying the weight of things that we consider indispensable. As one pilgrim woman said this morning, when we stopped for our

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blackberry breakfast: ‘Life is nothing, walking is nothing; it is the burden that we carry. As in life, we go burdened.’ Gérard and I determine that once arrived in Burgos, where we intend to stay for a few days, we shall comb through our belongings and categorically part from any item not needed so far. We must learn not to want to be equipped for all possibilities. The Spaniards are right when they say mañana es otro día — tomorrow is another day — things might be different: what do I know now? ‘Do you realise what date it is today?’ asks Gérard. No, I have no idea, I must confess. I have lost track of time. ‘It is 9 September 1999, or 9.9.99, the notorious date which carries four nines and which was forecast to bring immense problems to administrations worldwide because they used this figure to fill in a blank whenever they were short of the real figure. In other words, many computers are expected to play havoc today.’ We decide not to worry about it. At Redecilla del Camino we enter Castilla, which is the biggest comunidad or province in Spain. The word castilla is a derivative from castella, fortress, of which there are many in this region. Castilla is more austere, more formal than was the province of Rioja with its huge wheatfields and extensive vineyards graced by the Sierra in the background. In the twelfth-century parish church in Redecilla, we admire another gem of the Camino, the Romanesque baptismal font. It is a big bowl resting on eight columns, decorated with towers, windows and a carved frieze. A snake is coiled around its base. ‘Do the carvings symbolise celestial Jerusalem?’ one pilgrim asks, but the man who opened the church for us does not know. He is thankful though for a small donation. As we approach Vitoria, the birthplace of Santo Domingo, we notice in a valley below, nestled amongst wheat fields, pines and poplars, another medieval village. Quite often at moments like this we feel as if we are in another world, miles and miles away from our usual occupation. And so we are!

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The man with the key who opens the church at Vitoria is eager to point out that not only was Santo Domingo baptised in this baptismal font in the early eleventh century, but he himself was too, some sixty years ago. Proudly he holds up a reliquary of Santo Domingo. ‘It has done many milagros — miracles. Do you wish to kiss it?’ A Brazilian pilgrim talks of contamination which angers our good caretaker who says he always takes care to wipe the reliquary with a clean cloth each time someone has pressed their lips against it. A few minutes later, we see the Brazilian in full contemplation and adoration on the altar steps, arms outstretched. Maybe he repents having offended the old man who, incidentally, asks nothing for his trouble in letting us in. But it is customary to give a donation for the church. We do so, and other visitors, not familiar with the Spanish custom, get the message. Outside in the village square, we sit down on a stone bench in the shade of the church. We watch as two Englishspeaking girls leave the church, followed by the caretaker who mutters to us in Spanish that they were tight-fisted and had not given a dime for the church. ‘We are a poor village,’ he says, ‘and need the money for the upkeep of the church. I ask nothing for myself.’ We are ashamed for the pilgrims and debate whether we should draw the girls’ attention to the custom of a small donation. Gérard feels that this is important and approaches them. ‘Forgive me for intruding, but I am sure you don’t know about this.’ Gérard is choosing his words carefully. ‘It is a tradition on the Camino to give a small donation to the caretaker of a church when he comes to open it especially for us.’ ‘He didn’t tell us!’ they exclaim in astonishment. ‘No, he wouldn’t. He would be too proud to say so directly.’ Gérard leaves the young girls to think about it, a bit unsure as to whether he has done the right thing. We cross the village square and continue down the road

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when suddenly, we overhear them say ‘Estamos muy embarazadas.’ We turn around to see the caretaker staring in bewilderment and disbelief at these slim and slender madonnas. They wanted to tell him that they were very embarrassed but in Spanish what they said means that they are very pregnant. After a long look, the old man turns on his heels without saying a word — perhaps he goes in search of a priest for advice and help? I cannot help chuckling as I walk away.

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Belorado

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Fiesta

Having lingered along the way in two villages, we are slow to reach our day’s destination and, as usual, the last four to five kilometres are four or five too long. At least with our long sleeves, scarves and hats, the sun cannot harm us. We reach Belorado by three o’clock. The well-equipped pilgrims’ hostel which adjoins the church, Santa Maria, was only recently inaugurated. It was sponsored by the Swiss Association of Friends of the Road of Saint James. Pending the arrival of a Swiss to run the albergue, a motherly German lady from Lindau greets us most kindly in German, immediately inviting us for Kaffee und Kuchen, and we gratefully accept herbal tea and biscuits. Frau Hildegard has done the Camino twice and warns us that upon arriving in Santiago, there is a feeling of sadness that it is all over, of sobering up, but after a week, the experience comes back in totality and a change occurs for almost everyone. She applied for the job of albergue mother in a recently opened pilgrims’ hostel in Galicia and sincerely hopes she will get it — it would give her much satisfaction and a new meaning in life. ‘Please intervene on my behalf when you arrive at

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Santiago. Pray to Saint James for me. I would be so grateful to you.’ We promise. She tells us that the village people are very helpful and kind. ‘Look what they brought this morning. A whole basket of tomatoes for the pilgrims.’ She is astonished and delighted that Gérard left his mobile phone at home. ‘Really,’ she exclaims, ‘you don’t look as if you were capable of leaving it at home.’ Why? Can she still see a businessman in Gérard? I see only a bearded, unkempt and perspiring pilgrim. When we have left the albergue, Gérard confides that he was very tempted to cook a tomato sauce — his speciality — with garlic, onions and herbs, using the donated tomatoes. Everyone would have loved it. He is a good cook. But we are not ready yet for the kind of adventure an albergue offers. Despite this being an excellent pilgrims’ hostel, we remain somewhat diffident about sharing a room with many fellow pilgrims. Frau Hildegard told us that Belorado is celebrating a fiesta over the next four days and that it will be impossible to sleep before four o’clock in the morning. No other people can celebrate fiestas like the Spaniards. I remember my first arrival in Spain in 1968. Together with English friends, I was driving south to their Spanish holiday home. In those days there were few cars and no autopistas, of course. The main route led through the villages. It was a Saturday night. People were out in the streets, dressed in their best clothes. On the main square of the village through which the road passed, girls in colourful costumes moved their bodies in a sensuous way; men struck the guitar. There was clapping and singing. The music stirred our hearts. The villages looked poor yet vibrated with joy — and dignity. In one village, our car was brought to a halt by a procession, and we admired the young women dressed in long white robes, their heads covered with white mantillas. Older women wore black veils over hair and shoulders. Times are more prosperous now. Everyone has a car. The

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roads are some of the best in Europe. Spanish people travel overseas and buy holiday apartments. Work and business are overpowering. The mobile phone rings constantly. The awesome silence that used to reign in Spanish villages during the siesta time from two to five has become the exception rather than the rule. Yet fiestas still abound — although Saturday village dancing might have yielded to television watching. Dramatic, grand fireworks reflect the new affluence. And events like the Fiestas de Moros y Christianos provide a good reason for the whole town to celebrate for an entire week. They feature parades in extravagant, historical costumes, heightened to dramatic effect by racy music of the time. It is an explosion of colours and sounds that brings to mind the oriental splendours of the Moorish courts. A pilgrim grows very sensitive to noise; it is too harsh a contrast with the peace of the countryside. We aim for the hotel Belorado, situated somewhat outside of town, which should be ideal for a quiet night. It turns out to be an ugly cubical construction with loud music that comes from its bar and hurts our ears. Whether we like the hotel or not, it is fully booked, no doubt because of the celebrations in the village. After buying some mineral water, we debate what we should do. Back to the albergue? No, not really. Sleep outside, under the stars? Why not? After all, that is why we schlep an insulation mat and sleeping bags. We return to the village to buy some food for dinner and breakfast. While Gérard looks after the backpacks, I go in search of suitable shops. To my consternation, they are all closed — for fiesta. Finally, through some back entry, I find a baker’s wife who is willing to sell me her last loaf of bread because I am a pilgrim. She asks that I remember her to Saint James. Soon, we shall have to write a list of all the people asking us to pray for them in Santiago! The prestige of Saint James is incredible, astonishing and touching considering that we are living in a very secular age. We shall keep our promises to them all.

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Outside the village, we pass a petrol station where we buy what is available: olives, tuna fish — and ice-creams to cheer us up. Now we must look carefully for a camping place. Ideally, it should be flat and dry, so we must go away from the brook alongside our route. We walk through immense wheat fields which have been recently harvested and see the next village in the distance. Suddenly, Gérard, the eagle eye, detects the ideal spot situated on a hill, next to a forest. We abandon the path and climb through stubble fields, only to discover an impenetrable thicket. There is not one square metre that would be suitable for our enterprise. Neither is it possible to spread out our mats at the edge of the forest, as heavy tractors have left their marks and the soil is now very hard. We have a distinct feeling of being watched by farmers working on the surrounding hills and indeed, as we come down from the forest, again walking through the hard stubble fields, a farmer shouts to us, ‘Se han perdido — did you get lost? The pilgrims’ route is much further down.’ We shout back our gracias and walk towards the next village. Storm clouds threaten rain. A group of village women approaches us. They are on their traditional evening walk. ‘No, no, there are no accommodation possibilities in the village, not even private ones. Well, in earlier days, yes, we did occasionally house a pilgrim or two, free or for a modest fee, but nowadays, no, too much work, too much paperwork involved, too complicated and one of us had a bad experience with two pilgrim women.’ They show no sympathy for our plight but we cannot blame them. The provincial governments of Spain have gone to great trouble to establish pilgrims’ hostels at no, or very low, cost to pilgrims. With the many thousands of pilgrims walking to Santiago these days, it is not desirable to have pilgrims camping freely in the countryside or staying in private houses. This is perfectly understandable but it is getting late and we are hungry and tired. Just before we enter the village, we come across a picnic place.

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Dustbins overflow, but there is a real spring-fed fountain. We stop, planning to eat a little to regain strength, but in the midst of our meal, the threat of rain becomes a reality, and we hastily pack up. Wet and with uncomfortable stomachs, having walked over thirty kilometres, we arrive at the village square. According to our guidebook, there should be a posada, a small hotel and pilgrims’ hostel in the next village. We ask a small group of farmers who stand in front of a bar whether they could give us a lift, with payment of course. But no. ‘Son sólo diez kilómetros — it is only ten kilometres,’ the old woman who is standing with the men tells us unmoved. Unwilling to accept this answer without exhausting all possibilities, Gérard enters the bar and soon comes out with a smiling young man. Con mucho gusto — with much pleasure he drives us to Villafranca. He refuses any money from us and is almost offended when we offer to pay for his service. ‘I studied economics and psychology and now am a prison warden — cárcelero — the best paid job in the whole of Spain,’ he boasts joyfully. ‘I work no more than two months per year and receive a full year’s salary. This is because I work Sundays and holidays, at different prisons all over Spain. And,’ he continues cheerily, ‘a full year’s salary in Spain equals fourteen monthly wages, still a relic from Franco times.’ When we arrive at Villafranca and find the posada inn, we notice it is closed for holidays. Federico drives us to the pilgrims’ hostel to have our pilgrims’ passports stamped and to see how the situation is there. It is less than fourstar: about forty bunk beds are housed in an old school room, otherwise bare and cold. There is one shower and no kitchen. Outside, trucks thunder by on the main road. Moreover, it is full. We do not know whether to be happy or sad but Federico tells us that he would never have allowed us to spend the night there. ‘Too primitive!’ He knows a woman pharmacist nearby who could help,

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but when he goes and asks for her, he is told she is on vacation. Not to be let down (‘don’t forget I studied psychology and I always find a solution’), he drives us to a bar and makes some phone calls while Gérard and I discuss the situation over a glass of bad wine. Our day had started so wonderfully, and now this. Federico comes back. ‘No luck, but please do not worry. There are always solutions. If all else fails, I will take you to my mother’s house but it so happens that my brother-inlaw who is president of a bank in Brazil, is staying with us — y el es un poco elitísta.’ In other words, a bit of a snob who might not be enchanted having to share the house with two weary, dusty pilgrims. We perfectly understand, but what a nice thought anyway! A former monastery building is currently being restored into a pilgrims’ hostel which, however, will open only next year. We thank the bartender who tells us this. Another bar comes to Federico’s mind; he drives us up there and goes in to enquire, trustingly leaving us in the car together with his wallet and identity papers. He returns triumphant. ‘Hurrah, we have found the señora who rents out rooms. I told you I was resourceful!’ He takes us to Doña Conchita. We are the only guests at the landlady’s house today and may luxuriously choose from five bedrooms. But now Federico is adamant that we must come with him to the fiesta in Belorado, the very village we fled this afternoon. ‘Solamente para una hora,’ he insists, ‘just for a little hour; and I shall drive you back here of course.’ At some other time, we might have succumbed to his kind insistence but today, we are simply too tired. We tell him of a pilgrim’s need to rest and search for words to adequately express our gratitude for his time and help. Before we retire to our rooms, our landlady shows us proudly the photographs of her two daughters who made it to university and now have good jobs. We both sleep blissfully, and it is a struggle to get up when the alarm clock goes off at six o’clock.

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Delighted to get out of Villafranca, a village settled by the French during the high days of pilgrimage — hence the name — and now being suffocated by traffic, we walk swiftly upwards towards the notorious Montes de Oca, where in the Middle Ages bandits and thieves lay in ambush, waiting for unsuspecting pilgrims. ‘Well, times have become better, have they not?’ Gérard wonders. As we leave the village, I see the two ‘medieval pilgrims’ whom they had mentioned in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. A young Swiss and an Englishman are dressed in medieval garb, wearing thin-soled sandals and black broad-brimmed hats. They had wanted to sleep outside the albergue there, on the wet cobbled street, but the hostel father took pity on them, invited them inside and served the famished lads a generous paella. Here they are sleeping on a public lawn, huddled underneath a black blanket. I pity them because the air is cool and crisp this morning. Fog engulfs us as we ascend, lulling us into stillness and solitude. Our path is decked with ferns, and with erica in a hundred shades. Evergreen oaks and pine groves form the backdrop. In a wind-protected spot on top of the mountain we treat ourselves to breakfast. It is very cool now and we eat a bit of dry sausage, almonds, biscuits and bread — followed by some blackberries — our standard diet for the last twenty-four hours. For over an hour, we walk without the need to speak. I take advantage of the silence to do a ‘love and kindness’ meditation, calling up every friend and family member and sending them thoughts of love and courage and wishes of good health. I also think of the victims in the Spanish Civil War. Fighting must have been fierce in this area; a monument tells of forty people executed out here in this wilderness. I shudder!

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Monasterio de San Juan de Ortega Conversing with fellow pilgrims of fifteen nationalities

Soon we spot the ancient San Juan de Ortega monastery complex down in the valley, very picturesque with its old stone walls and pretty streams. We are early, and have a chat with the legendary priest, Don José, before the arrival of more pilgrims. We bring him French cigarillos and greetings from Madame Lourdes. Slim, gaunt, with sparkling eyes, he tells us about his life at Juan de Ortega and of his predecessor, another charismatic monk on the Camino. But Don José seems a trifle tired. Day by day, hundreds of pilgrims pass, seeking his attention in many ways. Not surprisingly he has become somewhat resigned to the situation. He no longer cooks his delicious sopa de ajo (garlic soup) which the pilgrims used to cherish. About a hundred pilgrims are staying at the monastery tonight and surely one would think there would be more than enough volunteers amongst us to help him prepare the soup? Instead, we cram into a bar which offers unhealthy sandwiches, chorizo, fried eggs, bad wine and liquor. The young, fat waiter is upset that I do not take a liking to his morcilla, a Castilian bloodwurst that is a regional specialty.

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In order not to vex him, I tell him that I am a vegetarian. The mass Don José celebrates when we arrive is, forgive me Padre, a bit superficial, a kind of routine and read very fast indeed. We are then asked to gather around him and he shows us an extraordinary thing in his church: on one of the capitals (the head of a pillar) is carved the Annunciation. The Padre wishes to emphasise how Mary is depicted as a strong and brave woman and goes on to say that the twelfthcentury architect designed the church so that at each equinox, on 21 March and 23 September at 5 p.m. precisely, the sunlight falls on the Virgin Mary for about ten minutes, illuminating the carving and bringing it to life. ‘Isn’t this a miracle in itself!’ exclaims Don José. ‘The destination is not what matters,’ he adds, ‘it is the Camino, the Road, the journey.’ ‘We are only human beings if we are on a journey, on our way. Life is all about moving,’ philosophises a pilgrim upon leaving the church. Don José, overhearing, adds, ‘I am the Way, the Truth and the Life: this is what Jesus said.’ The setting of San Juan de Ortega is idyllic. An old, tumbledown stone wall indicates the land once owned by the monastery on several sides; and a brook forms one of the borders. The founder of this monastery, San Juan de Ortega or Saint John of the Nettles, was a disciple of Santo Domingo de la Calzada. The Romanesque church was restored in 1960, its stonework cleaned and chemically treated so that today the church gleams light beige, its original colour. The windows are of alabaster and the Romanesque apse resembles half a circle. There is still more work to do. The original pilgrim hospital is in terrible condition: the roof has fallen in, windows are open, birds nest amongst old altars, grass grows between stones. It will not be easy to restore, and Gérard reckons it will not be cheap, either. He guesses five million Australian dollars; and the Padre later tells us that the Spanish government

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has set aside four hundred million pesetas for its restoration. From the fifteenth to the nineteenth century, the Hieronymite monks lived here until they were driven away by the Spanish government during the infamous desamortización when monasteries were appropriated and the monks chased away. As a consequence, over a third of the thousand monasteries fell into disarray. The seven houses making up the little village of San Juan de Ortega are old timber-framed buildings, poorly restored; mostly chalked, plastered or painted over. Although the soil looks fertile enough, there is no orchard or vegetable garden — only weeds. Rubbish is everywhere. Dustbins overflow. Wild and edible fruits rot away. Don José is a bit testy about the pilgrims’ lack of interest in donations, but he hides the donation box behind the reception desk. ‘Los que quieren dar, darán — those who want to give, will give,’ he says resignedly. We cannot help feeling a large sign would improve the level of donations. As we walk to the church in the latter part of the afternoon, the two medieval pilgrims we left asleep in Villafranca arrive, and in their hemp blouses and black waistcoats attract a crowd of admirers. Camera shutters click rapidly. They will give up their walk in Burgos. ‘We have run out of money,’ says the one who is from Kent, in England. He writes his journal in Gothic letters with a beautiful feather. He taught himself calligraphy for the pilgrimage. ‘Could you work somewhere to help you with your finances?’ I ask. ‘Well, there is an additional problem. We attract too much attention and the spiritual meaning gets lost,’ his Swiss partner says. They started their pilgrimage in MontSaint-Michel, France. We also meet a group of six young and enterprising people from Estavayer-Le-Lac near Fribourg, Switzerland, who began their pilgrimage in Fribourg and continued via

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Geneva, Puy-en-Velay and Roncesvalles. They say that in France, le Chemin, as the French call it, is well organised. One of them, a red-haired man with a beard, is a monk; a cheerful girl is a social worker. They are allowing three months for their adventure. Their families, including small children, accompany them by caravan. Then there is the Frenchman whose energetic wife tows their caravan to the destination point each day. At Ortega, she has resolutely talked her way into parking within the monastery compound and now the scents of French cuisine waft from the caravan and tantalise us. No wonder her husband, who carries only a bottle of water, walks briskly. ‘Le Chemin est encore plus beau en France — the Road is even more beautiful in France,’ they exclaim patriotically. It is our first voluntary stay at an albergue, simply because there is no alternative — so is it really voluntary? There are three spacious rooms, each with twenty double bunk beds. Our room is adorned by two ancient stone pillars, which is why I choose it. There are four showers and four toilets per room, separate for men and women. Usually, upon arrival, one has a shower and attends to blisters, muscles and joints. Pilgrims give each other a massage with strong smelling ointments. In the dormitories, people whisper. We are in bed by nine-thirty — lights will be off at ten o’clock and Don José is strict about this. Gérard has volunteered to sleep on the upper bunk and carefully positions a chair next to my bed so that he can climb down during the night if need be. Unaware of the important role the chair fulfills, the last person who comes in, a young Englishman, turns off the lights and removes our chair to use for his clothes. When Gérard has to get up in the middle of the night, he does not realise that his ladder is now a clothes horse, and is left dangling his legs in the void and almost falls down. Thankfully, this time no-one snores. Uncanny, this darkness; this silence; the knowledge that there are twenty people

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from different places on the globe in this room, strangers and yet not strangers, sharing a common goal. I listen to the silence. The discipline in these hostels once the lights have been switched off is remarkable. Everyone endeavours to be correct vis-à-vis their fellow pilgrims. Maybe there are some alchemists in this room! In the middle of the night the young Englishman, not far from our bunks, cries out desperately: ‘Where am I? What is happening? Please help me!’ His girlfriend, a Madonna-like figure who sleeps on the upper bunk, whispers something that I cannot catch. The Englishman carries on: ‘Please show me what to do. Please come down and show me.’ She has soothing words which again I cannot make out; but after a while the Englishman’s voice sounds strangely calm and reassured: ‘Thank you very much — all is well now. Thank you very much indeed.’ What did she say? What did he do? The room keeps silent. At five in the morning people start to get ready for the walk to Burgos. I recall the priest’s invitation to breakfast in his kitchen but Gérard does not like café con leche in the morning, so I do not insist. But I would have loved a cup to warm me up; I have grown to love Spanish coffee. Accordingly, I am slightly irritable with Gérard, which is not fair to him since he slept on the upper bunk only to please me! As we come out of the monastery we fill our water bottles at the fountain and to our amazement see the two medieval pilgrims sleeping on the granite slabs surrounding the fountain, covered only with a thin black blanket. It has been a cool night in this mountain spot and the stone must be very cold. They are taking their historic pattern very literally indeed, for medieval pilgrims had the opportunity of staying at hospices which were maintained by religious orders and situated roughly twenty miles apart

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along the Ancient Road. They were entitled to free lodging and food and were protected by civil law. We walk in silence across a thousand-metre-high plateau, amongst common oaks and pines, through paddocks and pastures. The light of a new day filters over us slowly as the last stars fade away. The morning air is soothing and we can laugh at the absurdity of our earlier irritations. Gérard notices some pale purple crocuses. These delicate flowers have gold centres: from them, saffron is gathered. We cross a charming small medieval bridge, partly overgrown with moss and just one arch long. It is another masterpiece by Juan de Ortega! The surrounding Sierra de Atapuerca is full of caves. In 1992, prehistoric human remains were found in them, so old that it is thought that Atapuerca man is the earliest example of Homo sapiens in Europe. We catch up with the other pilgrims in a bar where the young waitress seems totally overwhelmed by the arrival of ten pilgrims. But her café con leche is awfully good and I cannot resist a second one. A portion of manchego cheese, eaten with fresh bread from the bakery whose smells lured us into the village in the first place, makes up a delicious breakfast. As we continue our walk, the ascent becomes steeper and more treacherous with loose stones. I must be careful, but I am on a high and see a Spain unknown to the tourist in the car. ‘Cómo vais — how are you doing?’ the Brazilian girls ask. The voluptuous blonde was an albergue mother for some weeks this spring. ‘España me gusta, siempre están en fiesta — I like Spain; they are always having a fiesta.’ She is doing the pilgrimage for a second time, this time with her girlfriend Dolores, who finds the walking just ‘un poco duro — a little hard’. From harvested wheat fields in the distance, shots are heard. Partridge hunting! A Range-Rover with Bilbao licence plates stops nearby and a smartly dressed city

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woman descends, looking every inch the sophisticated hunter, complete with rifle and dog. She gives directions to the driver when to pick her up and stalks off in the direction of the wheat fields to indulge in her Sunday pastime. For a while, I walk with a civil servant from Santander, active in ecological matters, who tells me about the increasing interest young people have in ecology. As we struggle on our way, which is ‘un poco duro’ for us as well, he tells me of a doctor friend who has written a study on the psychiatric healing effects of the pilgrimage. I never doubted it. When we join up with Günther, a German pilgrim, we return to ecology and hear that schoolchildren now come home and scold their parents for throwing away rubbish. In the olden days, when plastic was unknown, there existed no basura or rubbish. Everything found a purpose, be it to feed animals or to use as manure. Nowadays, we have also polucion acústica — sound pollution. ‘According to statistics,’ Günther says, ‘Spain is the second noisiest country.’ We are surprised. Who could create more noise? That honour goes to Japan. And as for fiestas, Günther informs us that according to ‘the latest statistics’ España is the most hardworking country in Europe. The walk through the Burgos industrial suburb on a paved road may be tiring and monotonous on a Sunday morning but Gérard and I are so busy talking about life, religion, nature, ecology, and God that we barely notice. Walking provides such a good opportunity for delving into subjects of all sorts. Our newest topic is a possible third world war, initiated by China and helped by Japan’s technology, a theory proposed by Don José who argued that the Western World was so decadent it could be easily overrun. Well, we cannot share his line of thought but do consider the interesting question he raised suggestively: Who bought all the gold that had been recently sold by the central European banks? From this worldly topic we move to more spiritual

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matters and talk about Jesus, still very present two thousand years after his death. Did Jesus want to found a new religion, a new church? We think not. ‘He was a reformer of the Jewish faith,’ says Gérard. The Nazarene taught us to forgive and to love: ‘Love your neighbour as you love yourself.’ So simple and yet so challenging. I am still learning! There is more food for thought in Don José’s remark that ‘Hay los que nacieron para destruir, otros para construir — there are those who were born to destroy, others who were born to create.’ Does that mean that on earth, we have to struggle with elements that are both destructive and constructive? Birth and death, sickness and health, good and evil, darkness and light, hatred and love … always this duality, this polarity! Are we a planet on which emotions play a decisive role? Is it our task to rise above them? I do not have the answers; it is each person’s own challenge to deal with these questions. But I know that we structure our own belief system and project our own reality. The energy of love is the strongest projection. If two people or more come together with the same thought, the same intentions, they can make a difference; they have the power to create light. Is this why the Ancient Road has had such an appeal to humans across ages? Not only do the stars of the Milky Way shine over the Ancient Road but, undoubtedly, pilgrims who have walked it have also left a trace of light. Buddha taught detachment and compassion. There is a fine line between being detached and being apathetic and passive, but detachment will eventually bring a sense of freedom and liberation to us. Through my introduction to Buddhism, I learned the art of meditation. Was it Hermann Hesse who defined it so well? ‘When you pray, you talk to God; when you meditate, you listen to God.’ Indeed, to grow as human beings we need to do both. When I delved further into Buddhism, however, I realised that I would have to be born in Asia to understand and practise it fully.

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‘Our roots are here,’ Gérard says, ‘in Europe, in fact right here where we walk.’ Having been in Holy Grail country in the Pyrenees, at Valvanera and near Santo Domingo de la Calzada, Gérard and I speculate about the true meaning of the Holy Grail. Legend has it that there were two Grail temples in northern Spain. It is said that there is always an element of truth in legends! ‘In Christian tradition,’ Gérard says, ‘the Holy Grail goes back to the vessel used to collect the blood of Christ.’ I add that in Chrétien de Troyes’ poem of Perceval, written near the end of the twelfth century, it is the chalice Christ used at the Last Supper. We also know of the epic Wolfram von Eschenbach wrote soon after, called ‘Parzival’, in which the Holy Grail is a precious stone with extraordinary powers. Based on the poetic works written in the Middle Ages, the Grail was a mystical, holy object that bestowed earthly and celestial happiness on its owner. ‘However,’ I point out, ‘only he or she who was pure could find it.’ ‘And who asked the right questions,’ adds Gérard. Does the quest for the Holy Grail symbolise the search for divine power within each human being? Accessing that divinity is our big challenge. It is said that one of the reasons the Crusades were undertaken was not only to recover the Holy Land from the Muslims but also to find the Holy Grail. The Holy Grail epics were written at around the same time as the Crusades, between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries. Some maintain that the Holy Grail goes back to oriental or Celtic influences. It is always represented by an object of immense value and exquisiteness, of mystification and with magical power. We continue silently, each absorbed in our own thoughts. I think of donations and our behaviour, and it suddenly occurs to me that we give freely whenever the institutional church is involved but hesitate when asked by

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a fellow human. Has this got to do with our upbringing? I want to share this line of thought with Gérard but he has gone on to greet Günther who is resting outside a bar with a glass of beer in his hands. On the Camino, he had been limping terribly and at one stage walked barefoot, a pair of trekking shoes dangling from his backpack. He tells us that he is being sent a new pair of trekking shoes from Germany, his current ones being torn. Surely, we ask, he could have found some shoes locally? But no, he must have German quality. He has dreadful blisters, and we help him out with some bandages. Because of a horrible car accident he suffered in Sardinia many years ago, he has constant pain in his hips and legs. The pilgrimage, which he, like Gérard, sees as a transition to another phase in his life, demands all his physical strength. At a crossing, we bid farewell.

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Burgos (Capital of Castilla) Tierra del Cid, architecture, history and fine food

We want to spend a few days in Burgos, the capital of Castilla and renowned for its Gothic cathedral built over a span of three hundred years. A storm is approaching and we head for a bar to call a taxi. An elderly gentleman, eager to help us pilgrims, gives us the telephone number of a taxi and as I quickly write it down, he says admiringly to my husband, ‘Tiene Usted una mujer muy lista — you have a clever wife.’ Gérard, amused, nods. ‘La mía es tonta, que pena — mine is stupid, what a pity,’ the old gentleman says drily. I glance at him. No, he appears to be serious! ‘Tiene cambio — have you got change?’ He would even give us coins to enable us to make a phone call. The waitress, however, insists we should not take a taxi. ‘You are almost there, in the inner city where the cathedral is. Can you see the towers?’ Indeed, we see two slender, openwork spires, rising high into the sky. ‘Nearby is the hotel you are looking for. From here on, it’s all promenade, muy boníto — very lovely.’ She has come

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out onto the pavement to give us directions. Protected from the oncoming rain by enormous plane trees, we hurry towards the old city and make it to the hotel just before the storm fully unleashes. The Mesón del Cid where we are to stay used to house the first printing workshop in Spain, applying Gutenberg’s newly invented technique in the late fifteenth century. The family hotel is now run by its fourth generation. On the top floor of a newly renovated annexe, we are given a spacious room with a marble bath and a full view of the cathedral, the city and the surrounding countryside. Never has a bit of luxury been so sweet. It takes us two hours to regenerate our poor feet and bodies. We can understand why some pilgrims avoided the ten-kilometre bitumen stretch altogether, catching a bus through Burgos. A good evening meal restores our spirits, especially after three days of sandwiches and bad wine. After a last look at the illuminated cathedral, more radiant to us than on previous visits, we surrender to exhaustion, and not without having some shivering attacks. Blankets, sleeping bags, bedsocks: they all help. We have just attended a high mass sung by five priests in the central nave of the cathedral with the two of us being the only participants. Since the help of an attendant is required to enter the ‘inner sanctum’ where the mass is held, and which is closed off within the cathedral by a huge and heavy wrought-iron gate, people may have been at a loss to know how to enter the area. The cathedral of Burgos was built in two stages. The first part, which comprised the naves and the portals, was built by local masters in the thirteenth century after plans a bishop brought back from France, which at that time was enthusiastically embracing the principles of Gothic art. During the second phase of the construction in the fifteenth century, towers and side chapels were built, but this time with the aid of Flemish, German and Burgundian

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masons and sculptors who were brought to Spain by bishop Alonso de Cartagena. It is said that these artists were delighted with the local building style which had been influenced by Mozarabic art and applied it in their own work. In fact, many of these artists, such as Hans from Cologne, called Juan de Colonia in Spanish, and his sons and grandsons, Simon y Francisco de Colonia, happily settled in Spain and created many more outstanding works. It is not a cathedral of sober lines; its interior is very elaborate with many side chapels. There is so much to see it is almost disconcerting. Its Capilla de los Condestables (the Chapel of the Royal Field Marshal) counts amongst the most beautiful chapels in the world. The best sculptors in the region were called upon to participate. Its wroughtiron gate is imposing and is opened by the cathedral attendant only upon specific request. We admire the Membling painting and the sensuous Maria Magdalena painted by an artist of the da Vinci school. Elaborately carved in precious Carrara marble, the founders, the Condestable (Royal Field Marshal) and his wife present themselves to us, visitors and admirers, centuries later. The wife of the Condestable had promised her husband that when he returned from Granada where he was fighting for the reconquista he should have a palace to live in, a country house to relax in and a chapel to pray in! The choir of the cathedral consists of one hundred and three chairs, adorned with delicate wood carving work. It became closed to tourists after heads were snatched off small statues. Gérard remembers the very first time he visited this cathedral, which was in 1958 when everything was freely accessible with no guards and hardly any visitors. Burgos is definitely in the midst of a restoration fever. The cathedral’s facade shines in its original clear beige — a welcome change from its previous melancholy grey — and on the inside, work goes on at a hectic pace. Swiss insurance companies, UNESCO, the European Union,

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Spanish banks and multinational groups have all joined in financing the restoration of Burgos’s outstanding medieval architecture. The hours pass pleasantly in Burgos, capital of ancient Castilla and set on the banks of the Arlanzón River. Its origins go back to the ninth century when a fortress was built to defend upper Castilla from attacks by Arabs. We stroll through lovely gardens and along river promenades where branches of huge plane trees meet at the top, providing excellent shade. On both sides of the riverbed, a wide stretch of lawn invites sunseekers to watch swans and ducks glide by. In old and dusty stores, we discover rare books which we send off to our Spanish friends the next day, together with lovely posters of the Año Santo, given to us by the girls at the ayuntamiento, the shire office, who stamped our credenciales. We visit a contemporary art exhibition where I like only a few paintings, and we stop at one of the numerous street cafés to watch the people go by. It is a custom in Spain to go for an evening walk, called paseo. The people of Burgos are tall and do not have the tanned skin and dark hair one expects of Spanish people. This is a legacy from the Visigoths who settled in the north of Spain in the sixth century. Old-fashioned couples pass, with the husband’s arm about the shoulders of his spouse; I like it and draw Gérard’s attention in case he wants to copy it! Women walk together, arms interlaced; men gesticulate, talk, shout, absorbed in lively discussions; couples embrace lovingly; young girls walk to impress; young men stand around to evaluate; neighbours and friends catch up on the latest gossip together. The people of Castilla are rather reserved and use the formal Usted when addressing each other, whereas in the rest of Spain, one quickly changes to the more familiar tu, especially amongst people of the same age. To satisfy our culinary needs, we have elected to eat at the Casa Ojeda, one of the best restaurants in Burgos and still pleasantly old-fashioned in terms of decoration and

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efficient waiters; the maître d is even dressed in a tail coat. The restaurant decidedly serves the most delicious roast lamb in town, which prominent locals seem to appreciate too. Now that we are in Castilla, we enjoy wine from Ribera del Duero, a winegrowing area in south Castilla, reputed to be amongst the finest in the world. Pilgrims have traditionally been advised to drink their daily glass of wine and we certainly would not wish to break with the tradition! In the morning we return to the Casa Ojeda for breakfast. At nine-thirty, the time when cafés generally open in Spain, the waiters arrive and guests sit around a solid, semicircular wooden bar. Classical music comes softly from loudspeakers — what a change from the ubiquitous TVs — and we order fresh cheese and quince paste, both local specialities, and crusty bread. The waiters tell us the latest news of the country. In the mildness of the late afternoon light, we walk to the Monasterio de Las Huelgas Reales on the western edge of town and just manage to get a ticket for the last visit of the day. The monastery was founded by King Alfonso VIII and his wife Eleanor, daughter of Henry II Plantagenet. She was born in Gascony, land of troubadours and jongleurs and married Alfonso at the age of fifteen. The twelfthcentury convent was designed for daughters of noble descent. Originally a summer palace, a place for leisure and recreation (huelgas), it was renowned for the prestige and power it gave to its abbesses; in the thirteenth century the monastery had authority over more than fifty villages. Castilian kings liked to spend their latter years in the convent and many of them are also buried here. ‘These days, about forty Cistercian nuns live here but you will never see them because they live in total seclusion behind a double iron grille,’ the young woman guide tells us. They have also upheld their reputation for being haughty and aloof, we are told by another source. ‘Noblesse oblige!’

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I cannot help wondering about the life these women lead. When I was a teenager, there was a priest in our village who kept telling us young people that we would be damned if we did not follow our vocation. I was plagued by the question of whether I might be destined for the convent and unaware of such a vocation. The youngest in a family of nine children, I knew that my parents would look most favourably upon my becoming a nun. I remember going through agony trying to resolve my true vocation until one day it dawned on me that if I were destined for the convent, I would wish to be a nun at all costs. It would be a joy, a burning desire. Since this was not the case, I concluded that I was not called upon to serve in a convent and later successfully managed to resist the gentle coaxing of the nuns at school. Serenity reigns in this convent’s Romanesque cloister where ornamental twin columns show fine stylised capitals. I enjoy walking around its pebbled floor of ancient patterns. The original builders deliberately left small spaces between the wooden planks that form the church’s floor, creating a perfect airing system, which has prevented deterioration of the wooden floor over the centuries. The spaces still exist! In the former granary, the convent now houses a museum of medieval textiles (Museo de Ricas Telas) and shows the splendid robes worn at the Castilian court in the thirteenth century. All the clothes have come from the royal sarcophaguses. In 1809, Napoleon’s troops opened thirty-five of the thirty-six coffins, taking just the jewellery and gold. One coffin was unopened because the lid was too heavy to move, and it has provided the museum with the most lavish robes of all. They are those of the infante Fernando de la Cerda, the son of Alphonse the Wise, who died in 1275. The garments are embroidered with silver and silk threads, and his headdress features pearls and precious stones. The museum itself is of very modern design. The entire monastery underwent complete renovation on the

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occasion of its eight hundredth anniversary in 1988 and is not only air-conditioned but also humidified to protect these most delicate garments, most of them seven hundred years old. In fact, each exhibition showcase is individually climatised. Seeing that it is open until nine o’clock, we are tempted to visit the El Cid exhibition in the museum situated at the top of the Arco Santa Maria, a sort of Arc de Triomphe, through which one walks from the lively river promenade to reach the cathedral and the quiet inner city. The exhibition depicts the story of El Cid in pictures, instruments, garments and text. Indeed, we are anxious to know more about El Cid, a legendary figure of such fame that he and his wife were accorded a burial place in the cathedral of Burgos, highly unusual for a warrior. El Cid was born in 1026 not far from Burgos, in Vivar, and his real name was Rodrígo Diaz de Vivar. Some call him a mercenary and opportunist but more often he is celebrated as a noble warrior, a hero. Heroic songs and epic poems were written in his praise, and his triumphs over the Arabs are known to every schoolchild in Spain. Initially in the services of the ambitious King Sancho II, he moved to serve under King Alfonso VI but demanded of the latter that he swear that he had not instigated the killing of his brother, King Sancho; whereupon the king, feeling offended by such an impertinent demand from one of his officers, expelled him from Castilla. He left his family in the Monasterio San Pedro de Cardeña, where we go tomorrow. For sixteen years, El Cid fought for the reconquista and reconquered Valencia in 1094. He was equally admired by the Arabs who gave him the nickname Mio Cid, My Lord. And what is the meaning of Cid, el Campeador? Here, they say it stands for country doctor. In other translations, it means warrior. When El Cid died in 1099, his wife, Doña Jimena, a cousin of Alfonso VI, managed to keep Valencia free from the Arabs for some time. I ask the exhibition staff whether El Cid was not allied

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with the Arabs. They deny this. ‘Was he not in the services of the Moros at one stage?’ I ask. ‘Pero no.’ They look at me astonished, almost offended. ‘It is true that he had problems with the king and was obliged to leave Castilla. But there was reconciliation later on.’ Well, doubts remain and I am determined to find out more about El Cid at the next opportunity. After all, I am in the Tierra del Cid (Land of El Cid).

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San Pedro de Cardeña Taking part in the monastic life of the Cistercians

Our walk to the monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña, fifteen kilometres away from Burgos, is just becoming a trifle tiring under a harsh Castilian afternoon sun when two young men, waving their glasses, call from a new building across the street. ‘Quieren beber algo — would you like to have a drink?’ Gérard and I consider this an irresistible invitation. However, I hesitate to enter the shire building they are inaugurating. ‘No vamos vestidos para la fiesta — we are not dressed for the occasion,’ I say, but everyone absolutely insists and welcomes us most cordially, serving fruit juice to refresh us, then rosé and tinto which is red wine — ‘vamos, wine will make you strong’ — with plenty of delicious canapés. I chat with a handsome young man who looks like José Carreras in his younger days and who studies law at the University of Burgos. The mayor tells us that it is enormously costly to keep Burgos so impeccably clean. A small and stocky restaurant owner invites us to his mesón restaurant for a meal. We left Burgos this morning at around ten o’clock, walking along the shady river promenade, crossing dense

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pine groves and black poplar and birch woods. After four kilometres, we came across a signpost showing the way to Cartuja de Miraflores, the Carthusian Monastery of Miraflores, ensconced in the woods. It was a hunting lodge before King Juan II handed it over to the Carthusian monks in 1441. His daughter, Queen Isabel, completed the conversion to what was to be a specific Carthusian monastery, which means that the church has only one single nave in accordance with the liturgical tradition of the Carthusian monks. There is a section for the public in the rear of the church, then the laybrothers’ choir and, closer to the altar — closer to God — the fathers’ choir, the fathers being those monks who had studied and were learned. Today, of course, they are more democratic and all sit in front; but there are only twenty-five monks now, not two hundred as there used to be. Queen Isabel entrusted the work to masons from Cologne, this time Juan and Simon de Colonia. In the main chapel, the capilla mayor, which took five years to complete, the tomb of Queen Isabel’s parents is carved in white marble in the shape of an eight-pointed star. The sumptuous robes of the kings, their expressions, the profusion of carved figures, both biblical and allegorical, even the collar of the king shown in minute detail, all demand admiration. The Flemish artist, Gil de Siloe, whose work we already admired in Burgos designed this stately chapel. The elaborate altarpiece is said to have been gilded with the first gold brought back from the New World. The brother of Queen Isabel is also buried here. Because he died young, Isabel was made queen of Castilla and married Ferdinand, king of Aragón and together they united Spain. Known as the Catholic monarchs, they drove out the last of the Arabs when reconquering Granada, and expelled the Jews who had hitherto lived quite peacefully under both the Caliphs and the Christian kings. They financed Columbus’s discovery of the New World and instituted the infamous Inquisition.

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Isabel la Católica, as the queen was called, had remained childless until she went to pray to San Juan de Ortega who was known for curing sterility. Soon thereafter she gave birth to a son who died young and a daughter who, I believe, never reigned — she was called Juana the Insane and married a Habsburg, Philip the Fair. Ferdinand never passed the reins on to his daughter Juana even though Isabel bequeathed her the crown, but remained as monarch until his grandson came of age. This grandson, King Charles I and later Emperor Charles V, brought Spain into the Golden Age and, thanks to his Habsburg ties, ruled over Spain, Naples, Sicily, Sardinia and the colonies in the New World as well as parts of Germany, Austria, Flanders and the county of Burgundy. He was only nineteen years old when he assumed power, and at fifty-six abdicated in favour of his son Philip to retire to a monastery. The Golden Age of Spain came to an end at the close of the sixteenth century, barely a hundred years after it had begun. When I asked my Spanish friends why Juana La Loca was so called, some said she had become crazy because of the infidelities of her handsome Habsburgian husband! Others said she had been born with a brain deficiency. In the church a group of middle-aged men — dressed as if they were attending a business seminar — congregate in a side chapel. Thinking that they might be going to a holy mass, we join them, but instead they begin to pray the rosary. I have not prayed the rosary for some time. My mother used to do so very often. Nothing ever upset my mother. She would just pray and keep her calm and dignity. As children, and even as teenagers or adults, we were called upon to participate. I now recall them as moments of meditation and peacefulness although I did not realise it at the time and was often impatient for the rosary to finish. I was fascinated to learn that the efficacy of prayer had been scientifically tested in the United States! In 1988,

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researchers at Duke University proved to all sceptics that prayer was powerful when one hundred and fifty patients, who had undergone invasive cardiac procedures, were observed but were unaware that they were being prayed for. Seven different religious groups including Buddhists, Catholic nuns and Jews had been asked to pray for them. The researchers came to the conclusion that surgical patients’ recovery improved by fifty to a hundred per cent if someone prayed for them. Experiments to this effect began twenty years ago whereby seriously ill patients in hospitals were divided into two groups, one being prayed for while the other, the control group, was not. To both groups, the same medical care was given but the group that had been prayed for recovered faster. Astonishingly, it was discovered that the person doing the prayers did not have to know the patients personally or even know their names. My mother, God bless her soul, did not need to know of such experiments. She had an innate knowledge that prayer would help! When we leave the chapel, the men clap us on the shoulder and wish us ‘buen camino’. Some German tourists who have just left their coach look at us, amazed, and quickly reach for their cameras. We have become tourists’ prey! Evidently, as pilgrims ‘off the Camino’ we attract more attention than on the actual pilgrimage route where we are two of many. The receptionist who stamped our credenciales at the entry of the Miraflores monastery told us that of the twenty-five Carthusian monks, five were younger than thirty-five, which, according to him, was an encouraging sign for the monastery’s future. The Carthusian order, one of the strictest, was founded by Saint Bruno, a German from Cologne and a man of great learning. Like a comet, he soared up the ladder of ecclesiastical hierarchy in France. Despite his illustrious position as adviser to the pope, Saint Bruno was not content. He sought spirituality and asceticism and founded his first monastery on a plot of

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land donated to him in the Massif de la Grande Chartreuse, a mountainous area near Grenoble in France, in those days extremely remote and secluded. It is from this location that the Carthusians have drawn their name. Gérard recalls the story of another chartreuse, that of the herbal liqueur, still made by the monks today. In ancient times, a document existed, called le manuscrit, which contained the recipe for an elixir de longue vie — elixir of longevity, made up of one hundred and thirty-three medicinal and aromatic herbs. In 1605, a nobleman from Paris, the Maréchal d’Estrées, bequeathed this document to the Carthusian monks. From then on, it was known as the Elixir Végétal de la Grande Chartreuse. At the Carthusian monastery, the monks mixed the herbs for the elixir. It was a good income for them. During wars and revolutions, the document kept disappearing and reappearing. Their monastery in France is permanently closed to the public but a building at the gateway to their valley provides information about them. Nowadays, the monks have the herb mixture distilled in Voiron (near Grenoble and Valence), under their supervision of course, and also distributed from there. Gérard likes to keep a bottle of the green and aromatic chartreuse elixir in our bar at home which I drink, may the monks forgive me, only highly diluted. Carthusian monks lead a life of prayer. They work and study in absolute solitude and silence. Their clothes, especially those worn on the skin, are of rough texture. They have only two meals a day and must daily drink a small given measure of wine. Fasting periods, when there is only one meal, are frequent; and on Fridays they only have bread and water. They are reputed for their aspiration to intellectual and spiritual highness but are required by their charter also to do manual work to train their bodies and to remain humble. At long last we spot the monastery of San Pedro de

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Cardeña, a gathering of imposing stone buildings nestled below on a green valley floor. It exudes calm, peace and tranquillity, and we hurry to reach it. The sun-drenched courtyard is empty and not a soul is to be seen. It is still siesta time. We notice that the huge wooden entry door is slightly ajar. As we approach it, a young man (a novice, we later learn) comes out and takes us to the portero (porter), a tall strong man who ushers us very formally into a reception room furnished with old-fashioned sofas covered in faded red plush. The portero entered the monastery at the age of fourteen and has been at Cardeña for forty years. Soon our host, Padre Pablito, the abbot in residence, appears, smiling warmly. He is silver-bearded and of medium height; his eyes sparkle. I like him immediately. He insists on carrying my backpack, which he slings over his shoulders as we walk up two flights of stairs. They have no double rooms — do we mind staying in separate rooms? I suspect a plot by the monks! The room is sparsely furnished but has a good feel about it. A solid-looking, small wooden table and chair are near

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the window set into the monastery’s thick walls. A tiny shower completes my monastic suite. Behind my bedroom door hangs a notice to all guests: We are not to talk to any monk other than our hospedero, Padre Pablito (the padres are priests, the hermanos are not ordained, but it is perfectly all right to call them all hermanos or even by their names, compliments of the Second Vatican Council). We are highly encouraged to assist their services, vespers, evening prayers, holy mass — indeed, every two hours, there is chanting or praying, starting at five in the morning. We are reminded that this is a house of silence and that after the evening prayers at nine o’clock, there must be absolute silence in the house. In the past, the monastery accepted as guests men only and it is but recently that it has accepted couples as well. I suppose women may be a distraction to the monks, so I shall keep my eyes demurely to the floor when entering the chapel or the church. In the austere dining room where guests help with the service, we meet up with the other guests, the huespedes, about twenty people from Sevilla, Madrid, Santander, Pamplona: people from all walks of life, escaping stress, seeking spirituality, peace; people like us, wanting time to reflect on what we are doing. We are the only ones who are not Spanish. The wife of the couple from Sevilla tells me that she refused to accept single bedrooms and insisted on an extra bed for her husband to be brought to her bedroom last night! Well, I have decided to submit myself to this monastic challenge! The food is simple but good: vegetables from the monastery’s huerta (garden), fish or chicken and for dessert, fruit from their garden, like green plums which taste delicious and sweet. Padre Pablito, a generous host, insists on giving Gérard huge portions for dinner. There are twenty monks, of whom eight are ordained priests and two missionaries home from Peru, who have asked to be admitted. They will be given a three-year trial. Two monks are visiting Jesuits. The young man in jeans,

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sitting with the monks, is a fisherman from Huelva, near Cádiz, who has asked to join the community. The monks are of all ages, some so young and handsome not even the best El Greco painting would do them justice; others are old and bent, walking with the help of canes, suffering from rheumatism and arthritis within the chilly monastery walls. The younger monks may come to the aid of an older monk but they seem to respect each other’s independence. The monks talk little and live in silence. They sing Gregorian chants and take their turn in playing the organ. The lead singer has a pure and elevating voice. We cannot help but feel the goodness the monks radiate. The monastery complex is almost a city unto itself with its many inner courtyards, chapels, church, workshops, library, cellars, offices, reception rooms, cells, cloisters, gardens, orchards, guesthouse, kitchens and dormitories. At last, I am able to sleep well. The pilgrimage walk requires such willpower that for days I cannot let go, even when I stop. The silence outside is awesome. What did Padre Pablito say? ‘Aquí oímos el silencio — here, we hear the silence.’ Padre Pablito takes time to fill us in on the monastery’s life and history during a specially granted visit to the Bodegas Románicas del Monasterio, the monastery’s Romanesque wine cellars, for which Gérard has asked on behalf of all guests. Ora et labora is the monks’ motto. Their day is filled with prayer and work. The founder of their order, Saint Benedict, studied in Rome. In the sixth century, when foreign hordes invaded, he went to Subiaco in Italy to establish a monastery. When it became too risky to live there, he left for Montecassini, where he established the actual Benedictine order and wrote its rules. In the eleventh century, Benedictine monasteries, especially Cluny in France, became large and powerful and began to display just a touch of decadence. Some Benedictine monks sought a more devoted life and Robert de Molesme, monk

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and abbot, born in the French Champagne from wealthy parents, went to Citeaux in Burgundy and founded what is known today as the Cistercian order, which is in fact a return to the strict rules of Saint Benedict. The order’s name ‘Cistercian’ refers to Citeaux, which is an ancient name for cistern. Alas, Robert de Molesme was not allowed to stay in Citeaux. His archbishop forced him to go back to his former monastery and soon Citeaux, which had difficulty attracting new applicants to its strict rules, fell into decay. Then in 1112, Saint Bernard, twenty-two years old, asked for admittance. Bernard, of aristocratic descent, came from the castle of Fontaines near Dijon in Burgundy. His mother had died when he was fourteen. To keep her memory alive in a noble fashion, young Bernard chose to live as a monk. His education was impeccable as he had studied the classics; and his power of persuasion was tremendous since he arrived in the company of thirty noblemen, friends and relatives, all highly educated, whom he had asked to join him. From that moment, Citeaux resurged. Bernard defended strict observance of Saint Benedict’s rules. Not surprisingly, this resulted in some hostility between the monks of Cluny and those of Citeaux. His family donated Clairvaux, a remote, barren, uncleared piece of land. Saint Bernard made it blossom. The Cistercians, also called the white monks for their white robes, cultivated Europe’s soil. They selected bad, unwanted land and rendered it fertile. Saint Bernard was extremely eloquent. With mischievous eyes, Padre Pablito tells us that, ‘during his speeches, mothers and wives tied their men to a pole or whatever, lest they follow him. He was the initiator of the Crusades but always defended the Jews passionately. Well, he was the man of the twelfth century. He wrote the statutes for the Templar order, worked with it, built roads, built cathedrals. His aura was tremendous. He had huge charisma.’ ‘It is believed that our monastery has existed since the

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sixth century,’ Padre Pablito continues, ‘and was the first Benedictine foundation in Spain. Historical facts date back to the ninth century. In the same century, two hundred of our monks were murdered by the Arabs. After that, as we all know, El Cid took care of the Arabs and chased them away, even re-conquered Valencia. Have you seen the chapel in our church where the entire El Cid family is buried, including uncles and cousins? Only the protagonist and his wife are missing. When El Cid was asked by the king of León to leave Castilla, he brought his wife and children to this monastery where they awaited his return from his successful battles against the Moors. His family lived apart in one of those buildings,’ and he points to a building at the other side of the monastery complex. ‘El Cid and Doña Jimena were buried here for seven hundred years, and then the French troops desecrated the tombs. He and his wife have now found peace in the cathedral of Burgos.’ Padro Pablito seems very taken with El Cid, and I do not have the courage to ask him to solve my question about El Cid’s involvement with the Arabs. During the Spanish Civil War, in the late thirties, San Pedro de Cardeña served as a concentration camp. ‘We are here to restore, to heal the damage inflicted upon this place,’ says Padre Pablito. When the current monk community arrived at Cardeña in 1942, they had to clean out the bodegas (wine cellars) which were full of rubble. The cellars had also been used as stables by a previous abbot who was councillor to the king and needed horses to be ready at the king’s whim. Valdevelego is the name of their wine, and the vineyards, probably a gift by some benefactor, are situated in Rioja. The monastery employs the expertise of a monk who specialises in making wine. Botín, the oldest restaurant in Madrid, which has served patrons uninterruptedly for three hundred years, serves the monastery’s wine as its table wine. It is also sold in New York.

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‘A Jesuit is putting together the history, which is missing in many parts. At one time, our biblioteca housed a compilation of fine books and would be considered as one of the oldest and wealthiest monastic libraries in Spain had it not been for the damage the monastery suffered over the centuries,’ Padre Pablito tells us as we emerge from the wine cellars. ‘We are trying to microfilm original books, now in museums in London, New York, and elsewhere. Only recently, we heard of a painting from the monastery being at a museum in Berlin. Apart from the church, which is under historical protection and thus under the wing of the government, the monastery has to come up with its own financing. ‘It is not easy,’ he adds, ‘and people can be difficult. Recently, a journalist took offence at our asking a hundred pesetas [one Australian dollar] to visit the premises. His argument was that San Pedro de Cardeña was of public interest and should therefore be accessible to all people without charge. It is a very modest fee we charge when you think that one monk is busy all day showing visitors around.’ After lunch, following two other guests, José-Maria and Clara, we slip through the huge wooden front door and dash across the empty courtyard over to the Mesón, feeling like naughty children for swapping the two o’clock chapel service for coffee (and herbal liqueur for the men!). JoséMaria is a dynamic, fifty-five-year-old executive from Madrid while his wife, gentle and soft-spoken, is half his age and looks more like his daughter. José-Maria entertains us with anecdotes of receptions in Madrid and tells us of the King’s penchant for beautiful women. At the monastery, he has spoken with several monks. ‘But I thought we were not allowed to talk to them,’ I exclaim. ‘Well, if you ask them something about their work or the monastery or require some information, they are actually only too happy to oblige,’ says José-Maria. ‘Estais muy valorosos — you are very courageous!’ he tells

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us. He seems to be full of admiration for our walking the Camino and leaves Gérard at a loss for words, ‘I am not so sure. It must be the Road which gives us strength.’ Together with Macchu Picchu in Peru and Lhasa in Tibet, Santiago de Compostela belongs, in the opinion of JoséMaria, among the most spiritual sites in the world. ‘These places are real power centres!’ Eva, another guest, a motherly figure and wife of a tall, gaunt man from Cartagena, tells us that at the time of her husband’s sailing with their son to Florida on their yacht, she became extremely ill. It was impossible to contact her husband. She stared death in the face. She was alone, very alone, although friends and family frequently dropped in. She says that during that time, she had many insights into how to access her inner wisdom, her inner strength. She tells of conflicts, personal battles, small successes — and of the time she now takes for herself. To a friend who called recently to ask her what she was doing that very day, Eva answered, ‘Nada, pero nada, nada — nothing, but nothing, nothing.’ Spanish people like to repeat themselves to emphasise a point. ‘I am going to spend the day with my grand-daughter, nothing else.’ Eva is the second person we meet on our pilgrimage who has embraced a concept of time of which we busy people, chronically short of time, can only be envious. Another guest, who helped me find the chorales in the prayer book during service, is an ex-nun. In a sophisticated, musical Castellano Spanish, she discreetly alludes to intrigues, jealousies and power plays during a prolonged sickness at her convent. She now frequently comes to stay at this monastery where she helps the Cistercian nun in the kitchen, a woman with the gentlest smile I have ever seen, who came for a holiday twenty years ago and never left. Gérard and I both find the completas, the evening prayers, quite moving. At the end, before the monks sing the ‘Salve Regina’, they extinguish all lights in the Romanesque church, except for the one illuminating the statue of the

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Virgin. A monk goes to ring the bell for the angelus — which opens up cherished memories of my childhood. When out in the summer fields of picturesque central Switzerland and hearing the village church chime at noon, my father would interrupt his work and begin to pray the angelus with us children, a ritual that put us on a higher plane. The abbot stands at the exit, blessing each of us personally and sprinkling us with holy water. My mother used to do this when we left for school and even when we were grown-up and left for a journey. It made me feel protected and safe. I think it was also an expression of love for my mother who, like most people born around the turn of the last century, was not accustomed to showing her emotions easily. I am limping as we walk across the courtyard of San Pedro de Cardeña. My right hip hurts. Gérard jokingly urges me to put up a good show. ‘We are being watched by all the guests who find us so valorosos.’ ‘Theresa, cuida a tu jefe — look after your boss,’ José-Maria calls out to me. ‘Están fuertes — you are strong and courageous,’ the Basque cries. We are quite sad to leave this place and its occupants but feel spiritually enriched. We have shared intensely philosophical moments and very personal impressions and beliefs — in other words, we bared a bit of our soul. In all likelihood, we shall never meet again. It is a pleasant morning, about twenty-five degrees, and our walk back to Burgos takes us mostly through forests and woods. With the monks’ chanting still in our heads, the fifteen kilometres are a breeze, and we arrive at the cathedral to witness four weddings and traditional dancing. One of the brides participates, lifting up her gown and moving her feet in tandem with the other dancers, much to the amusement of the onlookers who thank her with enthusiastic applause.

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At the church of San Nicolás, the Brazilian couple with whom we visited the birthplace of Santo Domingo de la Calzada stands awe-struck in front of the altar, which comprises hundreds of carved and highly ornate figures. The woman is very soignée and calm but her husband appears nervous. They are apprehensive about having to cross the Meseta under the relentless Castilian sun. We know what they mean. Back in Azqueta, Pablito, who gave us many a good tip, advised: ‘Cross the Meseta by night when it is cooler and when the stars resemble enormous snowflakes in a winter sky. There is something infinitely peaceful walking through this desolate land in splendid solitude.’ Recalling his words, we become excited at the prospect. We are well equipped to sleep under the stars. It has been hot here in Burgos and, judging from comments made by seasoned fellow pilgrims, the Meseta promises to be hotter still. No need to carry the trousers for rainy weather any farther; unnecessary weight! We send them off.

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Burgos – Castrojeriz Our first crisis!

We leave Burgos, heading west, and arrive in Tardajos to meet at a breakfast bar with more pilgrims from Brazil, Germany, France, Switzerland and Holland. From Tardajos to Rabé was once a dangerously swampy area but now it is an easy walk of two kilometres. A Brazilian couple passes us. ‘Fuerza, fuerza, adelante — forward with strength,’ the husband cries out as he overtakes us. Their luggage was sent by taxi to Castrojeriz, forty kilometres farther, and they walk lightly, unencumbered. He is a Maronista, a Maronite Christian who addresses God as Allah. His parents came from Lebanon and settled in Brazil. They tell us that over one hundred and seventy Brazilians are walking right now in this area. No, it is not because of Paulo Coelho that they are here; it was a TV report and books written by two Brazilian women which caught their attention. At exactly noon we arrive at Hornillos del Camino, about twenty kilometres from Burgos, and decide to stay at the albergue run by the shire, which charges five-hundred pesetas per person. As we are early, we are in a position to choose a corner bunk in one of the two rooms and use the

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shower before everyone else has done so. Hornillos has only grown thanks to pilgrims. It consists of a single long street, the Calle Real (Royal Street), our pilgrimage route. It is a pleasant village, housing about thirty inhabitants — what they call a dormitorio village, where the younger people come home from the cities over the weekend to see their parents or perhaps restore houses for vacations or weekends. ‘The peasants mostly grow trigo, wheat, which means work for about three months. In earlier days they had also ganados, sheep and cows, but they demand too much attention,’ the village mayor tells us. After an amazingly good lunch, at the only restaurant, to which we pilgrims all walk limping (this is how we recognise a fellow pilgrim in a city or a village!), we go and lie down on the bunks before I massage Gérard’s swollen ankles and feet in the courtyard outside. Other pilgrims do the same or wash their clothes, rest, sleep, chat and attend to their blisters. In the evening, the mayor comes to open the parish church for us where we admire a finely carved and sweetlooking Virgin Mary statue from Rocamadour, France. Apparently a monastery was run by the French here centuries and centuries ago. The mayor does not quite remember when. Outside the church, a young man from Sevilla and a retired industrialist are having a chat. The older person’s toes and feet look swollen, deformed and yellowish. He says it is not as bad as it looks, especially when walking. His major complaint, he tells the mayor, is that the albergue features only one toilet for twenty people. A dramatic evening sky distracts me from the conversation. While dark clouds gather in the eastern part of the sky, a purple sun sets majestically in the west. I am, however, unprepared for the thunderstorm which is unleashed upon us within minutes, so ferociously that we have to seek refuge in the church. It is a tremendous spectacle. The thunder is still awe-inspiring when we venture to leave the church, and the lightning will continue

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all night. Little do we realise that this thunderstorm is the overture to much cooler weather. Tonight we share our dormitory with a young doctor from the sherry capital of Jerez who is suffering from tendonitis; the retired entrepreneur with the bad toes; a talkative and charming Frenchman with a gourmet belly; a social worker with waist-long blond hair whose time and money have expired and who will hitchhike back to Austria starting tomorrow; an English woman with badly wounded, but healing, knees; an eighty-year-old humble and agile Brazilian archbishop (whose identity we learn only later); a young Austrian dressed as if he were going to the Mediterranean for a beach holiday; and a Spanish woman with expressive eyes who told us she was doing a master’s degree in Romanesque art. I do not sleep well and, at five in the morning, silently glide down from my upper bunk onto Gérard’s level and whisper into his ear, ‘Darling, let’s go.’ With the aid of a pocket torch we noiselessly re-arrange things, get dressed quickly and hurry out of the room. But what a surprise! It is pitch dark, windy, wet and slippery. Our torch is of no use. I remember now having read that the Meseta climate is known to be harsh and unpredictable. One day can be hot, the next one cold. Because of its altitude of nine hundred metres on the north Castilian plateau, strong cold winds are frequent. Perhaps we were a bit overly enthusiastic in sending away our rain trousers! After a quarter of an hour, we decide to return to the albergue where people are getting up. We retire to the kitchen and make ourselves a hot tea. ‘Let’s wait until the day begins!’ When we venture to leave the albergue again, the day has become lighter but the wind is as fierce as before. We wear our anoraks, but cannot stop. Stopping in the wind would feel literally icy. I do not feel very bright and energetic this morning and must be careful not to stumble over stones. I

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have no desire to talk, only to be left alone. Gérard, too, for the first time during our pilgrimage, has said to me this morning, ‘I do not look forward to walking today.’ What a miserable pair we are! We walk through bleak and dry countryside where winds are howling around us and the stormy sky threatens us from above. There is no shelter in view. Something else worries us: Gérard had a sharp piercing pain in his left femur during the night. Of course, he did not have a cream handy — it was tucked away in the pharmacy bag in the backpack on the floor, and he did not want to disturb everybody in the dormitory by going to search for it. After some massaging, the pain disappeared somewhat but there is still numbness in the thigh. From a small albergue marked by a Maltese cross out in the fields, a young couple joins us, looking cold but otherwise smiling as they liked this albergue very much. Farther on, we see a fountain about three hundred metres off the pilgrims’ route with shelter provided by straw pallets. A pilgrim, probably surprised by the storm, seems to have spent the night there. Later, Scott, who also stayed at the albergue, joins us. He calls himself the new Englishman since he was born in Wales of Irish parents and lives in Glasgow in Scotland. He has no pilgrimage guide and walks the Ancient Way because he heard that it leads through lovely villages off the tourist track. Now he wants to know from Gérard what the Camino is all about. I fall behind, and look around me. The day has grown lighter and brighter; I walk amongst wheat fields of dimensions not unlike Australian ones, but the stones are different and the soil seems more fertile. Often the stones are piled up in huge heaps, and figures are made of them such as dwarves, ducks, hens and roosters. The significance of this stonescape escapes me but I know that these figures are called májanos. It is still cold and windy. At times, I have a sensation of walking on top of the world. This must be due to the high altitude of the Meseta. Bare patches

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alternate with cultivated fields and pasture. There are no fences in Spain. Sometimes, trees indicate the border of a property. Ancient rights allow shepherds to drive their herds right across the country. I wonder for how much longer! I am still feeling miserable, could cry but must go on. To cheer myself up and to get away from feeling sorry for myself, I start talking to my organs. My dear heart must rejoice with so much exercise, I say to it, and so must my lungs with all the fresh air they receive each day. I tell my kidneys that I shall always endeavour to drink enough water to keep them happy; I assure my liver that I shall eat wisely and avoid any excess, as becomes a good pilgrim. I have a little talk with my pancreas too and thank the bladder for being strong, something I appreciate right now in this windswept flat country which offers no spot to hide (and besides, it is impossible to take the backpack off in this cold and violent wind). After the dialogue with my body I start counting to four on my inbreath and six on my outbreath, anything to take my attention away from walking. Every step is a conscious effort, and in twenty kilometres there are many steps. And yet … as bizarre as this may sound, I begin to enjoy the solitude, the ruggedness, the forlorn countryside. It makes me think of Wuthering Heights! I detect a church tower, some roofs. Hontanas, at last! Clinging to a slope protected from the easterly wind, it looks like Shangri-La to me. What a disappointment though on coming closer. First, a lot of rubbish greets us, mostly old and rusty farm machinery, plastic stuff and other modern junk no longer used and with which modern Spain has a problem. If only they had an artist like Tinguely to make fascinating sculptures out of rusty metal. Never mind; where is the bar, the one and only bar? Other pilgrims join us, all in search of a warm drink. The bar is closed. ‘The owner always goes shopping on Monday mornings,’ an old woman dressed in black tells us. Surely there must

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be another place where we can get a hot drink and maybe a sandwich? However, the women we speak to in this poor and half-deserted village have no desire to help us. Besides, the ambulant shop only comes at midday and, prior to that time, there is no fresh bread. ‘Andáis mejor con estómago vacío — you’ll walk better on an empty stomach,’ jokes a passing man, who we are sure will not be taking his own advice. At the exit of this miserable hamlet, there is an abandoned plum tree hanging over the road. Scott suggests getting some, but he has to lean over the ditch. So Gérard holds on to him and I hold on to Gérard. The plums are fairly sour but together with leftover nuts, almonds and chocolate, they make up an interesting concoction! And then it happens. As he lifts up his walking sticks from the ground, Gérard splits his trousers at a delicate spot in the back. At this hilarious sight, Scott and I burst into laughter, but Gérard fails to see the joke. Grumbling, he retires behind the bushes to change. Ironically, the name of this poor village suggests lush and fertile soils as ‘Hontanas’ means fountains and springs. Indeed, parts of the countryside look very green. Ancient willows and poplars line the road. We pass the monastery of San Anton, whose monks had the ability to cure Saint Anthony’s fire, a contagious skin disease which scourged Europe in the tenth and eleventh centuries. I am interested to learn that the order’s symbol was the nineteenth letter of the Greek alphabet, the Greek T (tau) which appeared in blue on their black habits. Apparently they used it in their healing ceremonies. Once they had over three hundred hospitals at different locations in Europe. Now only ruins remain, but we admire the Gothic double arch under which we pilgrims have to pass. We had hoped to sleep here à la belle étoile but this is impossible; first because of the weather and second because of the dogs, barking fiercely. The entire complex has been turned into a farm. In Castrojeriz itself, the churches are all closed, it being

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Monday, a day of rest. Only the manager of the Colegiata happens to be there by chance. ‘Why are the churches in Spain always closed during the day?’ I ask somewhat defiantly, wanting to know what he would answer. ‘It is because things get stolen if we leave them open. Have you not heard of the Belgian who, in the church of Santo Domingo, stole six tapestries made after a design by Rubens?’ We are dumbstruck. ‘Well, they got him but one tapestry is still missing.’ ‘What happened to him?’ I want to know. ‘He was imprisoned; but then he financed the restoration of a chapel and got off.’ The little town of Castrojeriz, nestled on the side of a large hill crowned by a fortress, goes back to Visigoth times and has definitely seen better days. These are villages that, thanks to the pilgrims, attained prosperity; but they fell into poverty when the Road became forgotten. Now, with the renaissance of the pilgrimage, they are experiencing a resurrection. Indeed, we detect restorations going on. A charming old lady, dressed as if she were going to have tea in a palace, goes to great lengths to explain to us which road to take to arrive at the albergue. On the way, we come across a small hotel, an old mansion, restored and featuring spacious rooms grouped around an inner courtyard patio and decide to stay. What I like most are the parquetry floors in the room. They feel so warm under my feet. At the albergue I explain to the padre, a jovial, silverbearded man, that today we need the comfort and peace of a private room in order to recuperate. He is full of understanding: ‘You are so right, because — el Camino no tiene que ser un Camino de sufrimiento sino de sentimiento — the Road to Santiago should not be a path of suffering but a path of feeling!’ I have difficulty falling asleep. I am worried about Gérard’s thigh. A pharmacist he consulted sold him aspirin

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and special ointments and suggested he see a doctor as well. She said that it was free for pilgrims. But Gérard does not want to see a doctor. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he keeps saying. Yet he startled me this morning when he said that we might have to interrupt our pilgrimage. I know how important this pilgrimage is to him, how much he was looking forward to it.

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Castrojeriz – Villalcázar de Sirga In contemplation and meditation

Thank heavens, Gérard had a good night. The pain in his thigh seems to have gone and the numbness has subsided. We are in a great mood, singing and chanting and dancing around the room. ‘Todo era tan boníto, tan emocionante — everything was so beautiful, so emotional. I could not wait to do it again,’ says a fellow pilgrim. Her face glows with emotion, her dark curls glint with auburn lights. The way she talks makes me think of music. She must be Brazilian, the only people to have such melodious voices when they speak. Indeed, she is — and she is on her second pilgrimage this year. ‘I could not even wait until next year as I had initially planned. It was green and luscious in spring; now in autumn I experience it more inwardly.’ The other people in the tearoom are a young Chinese man, his chin adorned with a pointed beard, writing furiously into his diary, and an Asian couple who order food with the aid of a dictionary. We saw them yesterday, drawing a small cart loaded with two Samsonite suitcases. Feet from many lands walk the Road!

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A shepherd, bundled in his woollen cape, with weatherworn skin and lively eyes, is pleased to pose for a fellow pilgrim’s photograph, but we are still unable to ask strangers to pose for us. Instead we have a chat. He complains that his profession is dying out. ‘A young shepherd can’t find a bride any more these days. In the olden days, a shepherd would marry the daughter of another shepherd, but now no woman will marry a shepherd. He doesn’t make enough money.’ After a steep ascent, we reach the windswept heights of the plateau. What a panorama! A three hundred and sixtydegree view! Castrojeriz, now looking ancient and medieval in the distance, clings to the foot of a round hill that rises out of the fertile plain to the level of the surrounding tableland. Gérard describes it succinctly: ‘A geological collapse and a washout!’ The sun comes out and accentuates the shades of ochre, beige, brown, purple … When we resume walking, the gusty wind pushes us from the back. It would be impossible to stop. We pity a pilgrim returning from Santiago having to battle with the wind blowing against him. Only later does it occur to me to wonder what he is doing, walking all the way back, taking the time. I imagine that this consolidates the impressions gained on the journey. Of course, in the Middle Ages, there was no other means but to walk back. This involved an immense journey, taking sometimes years, especially for those coming from England, Germany, Holland, Poland or Russia. I read somewhere once that only one out of two made it home again. I am sure this is an exaggeration. At Itero del Castillo, we are tempted to stay at its albergue, a former church restored by Italians and where the hostel father, a man from Perugia, is reputed to serve spaghetti by candlelight. However, it is only eleven in the morning and the albergue does not open until four o’clock in the afternoon, so we press on. The next village, Itero de Vega in the Province of Palencia, has no shops. Exhausted and hungry, we continue

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to Boadillo del Camino, where we are grateful for a hearty soup. Indigestion will follow, but for now hunger rules. The local albergue looks most inviting with its impeccable linen, garden and orchard, but we want to go on to Frómista. Before continuing, we replenish our water bottles at a well where we have to turn a wheel to bring the water up. We are often struck by the many ways water is provided along the Camino. A shepherd is watching us. Standing in front of his flock of sheep, he makes sure they have all gathered before he takes them through the village and on to new pastures. Shepherds convey such an image of timelessness. I recall the complaint of the shepherd we met this morning and hope he is wrong about his profession dying out. As we walk on, we detect many caves. Spanish friends report that not only were they used in the Middle Ages, but are again in demand. Young people find them ecological dwellings and, thanks to modern techniques, need not live without electricity and an efficient airing system. The five-kilometre walk along the Canal de Castilla is invigorating. The canal was built by a marquis in the eighteenth century for transportation and irrigation, and still performs its irrigation tasks today. It runs along two hundred and seven kilometres and took a hundred years to build. Navigation on this man-made river lasted another hundred years before it came to a halt in 1959. It is a marvellous engineering job! One day, we decide, we will further investigate this canal. The afternoon sun plays hideand-seek among trains of little golden clouds, casting shadows on the harvested wheat fields below. Poplars and birches whisper in the breeze. The San Martin church in Frómista is, according to the guidebook, one of the most interesting Romanesque churches in the whole of Europe. Anke, a pilgrim woman from Berlin, uses opera glasses to study the carvings on the capitals. What a good idea! ‘In Romanesque art, capitals show richness in form and

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shape and are very ornamental. The capitals here tell of legends and stories. They are full of symbolism. In Gothic art, the ornament of the capitals was limited to foliage and buds. That’s why this here is so worthwhile looking at,’ she tells us, offering us a look through her glasses. Indeed, the capitals are very intriguing, over a hundred of them showing acrobats, oriental faces, wise faces, lions, voracious wolves, musical donkeys. Some show men in ritual postures, said to be ancient canteros (stonemasons). Carvings were one way in which traditions were transmitted down the centuries. Outside the church, there are an amazing three hundred and fifteen — no less, my guidebook states firmly, in case I want to argue — carved stone corbels. Frómista existed as far back as Celtic times. It is thought that its current name stems from the Latin word fromentum meaning ‘wheat’. The Moors destroyed it but the same queen who built the bridge in Puente la Reina resurrected it and founded the monastery of which only the church now remains. We question the saying ‘good old times’ when we read the following observation by Domenico Laffi, an Italian priest from Bologna who went to Santiago as a pilgrim in 1673: Under a beating sun and plagued by cursed locusts, we reached (with God’s help) Formezza, a place which they call ‘Formeste’ … It is so large as to be almost a city, but it is suffering great privation due to the locusts; there has been no wheat, no wine, no fruit. Nothing! In short, it is heartbreaking to see these places so devastated by these creatures. At night, the townsfolk come out into the streets armed with clubs and kill the locusts that gather under the walls during the day … covering the walls so thickly that they appear painted in black. At night, they fall to the

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ground with cold and there they are killed. Otherwise, it would be necessary to abandon the village and even the cities.

Such a situation is not totally unfamiliar to us and we can sympathise with the extent of the tragedy. In Western Australia, we have experienced the onslaught of locusts and grasshoppers on farmland almost every year. Once they have eaten the grass and the plants, they attack the leaves of the trees, and there seems no way of getting rid of them. But there are worse problems, Laffi recounts, which we are thankful not to share: ‘We came to the town of Hontanas which is hidden at the bottom of a little valley so you hardly see it. Wolves come in such numbers that if they

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see no fire they eat the livestock, night and day …’ As night falls, Gérard and I discuss another full day. I am feeling terribly cold but have only myself to blame. Absentmindedly, I washed my hair, thinking that the sun would dry it; but I forgot the wind. Not wishing to miss the opening hours for the visit to the church, I tied a scarf around my wet hair in order to go out. Had it not been for the cold wind, I would have probably been all right. To cure my cold, Gérard insists I drink a sherry, and in particular an amontillado, at the sherry museum opposite the church! I can only hope his cure works. At the picturesque Ermita de San Miguel, hidden amongst poplars and birches, countless birds sing on this sunny, clear morning. I am feeling much better than last night and decide to buy a kilo of plums from a village woman along the way. She boasts that their small albergue has a green lawn and double rooms. Her village is called Población de Campos and here we are confronted with the choice of two trails, one that leads inland following a stream, and another that follows the main road and which has the advantage of being shorter. What to do? Easy! We want to be as far as possible away from the noise of the road. In our opinion, Spain has gone overboard in setting up new pilgrim trails. Of course, every Spaniard we meet thinks otherwise and urges us to go onto the new pilgrim path along the road. A friend of ours, an art dealer living in a small country town near Alicante, once told us that whenever he wishes to walk, village people stop their cars and say, ‘por favor — please, let me give you a lift’ or, ‘Are you all right? Why walk when you can drive!’ Gérard likes this village where houses are made of mud bricks and rendered with a mixture of straw and mud. The structured texture lacks the hardiness of concrete and is subject to erosion, but it is ecological and blends perfectly into the countryside. We walk well on this narrow path. The earth under our feet has a velvety touch. Every so often, we

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have to negotiate steep slopes in order to cross dried-out brook beds. The monotony of vast wheat fields is broken by medieval villages, each with its church tower thrusting from earth to heaven. Today, we have been gone for a month, and it is with some regret that we notice on a sign that we have walked over half the distance to Santiago. What a splendid alternative to daily life this walk is, besides being noticeably good for body and soul. All we have to worry about is arriving safe and sound at our day’s destination. Throughout the day, we nurture our thoughts, indulge in talks on myriad subjects, meditate on our walking, breathe in fresh air, delight in nature around us, meet people from different parts of the world, learn about culture, history, architecture … indeed, we are in a special place, and appreciate the special frame of mind it bestows upon us. It is eerily still around us. Gérard whispers, ‘What a paradise for frogs and birds, well even snakes!’ We decide to rest here, and search the terrain for any potential snakes before pulling out our mats. The air is soft. Poplars, willows, aspen and birches flank the river. Silken clouds drift lazily across the sky. As I lie on my mat, gazing into the deep blue sky, absorbed in the play of leaves and twigs that move delicately in the subtle breeze, I am led to a body meditation whereby I breathe into my lumbar vertebrae, starting with the fifth, going to the fourth, third … then into the thoracic vertebrae, starting at the twelfth, and finally breathing into the cervical vertebrae. My breath wanders up and down my spine, encompassing all vertebrae and caressing my organs, making them smile! Indeed, our spot has taken us under its spell.

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We nibble our biscuits and consider. What luck! Villalcázar is not only renowned for its monumental church and fine patisserie but also for a restaurant called El Mesón.

Villalcázar de Sirga A special place!

Physically invigorated and spiritually enriched, we pack up and walk on quietly, savouring every step. What a difference from a few days ago when each step was a burden! On our way to Villalcázar de Sirga (Sirga meaning Camino), we pass the first of many palomares, pigeon houses. Palomares, typical of the Meseta and none the same as another, are archaic constructions of cylindrical shape and with conical roofs. They are built of the same materials as the local houses. A young mason would be set the task of building a pigeon house before he was assigned more demanding tasks. Gérard spots renovation going on at a local mud house and enters into a discussion with the owner. The village people respect their traditional architecture but apply modern techniques such as reinforcement with wire mesh to avoid erosion. Villalcázar is one of the few documented Templar foundations along the Camino. Gérard read that biscuits are a speciality of Villalcázar, and we arrive two minutes before closing time and rush to buy some of these fine almond delicacies. It is two o’clock, the church has just closed and will not re-open until five o’clock. What to do?

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‘We have no table free but if you don’t mind waiting half an hour,’ says a busy waiter, and he bustles us out of the overcrowded restaurant into a tiled open entry area where we are invited to sit on a wooden bench. Within minutes he reappears, bringing us a botín of wine, a pear-shaped container made of goat skin from which one drinks wine without touching the lips. There is a ritual to this: stand, head slightly backwards, and with one hand bring the botín slightly above your head at a right angle to your mouth and steer the wine’s flow into your mouth. If you are not so clever, you will spill the wine all over you. Gérard is very good at this ritual, but I need to hold the botín close to my mouth to minimise disaster. After a while — no doubt with some help from the wine — I become more daring, encouraged by a couple who has just joined us. Soon, we are into a heated discussion of politics, economy, the new

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Europe, religion and family. ‘Hemos perdido cuarenta años; podríamos estar al mismo nivel que Italia si no fuese por Franco — we have lost forty years; we could be at the same level as Italy had it not been for Franco,’ laments the woman, a teacher. ‘Russia has lost eighty years,’ quips her husband. ‘Are you on vacation?’ ‘Si, si, for two weeks. Later in the year, we shall go to Argentina for three weeks.’ He works for a bank. The waiter asks us to come to the table. Patrons sit on wooden benches at long, massive tables. Despite it being past three o’clock, the restaurant is crowded. People seem to be in a great mood, all talking at once. A cloud of smoke floats around the ceiling. We continue the conversation begun outside. Absentmindedly, I mistake legumbres for vegetables and am accordingly served lentils. While waiting for our table, I had recognised Jaume, a young man we had met at Frómista, coming out of the restaurant. He told us that he was going to stay the night in Villalcázar where he had found a newly opened family hotel with very clean and pleasant rooms. When I expressed interest, Jaume kindly walked me to the hotel, after lunch, so that now we have ample time to become acquainted with Villalcázar. We join Jaume for a visit to the church. The parish priest is in the process of guiding a group of tourists around, which he does with great aplomb. The altarpiece is elaborate, rich and colourful, holding many panels and paintings, each telling a story in which Padre Alfonso is well versed. His final act is to open the wrought-iron gate to allow us into the Santiago chapel where the Virgin La Blanca, carved in stone, sits with the Child on her lap. Countless miracles have been attributed to her. In the same chapel are three tombs. Two are elaborately Gothic, and Padre Alfonso tells us that they belong to Don Felipe and his second wife, Leonor de Pimentel. ‘Don Felipe had quite an interesting life,’ Padre Alfonso explains. ‘He was the brother of King Alphonse X, and destined for

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an ecclesiastical career. Don Felipe studied first in Toledo, then went to Paris where he became the companion of Saint Tomas of Aquinas. He was given a high position in the church of Toledo and made Abbot in Covarrubias and Valladolid, even bishop of Osma and Sevilla. However, all this changed when his brother, King Alphonse, no longer wanted to marry Cristina of Norway who had arrived in Spain for the wedding. He had fallen in love with someone else. How did the king resolve this problem? Well, he made his brother a lay person again so that he could marry Cristina instead. That was in 1258. Cristina died soon afterwards, no doubt from melancholy. Our protagonist married again, this time to Leonor. Here are their sarcophaguses. Look at the carving of their faces and sumptuous robes. Exquisito!’ ‘King Alphonse X,’ the priest continues with a smile, ‘other than falling in love with many women, was a wise king. He was called Alfonso el Sabio — Alphonse the Wise — and reigned in Castilla and León from 1252 to 1284, when he died. He was an enthusiastic patron of the arts and sciences and established an enduring cultural foundation for the future of his kingdom. He seems to have been particularly fond of poetry and music, and his court was not only a haven for French, Islamic and Jewish cultures but also a natural refuge for troubadours fleeing from the Crusades against the Albigensian and Cathar heresies in the South of France. Alfonso el Sabio composed the ‘Virgen de las Cantigas’ which describes in musical form the many miracles our Lady has performed. For instance, do you know of the miracle of De Grad’a Santa Maria for which Alfonso has written the poem and the melody? Permitanme — with your permission.’ Padre Alfonso then recites in Gallego, the lyrical language of poets and troubadours at the time in which these cantigas were composed.

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De grad’a Santa Maria Mercee et piadade Aos que se seus peccados … Gladly does Saint Mary show kindness and pity to all, asking us only to show humility …

The story tells of a man in Toulouse who has sinned greatly, and for penitence must make a journey to Santiago, carrying a heavy iron bar. Walking through Castilla, he hears of the Virgin Mary and her miracles at Villa-Sirga, enters the church and begs forgiveness. His bar breaks in two, and falls to the floor from where it cannot be lifted. The pilgrim recognises the Virgin’s intervention, completes his pilgrimage to Santiago and devotes forthwith his life to the blessed Virgin Mary. ‘… e poren: Amen, cantade.’ During the recitation, it becomes very still in the church. No-one whispers, no-one moves, no-one coughs. Padre Alfonso recites in a quaint and rhapsodic voice. ‘Gracias por escucharme — thank you for listening to me,’ he says before disappearing into the sacristy. The sun casts its last rays over the Castilian highland. Village women sit on chairs in front of their houses, with their backs to the street, and wish us buenas tardes. Sunsets are magical moments and we linger, saying little while the sun is setting. We watch it cast its glow from below the horizon onto the sky that spans the vast countryside. The sky turns deep orange then purple, before paling into pastel orange, pink and blue. There is luminosity, transparency, immensity, stillness.

Semble descendre Du firmament Que l’astre irise … C’est l’heure exquise Paul Verlaine, 1844–1896

Let us dream. This is the hour / A vast and tender / Peacefulness / Seems to descend / From the heavens / May the star shimmer / This is the exquisite hour

‘La misa empieza en dos minutos — the mass starts in two minutes,’ we are told. Fortunately, the church is only across the square; but I cannot help being amused by the fact that a barkeeper had to tell us to be on time for church. Padre Alfonso holds a very nice mass. After the service, we bid farewell, thanking him again for his explanations. ‘There is a CD made of the cantigas. Look for it,’ he says warmly. When he learns that we live in Australia, the Padre applauds what the Australians are doing to assist Timorese independence and hopes it will all come to a good end. ‘Estamos en la Tierra de Campos. Ovejas merinas. Tierra de cereal, de palomares y palomas. Ni una sombra suaviza el horizonte — we are in the country of pastures, of wheat fields, of merino sheep, of pigeons and pigeon lofts. Not a shadow softens the horizon,’ Jaume muses as we walk to Carrión de los Condes on a newly created pilgrimage path.

Revons, c’est l’heure. Un vaste et tendre Apaisement

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Carrión de los Condes ‘Que vayas con Díos, dear friend’

A motherly nun at the Clarissa convent shows us a double room for four thousand pesetas. The place oozes goodwill and harmony and overlooks the ancient roofs of the convent complex. Saint Francis of Assisi stayed here. What better company could we wish for! Our madre is in charge of the guesthouse but is hopelessly disorganised. ‘I am chasing a Brazilian who still owes me a thousand pesetas for the night.’ Later, she looks for an envelope containing all the money and Gérard helps her find it below some documents on her desk. Greatly believing in the honesty and goodness of her fellow humans, she leaves visitors alone in the convent’s museum which is endowed with many precious statues and paintings. I particularly like the sixteenth-century Flemish painting, Ecce Homo, in which Christ’s face exudes such goodness that it conveys strength to the beholder. And the small oil painting on copper of Saint Anthony is very refined. To prevent the Santiago church being used by the Napoleonic French as general headquarters, the locals burnt it down. The twelfth-century portal survived and

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presents magnificently carved statues dominated by a sublime Pantocrator (Pantocrator is a Greek word meaning Lord of all creation, ruler of the universe), considered one of the finest of its kind on the entire pilgrimage route. The inside of the church has been made into a modern museum with an iron roof of Kordan steel, which rusts but does not deteriorate. It looks odd and must have cost a fortune, but the European Union paid. The exhibited artefacts are of varying quality. The thing we would really have liked to see in the Church of Santa Maria del Camino is the twelfth-century stone statue of the Virgin, but it is currently in Palencia on loan for an exhibition. Gérard invites Jaume to lunch at San Zoilo, a monastery situated across the medieval bridge and once the property of the Cluny monks. These days it is a fine hotel. We are a bit disappointed with its Renaissance cloisters but admire the Romanesque arch discovered only a few years ago. It had been covered with plaster for centuries, which accounts for its excellent preservation. Next to it are niches in the thick wall, just big enough for one man to stand in. These recesses were used as prison cells for unruly monks. ‘Goodness, I didn’t know such things existed — prison cells for monks!’ I am indeed surprised. There is nothing to say how long they had to suffer in these tiny hollows. Later, I read that monks were never allowed to leave their monastery for another one, and no monastery was allowed to grant shelter to a monk who had fled his monastery. If he left, he had to endure heavy punishment and humiliation. Hence the prison! At the table, we become deeply engrossed in a conversation which touches many topics. Jaume, despite his young age, is compassionate, philosophical and sensitive. He is a good-looking Catalán with fine manners who has just finished his law studies and will now specialise in labour and company laws. Next summer, he wants to study canonical law in Italy, a country he adores. Jaume was very fond of his abuelo, his grandfather, who was

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paralysed at sixty-two and lived for another twenty-two years, aided by his daughter and grandson to get in and out of bed. We feel very close to this young man despite having met him so recently. As an only child, he is fascinated with my coming from a large family and finds it incredible that my eldest sister is more than twenty years older. When I was born, my parents were in their early fifties. I was a surprise — and got spoilt with love, not only from my parents, but also from my sisters and brothers. ‘Like you, I am an only child,’ Gérard says to Jaume, ‘and had the good fortune of having a father who was also my best friend — always — when I was young and when I was grown up. He was a bit of a Bohemian and a great visionary. He liked people and people liked him.’ I was very fond of Gérard’s father, too. He was a charming gentleman who also possessed the art of listening. He followed us to Australia where he passed on, barely a year after his arrival. His totally unexpected death was a tragedy for us. ‘I grew up in a very picturesque part of Switzerland, amidst lakes and mountains,’ Gérard resumes. ‘My mother was very loving, very caring. A good sport, too! She was good-looking, disciplined and very health-conscious yet sadly, she succumbed to cancer at the age of fifty-two.’ When the last of our parents died, which was Gérard’s father, I felt catapulted to the other end of the generations. When parents depart, you are infinitely grateful for everything you did to show them your love and appreciation. For instance, when I was in Spain, enjoying my work and studies under an Andalusian sun, my mother fell very sick. My father was not well either. My eldest sister asked whether I could look after my parents since I was the only daughter without a family yet. To be perfectly candid, it was with some reluctance that I gave up the Spanish ambiente but I did — and went home to nurse my elderly parents for several months — until they got better. Today, I am grateful that I was given this opportunity to show them my love.

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At this point, Jaume’s mobile phone rings. It is his mother who wants to share her excitement about joining him tomorrow in Carrión. Because of time constraints, they will continue to Santiago by car. The restaurant is empty when we leave, despite Spain’s long lunch hours. Jaume expresses pena when saying farewell. He feels sad that we have to part already. So do we, and we quickly exchange email addresses in front of the Santa Clara convent. ‘Que vayas con Díos, hasta la vista,’ we say to him — the Spanish farewell we like so much and which means ‘may God be with you until we meet again!’

The History of Spain from Emanuel Gothic Christianity, Moorish wisdom and the Golden Age of the Jews

‘Do you know el Tributo de las Cien Doncellas — the Tribute of the Hundred Virgins, was a tribute the Moros [Moors] claimed from the Christian North every year?’ We are sitting in a café with Emanuel, a bespectacled, studious pilgrim from Salamanca where, at the oldest university in Spain, he is enrolled in history and art. We ask him to elaborate. ‘Well, a miracle occurred right here in Carrión de los Condes where the church of Santa Maria del Camino stands. This is the spot where each year, a hundred young women were forced to assemble to be given to the Moors as a tribute. One year, fierce bulls appeared where the maidens were and frightened the Arabs away, never to come back again. But there is yet another side to this story. Estais interesados? — are you interested?’ ‘Of course, please go on,’ we both insist. ‘Every year, the caliphs wanted a hundred virgins from the North, not for slaves but to marry them into Moorish nobility.’

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‘What do you mean?’ I ask. ‘As you know, the north of Spain was settled by Visigoths, a people from north-eastern Europe. They were tall, fair-skinned, blond or red-haired and the Moors wanted the women from the north in order to render their own race more beautiful.’ ‘Muy interesante — very interesting, Emanuel. What else can you tell us about the Moors and the Christians?’ And so, Emanuel tells us the story of Spain, starting with the Iberians who inhabited this land, later conquered by the Romans. Tarragona was second only to Rome in terms of grandeur and beauty in those days. Even today one can admire Roman aqueducts in both Tarragona and Segovia. The Romans built bridges and roads, developed agriculture and mined gold. At the beginning of the sixth century, the Visigoths arrived in Spain and made Toledo their capital. They were Christians but favoured Arianism. ‘You’ve heard of Arianism of course?’ he asks. We nod. Arianism was a doctrine held by Arius of Alexandria (c. 250–335), a man of immense learning, it is said, and of splendid physical appearance. Arius denied that Jesus Christ was truly divine, consubstantial and coeternal with God the Father, and argued he had been created by God for the salvation of the world. Arius’s theory that Jesus was human rather than divine was the source of a schism in the Christian world that lasted for centuries. ‘The Moors arrived in Spain in the early eighth century. It is said that a Byzantine governor in north Africa helped them get across. He was angry with the Visigoth king who had violated his daughter. The Jews in Spain welcomed the invaders because they had suffered under the antisemitism of the Visigoths. The Moors simply swept across Spain. It helped that the Visigothic dynasties were divided. Within twenty years the Moors (who were of mixed Arab and Berber ancestry inhabiting ancient Mauritania in north Africa) advanced as far north as Tours and Poitiers in

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France where Charles Martel, grandfather of Charlemagne, repelled them, just before they reached Paris. In the north of Spain as well, some small kingdoms successfully resisted them. Altogether it took Spain more than seven centuries to get rid of the Moors.’ ‘We must realise,’ Emanuel now chooses his words carefully, ‘that those Moors were highly cultured, and Baghdad was considered one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Just to illustrate,’ Emanuel smiles, ‘Córdoba, their capital in Spain, had a hundred thousand houses, six hundred mosques, one of them still very special today. Have you seen the Mezquita in Córdoba?’ ‘Yes, indeed, an awe-inspiring forest of columns,’ Gérard replies. ‘The techniques employed for the building of the Mezquita demand our full respect. Earthquakes, damaging Lisbon for instance, and other important buildings in Spain, did not harm it in the slightest. One of the reasons is that the columns — over a thousand of them — carry a sheet of lead on top of the capitals, which acts as shock absorber. This, together with excellent foundations, accounts for the fact that all these columns still stand, as they did a thousand years ago! This never ceases to amaze me. However, I am sad to have to say that it was an architectural crime to squeeze a cathedral into this superb structure.’ ‘But surely,’ I interject, ‘you remember the high mass we attended in the cathedral some years ago and which was celebrated by fifteen priests. The outstanding acoustics transferred us into a world beyond.’ ‘Si, si,’ an impatient Emanuel resumes. ‘Imagine, Córdoba had hundreds of public baths, fifty hospitals with accomplished surgeons, fifteen universities, eighty public schools, twenty libraries, a hundred thousand books, thousands of shops and, what is more, cobbled streets that were lit at night. The caliphs lived in sumptuous palaces. The Alhambra in Granada is very representative of such splendour.’

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‘And from what I read,’ Gérard interrupts Emanuel’s enthusiastic praise of the Arabs, ‘diplomats from the rest of Europe had to undergo special schooling before they were considered refined enough to be presented to the court of the caliph. The Arabs felt very superior to non-Islamic people in Europe. They bathed regularly and wore different clothes according to the weather — things our ancestors did not do.’ ‘Correcto — that’s right! I am sure you have been to the Alhambra,’ Emanuel carrries on. Of course we have been to the palace of the Alhambra in Granada (Alhambra meaning ‘red palace’ in Arabic, named after the hill’s rose-red clay), an oriental fairytale surrounded by one of the most beautiful and fertile countrysides in the world, topped by the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. To the Moors, the Andalusian kingdom of Granada was the jewel in the crown, which they did not surrender lightly. ‘We must compare the Arabs’ lifestyle with that of the rest of Europe at the time when Charlemagne was living on a so-called gentleman’s farm. Well, let’s call it a manor. But it was certainly no palace. A wounded leg was usually simply cut off rather than surgically attended to, as was the case in Córdoba. The Arabs initiated the translation of ancient Greek texts and saved them from extinction. It was mostly the Jews who translated the texts that dealt with medicine and philosophy. They were well tolerated, as were the Christians. In fact, they were merely asked to pay higher taxes.’ I know what he means. Only recently, a friend who had converted to Judaism pointed out to me that the Jews cherished the time under the Arabs in Spain as their Golden Age. If only we would know the same spirit of compatibility and reconciliation today! ‘Through Spain, the rest of Europe picked up this knowledge,’ resumes the ardent history student. ‘French monks returning from the pilgrimage carried home new

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knowledge. There was tremendous cross-fertilisation, a spiritual marriage between Romanesque art and Arabic wisdom. The Arabs built a brilliant civilisation which appealed to man’s senses, seduced him with the pleasures of sensuality in all forms. Wise and learned people taught mathematics, astronomy, and music. Their courts attracted the finest singers, artists and musicians. Much of this filtered north. This is called the Mozarabic influence. Pilgrims picked up this influence, took it back to their own countries and often returned to live in Spain, working as masons, monks and scholars, adding their own experience, wisdom and craftsmanship. There were many synergies. You have witnessed this in Estella, Burgos, Villafranca, et cetera. Many Christian kings in Spain’s north were tolerant and receptive of ideas coming from the Arabs. For instance, take King Alphonse the Wise, a Christian king. We owe him the coordination of many translations from Arabic into Latin and Castellano in such diverse fields as astronomy, medicine, poetry.’ ‘Indeed, they told us so in Villalcázar only yesterday,’ I interrupt. ‘Sabeis — do you know?’ a clearly unstoppable Emanuel carries on, ‘that many of our words have their roots in Arabic. Let me cite you some: zero, zenith, alchemy, alcohol, algebra, cipher, damask, sugar, artichoke, saffron, hazard. Risk comes from the Arabic rizk and cheque from sakk. Muy interesante, verdad — very interesting, isn’t it?’ He does not wait for our reaction. ‘Battles amongst Arabs and Iberians were not always on religious grounds but more often represented feudal fighting over territories or dynasties. Up to the eleventh century, well even the twelfth century, the church in Santiago considered itself quite independent of Rome and had absorbed influences from the Arab and the Visigothic world. Indeed, it was a time of myth and mystery. On the other hand, we must never forget that, had it not been for those tiny kingdoms in the north of Spain fighting back, Europe — and

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America — might be Islamic today. As you know, reconquista was achieved in 1492, which was also the year of the discovery of America, the forced departure of the Jews from Spain and the commencement of the Inquisition in Spain. What a year! It is said that Fernando, the Catholic king, had an excellent accountant who was Jewish. When the Jews were expelled, Fernando made an exception for his financier but the Jew refused and followed his people into exile. A new Spain began.’ Emanuel pauses for a second before continuing. ‘And with it religious dogmatism. This is the Spain that the world elects to remember. Yet for many centuries we had a culture of extraordinary tolerance.’ He becomes silent and pensive and so do we. It is nearly ten o’clock when we retire to our room in the Clarissa convent. A knock at the door and a pretty nun, whom I judge to be from India, brings me an eiderdown, on orders from the reception nun who had noticed my cold. She is very shy and withdraws at once when she sees Gérard. The Clarissa nuns, except for the one who deals with guests, are not to come into contact with the public at all. In the middle of the night, standing by the window, Gérard calls to me in a low voice. ‘Come quickly, there is a fantastic owl to be seen.’ Careful not to cough, I roll out of bed and join him. ‘Over there, in the light of the illuminated church tower, a huge owl — at least sixty centimetres big — was chasing bats. It had enormous eyes. Did you know that their eyes are magnified by special patterns on their feathers?’ Alas, the owl disappears before I can spot it, but I stay to admire the view. The majestic church tower is silhouetted against the black sky of the night. Together we stand by the window for a few minutes, absorbed in the golden reflections the light casts on the centuries-old stones of the convent, now lulled in profound silence. We could be in another age.

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In the morning, after leaving the Clarissa compound quietly through a specially assigned door left ajar for such purposes, we meet a French couple who want to photograph us. We oblige, wondering why we cannot ask people to pose for us. As we cross the street on our way again, a priest comes towards us, laughing and gesticulating. ‘Are you going skiing?’ ‘Don’t laugh at us, Padre, these sticks are very good for the knees.’ ‘Are you going to Santiago?’ he asks. ‘Yes, we are.’ ‘But where do you come from?’ ‘From Australia, but we neither walked nor swam.’ He laughs. ‘Where did you learn Spanish?’ ‘We are Spanish at heart,’ I reply. Touched, he says, ‘Hijíta — little daughter, I shall ask Someone Very Special to help you get to Santiago.’ His good wishes and prayers are much needed because today the wind has changed. Up to now it pushed us from the back, but today it comes from the left in a gusty, violent manner. It is cold. The countryside is monotonously flat for sixteen kilometres, with nothing in sight except the prickly stubble of harvested wheat fields. However, the road provides some interest as, apart from some bitumen parts, the Roman road we are walking is still mostly original, showing an orderly assembly of stones. Gérard walks with respect. ‘Imagine, this road, the Via Aquitana or Via Traiana was an arterial road, connecting Burdigala with Asturica Augusta, that’s Bordeaux in France and Astorga here in Spain.’ The road system and the pertaining infrastructure that the Romans installed over huge parts of Europe have always fascinated Gérard, who is as impressed as most of us that these roads were built two thousand years ago with the means and infrastructure available in those days. Topographically, they followed ideal lines, so that many motorways in Europe trace the ancient Roman roads. In

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fact, we have come to realise, the pilgrimage route mostly follows the Roman direction, too. In the distance, the Camino seems to lead into the sky. There is no house or village in sight. The land is an exercise in flatness, extended, spread out, dull, plain, grey, ochre. It is a landscape propitious for reflection. Gérard and I ponder over what Emanuel told us last night. When speaking of the Arabs in Spain, he referred mostly to the dynasty of the Omayyads, or the caliphate of Córdoba, which reached its peak between 925 and 1030. We wonder whether Emanuel may not have exaggerated a bit when he described the grandeur of Córdoba. However, it remains certain that Córdoba rivalled the splendour of Baghdad and Constantinople, considered the most beautiful cities in the world at that time. The Arabs called Spain AlAndalus, a name that reappears in the province of Andalusia. Of course, our studious and enthusiastic friend from last night had an explanation for what Al-Andalus stood for. According to him, the Vandals, a Germanic tribe, occupied southern Spain (and parts of north Africa) and called it Vandalusia. The Arabs kept the name but dropped the ‘V’, hence Andalusia or in Arabic: Al-Andalus. The Alhambra Palace is representative of the kingdom of Granada which came into being in the second half of the thirteenth century. Whilst Christians and Jews were tolerated, they were not regarded as equals, socially or intellectually. Nevertheless, the Arabs delved into the knowledge of non-Islamic cultures to advance their own civilisation. They called the Christians Mozárabes, a word which may stem from must’arab meaning ‘someone who would like to be an Arab’. The Jews in Spain were known as Sephardí, derived from the Hebrew word Sepharadh for peninsula. Other sources say it means ‘land of exile’, a name conceived by one of the Jewish prophets. The Jews lived well under the Arian Visigoths, but when other Christian concepts displaced Arianism, the political

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climate became less favourable for the Jews. Accordingly, they welcomed the Arabs who rewarded them with key positions in administration and trade. Indeed, as Emanuel pointed out, under the caliphate of Córdoba a Golden Age began for the Sephardí. When more aggressive Arab rulers reached Al-Andalus, the Jews turned to the Christian kings in the north who equally appreciated their services as financiers, tax collectors and scholars. In the fifteenth and sixteenth century, many Sephardí, ousted from Spain, settled in Prague, Bucharest and Istanbul amongst other places. We are in a reminiscent mood. Gérard recalls having seen in one of the churches — he does not remember which one — a sequence of paintings referring to Saint Helena finding the True Cross. They showed Helena’s arrival in Jerusalem where she is initially denied information on the location of the crosses. She seems to overcome the situation, because a picture follows showing many crosses, lying in a pit. Finally, only three crosses are shown. To distinguish the True Cross from those of the two thieves, Helena places it on a dead woman who comes back to life. Saint Helena was the mother of Emperor Constantine I, the Great, who, at the beginning of the fourth century, was the first emperor to adopt Christianity as the official religion of the Roman empire. He transferred the capital of the empire from Rome to a new city known for over ten centuries by his name, Constantinople, and today’s Istanbul. Constantine was very radical in his beliefs and against all ancient knowledge. His mother, whom he made empress once he had succeeded to supreme power, had been a humble innkeeper’s daughter from Bithynia (in today’s Turkey). She became a passionately enthusiastic Christian convert and is celebrated in Christendom for having made her pilgrimage to the Holy Land at a time when she was well over seventy. Her name is forever associated with the True Cross.

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Once she had found the True Cross, it was sent back to Constantinople to be safeguarded in splendid fashion. Constantine the Great sent a piece to Rome to be placed in the church of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme. From the sixth century onwards, the True Cross was displayed in the church of Saint Sophia before being returned to Jerusalem where, at the beginning of the seventh century, the Persian King Chosroes had it seized and brought to his capital, Ctesiphon. Fifteen years later, the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius recovered the True Cross and other relics of the Passion when he defeated the Persian army. Legend has it that when he attempted to return the Cross, angels prevented him from riding triumphantly into Jerusalem. He entered the Holy City on foot and humbly carried the Cross along the Via Dolorosa to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That occurred in 634. Four years later, Islamic armies from Arabia invaded Jerusalem. Hitherto, Arabia had been practically unknown to the West. Within a single century, they conquered Jerusalem, Syria, Egypt, Iraq, Persia, Afghanistan, most of Punjab, the coast of north Africa, Spain and the Pyrenees, and ventured up to the very gates of Paris. It is said that when the Arabs conquered Jerusalem, the caliph (the term means ‘representative of the Prophet’) rode into the Holy City on a snow-white camel! It is also known that the Muslims in Jerusalem showed themselves quite tolerant towards the Jews and the Christians. They allowed the Christians to visit the Holy Land and revere the True Cross, but did not allow the export of relics. The time of the Crusades arrived. The popes sponsored them. The people cried: ‘God wants it so.’ It was suggested to nobility and laymen alike that for the first time they had an opportunity to do something for the salvation of their souls, a task hitherto the preserve of priests and monks. Jerusalem was retaken in 1099. In 1146, Saint Bernard, zealous and charismatic, stirred the hearts

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of the many men and women who signed up for the second Crusade by stitching crosses on their clothes. It is said that at the end of his life, Saint Bernard bitterly repented the idea of the Crusades. They certainly do not represent a noble chapter in the history of Christianity. More often than not, the ‘holy wars’ ended in disgrace and disarray, and many innocent people were killed. Sadly, such wars amongst religions have not been confined to the Middle Ages. I am reminded of what Hans Kueng, professor emeritus of theology, adviser under Pope John XXIII at the Second Vatican Council, and a dynamic reformer often at odds with Rome, has been preaching for the last two decades: ‘There will be no peace amongst nations as long as there is no peace amongst religions.’ With Palestine again in Christian hands, a brisk trade in relics began. I must confess that I often had doubts as to the true origins of the relics but liked to think that the relics of the True Cross were possibly an exception. Now I can perceive more clearly how they found their way into Europe’s churches. Over the years, however, the trade in relics became exaggerated and obscure. This might be the reason why Luther and Calvin condemned it. By now we have come a long way on today’s journey, and yet the Camino still stretches out endlessly in front of us. We become silent and allow our thoughts to be taken to wherever they want. I am thinking of the pilgrim mentioned in the bar this morning, a pilgrim who walks barefoot. His feet are reported to be more than just a sorry sight! Is he following the footsteps of Saint Francis of Assisi, known for his profound humility, asceticism and rigorous discipline? That Saint Francis of Assisi stayed at the Clarissa convent on his way to Santiago was no mere coincidence. He had helped Saint Clara establish her own order in 1212, which became equally renowned for the severity of its rules and its life of perfect poverty. Clara, the daughter of a duke from Assisi,

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was younger than Francis, whose transformation from a fun-loving, rich young man to a destitute, enlightened monk she had followed with fascination. The guidebook’s destination for today is Sahagún, still a good twenty kilometres away, but we decide to spend the night in Calzadilla de la Cueza, a rather poor village which is half in ruins. The inn is full of Brazilians, gathered around a big table. We exchange plenty of smiles, the official language of the Way. Few of the Brazilians speak Spanish but we manage to understand that many are on their fourth trip to Santiago. Just before retiring, the innkeeper’s wife hands me a cup. ‘When I suffered a cold, my mother would always give me hot milk with honey. It will make you perspire and sleep well.’ Over breakfast, I ask the young owner whether he will do the pilgrimage one day. ‘I have done it three times.’ ‘What!’ Gérard and I exclaim in unison. ‘Sí, sí — and the first time, when I arrived in Santiago, I was so moved — muy emocionado — I fell to my knees. I was totally overcome with emotion.’ In Lédigos, I ask a shopowner how life was here twenty, thirty years ago. ‘The same,’ she says. ‘Well! — but how could you have possibly worked these enormous wheat fields?’ ‘Instead of five tractors as today, we would have twenty muleteers and more people who helped — that’s all. Nowadays, people have fewer ganados (cattle). They sow winter wheat and harvest in July and August. All in all, three months’ work.’ ‘What do they do for the rest of the year?’ I enquire. ‘Francamente nada — frankly nothing.’ Gérard asks her why the sunflower fields look so sad. Have they got a disease since they all seem to be withering away? ‘No, no,’ she says. What happens is that the farmers

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get a subsidy from the European Union to plant sunflowers. For planting only, not for harvesting! So the farmers do not harvest. Financially, it would not be lucrative. They just plough the sunflowers back into the soil and look forward to the next subsidy! This would have seemed incredible to us had we not received this piece of information directly from the people concerned. A French couple join us, in their fifties, like us. The man says that they often take the bus, as their time is limited, or walk along the road to avoid having to go up and down hills and mountain passes. I would not want to walk on the pavement so much. Around a bend we meet Enrique, a man in his sixties with a heavy, black cape draped around his shoulders, who is wearing short trousers and a huge sombrero; in his hand is a long cane. He looks forlorn and blue in the face, having walked over twenty kilometres on this chilly, stormy morning. He has a ‘hole’ in his throat stemming from a larynx operation. In a voice hardly audible, he tells us that he has been doing the pilgrimage every year since; this is his seventh time. It grows wetter and windier, and we put on our rain ponchos. Mercifully, the storm passes to the north of us. But Sahagún, our destination, just does not want to get closer. Across the howling wind, I shout to Gérard, ‘How are you?’ ‘Excelentísimo — extremely well!’ We laugh and when the wind subsides a bit, start singing the hymns of the monks of Cardeña. We do not remember the words, so we make up our own verses. Thus absorbed in our compositions, we make great strides in good spirit. After pausing briefly to admire the Hermitage of the Virgen del Puente and its restored Romanesque bridge, where granite benches and tables would be inviting in better weather, we reach Sahagún by three o’clock. We look untidy and peculiar, especially me. Under a hat, I have tied a scarf

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around my head; and I am wearing a red anorak over which I have wrapped a blue shawl. To keep warm from the inside out, I am wearing an undershirt, a jersey blouse, a cashmere pullover and long tricot trousers underneath my sports pants!

Sahagún Where we discover life in a convent

Limping, sneezing and coughing, we arrive at the Convento de las Madres Benedictinas, too late for the nuns’ lunch but in time for a very good meal at Lluis on the Plaza Mayor. The Madre Superior receives us with great dignity, moving gracefully and speaking elegant Castellano. She reminds me of another madre superior, the one I had at the pensionnat in Montreux where I learnt French. That nun was of aristocratic descent, too, had composure, innate authority and dignity but always remained aloof. Mother Superior tells us of a holy mass being celebrated by a Polish priest in the house chapel at five o’clock. This young priest and pilgrim speaks Polish, Russian, French and Italian, and resides at the moment in Belgium, where he was sent by his archbishop. He is limping. His knees hurt badly and the doctor has prescribed a day or two of rest. Having walked from Roncesvalles to Pamplona in one day, a distance of about fifty kilometres over some very difficult terrain, he wonders whether he might not have been a trifle too ambitious. I wonder, too. During mass, he asks one of the participants to come

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forward to read the epistle in French. I volunteer, and for the first time in my life I am up there during the holy mass, near the altar, addressing the gathering — and it is an extraordinary feeling! As an ardently Catholic teenager, I always wanted to become a priestess. I saw myself by the altar, enveloped in majestic robes of beautiful colours, arms outstretched, reading and singing mass and speaking passionately to my audience. Naturally, I was going to be an outstanding priestess for my parish! Alas, such things were, and still are, forbidden to Catholic women. At the time of my youth, girls were not even allowed to minister to the priest! It is cold in the convent buildings and especially in our room, which opens to an inner patio. The Benedictine monastery also runs a pilgrims’ hostel, managed by a Fleming who, upon meeting us, tells us of a telephone message he has taken for us from Switzerland. A message! We left specific instructions to contact us only in moments of great emergency, and we fear the worst — but no, it is our faithful and devoted secretary whom we had made the coordinator for family and friends during our absence — who wants to reassure us that all is well. Every week or so we have sent her postcards to inform her how our pilgrimage is progressing. Only two other persons receive regular postcards, my recently widowed sister in Switzerland, who has expressed a vivid interest in our pilgrimage, and our retired housekeeper in Australia, who told us that she would carefully monitor our progress on the map while sitting in her living room on a farm in the Australian wheatbelt. All other family members and friends will receive postcards once we reach Santiago. The lanky hostel manager has done the pilgrimage four times, twice from Flemish Belgium with a tent and twice from Puy in France. He deplores the fact that they are building new pilgrim paths along the road — or new roads along old pilgrim paths. This sixty-year-old man is learning to play the organ but, much to his regret, there is no organ

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at the convent nor in any of the churches in Sahagún. Next year he wants to walk the Via de Plata from Sevilla to Santiago, a pilgrimage road still little developed. The Benedictine nuns represent the women’s branch of the Benedictine order and follow the traditions introduced by Saint Benedict’s sister, Scolastica. Today, one thousand and seventy-five monasteries exist worldwide with twentythree thousand eight hundred nuns altogether. Spain still has twenty-nine monasteries and seven hundred and sixty nuns, I learn from a little brochure lying on a small table in the sparsely furnished reception hall. In the dining room where we arrive with eight other guests, Madre Superior tells me to sit opposite Gérard, not next to him. I do not quite understand but she says categorically, ‘No, porque vendrá la Señora — no, because the lady will come.’ After a while, I realise that she does not recognise me. ‘You were all wrapped up when you arrived,’ she apologises and generously allows me to sit next to my husband again. In Sahagún, the Benedictine abbey was very wealthy. It printed its own money and owned lands so vast they reached to the Cantabrian Sea far in the north. ‘They were very feudalistic,’ our guide says. Thanks to the support and gifts from King Alfonso VI — who initiated it with his wife Doña Constanza from Burgundy — and his successors, the abbey became very powerful, educated famous personalities and was a centre for pilgrims from all over the world, making Sahagún and its people rich in the process. It was even called ‘the Spanish Cluny’, in reference to its powerful parent in France and it was a monk from Cluny who became its abbot in 1080. He was later appointed archbishop of Toledo. Cluny France was very supportive of the Spanish kings in their reconquista and played a vital role in reconquering Toledo. Their rewards might have helped finance the

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grandiose Cluny III, which was inspired by the splendours of Byzantium. Hughes de Sémur, abbot of Cluny France for more than fifty years, built it. Thanks to other enlightened abbots like Petrus Venerabilis, who translated the Koran into Latin, Cluny became particularly powerful in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and some people would even claim that Cluny is the mother of Western civilisation. Now, only ruins exist of the basilique, and it needs much imagination to conceive the grandeur of the immensely large Romanesque cathedral whose interior featured exquisite mural paintings. It must have been a place between heaven and earth. We caught a glimpse of what it might have been like at Berzé-la-Ville in Burgundy, where a small chapel with mural paintings has escaped the ravages of revolutions and wars. As to Cluny, after the thirteenth century, decadence set in. There followed religious wars, the Reformation, the French Revolution … It was eventually sold to entrepreneurs who used it as a commercial rock quarry. A similar fate descended upon the Spanish Cluny here in Sahagún where, over the centuries, the medieval splendour has faded. When Isabel and Fernando favoured the Benedictine monastery in Valladolid, Sahagún lost its privileges. After secularisation and a fire in the nineteenth century, there is now little left of its past glory. The nuns remain, in a convent built in more recent times. The church of Peregrina in Sahagún belonged to the Franciscan order. It is in a poor state except for its chapel, built in Gothic style and decorated in Mudéjar fashion by Arabs from the South (Mudéjar being the name for Arabs remaining in Christian territory). Muslims are not allowed to show humans or animals in their carvings or paintings, a practice which has resulted in predominantly geometric or floral designs. Until 1957, the paintings in the chapel were hidden under plaster, which accounts for their good condition. A pilgrimage song tells of how the Peregrina Virgen — Our Lady of the Pilgrims — changed her staff into

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a ray of light in order to guide a band of pilgrims through the night. The story of another miracle tells us that an exhausted pilgrim, sitting down, suddenly noticed an extraordinarily beautiful woman some distance farther down the road. Mesmerised, he gathered his last strength and followed her, trying to catch up with her. She disappeared. Whenever he was about to give up the pilgrimage for fatigue, the lady reappeared — and disappeared — until he had completed it! The San Tirso church is a happy blend of Romanesque and Mudéjar styles and the San Lorenzo church from the thirteenth century is built with very thin red bricks, called ladrillos, and creamy-coloured mortar in between. The contrast in colours and the pattern they make are rather attractive. At Sunday lunch, we spontaneously become vegetarians at the sight of a huge and pan-fried piece of meat. The young nun lets us have deliciously roasted red capsicums and potatoes instead. Later, I move to the library to write. Two elderly lady guests approach me. Noticing that I speak Spanish, they tell me of the problems that Spain, in their opinion, currently encounters. ‘All that is new is espoused with huge enthusiasm and with no worry for any consequences,’ they lament. ‘Children are educated without religion. TV and cinemas show pornographic films. Culture now means having a lot of fiestas and Franco is presented as a bad dictator — yet he managed to keep Spain out of World War II. He introduced great social laws such as protection for tenants, rental freezes — to name but two. For him, the unity of Spain was sacrosanct; and now,’ says the one who is Basque, ‘the politicians impose on us the use of regional languages that will not get us very far — literally.’ I recall a young pilgrim telling me much the same thing several days ago. As a policeman from Andalusia, where they speak Castellano, he faces communication problems

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in Barcelona, where he is working and where the official language is Catalán. Regional languages are fostered, he told us, and young Spaniards find it increasingly difficult to communicate with each other. Grinning wryly, he suggested that they might soon have to speak English to make themselves understood amongst each other! ‘I used to travel abroad under Franco,’ the other woman says, drawing a shawl over her shoulders as it is getting cold in the room, ‘and never had a problem. Now, they claim one could not travel in Franco’s time. It’s simply not true! And why do we have to embrace the worst that other countries offer? People have no manners anymore,’ she adds, voicing a lament as old as humanity. ‘Democratic freedom to them means only liberties but not responsibilities.’ The two ladies pour their hearts out to me, glorifying the olden days. I have no desire to enter a political discussion, but they are waiting for my reaction. Eventually I remind them that their democracy is still very young and that it will take time for people to learn to assume their responsibilities in a democratic state. What is most positive is that opportunities have risen enormously for everyone and that the country has become more prosperous. King Juan Carlos has become a very popular monarch and a perfect ambassador for his country. Again and again during this walk we have touched on the subject of Franco. Prior to his death in 1976, Franco had paved the way for the reinstatement of the monarchy in Spain. After he died, monarchy and democracy were introduced. Entry into the European Union took place. So many exciting things happened to the country that it seems only now that Spanish people have the necessary distance to evaluate and compare what Franco did or stood for. Of course, it would have been taboo to criticise him during his reign, which lasted forty years. As the winner of the Civil War, Franco was a loathesome dictator to some, but to others he was the saviour of the nation from the communists and Soviets in the thirties.

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My two good ladies are not convinced and think little of the many Spaniards doing the pilgrimage, something they consider to be de moda. Two officious-looking men stand at the exit of the convent. ‘They are policemen,’ the hostel keeper whispers to us. ‘They have come to question a man who checked into our hostel last night. They suspect him of having stolen someone’s shoes at the other hostel in town.’ It is drizzling. Our ponchos flutter in the wind in a rattle that sets our teeth on edge. We walk silently, alone with our thoughts. All pilgrims are discreet and respect each other’s privacy. At Bercianos del Camino, an old, frail woman hobbles out of the house in her dressing gown. She turns to Gérard and says with great sympathy, ‘Que tiempo feo, pobre peregrino — what awful weather, you poor pilgrim.’ She tells him that there is a bar just around the corner. It is new and warm. Never has a place felt cosier. The cheese sandwiches that Madre Superior gave us on our way are fresh and tasty too. We meet Franz from Basle who has been walking since mid-June, when he crossed the Jura and continued through France. At the beginning of his walk, he had thought that culture and history would be of the greatest importance to him, but he has now revised his attitude and thinks that his encounters with other pilgrims have had a far greater impact on him. In France, where there were fewer pilgrims, the contact with others was more intense. He sees a new future for himself, away from his executive position in electronics and into caring for handicapped people. His wife, unable to accompany him because of knee problems, awaits him in León where, after four months’ separation, they will spend four days together at the Parador San Marcos. He is a bit nervous at the thought of informing her of his new plans. The wind continues to be gusty, vicious even, pushing me to the side as we walk. The countryside is flat and

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inhospitable. Even the train driver in the distance is happy to see someone. From afar, he blows his horn and waves to us. His freight train is transporting milk from Asturias to Madrid. We arrive at a little hotel in El Burgo Raneros, the only one open. Three men who sought shelter in an underpass with us advised to go to the widow’s house, but she is in Madrid today. In the bar, there is a lot of commotion. We beg for a quiet room, which we get, under the roof. It is so tiny we can hardly find space to deposit our backpacks but I find it cosy, especially as outside the wind is intensifying and rain is coming down. Our little refuge seems protective. As we listen to the downpour a few inches above our heads, we think it no wonder the Spaniards like to congregate in a bar during such miserable weather. Later, the hotel owner comes by and announces that she will put on the heating. I am grateful, and seize the opportunity of washing everything. Ever since I left Sahagún, bites on my leg have been itching. I suspect the worst — fleas! I am quite desperate and hope the washing will help. My cold bothers me, too. The innkeeper’s wife takes pity on me and invites me to the lounge downstairs, where she has lit a fire. The soup she offers me is hot and soothing. I sleep badly. In the morning my skin is still itching and the weather does little to lift my spirits. Mechanically putting one foot in front of the other, I plod along. In Reliegos, we seek refuge at an albergue, where an American woman from Seattle is looking after things. She has done the pilgrimage before, walking through the Meseta at night for about fifty kilometres at a time, only to arrive at her destination in an exhausted state, causing her to cry for hours. ‘I married young, and last year sold all my belongings, said goodbye to my grown-up daughters and embarked on this pilgrimage. It is good for the body and the heart. I am here for two weeks, looking after the pilgrims’ hostel. Then I shall continue my pilgrimage to Santiago — for the second

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time,’ she tells us, suntanned, well-built and dressed in hotpants. ‘I have not had time yet to wash my jeans,’ she says, shivering. We debate whether we should call it a day and stay at this albergue where the kitchen looks just a trifle untidy with its pile of greasy saucepans, or continue onwards. ‘It’s only thirty kilometres from here to León.’ The church bells ring. ‘That’s for the mass, in case you are interested,’ she informs us. ‘I have never been to so many holy masses in so short a time,’ I exclaim. She laughs, ‘It becomes a sort of addiction during the pilgrimage.’ Together with village women, who pour out of what look to us like deserted houses with the blinds down, we enter a very modest church of little artistic interest. It is a far cry from what we are used to on the Camino. In fact, it is in urgent need of repairs. However, the welcome the village women accord us is overwhelming, and with them we attend a short mass read by an elderly priest. When we leave the church, the rain has stopped. Feeling spiritually fortified, we continue on our way. I decide to do a love and kindness meditation and include just about every one who is dear to me (those not so dear to my heart I promise Saint James to include in Santiago!) before we catch up with a French couple. The husband, a big man in his seventies with a gentle face, leans heavily on his wife for support. They walked the pilgrimage road in France last year and are now in Spain for the very first time, speaking no Spanish at all. Last night they slept at an albergue in a small village — they do not recall the name — where they were the only occupants, apart from the wind! Today they have walked over twenty-five kilometres already. Near exhaustion, they have to stop at every bench of which, fortunately, there are many on this newly arranged stretch of path.

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‘On prendra le bus jusqu’à Leon — we shall take the bus to León.’ Quite a few people have decided to escape this weather and take the bus to León. In Mansilla de las Mulas, the albergue has a fire going in the community room where pilgrims drink tea and coffee while more people pour in, drenched with rain. It is filling rapidly. While having our credenciales stamped, we are chatting with a Dutchman who walked from Amsterdam, a German fashion model who lives in Marbella, a sophisticated French woman from Paris and an aristocraticlooking Spaniard, when we are interrupted by another pilgrim who reports that something is terribly wrong with the plumbing in the kitchen. It is getting flooded. We all rush to the kitchen where one of us seems to be able to locate and turn off the right tap. The rain has stopped and we go in search of accommodation. On the way we meet up with Franz and decide to explore the village, in particular the town’s extensive city walls, basically Romanesque and built during the resettlement at the end of the twelfth century, when kings called up people from the south to populate empty Castilla. They used enormous stones from the river and the walls are three metres thick. Franz, who usually walks the pilgrims’ trail alone, had company from Roncesvalles to Burgos. Two of his best friends from Switzerland came to join him for that stretch. It had been previously organised and he was looking forward to their company. To his great surprise, however, their continuous talking disturbed and distracted him from the goals of his walk, and he longed for solitude and silence. A woman is leaning out of a window. She says she lets rooms to pilgrims and shows us four, all with one bath to share. We like one of the rooms and settle down for the night. ‘Estoy constipada — I have a cold, can I have more blankets, please?’ I ask our landlady.

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In Spanish, constipada means having a cold and a stuffy nose. It amuses me enormously to use this word because it reminds me of a story my Spanish teacher once told me: A Spanish lady, living in Geneva, suffered from a cold and was late for a diplomats’ cocktail. When she finally arrived, she announced in a loud voice: ‘Je vous prie de m’excuser, je suis très constipée!’ The chatter of the guests stopped abruptly. An embarrassed silence lay in the air. What had the lady just said? ‘Please excuse me. I am very constipated.’ And what does my pragmatic landlady answer? ‘Here are three blankets and if you are still cold, slip into your husband’s bed!’

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León Thundering organ, Gothic and Romanesque magnificence

It is windy. Rain is falling. At a petrol station, Gérard spots a taxi and offers it to me but I decline. ‘I’ll manage.’ The wind is driving the rain into the doorway where we have temporarily sought shelter. I am beginning to believe that ‘the rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain’. I thought Professor Higgins had only invented this phrase for teaching Eliza Doolittle the Queen’s English! We are with about thirty pilgrims, all walking as quickly as possible, huddled behind ponchos, hidden under capes and anoraks, hoods drawn over the eyes, striving forward, looking neither right nor left, intent on side-stepping the puddles on the muddy path which runs parallel to a major road where trucks thunder past. The storm is intensifying. ‘Encore un petit effort,’ (just one more small effort) cries one of us. We pant up a hill and at last see León, drenched in sunlight. It looks like the Promised Land. But we are not there yet. We hurry, not stopping, not feeling the weight of the backpacks in our haste. We reach the outskirts of León, ask for the cathedral and how to reach our hotel. It is confusing. The name of its street has

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recently changed. They gave the street a more modern, more democratic name, deleting the Franco-related one. People stop willingly, listen, shake their heads or send us off in the wrong direction. Finally a woman, laden with baskets from the market, escorts us to the Posada Regia, situated in a restored thirteenth-century building. The receptionist gives us their nicest room on the top floor, under the roof, with wooden floors and beams, antiquely furnished and painted in green, the colour of hope. But we have lost all sense of humour by now. I feel drained and cry: ‘I don’t feel any holier. What’s the purpose of all this? We would have had more access to spirituality if we had stayed in monasteries and moved around by car!’ Gérard nods. ‘I feel miserable, old — and my skin has aged,’ I carry on and expect Gérard to protest strongly at hearing such words from me, but he remains silent which makes me really alarmed. I resolve to buy a good facial cream at the next opportunity. Silently, I wash our cashmere pullovers and socks in the hand basin and gather everything else for thorough washing in the hotel’s laundry. Gérard disappears, but reappears to say that he went to enquire about a restaurant in the neighbourhood. He sounds tired. At almost four o’clock, we hurry to Pozo’s, where an elderly maître d’ looks after us soothingly. Our frustration dissipates gradually, like the rain clouds near León this morning, and we can take more interest in our surroundings. At the adjoining table are two businessmen. One of them, a Basque, walks the pilgrimage route on weekends, and the other one, of dashing looks, is a banker and sponsor of the local organ festival. They offer us Galician liquor to render us fuertes (strong) in every respect. We decline with thanks. We feel stronger already. To boost our morale further we want to groom ourselves, and ask the pretty reception girl, a niece of the hotelowning family, for advice. After some astonished glances

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from the peluquería (hairdressing) staff, we are quickly and professionally attended to. Gérard looks definitely more handsome with a trimmed beard and moustache, and my shorter hair makes me feel younger. Our mood has improved. We are reconciled with our fate and feel indeed fuertes again. Joyfully, we embark on discovering León. The cathedral is only a few hundred metres away from our hotel. Small brass scallop shells set into the streets for the benefit of the pilgrims show the way. Built in the thirteenth century, it is one of the finest if not the finest Gothic cathedral in Spain, and follows the French examples of Reims and Chartres. Indeed, we are entering a world of light and space. The cathedral conveys a deep sense of harmony through its tallness and sublime stained-glass windows. Evening light filters through some of the taller windows as well as through the west rose window, casting warm golden reflections. A poster advertising the sixteenth organ festival in León announces that a concert will be held in the cathedral this very evening. The Austrian organist, Haselböck, who is conductor, composer and director of the Musikakademie in Vienna, is to perform. The last time we heard him was in the Sankt-Augustiner-Kirche in Vienna. Excitedly we ask the cathedral attendant if there are any tickets left? ‘It is free,’ he answers. ‘The government and industry sponsor it but please, do come early to get a seat.’ When we arrive at a quarter to nine, he spots us immediately in the crowd and leads us to an open side chapel, assigning us seats on a luxuriously gilded bench, upholstered with red velvet. ‘When listening to the organ, hearing is more important than seeing,’ our kind protector declares. Haselböck plays Bach and Schubert, and also a contemporary piece that the German composer Halffter, married to a Spanish aristocrat and living in Spain, composed for him in the eighties. I close my eyes. The thunder from the organ seems to sweep away all the

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impurities in this moment of time, in this room, in this space. The reverberations in La Pulchra — The Pure, as the cathedral is called in León, are tremendous. As we stroll through the narrow streets of old León after the recital, a full moon, partly hidden by the spires of the cathedral, rises over the Meseta. What a day we have had, rich in frustration and elation. Gratefully I think of my guardian angel, whom I have not failed to address for protection and support each day — it is said that angels are co-travellers on this pilgrimage route. ‘Which are the oldest stained-glass windows, dating back to the thirteenth century?’ ‘They are those which contain the smallest pieces of stained glass,’ the helpful woman at the cathedral information desk tells me. The more recent windows were created in the sixteenth century. There are one hundred and twenty-five stainedglass windows plus three giant rosette windows, making seventeen hundred square metres of window in all! Some are inspired by Saint Denis in France, the birthplace of stained-glass art in the second half of the twelfth century. The master glaziers were mostly Spanish artists. The apse’s central window shows the Jesse tree, Jesus’ family tree. The rosette above represents the Pantocrator, the omnipotent Lord of the Universe. The morning light caresses them, a fascinating spectacle, especially if one is lucky enough, as we are, to witness it on a day when the weather is unsettled and clouds and sun alternate. The windows pulse with the changing patterns of weather. The museum of the cathedral has an outstanding collection of more than fifty Romanesque statues of the Virgin Mary. Textiles which date back to the fourth century and fine and intricate tapestries produced by nuns are also on display. ‘The Romanesque crucifix,’ says the guide, ‘is not necessarily realistic but rather, symbolistic. It shows almost

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always four nails and mostly a flat body. Legs are usually not crossed. The ivory crosses from the sixteenth/seventeenth century show a body that is floating, a result of the material used.’ Below the statue of the much-adored Virgen Blanca, who has an endearing, graceful expression, is a groove which pilgrims have traditionally scratched with their nails or other small objects. Over the centuries, it has become a small hollow. ‘You could call this ancient graffiti,’ Gérard comments wrily as I follow this ancient custom, using the tiny shell I wear on my chest. On the west wall of the cathedral, Gérard points out to me the thirteenth-century shrine of Bishop Martin Rodríguez. He must have been a much-loved bishop. The realistic carvings show people in deep mourning, standing disconsolately at his deathbed. When the Cathedral of León was erected, the supporting structure was put on the outside of the building in order to allow the stained-glass windows to show their full splendour, unencumbered by broad strong pillars. The effect is actually not unlike what we saw at the Sainte Chapelle in Paris. The aim was to create an ethereal architecture, a Pulchra, which means not only pure but also polished and refined. We are in the Royal Pantheon where twenty-three monarchs are buried. The young man’s voice sounds reproachful: ‘Dos mil soldados de Napoleon camparon aquí — two thousand soldiers of Napoleon camped here. They opened sarcophaguses, stole jewellery and destroyed robes.’ Fortunately, they did not vandalise the paintings. ‘This is the Sistine Chapel of Romanesque art,’ he declares. ‘You are looking at the best-preserved Romanesque paintings in the world. A Frenchman painted the magnificent frescoes.’ ‘Isn’t it paradoxical?’ I say to Gérard. ‘Frenchmen have created and destroyed so many beautiful things along the Camino.’

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Gérard reminds me of what the priest in San Juan de Ortega said. ‘Some are born to create, some are born to destroy.’ On an arch, a type of agricultural calendar is painted, showing the farming tasks performed each month. ‘A pineapple means goodness,’ the guide explains, ‘whereas apple signifies impurity, naughtiness.’ The basilica was dedicated in 1063 to San Isidoro, archbishop of Sevilla, doctor of the Visigothic church and renowned composer of church music, hymns and songs. His ashes were brought from Sevilla, then under Moorish rule, to Christian territory in the north. The area where kings appeared to the people is pointed out to us. In medieval times, kings were worshipped like gods. To make them look divine, they liked to show themselves from high above, against a background of lights and candles. Priests are dressed casually in León. Few wear the cassock. They could pass as businessmen or any other layperson. We are reminded of a friend of ours who is a priest. ‘I am working for a multinational organisation with headquarters in Rome,’ he would say when he was asked what he did for a living but wanted to remain incognito at parties. In León, we have time to read the local newspapers and learn the latest news: gold has jumped over the three hundred-dollar-per-ounce barrier. McDonald’s plans to open two hundred restaurants in Spain. Who wants to have American fast food when you can indulge in Spanish tapas! More importantly to me, however, in the Diario de León, the local daily, I discover the answers to the questions I have harboured about El Cid ever since I visited Burgos. It seems that the province of León is less taken with El Cid than is Burgos, which is El Cid’s country. El Cid was in the services of the Castilian king, Don Sancho, whose relations with his brother, Alfonso VI, king of León, were somewhat

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chilly. Don Sancho set out to conquer Zamora but fell into an ambush. With his death, Alfonso VI became king of Castilla and León. However, the Castilians were only prepared to accept him as their new king if he swore that he had nothing to do with the death of his brother. In the church of Santa Gadea, with the hands of both on the Holy Scriptures, El Cid made Don Alfonso swear three times that he was innocent. It was a humiliation the king of León never forgot; he exiled El Cid to the south, away from Castilla. The article argues that Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (El Cid) fought also under the banner of the Crescent. Indeed, it claims, the first time he took up arms he fought against the Aragoneses and for the Muslims in Zaragoza. According to a medieval history expert at the University of Salamanca, El Cid was a kind of mercenary who worked for whoever paid best. I am interested to have my questions answered; but I fear that the monks in San Pedro de Cardeña, where El Cid had been buried with his wife for seven hundred years, would beg to differ. And really, why destroy a myth? We wander around the twisting alleys and lanes in old León, amongst half-timbered stone houses where bookstores, chocolaterías and quaint shops hide and where, at night, young people throng in romantic, candlelit cafeterías. We discover tapas bars near the arcaded Plaza Mayor, stroll along the wide avenues where elegant boutiques alternate with trendy cafés, and arrive at the Antiguo Monasterio de San Marcos, now a five-star parador de luxe. As we pass through the bar we overhear an American tourist tell his neighbour, awe-struck: ‘Did you know that the Plateresque façade of this hotel is longer than a football field?’ Originally a home for the knights of the order of Saint James, this imposing building was ordered by King Ferdinand the Catholic, in the belief that knights deserved something better than the primitive accommodation previously available to them. In the adjacent museum I am drawn to a small eleventh-

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century ivory crucifix, Cristo de Carrizo. The gaze of Christ is penetrating, and the crucifix exerts a compelling fascination. ‘Byzantine influence’, the description reads. Wanting to enquire further about the contemporary artists we liked in the modern section of the cathedral museum, such as Vela Zanetti, Gancedo, Alberto Carpo and Enrique Estrada Diaz, we are pleased to come across a Zanetti museum housed in a small, restored city palace. One of Zanetti’s murals hangs at the United Nations’ headquarters in New York. However, at the museum we become acquainted with Gregorio Prieto instead, since Zanetti’s movable works are on loan. Prieto was a friend of Federico García Lorca, the famous poet and writer, who was shot at the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War. Again and again we visit the cathedral, only a few yards away from our hotel, to absorb its splendour, bathe in its light, meditate on its colours, dream in its space and attend mass where we listen to wise words about remaining humble and helping others. Within its walls we enjoy two more musical evenings, one offered by the Symphony Orchestra of Galicia, playing the inspiring symphony, Las Montañas de Galicia, composed by Gaus, a Galician; the other by Spanish pianist Eleuterio Dominguez, who delights us with his technique playing Beethoven, Chopin, Liszt and Halffter. On our last evening in León, feeling refreshed and stimulated, colds and itching gone, I walk with Gérard once more through the old town which reverberates with Celtic and Leonese music. People throng the streets. Spanish society has changed enormously in recent years, especially the women. When, in the sixties, the beauties of Scandinavia descended upon the beaches of Andalusia, the Spanish men were captivated by their uncomplicated and uninhibited approach to love and sex and expected every foreign woman to be the same. When my girlfriend and I went out in Marbella, a group of young men would always follow us, wooing us with compliments and promises of

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paradise. Interestingly, their attitude changed completely when a young English mother accompanied us, carrying her baby. Then they showed us the gallantry and respect reserved for mothers and wives. Matriarchy has always been strong in Spain. Now Spanish women have come out of their homes, have entered politics, set up businesses, have grown tall and more beautiful, are assertive and very liberated. Which prompts Gérard to think of his student times in Madrid in the early sixties when the grandmother of his girlfriend chaperoned them to the cinema and going-home time was ten o’clock, a bit early in a country where dinner was served at midnight!

pilgrims in that shop looking for warmer things! Well before noon we eat the sandwiches that the hotel staff prepared for us. Chambermaids and waiters alike offered us free sweets and drinks. ‘Para Ustedes, peregrinos — for you, pilgrims. One day, I shall walk the Camino, too,’ they said. Two pilgrims with burros (donkeys) attract our attention. They have their own stables at home and walk the pilgrimage trail with these animals to carry their luggage. Gérard finds them lovely and I think they are stubborn but we both agree: in modern Spain, donkeys have become a rare sight!

After four days in León, we both have difficulty walking. Our feet and legs protest. Two English pilgrims come out of the five-star Parador San Marcos. We nod to each other and put on our ponchos as it starts to drizzle. We are dressed in new, rain-protecting trousers, bought in León — to make up for those we sent off — and we were not the only

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Villadangos – Astorga When walking becomes like dancing

A mild sunny autumn morning greets us. We are both in an excellent mood, singing and chanting. Andando y cantando — walking and singing. The best way to walk! It does not even seem like walking to me, more like dancing. Such lightness, such happiness! Yesterday morose and downcast with aching bones; today the sky’s the limit! It is indeed worth noticing how different we feel each day. There are days when we wake up feeling optimistic, strong and enterprising, and there are days when it is more difficult to get started, when obstacles seem insurmountable, when everything is an effort, and when we would rather like to hide from the world. ‘Moods are like passing clouds,’ is how a friend defines them. I find this puts moods in a proper perspective. Would not an eternally blue sky be boring? Gérard and I have enjoyed yielding to our moods during this pilgrimage, something hardly possible in a professional life. Gérard also admits listening more attentively to the needs of his body, which is a new experience for him. This part of the pilgrimage path is new and leads along a

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main road. In an adjacent field we meet a young Spanish writer and psychoanalyst who stages an exhibition — for the benefit of the pilgrims — on the development of the human race. He talks about the changes in Spain over the last thirty years, probably the most profound ones anywhere in Europe, and argues that the world is doomed if we do not go back to what he calls Ley del Padre (the Law of the Father) and away from the Ley Fálica (the Phallic Law), which must obviously be the opposite. He is a bit confusing. He has listed his theories on sheets of paper placed on wooden stands. They expound the negative influence and significance of the towers of Manhattan, of publicity and advertising, of closed churches, feminism and global crime. He is short, passionate, intellectual, intense. His wife looks subdued — definitely not a feminist. Nevertheless, her husband gives us much to consider about today’s society. In no time we reach the Puente de Órbigo, which over the ages has acquired a bronze-coloured patina. The cobblestones look polished and smooth. This bridge has seen and endured battles against the Visigoths and the Moors, and is so well-loved that it has acquired a nickname — Passo Honrosso (Honourable Passage) — which goes back to the fifteenth century. Don Suero de Quiñones, a Leonese knight, was passionately in love. To cure himself of this passion which, he said, imprisoned him, he and nine other knights challenged adventurers daring to cross the bridge to a joust. After thirty days he left for Santiago and offered the golden bracelet originally destined for the lady of his heart to the apostle. In Hospital de Órbigo, the pattern of stone-walled houses, enhanced by the use of reddish boulders, and cobbled streets make the town look solidly medieval. We both like it and decide to stop for lunch at a family inn. The local albergue, sponsored by the Pilgrim Society of Freiburg im Breisgau, features an inner courtyard that opens to a garden in the back. There is even a washing machine for

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pilgrims to use. A lone pilgrim is resting on a bunk. Gérard comes across a leaflet advertising a small family inn at Rabanal where hitherto there had been no accommodation other than an albergue. We are pleased. It is not that we do not necessarily wish to sleep at pilgrims’ hostels but we feel much freer when we have a booking at an inn or small pensión. We need not rush, as we do to get a bed at an albergue, and can allow ourselves to be spontaneous. This is important for us, since the Camino is a continuous source of surprise and inspiration. It is already two o’clock, and we still have over twenty kilometres to go to reach our destination today. But we may abandon ourselves to the glory of this autumn day since we have a booking in Astorga. At the exit of Hospital de Órbigo, there are two pilgrimage routes, one leading through the interior, the other one, brand new, following the road. Naturally, we opt for the one through the interior. No pilgrims are seen apart from two cyclists. After walking along a small canal we come to a tranquil rural village where time seems to have stood still. An old woman, dressed in black as all elderly women are in rural Spain — it is the colour of mourning and up to a few decades ago even young widows would wear black for the rest of their lives — and two men, presumably her sons, are drying havas, beans, outside their barn while in a corner of the door, curled up, tiny kittens soak up the warm afternoon sun. I touch them gently. ‘Están muy cariñosos — they are very lovable,’ says the farmer. ‘Buen viaje — have a good journey.’ The old woman has sat down on a bench to rest. She smiles at us. We feel invigorated and intoxicated by the wholesome country air. Picturesque vineyards alternate with harvested wheat fields, pre-alpine scenery yields to flat terrain, stony treks turn into velvety paths, pastures roll into hills. Shepherds chat while the bellwether leads the sheep across a gravel road. The countryside turns golden in the afternoon glow.

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It is the time of the vendímia, the wine harvest, and a farmer’s wife insists on offering us gigantic bunches of grapes, at least three kilograms. We think of the weight; but how could we possibly refuse! ‘Only five kilometres more to go,’ she urges us on. Indeed, we can detect the cathedral towers of Astorga in the distance. With renewed élan, we walk through Justo de Vega, extend a buenas tardes greeting to the women sitting outside their houses, cross the river and head for our hotel by the cathedral where we arrive at eight o’clock at night. We agree: it has been a grand day. Astorga’s position at the junction of the Via Traiana from Bordeaux and the Via Plata from Mérida made it a prominent place in Roman and Visigothic times. It counts

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fifteen thousand inhabitants and features an imposing cathedral, and a bishop’s palace that was built by Gaudí We like the old part of the town, in admirably fine condition and with good shops and confiseries, as Gérard has discovered to his delight. Unfortunately the cathedral is closed for restoration, but we are able to visit the cathedral’s museum where we admire a voluptuous Virgin with generous decolleté, and a polychromated stone sculpture of the Virgen where the Child lifts his mother’s veil — very charming indeed; I have never seen anything like it. Colourful priests’ robes are also exhibited, produced by nuns who paid attention to minute detail. A small treasure box offered by a king to a bishop in the tenth century also begs for our admiration and mitres from the fifteenth century look impeccable and show fabulous, intricate work. The bishop’s palace is adjacent to the cathedral. Gaudí, its architect of worldwide fame, was a Catalán from Reus and lived from 1852 to 1926. From 1910 onwards, he devoted himself exclusively to the Sagrada Família cathedral in Barcelona, still unfinished (a taxidriver in Barcelona once told us that it might take anywhere between ten and a hundred years to finish, depending on people’s donations on which the project exclusively depends). In 1926, a tram ran Gaudí over and killed him. Outside Barcelona and Cataluña, there are only two Gaudí buildings, the Casa de los Botinos in León, restored in 1996 by a Spanish bank, and the bishop’s palace here in Astorga. Gaudí resigned as architect of the palace, but the architect Ricardo Gueret finished it in 1913. It had been budgeted at one hundred and seventy thousand pesetas including three thousand five hundred pesetas in architect fees, though they do not say how much it finally cost. ‘In today’s money, one hundred and seventy thousand pesetas is only a thousand US dollars. This shows you the devaluation in currencies over the years, in this case, over a span of barely a hundred years,’ says Gérard, forever the merchant banker.

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The palace is Neo-Gothic with tall ceilings and stainedglass windows. The chapel is a play of light, space and equilibrium, just as Gaudí intended. It now houses the Museum of the Camino and is most pleasant to walk around. Gérard likes the frescoes in the chapel and the pillars covered with azulejos (hand-painted and glazed ceramic tiles). By now it is past two o’clock, and in Astorga everything has come to a halt for Spanish lunchtime. The scent of roasted garlic and olive oil lures us to a shady street in the old part of the city, where we are attracted by the menú de degustación offered at the Parrillada Serrano restaurant. It is Spanish nouvelle cuisine at its best, and our menu features such delicacies as terrine of leek and wild mushrooms with light herbal olive oil mayonnaise; bacalao fish lightly fried on grilled reinette apple slices; milk lamb cutlets with radish sauce; leche frita, which is light vanilla pudding, with turrón (nougat) and ice-cream. All this for two thousand seven hundred pesetas per person, including good wine, mineral water, bread and coffee. To finish in style, we treat ourselves to a Pacharán liqueur, toasting our friends in Pamplona who introduced us to this delicacy of sloe berries, and to the farmer near Santo Domingo de la Calzada who gave us his recipe.

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Maragatería A Los Angeles tailor comes home to look after pilgrims

It is a sunny morning but an icy wind from the west impedes our advance. A detour to Castrillo de los Polvazares, reputed to be amongst Spain’s finest villages, is well worth our while. Many of its quaint stone houses have been completely renovated, its cobbled streets are carefully restored. All the houses feature large doorways, painted mostly in green, a characteristic of the Maragatería region, we learn later. Some houses are new, like those built by the Madrileños (inhabitants of Madrid) in the traditional style and used as weekend homes. ‘Modern comfort, ancient look; that’s the way to go,’ says Gérard. Hidden behind the houses, enclosed by a high wall, is the huerta (garden or park). Not a soul is around in this traffic-free village which is not only under the protection of national monuments but is also itself a monument. At the moment it lacks life, at least on the surface. Perhaps its thirty inhabitants or so hide behind shutters. It all comes to life, we are told, on weekends when the Madrileños — a ubiquitious sort of people since they seem to be everywhere in Spain on weekends! — descend on the pueblo to devour its

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specialities. This is why Castrillo’s two restaurants are open only on weekends. In Santa Catalina, we head for a bar, run by an elderly Spaniard who is eager to speak English with us. He is a native of this village but emigrated to Argentina and currently lives and works in the United States, where his family lives. Looking trim and active, he is proud to say that he is seventy-seven years old. He bought two houses in his native village and loves to commute back and forth between here and Los Angeles. His American greatgrandchildren adore his Spanish abode. The bar allows him to be in touch with pilgrims from all over the world. In summer, he serves small meals in his garden. His coffee is strong, his chorizo spicy and hot. He tells us of his time in Argentina, where he arrived in the late forties. He bought a house for one and a half million pesos, ran into horrendous inflation, sold it for fourteen and a half billion (or US$78,500), took the money and left for the USA. A wise move because two years later there was total devaluation in Argentina. Billions evaporated to nothing. People became penniless overnight. Thinking the high interest rates coming with inflation were there to stay, they had sold their houses and invested the proceeds. At one hundred and forty per cent interest per annum, this looked fabulous. The devaluation annihilated their savings and reduced their revenues to a pittance. ‘This happened under the notorious Perón and the beloved Evita. Do you want to know how much I earned in Spain prior to leaving for overseas?’ he asks. ‘Yes, please tell us,’ Gérard urges him. ‘Well, in Astorga, I paid my trained seamstresses five pesetas per day. With overtime and work on Saturday, they made it to one hundred and fifty per month. Two hundred and fifty was a very good salary for a master tailor. In Madrid, just before I emigrated, I earned two hundred and fifty pesetas per month and paid three to four pesetas a day for a pensión.’

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‘What’s the wage of a seamstress in Spain today?’ I ask him. ‘Something around a hundred thousand pesetas a month, depending on whether it’s in the city or in the country.’ He seems pleased to have made his living in Los Angeles but we sense his nostalgia for Spain. Calabazos, hollowed gourds, were used by medieval pilgrims to store their water, and we see them for sale outside a small finca we pass in the country. Other pilgrims join us in buying these utensils, indispensable to pilgrims in the Middle Ages. The woman has to go inside to get change and as she does, we catch glimpses of a cosy patio (inner courtyard), completely enclosed by stone walls and full of flowerpots, in the midst of which stands a solid, wooden table. We walk on in the knowledge that we have come a small step closer to looking like the medieval pilgrim! What else did he carry with him? A staff called a bordón, a leather travel bag (escarcela), a water container like the one we just got and of course the concha, a big genuine scallop shell which also adorns our backpacks. Around our necks dangle smaller versions of the shell. No, the shell does not indicate that the bearer works for a petrol company, as we have been asked by some overseas tourists off the pilgrims’ path! Why are pilgrims carrying shells? There is a lovely story attached to this custom: a knight was riding along the Galician coast when a sea monster attacked his horse and threw them both into the sea. The knight could not swim and he prayed to Saint James to come to his aid. Touched by the confidence vested in him, Saint James appeared surrounded by an aura of light, walking on the water. He parted the waters to enable the knight to walk to the shore, and then slowly disappeared. When he stepped out of the water, the knight noticed that he was covered with shells. The pilgrims to whom he told the story saw a symbol in this and elected forthwith the shell as their emblem. In

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French, scallops are called coquilles Saint Jacques, shells of Saint James. The countryside we are walking through today looks barren and forbidding. A hamlet we passed some miles back was deserted. Wild horses graze in half-cleared land. Gérard and I are walking all by ourselves when we spot two big dogs in the fields. What on earth are they doing out here in this wilderness? Are they dangerous, aggressive? I remember tales of former pilgrims, frightened by dogs, and Coelho’s fight with wild dogs comes to mind. I am petrified. At the beginning of our pilgrimage we had carried a cumbersome electronic gadget destined to protect us from attacking dogs, but sent it away as we felt it was not needed. Now we feel quite defenceless. Clasping the handles of our walking sticks, we approach with caution. They ignore us completely. It takes us a moment to realise that these two dogs, which look like Saint Bernards, have been abandoned. They are terribly underweight. Their eyes look into an unspecified distance as they wait faithfully for a master who will never come. One of the animals is lying down, too weak to stand. They fill us with sadness and pity — and some anger for those who abandoned them. The region we are traversing is called the Maragatería, a place of many contradictions as to the origin of its inhabitants. Speculations abound. Are they of mixed Visigothic and Moorish blood or descendants of the ancient Celts and Phoenicians? Some say they are Berbers, judging by their jewellery and costumes; others say their ancestors were Jewish merchants who adopted the Christian faith. The region is distinctly different from others in the province of León, and whoever settled here long ago must have led an isolated existence in this inhospitable land. It is said that they managed to resist the Roman invasion (as did the Basques)! At religious festivals or weddings, they wear their colourful costumes of voluminous knee breeches and wide embroidered belts. Pilgrims from Germany, Spain and England catch up with

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us. A tall, slim young Spanish woman walks in thongs, her toes and ankles bandaged. Her backpack rests on a cart that she has difficulty pulling and pushing along the muletracks in the mountains. Still, she is in high spirits. ‘Llegaré! — I shall make it.’ Somewhere on the way, Gérard spots a side road leading to Minas de la Fucarona, the remains of a Roman goldmine. He takes off to carry out an inspection on his own, leaving me alone with two backpacks on a high, windswept plateau where only shrubs and small bushes grow, and where treacherous ditches made by Roman hands might hide. He stays away for over an hour, carried away in this disorienting land. What would I do if something happened to him in this forlorn area? I breathe a sigh of relief when he comes into sight, exhilarated by his walk and quite oblivious of my unnecessary fears.

Rabanal Gregorian chanting and mystical mountain peaks

Rabanal, according to pilgrim reports written in the eighties, used to be a semi-deserted place with an overgrown dirt road and no accommodation. It is thought that in the twelfth century the Templars established a base here to ensure that pilgrims were safe on this difficult and lonely stretch through the mountains. Over the last few years Rabanal seems to have been resurrected, no doubt thanks to the pilgrims, and will soon have its third small hotel — plus a delegation of monks from the Monastery of Santo Domingo de los Silos, who have come to establish themselves in the abandoned monastery. So, once again, Rabanal will become an important stop on the pilgrimage route. We stay at a tiny inn, rebuilt in the traditional style by a devoted young Spanish couple who tell us that for the sake of their children they have no TV at home. This is quite a rarity in Spain where television occupies a place of honour everywhere: in bars, cafés, restaurants and, of course, in every home. The local pilgrim hostel, the albergue Gaucelmo, English-

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run, is full for the day. It feels very cosy with its library and walled-in garden. A group of Belgian pilgrims who started out in Louvain greet us in English, carefully avoiding French as they are of Flemish mother tongue. We sit on a wooden bench, enjoying the sensation of having done our day’s work, and listen to an incredibly agile, silver-bearded Frenchman in his eighties. He explains to an Oxfordaccented Englishman the impact that the Camino has on Europe. His hands fly in tempo with his words as he says that fifty thousand young people from all over Europe congregated in Santiago de Compostela this August. ‘Ça aussi, c’est la nouvelle Europe — this also is the new Europe.’ He smiles. Gérard tells everyone about the vespers that will be sung tonight by three monks from the Silos monastery, renowned for their Gregorian chanting. At seven o’clock, the small church is full. The monks are young, their voices pure and clear. There is a feeling of holiness in the air, enveloping us all — a sense of togetherness, too. Our innkeeper, who lives with his family forty kilometres away, has arrived to cook a nourishing breakfast for his ten guests: cocoa — which in Spanish is written and pronounced cacao — and toasted bread with olive oil. After Rabanal, the pilgrim road becomes many tiny, narrow paths with clumps of broom, brushwood and heather two metres high. This suits Carlos, a high-powered Spaniard from Madrid who plays hide-and-seek with pretty Jennifer from California while practising his English. We pass through Foncebadón, another village that came into existence because of the pilgrims, but now is in ruins. We detect some restoration going on in the church, but are unable to spot the village’s one and only inhabitant, an elderly woman. As we approach Cruz de Ferro we keep an eye out for a suitable stone to add to the substantial pile at the base of the simple iron cross, which is attached to a five-metre-

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long wooden stake. Pilgrims who add stones to the pile become part of an ancient tradition that predates even the Romans, who called such heaps Mounts of Mercury, after the god of travellers. Saint Gaucelmo, the protector of pilgrims in this perilous area, consecrated this ancient monument whose original significance is lost in the mists of time. There are lots of young Madrileños here, weekend pilgrims as they call themselves, doing the journey in bits and pieces. They are followed by a coach which carries their luggage. A bit of a noisy lot! Somewhat egoistically, I imagine myself to be all alone up here, at fifteen hundred metres’ altitude, absorbing the majestic panorama of the lofty mountain range around me, feeling dizzily on top of the world, meditating on peace, bliss, space … Why not do it anyway, creating my own silence? I try, not too successfully! How did pilgrims walk in the Middle Ages? In groups, alone, on foot, nobly carried in carriages, or riding horses? Were they silent, talking, singing or praying? Andando y cantando, walking and singing? Gérard and I tried it out and we liked it. In the Middle Ages, singing was a significant part of a pilgrimage. There was an important school of music in Santiago. Mozarabic, Visigothic, Jewish, Celtic and Arabic elements combined to create a unique musical culture. Unfortunately, this tradition came to a halt when Pope Gregory VII decreed the introduction of Roman rites. To ensure the demise of Hispanic rites, priests were dispatched to Spain to implement his decree. Sadly, much was lost; only what could be passed on orally, mostly through pilgrims, lived on. Centuries later, monks recorded what survived and, in the sixteenth century, Pope Julius II allowed the Mozarabic liturgy to be practised again in Toledo, where it is still celebrated in some churches to this day. Andando y rezando, walking and praying. I remember the processions in which I participated as a young person in

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my home village back in Switzerland. They led through picturesque countryside and their destination was usually a chapel, a sanctuary in the country, dedicated to the Virgin Mary or to a particular saint. The processions started early, at dawn, usually at four or five o’clock, and lasted about five hours. A mass was held upon arrival. We walked there and back, praying the rosary. Of course, we could not help our eyes travelling over the countryside, noticing this and that. We just had to look at the clouds in the sky, at the person in front and what she was wearing. We glanced at the young men and tried to catch their eye. More often than not, the words of the rosary came from our lips and not from our hearts. I remember walking through deeply snowed-in country in the Swiss mountains, praying the rosary with my French teacher, Mère Fourvière. I recall Corpus Christi day when first communion children walked in front of the priest, covering the freshly mown fields with flower petals picked the day before from home gardens or summer meadows. In all these processions there was something essentially wholesome for body and soul; and I am grateful to my parents for having introduced me to what I call the mystic side of Catholicism. Another procession comes to mind, the first one I attended in Spain. It was in Málaga, Andalusia, on Good Friday, 1969. Strong men dressed in long brown garments, trailing heavy chains and carrying a huge altar on their shoulders were followed by the people, each carrying a candle. As we turned from the avenída into a small lane, the procession came temporarily to a halt. From one of the wrought-iron balconies of the whitewashed houses, a woman whom we could not see began to sing the ‘Ave Maria’. Her voice was so delicate and graceful that it transported us to higher spheres. It was as if we were being touched by divinity. This happened at two o’clock in the morning! ‘Je vais vous raconter une petite histoire — I am going to tell

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you a little story,’ says Chantal as we descend the mountain together. ‘In the universe of angels, there were two groups. One fell from grace and deliberately set out to harm the other. Rare for angels, I admit,’ she says with a side glance to us, ‘but some higher law must have wanted it so. The group of angels that was hurt had a duty to avenge themselves. But they could not bring themselves to do such a thing, in fact they were incapable of such action. Finally, they determined to infiltrate the bad group with goodness; that was their revenge.’ ‘Did you like my story?’ this slight and petite woman asks. She has beautiful eyes. ‘Eh bien — certainly food for thought!’ I answer. Her story reminds me of an old Hindu legend: Once upon a time, all human beings were gods. Alas, they abused their divine power so badly that Brahma, the great Lord of all Gods, decided to strip them of their divinity and hide it where it would be impossible to find. The problem was where to find such a hiding place. The minor gods were invited to sit in council to resolve the problem and they came up with this suggestion: ‘Let us bury the divinity of human beings in the ground.’ But Brahma answered: ‘No, that is not good enough for they will dig and find it.’ Then, the gods proposed, ‘In that case, let us throw it into the deepest depths of the ocean.’ But Brahma responded, ‘No, for sooner or later, they will explore the depths of all the oceans and I am sure one day, they will find it and bring it to the surface.’ Then the minor gods concluded, ‘We do not know where to hide it as there seems to exist no place on earth nor in the seas that humans will not reach one day.’ Eventually, Brahma shook his head and said, ‘I know what we shall do with the divinity of human beings. We shall hide it in the deepest depths of themselves for it is the only place where they will

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never think to look.’ The legend concludes that since that time, human beings have circumnavigated the earth, explored and climbed, dived and dug, searching in vain for something to be found only within themselves. Could this be the answer to the search of the Holy Grail, I wonder to myself? We arrive at Manjarín, where Tomás, a small, distinguished, grey-haired man, rings the bell for each pilgrim who passes. Last January he counted three hundred and fifty pilgrims, walking through here in deep snow. Tomás, who some claim is a former priest, is a well-known personality on the Camino and lives in a primitive mountain hut surrounded by countless geese, hens, cats and dogs. There is neither electricity nor water in the house, but he has access to a spring. He attends to repairs in winter and during the rest of the year serves free refreshments to pilgrims. He offers us the sweetest pears we have ever tasted. Tomás is a modern hermit, something which puzzles the young weekend pilgrims from Madrid in the extreme. Incredulous, confused and curious, they wander around.

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El Acebo – Molinaseca Visigothic monastery, Mozarabic church and other blessed energy spots

The Camino has turned into a mule-track that has become increasingly steep, rocky and slippery, but we reach El Acebo in fine condition. It is a nice little village; its stone houses have wooden balconies and slate-tile roofs, typical of the Bierzo. We are still at over a thousand metres above sea level. It is cold. The innkeeper calls it the silly season, too early to put on the heating, too cold not to do so. He suggests we warm up with a lunch of local specialities, mainly smoked pork cooked in a tripe, called cecido de Bierzo. This is not my favourite food but I am hungry and cold. ‘Que vuelvan en paz — may you come back in peace.’ The abuela, the diminutive but agile grandmother at the inn, has just shown us a hidden mule-track to the seventh-century smithy down in the valley. For a good hour we walk on a very narrow path, dwarfed by mountains and hills. At times there is a small stream or a mountain brook to cross. It is utterly peaceful and serene, the air sublime. When we arrive at Compludo, a narrow valley squeezed between mountains, the Madrileños are already there, thanks to their

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chauffeur-driven coach, and tell us that the herrería, the smithy, is closed for a local fiesta but that its surroundings are idyllic and picturesque, well worth walking for another fifteen minutes. They offer us a lift back up and are prepared to wait for our return. ‘You are off the Camino here and are allowed to travel by car. We shall wait for you,’ they tantalise us. Gérard is very tempted. I am not. I am still walking off my heavy lunch; and besides, I find it exhilarating to cross these Galician mountains on foot and be in total unison with nature. I deliberately procrastinate. Gérard, who thinks we have walked enough today, is not amused. A crystalline brook encircles the seventh-century blacksmith workshop. Gérard spots lots of fish. Poplars, aspen, and birches are turning golden. It is so peaceful here. A hint of history lies in the air. This workshop has been in existence for fourteen hundred years. After a close look into the interior of the building and a thorough inspection of the surroundings, Gérard tries to explain to me how the forge worked. ‘See this axle on the water wheel? It extends on this side and acts as a camshaft. It drives — or rather rotates — this six-metre-long shaft with a one-metre hammer on the end. The hammer goes up and down, like a heavy blacksmith’s hammer. Its speed is controlled by the amount of water falling on the water wheel, which is controlled by these shutters over here. As to the coal keeping the fire red hot, it is kept aglow by a constant flow of air, which is produced by water flowing down this angled wall here. What is so clever is that the operator can regulate volume and speed of the water from his workbench, without having to move around. It is absolutely ingenious! We have earth, water, fire and air, all coming together here.’ On our way back from the forge we pass the parking area but the Madrileños, not surprisingly, have left. We start our ascent, silently. Somewhere in the distance a shepherd plays the same melody over and over on his flute. There is

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no other sound except the rare buzzing of a wasp or fly. I open my heart to this immense and powerful silence. Just as we enter the village, a bent-over woman in black comes our way. When we greet her with buenas tardes, she starts to talk, shows us her poor little hands and complains about the arthritic pain. She was used to working hard and now feels so useless and handicapped. Her husband is unwell, too. Occasionally, her daughters come home from the city to help. We try to encourage her and when we promise to remember her upon our arrival in Santiago, her face lights up. Back at the inn, more pilgrims have gathered and I relate the incident of the abandoned dogs to the innkeeper’s wife. Much to my surprise, she tells us that it is the pilgrims’ fault: some of them kidnap dogs, or at least encourage them to follow. Then there comes the time, she says, when the pilgrims no longer know what to do with them. She has already returned two dogs to Tomás which some pilgrim girls had carried away because they were so cute. Gérard and I recall the two Flemish pilgrims in Rabanal who had been followed by a dog ever since they left Astorga. The dog became so attached that they did not know how to make him go back. Our bedroom is bitterly cold, the stone floor icy, and I put on every piece of clothing that I carry including the sleeping bags plus the bedsocks, which some good soul knitted for me. While we are drinking a warm beverage with three happy and cheerful Spanish pilgrims, a tall, strong Italian woman from the Tyrol joins us. Seeing her dressed in short sleeves makes us all shiver. ‘That’s all I have with me. I thought the weather in Spain would always be warm and sunny,’ she laughs. She comes from north-eastern Italy and speaks an Austrian-accented German. Her face radiates with joy when she mentions the mountain mass she attended high up on Cruz de Ferro. ‘A priest held a mass for a group of Germans in the early

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evening, just as the sun was setting. I stayed to participate and cannot tell you how extraordinary it was. It was simply magic.’ She started in Lourdes and entered Spain via the Somport mountain pass. Her family had great misgivings about her doing the pilgrimage alone, but she finds it no problem at all. The abuela is up and about to say farewell. Leaning over the wooden balcony and showing us a toothless mouth, she extends good wishes to us: ‘Que vuelvan a sus casas en paz — may you return to your homes in peace.’ The descent to Molinaseca leads through small villages where old stone houses are being restored for weekend use. After negotiating rocks and stones, little puddles and muddy road sections, we stand in awe before enormous chestnut trees sagging with ripe fruit. Somewhere between rocks and woods we meet a loner who has erected a tent to protect himself from rain on weekends when he likes to come up here. ‘For the stillness,’ he says. ‘I count the pilgrims who pass,’ he tells us. ‘This morning, only eight have come through before you.’ At last the valley widens. We are in the Bierzo, a subsided basin of about fifty by fifty kilometres, fully enclosed by mountains that protect it from the inclemencies of the weather. Romans, Visigoths and Templars alike settled in the Bierzo, a region reputed for its flowers, fertile soil, picturesque vineyards and undulating countryside. It is also a spiritual land, rich in monasteries and caves where hermits and saints found solemn retreat. Molinaseca is situated at the foot of the mountains we have just crossed. Hardly anyone is around on this quiet Saturday morning apart from a family roasting red capsicums on their porch. ‘Que aproveche — enjoy,’ we cry over to their house and promptly receive an invitation. ‘Would you like to come and see how it is done?’

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They roast the pimientos on charcoal until the skin is mostly burnt and black and can be easily peeled. After removing the seeds, they rinse the capsicums carefully and cut them into big pieces which are arranged in a jar. They add olive oil and a drop of lemon, and simmer the jars in a bain-marie for fifteen minutes. I love roasted red capsicums, particularly Spanish ones. Their pimientos carry the richest flavour. ‘Look, they made a swimming pool out of the river,’ exclaims Gérard as we stand on the Romanesque bridge. Indeed, during the summer months Molinaseca turns its river into a swimming pool by installing a lock, which causes the river to swell into a small lake. The old part of town features cobbled streets and stately mansions. A local, sensing our desire for a hot café con leche, directs us to a brand-new boutique hotel where a jovial gentleman addresses us with the words, ‘Vous devez être Français — you must be French.’ He had heard of French people being on their way and assumed it was us. Of a spontaneous and generous nature, Jean receives us most graciously in his posada, which he has dedicated to his daughter, Muriel. A Frenchman, he has been living in Madrid since the seventies and has done well. He too has walked the Ancient Road to Santiago, three times altogether, the last time with his daughter Sophie, who is up here from Madrid. Sophie is getting married next Saturday, so her father has claimed her time exclusively for himself this weekend. Jean tells us over a café con leche that he intends to show her the monasteries in the neighbourhood: Peñalba, the Valle del Silencio, and so on. ‘Oh,’ I exclaim, ‘this is precisely where we want to go tomorrow from Ponferrada.’ Ever since I read about Peñalba in Roads to Santiago, a book written by the Dutch author, Cees Nooteboom, a lover of Spain like us, I have wished to go there. I also remember the Brazilian girl from San Juan de Ortega who described to us the spiritual atmosphere of Ponferrada’s surroundings.

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Jean excuses himself and comes back in an instant to tell us that his daughter has given him permission to take us along. We are delighted and cancel all other plans. The drive to Peñalba proves long and arduous. The road at times is dangerously narrow and winding. Serpentea, they say here. Since it rains, it is also slippery — enough to give us all a bit of vertigo. Gérard has never been a good car passenger and suffers as usual before Jean, very considerately, hands over the wheel to him. I lean back and try to recall Cees Nooteboom’s impressions of Peñalba. It was only by accident that he found his way here, thanks to a little book he found in León. It mentioned a valley of extraordinary beauty, a medieval village, still intact, with a Mozarabic church dating from the early tenth century. The drive leads us through a varied landscape of gorges, rocks, medieval hamlets, mountain streams, narrow bends, minute fields, grazing cattle, sheep, mountain goats — and villagers who stare at us in the car. Visigothic monks chose to establish their monasteries in these magical valleys held sacred by Celts. It is only in the last thirty years that this area has received the blessings of the twentieth century. My little book (I found one, too!) tells me: 1966, primitive road; 1976, water; 1977, electricity; 1978, paved road; 1981, village square lighting; 1985, canalisation; 1986, telephone. How can I possibly describe the beauty of Peñalba? Ensconced in a hidden valley, it has tiny fields, chestnut woods and beehives, the latter forming coloured specks on its surrounding countryside which is deep green from abundant rain. Its architecture is characteristic of the Bierzo: stone houses with wooden balconies and slate-tile roofs. The houses are grouped around the Mozarabic church — now being restored by someone who bought a third of the village. Indeed, where old photographs show dirt tracks, cobbled lanes are now being laid. Dear God, may all this be done with taste and respect! ‘Don’t worry,’ Gérard reassures me. ‘It all looks promising.

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When Nooteboom was here in 1986, the village was about to fall into decay. Now it is being resurrected. The village people will more than likely wish to stay on. Be happy for this development.’ Jean was concerned that Angel, responsible for the church in Peñalba, might have gone to lunch. Indeed, he has left, but Jean knows where to find him. Angel, handsome and charming, is one of those guides who identify themselves with what they do. With great pleasure, he unlocks the church once again. Awe-struck, we pause. What a portal! A paired horseshoe arch, standing on three slender marble pillars! The horseshoe arches themselves are set in an alfiz, which in Muslim architecture is a square over a horseshoe shaped-arch. Angel calls it una verdadera porta coeli, a door to heaven! The church was built by Mozarabs, Christians from the Moorish south, mostly from Córdoba, who at the bequest of the Castilian kings came to settle in sparsely populated Castilla, bringing with them Muslim traditions and knowledge. It is small, only eighteen metres long and five metres wide. It conveys a feeling of remoteness, of other civilisations, but gives also a feeling of protection. Where one steps up to the altar area, there is another horseshoe arch, this time a single one, surrounded by the alfiz. When an abbot from Cluny, France, came to visit here in the eleventh century, he was aghast to see a church that looked like a mosque. He wanted to change it dramatically but met with such opposition from the village people that all he could do was consecrate it again. Angel, who is very familiar with the history, goes on to tell us about San Genadio, who lived in the tenth century. ‘He was bishop of Astorga and founded a monastery dedicated to Saint James in a remote, inhospitable, hidden and inaccessible place. That place was Peñalba.’ The monastery disappeared, but this unusual church remained. I concur with Nooteboom who marvels about such isolated jewels of architecture in Spain.

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In a small dark tavern, we eat a delicious tortilla española, an omelette with potatoes, followed by chestnuts in syrup, almíbar, which sounds Arabic. A fine rain falls after lunch, but nothing will deter us from hiking to the cave where San Genadio spent the last years of his life. Jean discovers a mule-track which clings to the slope and winds itself around this mountain, then another one, and another one … Crystal mountain streams carry pure water to the valleys, forming silver bars across our way. Delicately, like rope walkers, we step from stone to stone, holding out a helping hand for the one behind us. Jean gathers blackberries that burst with juice, a mountain type ripening late in this part of the world. Soaked, but in great spirits, we arrive after a good hour or so at the cave, which is dry and spacious. High above the entry there is a round opening of about eighty centimetres in diameter for the sun to enter as soon as it appears over the mountains. Jean spots the visitors’ book and in an emotional mood we write: ‘With friends spontaneously made during our pilgrimage, we are here in this blessed spot and pray that the peace, serenity and spirituality of this place and surroundings may always be with us and with those we love.’ I ask Jean why this is called the Valle del Silencio and he tells me the following story: ‘San Genadio, meditating in his cave, complained to God one day that he could not hear Him for all the noises going on outside in nature, meaning the birds, the mountain streams and so on. So God made the countryside temporarily silent to enable San Genadio to hear Him.’ On the way back we visit the monastery, San Pedro de Montés, founded by San Fructuoso in the seventh century. The ruins are overgrown with ivy, and trees grow in its former cloisters. It is eerie, mysterious and romantic. Caught in another world, I try to imagine the Visigothic monks who settled here, led by the great ascetic San Fructuoso who was of royal Gothic blood and received

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generous donations from his kings. They chose a place several days’ journey away from the nearest town. Over ten monasteries were established in these remote and inaccessible valleys. What San Fructuoso began, San Valerio continued. He left notes reflecting his sentiments: It is a place resembling the Garden of Eden and just as suitable for solitude, meditation and recreation. It is surrounded by gigantic mountains but this does not make the valley dark or sombre but rather bestows a spring-like greenness. With the work of our hands, we have erected a small building with cloisters. What delight to contemplate from here the fertile valleys abounding with olive trees, oleanders, pines and cypresses. The scent of roses and aromatic plants pleases our noses, the birds’ singing delights our ears, the woods provide shade and calm the nerves. Beauty inundates our souls. The paradise Valerio describes disappeared when the Arabs invaded; but about one hundred and fifty years later, in the tenth century, San Genadio, in his capacity as bishop of Astorga, restored the monasteries, greatly aided in his task by the kings. In 919, four bishops from as far as Salamanca, which was several days’ journey away, congregated in this place to consecrate the church. I do not want to know that this monastery complex was badly damaged during the desamortización, suffered a terrible fire soon after, and not so long ago, in 1982, fell prey to sacrilegious thieves. I am in another world.

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Ponferrada – Villafranca Knights Templar and Roman gold

We have looked forward to visiting the Templar fortress in Ponferrada, capital of the Bierzo, which my guidebook calls the finest and oldest example of Spanish military structure. It is said to have been built on a site held sacred by the Celts. But it is closed on Sunday afternoons and Mondays. So, instead, I delve into my notes about the Templars. The information I have gathered is contradictory, controversial and incomplete, just as the order itself was. My sources differ already on its year of foundation — 1118, 1119 or 1120? Be that as it may, I have always been intrigued by the order of the Templars and recall a visit to the Templar village, La Couvertoirade, situated on a high plateau in central France. Standing on top of the fortified walls encircling the village, I imagined the Templars approaching, cantering across fields of yellow broom, always two in the saddle, huddled in their capes and wearing a red eight-pointed cross on their white coats. The Templars were a result of the Crusades. When Jerusalem was in Christian hands, nine knights from Burgundy, including the Duke of Champagne, an

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immensely wealthy landowner, asked Baudouin, king of Jerusalem, for an abode with the aim of protecting pilgrims to the Holy City. They were assigned a place above the former Temple of Solomon and called themselves Poor Brethren of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. The formal installation of the Templars, as they were eventually called, took place at the Council of Troyes in France in 1128. Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, the Cistercian abbot, supported the Templars enthusiastically and wrote their rules. His uncle, André de Montbard, was one of the nine original founders.

The Templar order was a military/religious order, combining for the first time the virtues of monk and knight. Their vows were of chastity, poverty, obedience and continuous battle against the infidels. Within a short time, the Templar order grew extraordinarily, and young knights from all over Europe were keen to enter. The Knights Templar received vast donations in land, money and castles. As of 1139, the order was politically independent, responsible to the pope only. It paid no tax. Whilst its members remained humble, poor and disinterested as

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individuals, the order amassed wealth and privilege. Soon it held countless estates and vast territories throughout Europe, including England, Scotland, Italy, Spain, Holland and the Holy Land. The Templars built roads and bridges, helped the reconquista in Spain, protected the pilgrim routes of Santiago and Jerusalem, constructed fortresses such as the one in Ponferrada and set up banking connections in Europe well before the Lombards established theirs. ‘They organised the first merchant banking system,’ Gérard confirms. When a pilgrim — or a merchant trader for that matter — left Paris for Santiago, Jerusalem or another destination, he was able to deposit his gold coins with the Templars in Paris, where their financial headquarters were, obtain a receipt and a secret code and withdraw his funds on arrival. For people in the Middle Ages, when travelling was a great hazard, this represented an enormous progress in safety and wellbeing. At the height of the order’s evolution, the Knights Templar had their own sophisticated hospitals, owned fleets and ports and maintained contacts with Islamic and Jewish personalities to promote the flow of ideas across different cultures. Kings solicited their goodwill. They commanded enormous power and prestige. Who could have anticipated the plot against them? In 1307, the Templars in France were arrested in one long, dark night. Some authors compare it to a Gestapostyle attack. Philippe IV, King of France, called Philippe le Bel, was the instigator. Fearing their political and financial power, and suffering from financial problems himself, he accused the Templars of heresy and indecent customs and tortured them brutally. In 1312, the pope annulled the order and in 1314 the order’s last grand master, Jacques de Molay, was burned alive in Paris. The Templar order was seemingly extinguished. The Templars who escaped King Philippe’s persecution sought refuge in Scotland where, later, they had affinities with Freemasonry; some fled to Prussia where they became

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the Teutonic Order of Knights, or to Portugal, where they inspired the seafaring people to search for distant shores as the Order of Cavalcatra. Through their Norman and Viking brethren, who were experienced seafarers, the Templars knew about America, and it is said that Columbus dug into Templar knowledge when preparing his journey. Some called them messengers of the Holy Grail. Together with the Cistercians, the Knights Templar wanted to create a Europe through which the Holy Grail acted, a new society in which each person was to be his or her own pope and emperor. It was their desire to go back to the original teachings of Jesus Christ and away from the ecclesiastical institutions of Rome. The Templars possessed cosmic wisdom and were familiar with ethereal geography. There must have been a lot of synergy between the Templars, the Cistercians and the masons. Masons in those days were more than just stonemasons or builders of great cathedrals and abbeys. They often were what we would today call mathematicians or physicists. They were also bearers of knowledge rooted in Celtic times. Goethe, the great German poet and philosopher, is believed to have been amongst the last initiated Templars. Was he really? I have heard of people who congregate at the Templar Castle in Ponferrada, clad in white garb, adorned with a cross featuring two transverse beams and calling themselves New Templars, and Gérard remembers meeting a distinguished gentleman who, displaying on his chest a large emerald-studded Maltese cross, introduced himself as priest and Templar but mysteriously vanished into the crowd before more questions could be asked. During the night in Ponferrada, frost forms and the temperature is two degrees at seven o’clock in the morning. Winegrowers are busy in the fields but stop to offer us grapes. Some wish to practise their French. It is still only four degrees by ten o’clock, but it is warming up.

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In Cacabelos, a few poetic words about food and wine written on a poster outside a pretty house make us come to a halt. The sounds of classical music from a courtyard full of flowers and plants beckon us in. Wooden balconies overgrown with ivy, maize cobs hanging from the balustrade, flowering geraniums, woven baskets in corners, slate-tile floors, tables and benches — we realise it is a place to eat and Gérard decides that this is where we are going to have lunch. But it is only one o’clock, too early to eat in Spain. We take off our backpacks and visit Cacabelos, where quaint old shops fight for survival, something we have seen in many villages. Above the entry door of the Augustine church Gérard spots a tiny stone sculpture of the Virgin. Tobacco leaves are hung up in an old barn for drying. ‘Just like they used to do in Fribourg in Switzerland,’ Gérard says. The food in the restaurant, Prada o Tope, lives up to what its surroundings promise. Capsicums are in season and at a vegetable processing plant attached to the restaurant, fifty women are busy preserving them. They are roasted on an iron grille placed over charcoal. We watch them work. They follow the same procedure as in Molinaseca but in a semi-industrial manner. Twenty kilometres from here are the Médulas. When I first saw pictures of them I thought they must be one of nature’s seven wonders! They form a bizarre, magical landscape of rocky crags and strangely shaped hillocks of pink and ochre. But the Médulas have been shaped by humans; and by the Romans in particular. Here, they mined gold. The tops that are seen today were purposely made that way for topographical reference. The Romans built three hundred kilometres of water canals. Lacking dynamite, they used hydrodynamics to mine hundreds of millions of tonnes of gold-bearing rock which, over the centuries, yielded thousands of tonnes of pure gold. The gnarled old chestnut trees that now cover the area add to

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the haunting beauty of the Médulas, a man-made ‘natural’ wonder. But when I express my delight over this fantastic landscape, Gérard asks me to spare a thought for the slaves employed in shaping this spectacular anomaly. Countless human beings lost their lives while digging for water and gold and creating what today, almost two thousand years later, we tend to praise as a caprice of nature. We estimate fifty to seventy pilgrims are on their way today in this part of the Camino. The undulating countryside is full of vineyards, which have turned golden in the autumnal afternoon sun. We walk slowly, admiring our surroundings and savouring the smells of autumn, a season I love. In one hamlet, an elderly woman sits in the semi-open shadowed entry of a barn, allowing only her legs to be warmed by the sun. An abandoned pear tree hangs over our path. I find an edible pear on the ground and a bite discovers it to be overflowing with juice. Quince, pear, apple and the ubiquitous chestnuts line our path. At the albergue at Villafranca, Gérard gets our passports stamped and reports that the hostel is full. Not to worry, we have a booking at the parador. It is seven o’clock, the last hour for check-in. We are given a quick, odd look by the receptionist. I cannot blame him: Gérard looks a bit like Fidel Castro with his beard and army-style cap. As we do not know whether another good opportunity will present itself for making an international telephone call (the first on our trip), we call Philippe, our son, who confirms that he will join us in Sarria to walk with us for a week. We are thrilled.

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Villafranca del Bierzo Meeting philosophical peasants in idyllic surroundings

I write my diary while waiting for a vegetarian lunch in the cloisters of San Nicolás in Villafranca del Bierzo. Gregorian music is being played. We are here with pilgrims from Tenerife. The woman has huge blisters and can hardly walk. We suggested the Hospedería San Nicolás to them, with which they are enchanted. They are interested in the wine harvest as they have their own finca in Tenerife. Villafranca owes its existence to the pilgrimage and to Alfonso VI, who encouraged the French (practically all foreign pilgrims in those days were called ‘French’ whether they were or not) to settle here and to establish themselves. Its Santiago church is known for the portada del perdón (door of forgiveness): a Spanish pope in the fifteenth century decreed that handicapped or paralysed pilgrims only had to go through this church portal to receive the same absolution as in Santiago de Compostela itself. There is still a medieval fortress in Villafranca, today inhabited by the Condesa Alvarez de Toledo and her husband, Cristobal Halffter, the German composer whose works we heard at the cathedral in León.

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Many of the noble and emblazoned houses in Villafranca appear to be in decay. Encouragingly, there are signs of restoration, but the town conveys a feeling of being rundown. At the vegetable market, held on the main square and which we find disappointing for such a fertile countryside, old women dressed in black sit on benches, resting from carrying heavy shopping baskets. Old men stand around. Flowers, especially roses, abound and give the town a touch of friendliness. The administrator of the Albergue de San Nicolás gives us the background of Villafranca: a wealthy widowed man who owned practically all of Galicia took as his wife in second marriage a noblewoman with whom he had a daughter. But he also had an illegitimate son. When he died, fighting erupted over the heritage. The Catholic kings, friends of his second wife, finally intervened and declared that the illegitimate Don Rodrigo should forthwith be given half of Galicia along with the title Conde de Lemos; while the daughter be given part of the Bierzo and receive the title Marquesa de Villafranca. She married a descendant of the Marqués de Alba. ‘And did they finance the San Nicolás church?’ I ask. ‘Pués, que — well …’ Nicolás has a different story. The monastery was funded by a man who had made a fortune from silver in Peru in the seventeenth century. He wished to finance a Jesuit school. This worked very well up to the nineteenth century. Then the Jesuits were forced to leave during the desamortización but came back about a hundred years later with the desire to become owners of the monastery. Meanwhile, other parties competed for the purchase, in particular a parish priest who had struck it rich in Mexico. It seems to us that the fortunes of the New World account for a lot of elaborate and grandiose structures we see in Spain. The wealthy priest favoured the San Vicente Paul order and donated the sum of two hundred thousand pesetas: thirty thousand for the purchase and one hundred and seventy thousand pesetas

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for the restoration. Only recently, Jesuit pilgrims wanted to stay in the monastery’s hospedería but were refused by the monks! Traditions seem to be kept alive! In the olden days, the nobility appointed one son, usually the eldest son, to take over the family’s castle and estate and another son to run a monastery or otherwise assume a leading role in the ecclesiastic hierarchy. ‘Saben Ustedes — do you know — multinational companies are modelled after religious orders? Their organisation is a copy of a monastery’s set-up.’ Nor does Nicolás find the current five monks particularly inspiring or enlightened, ‘Probably because I know them too well. Some nuns, however,’ he adds, ‘who recently stayed here, they radiated such joy and devotion, it was a delight. Go to the convents,’ he suggests, ‘and ask to visit their church or to buy their goods — some sell biscuits — and you may have a chance to talk to them.’ We go to the Clarissa order convent first and ask if we may look at the church. The elderly nun opens it for us and explains that there are only six nuns. Two are in their twenties. They look after forty homeless or abandoned children between the ages of three and sixteen. For feeding, sheltering and accompanying the small children to and from school, the convent receives a thousand pesetas (ten Australian dollars) from the government per child per day. This helps the convent survive. Madre Mercedés is indeed full of compassion as she talks about the children in her care, and is more grateful to us for promising to pray in Santiago for the survival of the convent than she is for our well-meant donation. Inspired, we move on to the Convento de Concepción, where the nuns remain hidden. The voice that comes to us from behind a wooden shutter seems worlds away. At Convento de Santa Maria de la Anunciada, we enter an impeccably clean large patio and ring the bell. A thin voice answers from within. ‘May we visit the church?’ I ask. An invisible nun puts an ornately antique huge key on the

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turntable. We walk the few metres to the church and, as we are fumbling with the lock, a nun inside cries out, panicstricken, ‘Just a minute please. I am arranging the flowers.’ ‘Don’t worry, we’ll wait,’ I call back soothingly. After five minutes or so, we say loudly, ‘Por favor, podemos entrar — may we come in please?’ Getting no reply, we enter. The church is profusely decorated with floral bouquets. When we return the key, the anonymous voice behind the shutter asks whether we have noticed the relics of Saint Laurence, brought back from Italy by the Marqués de Villafranca. Yes, we have; and remember having been told that the daughter of the fifth Marqués de Villafranca refused the marriage her father had arranged. She escaped, dressed as a nun. ‘If you must be a nun, you might as well have your own convent,’ her father apparently said, and built her this convent. But we spare the nun such stories! There are two paths out of Villafranca, the second one representing an alternative to the busy road, but steeper and more difficult. Nevertheless, we attempt it and are rewarded with panoramic views. Ferns and stone walls line our path, and later we go through deep chestnut forests that are well cared for. Some have trunks two metres in diameter or more and must be hundreds of years old. Soon we are at about fifteen hundred metres and enjoy level walking around first one mountain, then another. A young American in a great hurry passes us. He wants to reach Cebreiro, at the top of a mountain pass, before night. We enjoy our more leisurely walk, listening to the silence and admiring the beauty of a ripe chestnut. Gérard eats a chestnut raw and dreams of roasted ones available in winter. He explains that this chestnut is called the sweet or noble chestnut because it is edible (as opposed to the horse-chestnut) and is always encased, three nuts together, in a prickly husk. We pass two peasants a few hundred metres away who plough with two cows. One guides the cows, the other one

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holds the plough. This is such a rare sight nowadays that we decide to stop and have a chat with them. They tell us that to keep the cows, they get fifty thousand pesetas per cow per year in subsidy. At home, they also have a donkey for which a pilgrim recently offered eighty thousand pesetas but the grandmother put her foot down and said that the animal was not for sale. The fields they plough do not yield much. ‘Hay jabalí que destruyen mucho pero ellos tienen que vivir también — wild boar destroy a lot around here but they too have to live!’ The peasant has uttered these words good-humouredly and in their simplicity, they reveal his love and respect for nature.

The three hundred and sixty-degree view from here is breathtaking. Gigantic green hills surround us while the distant mountains are enveloped in a blue haze, resembling garlands on the horizon. The stillness is awesome. ‘Un paraíso,’ we exclaim in a whispering tone. The peasants smile and nod their heads. In the next village we fill our water bottles at a fountain. Suddenly two middle-aged Germans emerge from the woods. One is a banker from Swabia and the other an industrialist from Bavaria; they are doing the pilgrimage in

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three parts. Last October they walked from the Pyrenees to Burgos; before Easter this year they crossed the Meseta, where they encountered snow on the Cruz de Ferro pass; and this autumn, they want to reach Santiago from Ponferrada. They tell us that for the experience of communicating with other pilgrims, they sleep exclusively at pilgrims’ hostels. ‘Man muss sich halt daran gewöhnen, dass man nach drei Tagen nicht mehr so taufrisch ist — it takes a bit of getting used to not feeling so fresh and clean after three days,’ one of them says laughingly. The other one tells us that they count their journey as begun when they board the train in Germany. They always stop in Paris for one night. ‘For the nightlife,’ the banker adds with a twinkle. ‘In San Juan de Ortega,’ he continues, ‘we were so cold that we went to the bar at once and drank two bottles of red wine. Only then did our courage return.’ They will spend the night in the village of Trabadelo, whereas we want to continue to Vega de Valcarce. For this we must follow the road where one truck after another rolls past. As we follow the narrow path around a bend, a truck driver reacts late and comes awfully close to hitting Gérard. We walk on in constant terror. We can see where they are building an autoroute across the valleys. Huge trucks move back and forth between building site and quarry. Noise, dust, dirt! The countryside is getting ruined — in the name of progress. But in the Middle Ages, things were not perfect either. Vega had many castros or fortresses from where medieval lords sent their bailiffs to exact tolls from passersby, pilgrims included, and resorted to violence if their demands were not met. King Alfonso VI managed to put an end to this in 1072. On a steep hill, the Castro Sarracín (Sarracín, also Saracen, meaning originally the Arabs of Syria and thereabouts), is enthroned; it was particularly notorious for the bandits its lord dispatched. Were it not for the noise and dust of modern roads, Vega de Valcarce would be a picturesque valley: green, green

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meadows, grazing donkeys, dancing mules, wooden bridges, stone houses, gurgling mountain streams and small slate walls called chantos, witnesses of the Celtic heritage.

We are relieved when, after two hours of road inferno, we reach our destination for today, the Pensión Fernandez in Vega, run by a widow as pensiones in Spain usually are. She has been on the lookout for us, standing in the doorway. The room she offers is spacious and warmed by the afternoon sun. It has two double beds. From our window, we overlook the village square where a woman with wooden clogs on her feet is bringing her three cows back to the stable. We are famished and appear in Charlie’s Bar at exactly eight o’clock and not a minute later. Other pilgrims arrive shortly after us. They are Basque, Andalusian, Madrileño, German, as well as two Frenchmen from Biarritz. One pilgrim eats alone, with his mobile telephone for company. The Andalusian from Córdoba is witty and entertaining but speaks so fast that I cannot recollect any of his jokes. The food in this inconspicuous little place is astonishingly good: Galician cabbage soup, roast chicken,

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and a huge piece of sweet Spanish honeydew melon for dessert, wine or water and bread included, all for a mere thousand pesetas per head. Only the girl who serves looks sullen. In vain we try to make her smile. As we step outside to walk to the widow’s house, cold air greets us. We are approaching the Galician mountains and tomorrow Cebreiro, a mountain pass much feared by pilgrims, awaits us. Clinging to each other in an attempt to keep warm, Gérard and I agree on the way back to the house that today we have experienced some of the best and worst aspects of the Camino. After massaging our legs with rosemary tonic, we fall into a deep, regenerating sleep.

which we are walking is two thousand years old, and the other four roads — the old local road, the old national road, the new national road and now the autoroute — have all been built within the last thirty years! Now we face a steep ascent of ten kilometres. As we climb, we stop and look around while our breathing and heartbeats slow down. Ferns have turned a rusty brown. Waves of mountains surround us, hazily blue in the autumn sun. We are entering the land of Celts — Galicia — in the north-west corner of Spain.

At breakfast, a Madrileño pilgrim watches the eight o’clock business news intensely before putting on his gloves and joining his friends. ‘I shall do the cultural bit next year, with my señora,’ he says to me. We hurry to be on our way. Outside a house, two children wait for the schoolbus to pick them up. We pass a house painter, washing his brushes in a crystal-clear brook. ‘The fish won’t thank him.’ Gérard sounds upset. A farmer gathers fern as we ascend the old Roman road and I ask him why. ‘To make the chestnuts fallen on the ground more visible and easier to pick up,’ he explains. He inspects us with a wise eye. ‘This is when you want to walk. This is the right climate,’ he says approvingly. Golden heather, mountain streams and age-old stone walls demark small paddocks and delight our eyes. In pretty rural villages, composed of stone farmhouses and thatched barns, we catch glimpses of cattle stables. Some animals look sad in crowded quarters and I pity them. In front of an inn, a pilgrim’s horse is resting, delicately holding up one foot. A woman peregrina comes our way with a dog as a companion. ‘Apart from hurting his feet on the tarmac, he did very well,’ she says. Gérard points out to me that the Roman army road on

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O Cebreiro (Galicia)

hospital and Sofia as a theatre nurse. Our talk encompasses many topics. Gérard tries to convince Sofia of his theories on various things and when she differs, which is often, her dark eyes flame. We are eager to discover the hamlet and begin with a visit to the pallozas, oval-shaped houses with conical, thatched roofs and low walls of rough stone. These are ancient Celtic huts and until recently the local people lived in them, together with their cattle, which were confined to a special section in the house. We learn that they preferred to thatch the roof with rye straw, which is tougher than other thatch.

Land of Celts, mysticism and much generosity

Peak after peak, valley after valley stretch before us to infinity. I feel as if we have clambered to the summit of the world as we reach the top of the mountain pass, thirteen hundred metres high. ‘Whenever I am on a mountain peak, I feel closer to God,’ Carl Jung exclaimed when he stood on the top of the Rigi mountain above Lake Lucerne, in Switzerland. I know what he meant. We hasten towards the sanctuary in O Cebreiro, part of a former monastery which Alfonso VI entrusted to French monks from the abbey of Saint Gérald d’Aurillac before it was passed on to the Benedictines who remained until the nineteenth century. In recent years, the monastery’s ruins have been restored by the parish priest, Don Elias Valiña Sampedro, and his relatives now run a very sympatica hospedería. Today it is full of pilgrims we have met and we are greeted like old friends. Over lunch we become acquainted with Pedro, a goodlooking giant from Galicia, and Sofia, a young Basque woman with dimples in her cheeks. They both live and work in Castilla, Pedro as the administrative director of a

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‘Por favor, que pasen — please enter.’ A well-groomed woman invites us into a new, modern house being built. She introduces herself as the interior designer and shows us around the building, drawing our attention to the capilla (chapel), the huge oven in the basement, the beams in the ceiling, the sculpted marble basins, the mansard rooms, the wine cellar, the antique-tiled restrooms, the modern floor heating. One can easily imagine enjoying the comfort

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and luxury of this house on a cold and stormy winter day. After having shown us the building, Doña Rosa invites us to visit her country home, situated only a few miles away. She was raised on a pazo, a Galician manor, where they called her Doña Rosa even when she was still a little girl. As she conducts us through her house, drawing our attention to this and that, she bestows little gifts on us: here a jar of homemade plum jam, there some finest chorizo (sausage). Her generosity is overwhelming, and we do not have the heart to point out that this means additional weight for us to carry. Doña Rosa drives us back to O Cebreiro and, over hot chamomile tea, we exchange addresses, receive more tips for our trip and meet her husband, a fine architect and master builder who, tired of standing around on a draughty building site, is happy to come into the hospedería and enjoy a warm beverage. O Cebreiro has always been one of the most important places along the pilgrimage route. Its sanctuary is a small mountain church, built in the ninth century. All of us present relish the peace and purity that emanate from it. We recognise the pilgrim couple from Tenerife, who are distributing prayer sheets depicting the Virgin of O Cebreiro that have been blessed by the priest. The pilgrim from Vega del Valcarce, who watched the business news so intently this morning, sits on a bench close to the altar, eyes closed. Is he meditating on the rise and fall of stockmarkets or is he giving thanks for being here on such a glorious day? We call him ‘the investor’. The two Germans we met in Trabadelo walk around the church, curious and admiring. When they spot us, they ask us to explain details of the miracle since their Spanish is not good enough to comprehend the explanations. This church is the site of a miracle that occurred in the twelfth century. On a dreadfully stormy winter Sunday, a poor and humble peasant from a neighbouring village down in the valley painfully struggled up the mountain to the sanctuary. The monk secretly despised the peasant for

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having taken upon him such hardship to attend mass. Then, to the consternation of both the monk and the peasant, something miraculous happened. The bread turned into flesh and the wine into blood. The adorable Virgin of O Cebreiro, also called the Virgen del Milagro — Virgin of the Miracle — leaned slightly forward to better witness the miracle, smiling, and has remained in that position ever since. The peasant, whose name is unknown, is buried in the church. Some authors claim that Wolfram von Eschenbach stayed at the monastery in O Cebreiro when he wrote the Grail romance, Parzival, which in turn inspired Wagner to write his opera. The arrival of Parzival at the Grail fortress in the early ninth century coincides curiously with the discovery of the tomb of Saint James in Santiago de Compostela. Grail temples are believed to have existed in the northern mountains of Spain, hidden behind thick woods and visible only to those who were pure. ‘And they bore definitely no resemblance to the castle of Neuschwanstein!’ The German businessmen chuckle. Where is the Holy Grail today? What is it really? We swap theories with our pilgrim friends. One belief in the Middle Ages was that the Holy Grail had been taken from the Holy Land to Glastonbury, in the Isle of Britain. On the other hand, the French believe that Sainte Madeleine took the Holy Grail to France when she landed in Marseilles. ‘I beg to differ!’ comes a voice. Surprised, we turn around. It is ‘the investor’. He seems adamant. ‘Forgive me for interrupting but I overheard your conversation. Allow me to tell you where the Holy Grail is. The Santo Caliz — the Holy Chalice — is splendidly safeguarded in the cathedral of Valencia.’ We are bewildered. ‘Como lo sabe Usted? No entendemos! — How do you know? We don’t understand!’ ‘Well, this is what we believe in Spain. Pope Sixtus II lived in troubled times for Christians in the Roman Empire. When he was condemned to death, he entrusted the

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church’s riches and relics to Saint Laurence, who was archdeacon in Rome. Before the Romans killed him also, Saint Laurence distributed all the treasures to the poor and needy except for the Holy Chalice. He asked another Spaniard to take it back with him to Spain where the Holy Chalice remained in the cathedral of Huesca until the Moors arrived. Fleeing from them, the bishop deposited it at the monastery of San Juan de la Peña. The abbots of the monastery used it for centuries to celebrate holy mass. It is a chalice of blood-red translucent chalcedony. In the fourteenth century, the king of Zaragoza claimed this precious relic but a hundred years later another king bestowed it to the cathedral of Valencia. And this is where it has been ever since!’ Our Spanish investor is most definite. And now I understand why the nun in Villafranca drew our attention to a relic of Saint Laurence, San Lorenzo, in her church. He is one of the most revered saints and martyrs of the early church. Has this ended the search for the Holy Grail? We like to think not. There are so many myths and legends about the Grail that we would be disappointed to find it was a genuine object rather than a symbol. The quest continues. We light a candle for us — and Philippe, our son, and Lily, my old friend. May they arrive safely! May we all arrive safely in Santiago de Compostela! After hot soup to warm us, we call it a day and retire early. Our room, in a building a few yards farther down the road, is freezing cold. Thank God for the double bed, not so frequently encountered in Spain. During the night we are awakened to a noise not dissimilar to snoring but so persistent that we find it hard to believe that any human being could create these sounds for such a long time. Finally, it dawns on us: it is a generator. We go back to sleep.

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The hospedería does not open until nine o’clock the next morning. The owner, Pilar, explains that they have a bit of a rest before they open the doors to pilgrims, who will arrive incessantly from then on up to midnight. Pilar has a warm smile for everyone. Her aunt is in charge of the kitchen. We try the jam Doña Rosa gave us. It is excellent, and we give the rest to Pilar who, in return, generously refuses payment for breakfast. The girl in the sacristy gives us free credenciales for Philippe and Lily, and the Tenerife couple insist on sharing with us the excellent goat cheese their cousins in the Bierzo produce, and which would rival the best French chèvre. With so many nice things happening to us we are reluctant to leave O Cebreiro. The wind blows but the sky promises great weather and luminosity. As we walk down from O Cebreiro, we look over deeply green meadows and fields, separated by more small and ancient stone walls.

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Bonadeo Homemade delicacies at a farmhouse

At Hospital de Condesa (a countess allegedly established a pilgrims’ hospital here), the church is built in preRomanesque style, similar to the one in O Cebreiro: one stone on top of another, tiny windows and a slate roof. Doña Rosa told us that the best preserved churches today are often those whose value went unrecognised and, as a consequence, did not suffer inadequate restoration. On a small sloping field, heavily bent over, an old woman harvests potatoes with the aid of a small hoe. Cheerfully, we shout buenos días over to her. She does not react. Her back must hurt. Hens cackle and scratch the soil for food. Sweet little piglets, pink and rosy, run around, grunting. A signpost, Romaor, meaning literally Rome and gold, indicates a hamlet with a water-driven workshop. We speculate whether this is another relic of Roman goldmining. Lunch today is taken sitting on a small slate wall; we enjoy tasty goat cheese, chorizo and fresh bread in the warming sun. A soft autumn light caresses the landscape.

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A call of nature compels me to retire. There are few suitable hiding spots and I opt for the best of a bad lot, a cluster of bushes a few metres away. Inevitably, a young cyclist pilgrim appears. He looks straight ahead, not once turning his head, and shouts across, ‘No miro — I am not looking,’ as he pedals past. At a farm in the tiny hamlet of Bonadeo, we are intrigued by the sign: Casa Rural. The farmer’s wife rents out five bedrooms. Why not stay the night? We love to yield to spontaneous decisions. At dinner, the farmer clumsily, but proudly serves us his wife’s Galician cabbage soup, airdried ham, Spanish tortilla, fresh cheese with membrillo (quince paste) and honey, all home-produced. On his farm, at twelve hundred metres above sea level, he has nineteen cows which he breeds for meat; their milk is used only to make cheese, which is eaten fresh, a speciality in this region. Traditionally, Spain is a pork-eating country — which caused problems during the Islamic occupation. Of the three Abrahamite religions, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, only Christians ate pork and, not surprisingly, earned the contempt of Arabs and Jews alike. In time, the pig became a symbol of faith for Spanish Christians. In southern Spain, meals prepared with pork were called marranos, a word which may stem from Arabic mahram, meaning ‘forbidden’ or from the Aramaic where it indicates ‘renegade’. During the course of time, marrano became the term for converted Jews who were suspected of eating pork in order to appear Christian, when in fact they remained Jewish. To eat or not to eat pork became a point of antagonism during the Inquisition. Today, gourmets consider Spanish pork excellent and in particular air-dried raw ham. They can choose from a wide selection that differs in taste and maturity depending on its provenance and the breed of animal. Of course, the finest is pata negra. It is produced in the Andalusian village of

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Jabugo from black pigs that feed exclusively on acorns. The ham’s exquisiteness, as well as its rarity, makes it a much sought-after delicacy. Five other people stay at the farmhouse. We chat with a young couple from Galicia. ‘Nunca iría a Castilla — I would never go to Castilla,’ the young man says, when we relate our adventures in the Meseta. He is a patriotic Gallego. It is amazing; here is Spain, part of a bigger Europe, and yet regionalism has never been more cherished. After dinner, some guests play cards with the owner’s family while I leaf through a book. The card players use English four-letter words to express anger, frustration or disappointment. Perhaps they find it easier to swear in a foreign language. ‘Please excuse the noise. They drank a lot of Orujo (a strong Galician liquor) last night. I never drink alcohol; it is too strong for me.’ The farmer’s wife is most apologetic about the noisy guests who woke us briefly in the middle of the night. While everyone else is still fast asleep, she provides us with bread, butter, jam, cheese and quince paste, again all home-made. As we descend the mountain on a stony farm track we are joined by a couple walking beside their bicycles. The young man, a Swiss from the French-speaking part, has just returned from South America where he loved the sincerity and the warmth of the people. He brought back a wife, an earnest girl from Chile whose father, a senator in opposition, had been tortured during Pinochet’s government. After his sojourn in South America, the young man is awfully frustrated with Europe where he resents people’s materialistic ways. He is upset that in capitalist countries, culture gets lost. ‘However,’ he says, ‘I am very confused. When returning to a small Swiss town, I deliberately chose an apartment in an area where foreigners live, refugees, modest income earners and social

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security recipients. I wanted to be one of them, share their misery, but also their strength, their sincerity, their nonmaterialism. Now, I have to observe that all they want are materialistic things. Je ne comprends pas très bien — I don’t understand it.’ At Triacastela, we say goodbye and take a detour to the Monasterio de Samos while our companions continue via Sarria to Santiago. They carry no map or guidebook. We try to give them tips and directions. Around a bend they disappear, two lonely travellers, disenchanted and confused, idealistic and good. We hope and pray that they will reconcile themselves with the world. The walk to Samos takes us along gurgling brooks and through hamlets where time seems to have stood still. Beneath our feet are old paths, called corredoiras — cart tracks, shaded by birches, oaks, chestnuts and poplars. We are not in a hurry, which is fortunate as the paths have a habit of leading us up and down small mountains. This is the old, zig-zagging route and few pilgrims are seen. We walk the path in splendid solitude. At an ancient mill of weathered granite stones, we rest for lunch and feel profoundly peaceful in this tranquil countryside on such a gorgeous autumn day. ‘This is heaven,’ Gérard sighs.

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Samos Sleeping in a narrow, long room with a hundred other pilgrims

When we catch sight of the huge Samos monastery complex down in a closed-in valley, we are surprised. It looks forbiddingly stern. I had harboured great hopes of staying here in what the guidebook describes as ‘a solemn refuge under the protection of its historical, emblematic and welcoming monastery of the Benedictine friars’. Gérard hesitates to spend the night in this cold and unfriendly albergue, installed in a long and narrow hall that must have served as a horse stable or something similar at one time. There are eighty bunk beds arranged in two storeys and in pairs, with four toilets and four showers! But what are the alternatives? Everything else is fully booked, it being a long weekend. I convince Gérard to give it a go, especially since only five pilgrims have booked in so far. The warden lets us have a double bed: in other words, a double bunk on ground level. ‘Visits of the monastery begin in five minutes. Vespers are sung at seven o’clock,’ he announces imperially. Though reputed for its antiquity and architecture, the

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monastery complex appears hostile to us, and we fail to make a good contact with the monks. The vespers are not nearly as well sung as at Cardeña, and Gérard refuses to attend mass in a church where sculptures show people being stabbed. Admittedly, it shows a saint — which one escapes me — suffering martyrdom, but the coarsely carved sculpture offends through its lack of refinement. The paintings, too, show cruel scenes. Indeed, the whole ambience of the church is far from conveying Christ’s message of love. Shuddering at the thought of what sort of night might lie ahead of us, I insist on going out to have a proper evening meal with a glass of wine. At the only hotel in town, we eat a bad meal in a weird restaurant, served by a most inappropriately dressed and ignorant young man who tells us that the waiter of the restaurant, the camarero, is on leave having suddenly lost his forty-two-year-old father under tragic circumstances. Towards the end of the meal, the camarero appears, smiling bravely and apologising for the confusion. We wish him courage and strength and he asks us to pray for his father in Santiago. We return at around ten o’clock and find chaos. Over a hundred pilgrims have sought accommodation in the albergue. Extra mattresses have been laid out and beds shifted even closer together. Many of the cyclists staying here only started in O Cebreiro; others are using the fourday weekend to walk to Santiago. An elderly Frenchman in the bunk next to Gérard’s is snoring already. A Gypsy pilgrim talks endlessly about his horse, much to the amusement of his listeners. From a German woman, Gérard receives a tiny bottle of Chivas Regal whisky, the sort one gets on aeroplanes. ‘Wenn Sie den Whisky trinken, werden Sie hervorragend schlafen können — if you drink the whisky, you will be able to sleep extremely well.’ At eleven o’clock, to my amazement, all becomes quiet except for the young boy in the bunk above me who keeps bouncing around restlessly. Finally, I knock against the

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bottom of his bed and he promptly lifts the mattress, asking what is going on. ‘Por favor, calmate, quiero dormir — please, calm down, I wish to sleep.’ ‘Si, si, immediately, don’t worry.’ I try to sleep but do not succeed. The windows are closed, and my sleeping bag is too hot but I do not wish to get out of it for fear of sleeping on the bare — and none too clean — mattress. Gérard is fast asleep and so seem the other hundred or so. We are up early. The Frenchman has fled the premises already, and the Gypsy continues his tales from last night. The cyclists from Barcelona gather their gear. Despite her whisky, the German woman did not sleep well but she has a good philosophy: ‘Ich muss dann immer an die Flüchtlinge denken und was die durchmachen müssen — it makes me think of refugees and what they have to go through.’

we pass them all. Many farmers now cover their hay with plastic, little bits of which lie around. It looks messy. Basura, rubbish is everywhere. Occasionally, we see country manors called pazos. Old nobility, or new nobility such as drug barons? Since smuggling cigarettes is no longer lucrative, we learn through the press that some of Galicia’s fishing elite have turned to smuggling drugs in their efforts to strike it rich fast.

Outside, I greet the fresh cold air with a sigh of relief. Gradually the morning gets lighter as a timid sun comes out. We look back to Samos which quickly disappears from view. As if to reconcile myself with the place, a pilgrim’s song, a cantiga, comes to mind which is about a monk who had lived at the monastery of Samos for some time and asked the Virgin to grant him a glimpse of paradise. As he asked, he heard a bird sing so delicately and exquisitely that he fell into a trance from which he only awakened three hundred years later. Even within those forbidding walls, then, there are moments of pure beauty and miracle. There is a little fog, but generally it is sunny. ‘Tenemos suerte — we are lucky, rain in Andalusia and sun in Galicia. Normally, it’s the other way around,’ says one of the two Spanish pilgrim women, who took the wrong direction as a result of the Camino’s arrows being inverted. Luckily, they noticed their error before having gone too far. It is the first time that we have witnessed this. Poor farms, neglected farms, orderly farms, rich farms,

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Sarria

Portomarín

And now we are four

‘Who is Saint James? and what is the significance of the Camino?’

We walk swiftly, arriving at Sarria before noon and check into the hotel Alfonso IX. We are so excited. Perhaps Philippe and Lily are here already? ‘Are there any messages for us?’ Twice, three times, I ask the receptionist. We had agreed that they would call if they were unable to make it to the hotel by eight o’clock. We are given a sunny room which enables me to dry all our washing, probably our last chance for a long time. All the while, I scan the driveway for Lily and Philippe. Gérard suggests we wait for the excitement of their arrival but at seven o’clock I can bear it no longer and call Philippe on his mobile. They are literally around the corner and will arrive in ten minutes. In two-and-a-half days, they have driven two thousand kilometres from Zurich to be with us. Philippe has a long and bemused look at his father, whom he has never seen with a beard and moustache before. Well, it was Philippe’s idea to let nature take its course; and besides, it was more practical!

Philippe will walk with us today while Lily accompanies us for an hour or so and then returns to Sarria to drive the car to Portomarín, our destination for the day. It is another splendid autumn day and simply a joy to walk. In five days, we plan to arrive in Santiago de Compostela, about one hundred and ten kilometres away. The number of pilgrims has increased. Our pilgrimage route takes us past picturesque farm holdings where orchards are loaded with fruits. I like the sternness of the medieval stone farm compounds where even the fence posts are made of granite. Sometimes the Camino crosses brooks and sometimes it even becomes one. This is a reminder that we are definitely in a rainy region, and we are glad for the dry autumn weather today. A tavern! The only one in a stretch of twenty kilometres. French, Swiss, Germans, Dutch, Brazilians, Italians and Spaniards have gathered. We all seek to understand the meaning of Santiago de Compostela. Why are we doing this pilgrimage?

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Who is Santiago? Which apostle was he? Santiago was James the Elder. Jesus called him the Son of Thunder because of his flaring temperament. It is said that he came to Spain to teach about Jesus and created the first Christian communities on the Iberian Peninsula. When he went back to Jerusalem he was beheaded, and his disciples brought his body back to Spain. Eight centuries later, a shepherd followed the bright light of a star. He advised the bishop and together they found Santiago’s tomb. A church was built on the site. Then Arabs advanced from the South. They threatened the Visigothic and Christian kingdoms in the north of Spain and even advanced well into France. Whenever they went into battle, they cried to Allah for help. Saint James appeared to the king in a dream, and assured him of winning the important Battle of Clavijo. During the battle, the soldiers saw Saint James riding a white stallion. The enemy was crushed. From then on, Santiago was the Christians’ hero. Now, they had their own battlecry, Santiago Matamoros, and Christianity in Europe was saved from extinction. ‘But surely this is just a legend? How was it possible to bring James’ body to Spanish shores — from the Holy Land to the shores of Galicia? I read the journey took four months.’ Just a hint of incredulity accompanies this remark by a doubting Thomas in our midst. His remark does not shake me. In every legend there is an element of truth. The legend explains the origins of this pilgrimage but these origins fade away in the light of their repercussions. In other words, whether this pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela truly goes back to Saint James (or to even earlier events in Celtic times, as some suggest) is of little relevance because it is the reverberations of the mystery which are amazing. What a mass of people moving west and back, enriching themselves spiritually, culturally, politically. The intercultural exchange alone has been enormous. Evidence of this along the Camino is overwhelming.

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My Practical Guide for Pilgrims makes a most interesting point: In 1878, 1946 and 1959, excavations were carried out under the nave of the cathedral of Santiago and an area of 750 square metres explored. The excavations brought to light some very interesting data. The apostle’s tomb, discovered between 820 and 830, was a small stone mausoleum, situated in a necropolis that had been in use from the first century BC until the end of the sixth century AD; which leads to the conclusion that the story regarding Saint James being buried in Santiago has an archaeological and historical basis, far removed from the tales of miracles and mystical visions traditionally associated with it. Other sources, expanding on this topic, report that a number of fourth and fifth-century graves were found within proximity of a mausoleum, believed to be that of a holy man they claim to have been Priscillan of Avila, a fourth-century teacher of early Christianity in Spain. He was defiant of Rome, wanting to go back to the very roots of Christianity. For heresy, he and his closest followers were executed in Trier in 386 and their bodies brought back to Santiago, the centre of his teaching. His grave quickly became a sacred site with the local population. He was revered as a martyr. Some researchers even go as far as to say that the Ancient Road follows the trail that was taken to repatriate Priscillan’s body. However, Spanish Christian tradition elected Saint James, and his aura became mystified in a will to launch the reconquista to free Spain from the Arabs. Whilst I am interested in exploring all these arguments, they do not detract from the mystery of what has occurred. Whether it is the grave of Saint James or Priscillan of Avila — or even both — does not really matter. What matters, to quote Don José from Ortega, is the journey.

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In addition to countless French pilgrims, there were also many Italians. For instance, we know of Saint Francis of Assisi and Saint Bernard of Siena. And how many Germans must have travelled the Camino? They called themselves Jakobsbrüder — Brethren of James. We also know of many Swiss and Dutch pilgrims. The famous painter, van Dyck, is reported to have done the pilgrimage. People from as far as Poland, Hungary, even Russia, flocked to Santiago. For the English, there was a special hospital in Galicia. And the Christians from Armenia are said to have had their own place in Santiago. The sailors, the Vikings, knew Galicia under the name of Jakobsland, the land of James. Women, too, made the pilgrimage. Saint Brigit walked all the way from Sweden to Compostela as her parents had done before her. The Swedish princess, Ingrid, also walked the Ancient Road, followed by her noble ladies-in-waiting. What a sight that must have been. ‘And you know, of course,’ one of our group interjects, ‘Charlemagne is said to have been one of the very first to travel the Ancient Road.’ ‘I heard of the Countess Sophie from Holland travelling to Santiago in the twelfth century. She fell into an ambush but miraculously escaped.’ ‘We tend to forget that in the Middle Ages the Road was full of perils.’ ‘By following the light, by going west, people hoped to find God. It is interesting that statues of Saint James can be found not only in Santiago but all along the Camino. It is to remind us that here on earth we are all pilgrims, we are all on a journey.’ ‘The Road to Santiago was not only a link between Spain and the rest of Europe, but also between Christianity and Islam, between the Occident and the Orient, between the Middle Ages and the Greek Antiquity whose works, translated by the Arabs, were thus discovered.’ ‘We must not forget the importance relics had in the Middle Ages.’

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Stimulated by this conversation with our international fellow pilgrims, we approach Portomarín with a light step. Church bells invite us to mass. I have always been very sensitive to the ringing of church bells. They remind me of a Spanish poem I read at San Isidoro in León, which has the oldest church bell in Europe, almost a thousand years old. Las campanas Alaban a Díos Convocan al pueblo Reúnen al clero Lloran a los difuntos Ahuyentan las nubes Alegran la fiesta. The church bells / praise God / assemble the people / convene the clergy / weep over the dead / disperse clouds and / render fiestas joyful.

With fellow pilgrims and locals, we assemble in the church. The priest has a kind face. A little blonde angel assists him. A girl! Has the discrimination between men and women in the Catholic Church ended at last? There is a good atmosphere in the church, and we feel especially grateful because Lily and Philippe are also attending in the back. Lily, an old friend of mine, is a fervent Lutheran and Philippe a doubting Roman Catholic, but they are here with us, and there is a feeling of togetherness. After celebrating the holy mass, the priest comes to stamp our pilgrims’ passports and takes us aside to point out one of the capitals: ‘Ven Ustedes? — can you see? Two birds with human heads, crowned with a diadem of pearls, look in the same direction. For those who know, this pair represents the spiritual depth of the compañeros, of the artists who built this church.’ With a smile he adds, ‘You are in an ancient yet contemporary church. Before the

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former village of Portomarín was drowned in the late fifties to give way to a water dam, this fortified church of the Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem was disassembled and re-erected here, stone by stone. Look closely at the carvings on the portals. They are outstanding. A master built this church.’

hat and pushing a loaded cart. It is Ueli, a street painter from Zurich, returning from Santiago. He tells us that he has also been to Rome and plans to undertake more pilgrimages. It seems to have become a holy obsession! Huddled under the eaves of the closed albergue in Ligonde, we eat the last of our donated sausages and goat cheese. A fine rain is falling.

Today Lily is walking with us. I met Lily in southern Spain where we both lived and worked in the late sixties. Lily stayed on for many years longer. With her narrow, delicate face, dark mane of hair and enormous eyes, she blends well into Spanish society. The countryside is plain, not very fertile, featuring heather, fern and conifers. As we walk along a small paved country road, I notice from the corner of my eye a silvergrey vehicle which reminds me of Philippe’s car. And indeed, it is Philippe who has had the splendid idea of bringing us hot tea on this miserable day. Only old women are seen around the farms. When we greet them, they look up ever so briefly and mutter some wishes. They rarely smile. Life is too hard. They do men’s work, hard work. Small and frail in stature and dressed as usual in black, they hurry around silently. One woman we saw was barely a metre tall. Where are the men? Abroad? Working in Switzerland, Germany or France? Where are the young families with children? Only occasionally do we see a new and comfortable house. It might have been built with the money brought home from working in northern European countries. Our path leads through country lanes of autumn colours. Chestnut trees are golden. We notice a tall and ancient cross on an elevated spot. It is made of granite, partly covered in moss, and its pedestal shows the instruments with which Jesus was crucified. Other pilgrims are gathered here, and debate the oddity of this cross. It will be one of many lining our path here in Galicia. A pilgrim approaches, wearing the traditional pilgrim’s

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Palas de Rei Vilar de Donas — another isolated jewel of architecture

Palas de Rei (Palace of the King), despite its name, lacks dynamism and beauty, and the bar where we ask for rooms looks dark and sombre. However, it is silly of us to be led by first impressions as the rooms in the newly built annexe turn out to be bright and clean. It is still raining but a visit to the tiny hamlet of Vilar de Donas is simply a must. Its small Romanesque church is another isolated jewel. The climate and, most importantly, the absence of pollution, has helped preserve the architecture. We push through long grass to reach its ancient, richly carved portal. At the main altar a stone retable (a decorative structure above the altar) portrays the Miracle of the Eucharist. Is it a representation of what occurred at O Cebreiro? The walls are lined with tombs of the Knights of Santiago. Subtly painted frescoes show two persons of aristocratic looks in fine garments and elegant pose. Are they two women or a couple? There is something extremely mysterious about them. We are joined by a group of impeccably groomed Brazilian landowners in sophisticated riding outfits. They are going

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from Sarria to Santiago on horseback. Their guide explains three hypotheses about the origins of this place: normally, the knights were not married. If they were, they might have put their wives into the monastery here, of which now only the church remains. Or, perhaps the monastery was the order of some enterprising women; or (and here the guide chuckles, and so do the men) the knights put their girlfriends in this monastery and visited them secretly. It is seven o’clock. We are hungry, but the owner of the country restaurant we passed earlier says they have just finished serving lunch. He will not re-open before nine or ten o’clock. In Melide, we experiment with pulpito, a Galician kind of cuttlefish, served on a wooden plate. It is delicious. The European Union has apparently viewed the wooden plate, important for this dish to keep its humidity, with great suspicion and has voiced concerns about hygiene. Thank heavens the Gallegos have clung to their centuries-old traditions. At the parochial church of Melide, a young man puts an elaborate stamp into our pilgrims’ passports. When he asks me to put a dedication into the pilgrims’ book, I am overcome with emotion when reading what my fellow pilgrims have written: ‘All the pain, all the misery I may suffer, I offer to God for the salvation of the world.’ ‘Virgin Mary, Mother of God, you who have always looked benevolently upon Jacobean pilgrims, help me reach my aim, on this path and in my life.’ ‘I pray, may this be a journey of enlightenment.’ ‘This pilgrimage is for me the beginning of a new life: less excess, more reflection, less egoism, more tolerance.’ ‘On the Camino, I experience freedom, joy, ease, lightness. I sense God.’ ‘I walk and am in harmony with the universe, with God, with the Highest Being.’

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These writings reflect very much what we are experiencing too. ‘Maybe we are entering an age of searching and seeking spirituality,’ Gérard muses reflectively. Was it Einstein who said that science can function without spirituality and that spirituality can exist without science, but man, to be complete, needs both? Indeed, over the last decades, there has been an increasing interest in the Camino. Spirituality is in vogue. We want to rise high and higher still, reach out to the universe and attain universal consciousness. We want to fly away from the earth where manifold problems bother us. We want to live in higher spheres, close to God. For us, walking the Ancient Road to Santiago does all this, but it also quickly brings us down to earth again, teaching us humility, tolerance and patience with other human beings, reaching out, listening, smiling, sharing joys and sorrows. ‘Praying with the feet’ is how a philosopher defined pilgrimage. Two French pilgrims, in their early twenties, pass us. One has an angelic face, with soft blue eyes and blond, curly hair; the other one is tall and muscular. They started out in Vézelay, France, sixteen hundred kilometres from Santiago, and give us the impression of being not one bit tired. Indeed, their enthusiasm as pilgrims seems unabated. Because of time constraints, however, they are considering taking a bus to Santiago. ‘Au revoir à Compostelle.’ We pass many hórreos — narrow freestanding sheds for drying and storing food. They are made of wood or stone and rest on stilts about two metres above the ground, with a slate, granite or tile roof. A few are decorated at either end with the cross and a Celtic sign resembling a phallus. In this manner, food reserves are doubly guarded, by Christian faith and pagan magic! Some hórreos are maintained and others are slowly falling apart. Gérard points to the stilts. ‘A granite slab is inserted into the stilts to prevent the mice from going into the storage area. The mice may dash up the stilts but are stopped at

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the slab.’ It is a simple and effective system, also used in the Swiss alpine areas for storing cheese.

Father and son rejoice in the fact that they have time to talk while they walk. At one stage, however, nearing Arzúa, Philippe is yearning for a faster pace — or is he simply trying to catch up with the three gorgeous girls who passed us at lunchtime, in the company of their mother? Lily arrives at our meeting point at Ribadiso, just after we have crossed a medieval bridge where a former hospital, built by the Antonine monks in the fifteenth century, has been turned into an albergue. We would have loved to stay but it is full for today. A sense of anticipation and hurry lies in the air. In an attempt to progress rapidly, people are now tending to walk many more kilometres each day. Shortly before Arzúa, we catch up with the gorgeous sisters who are living in Paris and Chicago. Their father is a Basque who follows them in a taxi. He also transports their luggage to make walking easier for them. We converse in French, English and Spanish. They tell us that they know Switzerland well,

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having been to finishing schools there. They began walking exactly one hundred kilometres before Santiago, the last possible spot to earn pilgrim status. The eldest daughter, Philippe’s favourite, a tall, tanned, slim woman with an avalanche of stunningly black hair, says that she will be very happy when this tedious walk comes to an end, and cannot understand why I do not share her feelings. She is rather envious of my having been able to get a room at the Hostal de los Reyes Católicos in Santiago. When she talks, her sensuous lips reveal big, white teeth. Philippe will be disappointed to learn that she is married! At the Hotel Suiza (Switzerland), not surprisingly run by a third generation Swiss, the Brazilian riders nod cheerfully as we enter the dining room. Lily is late for breakfast the next morning. Usually, she is so reliable and punctual that it is with some concern that I go and look for her, but there she is, all smiles. Some swelling in her leg has subsided and she slept well. Today we walk with her along small paths bordered by rusty brown ferns on one side and slate walls on the other. A eucalyptus plantation protects us from the rain. Eucalyptus trees abound in Galicia. Paper manufacturers imported them from Australia. Accustomed to survive in the dry, arid regions of Australia, they go berserk in rainy Galicia, providing a fast profit to the papelería merchants. Farmers are not happy, claiming that during dry spells the trees deplete the underground water reserves. We come across pockets of hydrangeas, fuchsias, passionfruit vines and fig trees. A pretty family of red and white goats looks at us most curiously. One of the lively young animals reminds me of Picasso’s painting of goats. In the doorway of a farming hut, three kittens cuddle up to their mother. Together, they form a picture of innocence and vulnerability. In the next moment they dash across the road and slip through the hole of a weathered door to hide in the barn.

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The riders from Brazil are coming. The country lanes are narrow. We press against the wall of a house and though the riders greet us most amicably, I cannot help being reminded of scenes in the Middle Ages when the nobility, high up on horses, carved their way through the peasant masses. A lean, elderly Spanish pilgrim tells me that over the last twenty years he has walked the last hundred kilometres of the Camino every Holy Year. The last time he made it in four days; this time it will take him three. ‘As I get older, I walk faster,’ he says proudly and takes leave with gallantry: ‘Que vayas con Díos, majíta — go with God, pretty one.’ The inn at O Pino is a pleasant surprise. It is well run, and the rooms have a warm and cosy ambiente. For lunch, we return to a restaurant we saw this morning and where we liked the owners, a young and committed couple. We order pulpito again and start with empanadas, pasties, filled with spicy fish or vegetable mixture. Lily and Philippe tell us they plan to drive the car to Santiago and return to O Pino by bus so the four of us can walk into Santiago together tomorrow. As we walk back to the inn through an autumn forest of green and gold, Gérard and I reflect on our pilgrimage, which comes to an end tomorrow. Our beautiful adventure will soon be over. We feel a certain sadness, but also pride that we are so close to our aim. And I like to think that we have evolved physically and spiritually. The physical aspect is easiest to see: Gérard is fitter now than when he started. My shoulder stopped aching long ago. We have not suffered blisters and no longer notice the weight of our backpacks. Carrying all our belongings on our backs has been a new experience, providing us with a sense of freedom and liberation. Even my shoes look as if they could walk another thousand kilometres. Well, who knows? My understanding and respect for those who walk the Camino twice, three times or even more, have definitely grown. And now I also understand why I am unable to share the feelings of the

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gorgeous girl who said to me that she would be very happy when this walk was over. To me, this walk is like reading a good book. You cannot wait to reach the end, and then you are sorry that you have finished it. On a more spiritual level, while walking, we have often perceived the beauty of nature as overpowering, giving us a sense of the presence of the Creator. We realise that moments of great happiness are not necessarily found in luxurious materialistic surroundings, but are mostly found in nature itself, accessible to us all. The following morning finds the father of the gorgeous girls busy getting all their luggage into one taxi. As of yesterday, the husband from Paris has joined the party. Philippe is not impressed! Once en route, the glamorous party struggles to catch up with us since they noticed that we carry a big torch, which is a very useful thing when the darkness of the night is still with us. We walk swiftly and briskly — we must be in Santiago, over twenty kilometres away, before noon to be in time for the pilgrim mass. The forest feels protective and warm, almost tropical. It is drizzling a little. The path is slippery and full of roots. I hang on to Philippe who has a sure step in the darkness. We stop briefly under a chestnut tree to eat some Nürnberger Rosinenbrot cake, which Lily brought us. Outside a country church, locals have gathered for a funeral, which brings to mind a philosophical reflection we saw written above a cemetery’s entrance near Arcos:

recent, others ancient. A sign, a plate, a cross or a sculpture has been erected at each spot, making us pause, wishing them well on their journey beyond. While I have pondered morosely on life and death, the Camino has led me to Monte Gozo, the Mount of Joy, where pilgrims traditionally caught their first glimpse of the cathedral of Santiago. What exhilaration they must have felt when, after walking for months, or even years, they saw at last the object of their undertaking! The person who arrived first on top of the hill was declared roi, king of the pilgrimage. Family names such as ‘Leroy’ or ‘de Roi’ might find their origins in that custom. The chosen king was delegated to walk into the cathedral of Santiago at the head of the pilgrimage group. Monte Gozo does not offer the same view anymore. Modern city developments impede it. Instead, it features an albergue which can house eight hundred people. It is huge indeed, but well laid out and more pleasant than we expected. We try to get a stamp for our passports and are referred from one bungalow to another until we finally find the person authorised to stamp our credenciales. We have lost precious time; at least twenty minutes. We decide to adopt a six-kilometre per hour speed and Philippe and I end up having such a good chat that we are both in another world, oblivious to our surroundings, and bypass Lavacolla, where, in ancient days the pilgrims used to wash their necks and spruce themselves up before entering the city.

Yo que fui lo que tú eres tú serás lo que yo soy I was once what you are / you will be what I am now

On the Camino, we have come across several graves of pilgrims, pilgrims from all over the world, who died as a result of accident, illness or exhaustion. Some graves are

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Santiago de Compostela Culmination, celebration, jubilation

When we arrive at the cathedral of Santiago at exactly noon, start of the pilgrim mass, the church is so full that it is impossible to get in, especially with our backpacks. Lily offers to look after them. Some people standing at the entry are willing to let us through, and Gérard and I manage to weave our way through the crowd to a free spot near a column. A bishop celebrates the holy mass, which is transmitted by video to the crowds in the back. There is singing and chanting. The organ is playing. In his sermon, the bishop talks of two national saints, James and Teresa de Avila. Our arrival day coincides with Saint Teresa day — my own saint’s day. ‘Well done, Teresíta mía!’ Gérard whispers into my ear. I have always been proud of my patron saint, Teresa de Avila (1515–1582), who we are told was a very attractive woman. Twice I visited her birthplace, Avila, a medieval town north-west of Toledo. Despite much resistance she reformed the Carmelite order, eventually gaining the approval of kings and popes alike. Blessed with enormous energy, she travelled all over Spain to visit the convents

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she had founded, seventeen altogether. She was a gifted orator and a skilled organiser. Well before she was conferred the title ‘Doctor of Church’ by the Vatican, the Spanish people called her Doctora mística in honour and recognition of her voluminous work on mystical issues, written in classical Spanish and in a style that is universally admired. Her sense of practicality — ‘when dance, dance, when fast, fast’ — her liveliness, her high-spiritedness and her intellect always endeared her to me. Over a thousand people must have congregated in the cathedral. During the transubstantiation we all kneel down, in our case on the bare stone floor. In front of me, a baldshaved girl in colourful clothes and rings in ears and nose remains in this devotional position for a long time. To indicate to people where the various priests who are giving Holy Communion are, young men accompany them, holding up blue umbrellas. Alas, they run out of Hosts before reaching us. This upsets me but only briefly. I allow nothing to distract me from my special mood! At the end of the mass, there is the spectacle with the butafumeiro, the gigantic silver censer, which is 1.5 metres high and hangs from the ceiling by a thick rope. Eight men, called tirabuleiros in Galician, swing it from side to side, tracing a huge semi-circle which, at its highest point, measures fifty metres across. An awe-struck ‘ah’ is audible in the cathedral when the butafumeiro nearly touches the roof, high above the heads of the congregation. I am somewhat nervous and hope they have it under control. In 1499, the censer apparently flew through the Puerta de las Platerías exit, past Princess Catalina de Aragón! I am very relieved when the swinging slows down. One of the eight tirabuleiros embraces the censer to bring the pendulum movement to a halt. I have always found the scent of burning incense elevating but in Santiago, the fragrant smoke serves a double purpose: as well as its role in traditional ritual, it neutralises the smell of the pious crowd, a custom that

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goes back to the fifteenth century or even longer. The current butafumeiro replaced the one Napoleon took, a masterpiece from 1544. The gigantic silver censer we have seen is safeguarded in the museum and swung on special occasions only, like today. Now we are at the end of our journey. We hug each other, and so do others. We recognise other pilgrims, embrace them like old friends. Happiness emanates from us all. Tears of joy run down my cheeks. Out on the huge Plaza del Obradoiro, we meet more of our fellow pilgrims. One of the Brazilian riders, a distinguished gentleman with a woollen cape draped elegantly around him, hugs Gérard in the middle of the square. We shout greetings to the young French pilgrims we met two days ago; and to the lonely Fleming from Vega de Valcarce, who is totally absorbed in his own thoughts and does not hear us across the crowded square.

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After recovering our backpacks from Lily, we go to Rua Vilar where on the first floor one applies for the Compostela, a certificate issued for having done the pilgrimage on foot, bicycle or horseback. We are asked to show them our pilgrims’ passports and give our reasons for having done the Camino. It is understood that the certificate will be withheld if the pilgrimage has been made without religious or spiritual motives. In previous years, a priest would interview every single pilgrim; but now, with the enormous influx of pilgrims, they have to trust the written declaration. Two young women write out the certificates, the wording of which, in Latin, has remained unchanged since the Middle Ages. We look at our fellow pilgrims who are still waiting in line. Some of us look haggard, tired, exhausted; but our eyes sparkle. Our exchange of greetings expresses our happiness for having made it. A sense of achievement, but foremostly a sense of solidarity, lies in the air. The Plaza de Obradoiro, surrounded by some of the finest buildings in Santiago, gleams in a special light. I see it with new eyes. This is what happens when walking — things take on a new perspective. A spiralling queue, made up of a thousand people, winds its way around the Plaza. Anxious to pay his respects to Saint James, Gérard, usually not so comfortable with crowds, is prepared to put up with the queue. We advance extremely slowly. I remain calm amidst the crowds. Am I manifesting a new patience, a greater tolerance, vis-à-vis my fellow humans, compliments of walking the Road? I direct my attention to the Pórtico de la Gloria, the Gate of Glory, which we are slowly approaching. It is an architectural masterpiece. In fact, it is considered the masterpiece of Spanish Romanesque art. Maestro Mateo was its creator. It took him and his sculptors twenty years to accomplish it. In those days, people worked for the glory of God and in the knowledge that perfection mirrored the image of God. They

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also enjoyed a luxury with which we have done away in modern times — time. At last, we ascend the steps to the cathedral, passing an old, wrinkled Gypsy woman who is begging. The diminutive woman in black garments mutters prayers as we hand her some coins. It occurs to me that we have given spontaneously, from the heart, without questioning her meritoriousness. Maestro Mateo built a crypt below the Pórtico de la Gloria to give it adequate foundation. When the portal was built, the sculpted figures were apparently polychromated. There being no door in front of them at that time, they must have offered a stunning sight in the golden evening sun. The four Evangelists surround the Pantocrator, below whom, on the central column, sits a serenely smiling Saint James, a ‘tau’ staff (‘tau’ meaning protection for those of good will) in his hand. Immediately below him on this column is carved the Tree of Jesse, Jesus’ worldly family tree, showing a concave hand, where tradition requires pilgrims to place their hands in gratitude and respect for having fulfilled their journey. Saint James observes all this with a gentle manner. Having reached the top of the stairs, I stand in admiration of the skillfully and delicately carved sculptures of the twenty-four Elders, each holding a stringed musical instrument such as harp, cithara or lute. All in all, there are about two hundred sculpted figures on the archivolts and tympana of the Pórtico de la Gloria, in lively, realistic poses. What an extraordinarily gifted man Maestro Mateo must have been — with great inner wisdom in order to be able to create such masterpieces. This is pure poetry. Ethereal splendour! Slowly, slowly, we are approaching the fulfilment of our pilgrimage! In the tenth century, when Santiago was besieged by the Moors, a pilgrim, unperturbed, continued to pray in front of the tomb of the apostle. The caliph was so impressed that

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he immediately halted further destruction of the city. However, he commanded that the church bells be taken to Córdoba on the shoulders of Christian slaves. At the time of the reconquista, the bells were returned to Santiago, this time on the shoulders of Arab slaves. ‘Who is this person, so great and illustrious, that Christians from beyond the Pyrenees, and even farther, come to pray? So big is the crowd of those coming and returning that there is hardly any space left on the roads of the Occident,’ exclaimed an Arabian emissary in the eleventh century. At last, the moment has come to meet Saint James. Gérard and I, one after the other, greet the apostle. Where millions of thanksgiving pilgrims have placed theirs before, we place our hands, too. We add our imprint to the depth of the finger marks worn into the marble which resembles a concave hand. Each pilgrim takes away a particle of the marble. I am led to think of a philosopher’s definition of eternity: ‘Eternity is when an angel brushes with his wings again and again over a block of marble, bringing about its eventual disappearance, at which time eternity’s clock will have been brought forward by one mere second!’ Still overcome with emotion, we go and express our admiration to Maestro Mateo who carved himself inside the pórtico, facing the altar. It is a custom to touch his forehead in order to gain some of his skill and genius. Legend has it that he was forbidden to look at the masterpiece he had created lest he repeat it somewhere else! During el Año Santo, the Holy Year, which occurs whenever the day of Saint James, the 25 July, falls on a Sunday, the Puerta del Perdón on the Plaza de la Quintana is open. Dating from 1611, it is adorned with twenty-four magnificent sculptures, also carved by Maestro Mateo and transferred from the original Romanesque choir when it was replaced by a wooden one in the seventeenth century. At the Puerta de las Platerías (Door of the Silversmiths),

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overlooking a plaza where silversmiths have always run their workshops, we stand in admiration of a masterly carved statue, representing a youthful, fine-featured King David, wearing an elegant robe and playing the lute. King David was the first composer and cantor of hymns. By now it is well into the afternoon. Gérard proposes a lunch of celebration in the grand vaulted dining room of the Hostal de los Reyes Católicos. We toast our arrival with a glass of Spanish champagne, called cava, and indulge in mariscos, local seafood justifiably renowned for its delicacy. We talk, we smile. Ours is a special mood! In the calmness of the evening, when most tourists have left and queues are substantially reduced, we go and give the traditional hug to Saint James. At the back of the altar we follow other pilgrims who ascend the steps to the camarín in order to carry out the medieval rite of embracing the Apostolic image. We bring Santiago the messages of the many people we met who asked to be remembered to him. We cannot linger though; there are still people behind us waiting their turn. We seize the opportunity of attending another holy mass in quietude and greater solitude. We want to be worthy messengers of the many people who entrusted us with their prayers to Santiago. During the Holy Year, pilgrims are granted special plenary indulgences, which they can use for themselves or for beloved ones who have died. As none of our parents are alive, we pass on to them any spiritual benefits arising from our pilgrimage. When we consider the millions of pilgrims who have converged in this city over centuries to pray, to contemplate and to ask Saint James for assistance, it comes as no surprise that Santiago de Compostela counts amongst the most spiritual sites in the world. Ignoring all promotion of tourism, especially active during a Holy Year, we look behind the scenes where we sense tradition, mysteries and an almost tangible spirituality. There is indeed a good feel about this city. Jesus said that wherever

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two or more people gathered in His name, He would be with them. What He meant was that people thus delved into the divine power of love to create reverberations of light and love which would touch all and everything in some measure. And that is precisely what Santiago radiates to me! Compounding the religious factor is the assumption — or should I call it a fact — that Compostela’s attraction goes back to very ancient times. In nearby Finisterre, a village to the west of Santiago, people in the Middle Ages literally expected the earth to come to an end. From the cliffs, they looked down into the foaming Atlantic Ocean and shuddered at the thought of seeing the ‘underworld’. It is said that at the end of the first millennium, some expected the earth to fall down into this dark hole. Judging by some of the predictions about the world on the eve of the third millennium, we can commiserate with them. But here in Santiago, it is difficult to harbour such fears. A sense of eternity pervades the air. Rain falls here in a way it does nowhere else. Heavens open that night to let loose the deluge — and then reward us with a starry sky that does justice to the stellar path. May I be forgiven such vanity, but it is sheer bliss to change into the feminine clothes which Lily has brought for me in the car. A visit to the hairdresser is de rigueur as well. Meanwhile, we are thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere of the splendid Hostal de los Reyes Católicos, built in 1492 by the Catholic kings as a royal pilgrims’ hostel, and functioning as a hospital until 1954. Situated on the Obradoiro square, and adjacent to the cathedral, it is considered to be one of the most important examples of the Spanish Plateresque style and has four elegant patios. In our antiquely furnished room on the top floor, we philosophise with Philippe and Lily late into the night, sipping Galician cidra — cider, which waiters serve as if it

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were fine champagne. The illuminated cathedral towers shine to us through the small and ancient windows. From a distance, we hear romantic tunas (serenades) sung by university students now crossing the empty Obradoiro square. Some also play the gaíta, the Galician bagpipe, which to me expresses so well the deep melancholy of the Celtic soul. Philippe must return to work. ‘These were special days. I am glad I came.’ His eyes twinkling, he adds, ‘And I saw some gorgeous girls.’ We are grateful, too. Walking together the Ancient Road, albeit only for a week, has drawn us closer as a family. Santiago, a city not only of many churches and convents but also picturesque arcades and winding streets, begs to be further explored and we gladly yield to the temptation. When the time comes to leave, sadness arises that all is over, something which, according to Frau Hildegard, a seasoned pilgrim in Belorado, is not uncommon. But she also reassured us that the experience of the pilgrimage would stay with us, in fact would return more profoundly. And it is appropriate to remember the words of Jaume, our young pilgrim friend from Villalcázar who said: ‘The real Camino, the inner Camino, starts in Santiago.’ We do not wish to leave this special place without acknowledging the help of our guardian angels who ensured such a smooth journey. We hear them whisper back: ‘When you are on the right journey, life is easy!’

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Credencial — Pilgrim’s Passport Stamps collected along the Ancient Road to Santiago de Compostela

Bibliography Books Aebli, Hans, Santiago, Santiago …, Auf dem Jakobsweg zu Fuss durch Frankreich und Spanien, Greif-Buecher, Stuttgart, 1991. Bacchetta, Florence, En marche vers Compostelle, Un chemin de transformation, Editions du Tricorne, Geneva, 1986. Bourlès, Jean-Claude, Le Grand Chemin de Compostelle, Editions Payot et Rivages, Paris, 1993. Bravo Lozano, Millán, A Practical Guide for Pilgrims, The Road to Santiago, Editorial Everest SA, Leon, 1998, (continuously updated). Caucci von Saucken, Paolo, Santiago de Compostela, (translated into German by Dr Marcus Würmli), Pilgerwege, Bechtermünz Verlag, Augsburg, 1996. Chopra, Deepak, How to Know God, The Soul’s Journey into the Mystery of Mysteries, Harmony Books, New York, 2000. Coelho, Paulo, The Pilgrimage: A contemporary quest for ancient wisdom, (previously published as The Diary of a Magus), Harper, San Francisco, 1992. Hottinger, Arnold, Die Mauren, Arabische Kultur in Spanien, Verlag Neue Zürcher Zeitung, Zurich, 1996, Wilhelm Fink Verlag, Paderborn, 1995. Leroux-Dhuys, Jean-François, Die Zisterzienser, Geschichte und Architektur, Könemann’s Verlagsgesellschaft mbH Cologne (Editions Mengès Paris), 1998. López, Ricardo, Símbolos, Artes Gráficas Ficus, S.A.L., Vigo, Spain, 1993. McManners, John, The Oxford Illustrated History of Christianity, Oxford University Press, 1990.

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Nooteboom, Cees, Roads to Santiago, The Harvill Press Random House, London, 1997. Norwich, John Julius, A Short History of Byzantium, Penguin, London, 1998. Oursel, Raymond and Jean-Nesmy, Dom Claude, Les Chemins de Compostelle, Editions Zodiaque, Paris, 1989. Rohrbach, Carmen, Jakobsweg (Wandern auf dem Himmelspfad), Goldmann-Verlag, Munich, 1995. Schmidt-Brabant, Manfred and Sease, Virginia, Compostela, Sternenwege alter und neuer Mysterienstätten, Verlag am Goetheanum, Dornach, Switzerland, 2004 (2nd edition). Vincenot, Henri, The Prophet of Compostela, A Novel of Apprenticeship and Initiation, Inner Traditions International, One Park Street, Rochester, Vermont 05767, 1996. Music CDs Anonymous 4, Miracles of Santiago, Music from the Codex Calixtinus, harmonia mundi, France, No. 907156. New London Consort, Philip Pickett, The Pilgrimage to Santiago, A musical journey along the medieval pilgrim road to the shrine of Saint James at Santiago de Compostela, Editions de L’Oiseau – Lyre, France, 433 148-2 (2 CDs), DECCA.

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Theresa Burkhardt-Felder Born in Switzerland in 1944, Theresa Burkhardt-Felder, soon after completing her studies in commerce and finance, left for England, Belgium and Spain where she lived and worked for several years. Her work took her also to the United States of America and South America. After seven years as press attaché for a multinational French group and engagements in public relations, art and writing, Theresa emigrated to Australia in 1981 where she became a partner in her husband Gérard’s international investment banking firm. She describes herself and her husband as ‘collectors of beautiful things, absorbed in business and indulging in fine wine and cuisine yet mindful of sparing a little time for our souls’. Always interested in spirituality as well as movement, Theresa holds an advanced reiki degree and just prior to the pilgrimage, graduated as a teacher of the Feldenkrais method. Theresa and Gérard walked the Camino in 1999, and have since also completed the trail of Saint James across Switzerland. They now live in Switzerland where they have renovated an eighteenth century chateau and created a private museum for Australian Aboriginal Art.

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First published 2005 by

FREMANTLE ARTS CENTRE PRESS 25 Quarry Street, Fremantle (PO Box 158, North Fremantle 6159) Western Australia. www.facp.iinet.net.au Copyright text © Theresa Burkhardt-Felder, 2005. Copyright photographs © Theresa and Gérard Burkhardt-Felder, 2005. Copyright illustrations © Adrienne Zuvela, 2005. This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher. Consultant Editors Polly Crooke and Lesley Zampatti Designer Adrienne Zuvela Production Vanessa Bradley Printed by Griffin Press National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-publication data Burkhardt-Felder, Theresa. Pray for me in Santiago : walking the ancient pilgrim road to Santiago de Compostela. Includes index. ISBN 1 920731 45 8. 1. Burkhardt-Felder, Theresa. 2. Christian pilgrims and pilgrimages - Spain - Santiago de Compostela. 3. Santiago de Compostela (Spain). I. Title. 946.11