2004 Camino: week 4

Things started going really well, although I never did catch up with big huggy O who had looked after me so kindly – at each place they say that he had just been there, saying I had been left for dead. Walking with P up the long climb to the pass, up a valley with an old road, a newer road, and a motorway carried over ludicrously high viaducts.

Stayed at a wonderfully bizarre small albergue run by a male couple (Tibetan prayer flags, woken by “Ave Maria” at 6.30, Pavarotti over breakfast), and a fine and friendly shared meal. I told one of them my leg problem and was asked to come into his room and take my trousers off. Which I I did, as one does, and got some healing massage which was very effective and felt fine and strong ever since.

The walk up to the pass at Cebreiro has a bad reputation because of the foul Galician weather, but we did it in beautiful sunshine and it was a joyful day. Cebreiro itself was a bit too pretty and perfect, but the high walk afterwards along the ridge, past the statue of ‘pilgrim pete, with the massive feet’ gave spectacular views of distant snow over absurdly picturesque meadows. Would have been dreadul in a cold gale, as is common.

The dusty lanes in Galicia, shaded by gnarled trees and marked by ancient stone walls, are a constant pleasure. Getting into serious pilgrim country – choice of albergues and menus peregrinos, and the usual fine company. Slightly long church service – really we just want a quick blessing and out.

The Camino winds through proper meadows, full of real wild flowers and butterflies, and millions of small hamlets full of loose-bowelled cows. Very green and how Devon should look. Pilgrims who go more than 100 km get the Compostela, and so once across the 100km post there are great gangs of them, doing it in day stretches and getting picked up at the end. It´s a change to be moving along a stream of people, and there’s a strong sense of closeness of the final destination.

Caught up Jean who was surprised to see me in good form, having been told I was a casualty de la guerre. But got to the albergue in good time and so spent ages just lying on the grass staring up at the trees.

Beautiful cool and misty morning, through ancient stone farms and along the Galician paths, surrounded by oak and eucalyptus trees. Trudging along a fairly busy camino, over the bridge at Portomarin. For the first time of the whole walk there was no room at the Albergue in Palas de Rei, but easy to find a cheap single room in a hotel which I could pollute with my grubby self. Luxury, being able to sleep in a room by myself without a cacaphony of snoring and postern blasts (except from me, of course).

This is serious octopus country, served with cold white wine drunk from delicate white china cups. Can’t get much better. Starting to think about flights home.

Baking hot again, crunching satisfyingly along white gravel paths through the mixed oak and eucalyptus woods, creating impressive patterns of shade. The final albergue at Ribadiso was one of the best – an ancient building full of bunks right next to a shallow river flowing under a medieval bridge.

Sat with feet in cold-cold river gossiping and being vacant and watching the birds: even when K turned up (he’s in his mid 60’s, with great tufts of white hair coming out of his nose) he did not ask me to do his feet so all was well with the world. Everyone discussing when they were going to ‘walk in’, and as I wanted to do the final 41km in one go I slept outside so I could get up early without disturbing people.

Of course I misjudged the temperature and so was cold, and it turned out everyone was disturbed at 5.30 anyway by a girl tearing great lengths of plaster off a roll to do something to her feet. Pleased to get off in the dark at 6 and do 10 km before breakfast in a cafe, only to find I had left my guide and precious credencial (my Pilgrim’s Record that is needed to get the Compostela) behind at the albergue. (Lesson # 8631: just when you start getting smug again…) Waited to see if anyone brought it along which they didn’t, tried unsuccessfully to phone albergue, and started feeling distressed. At that moment K marches in and his helpful suggestion was that I would have to start again from St Jean. Finally the cafe owner phoned a taxi driver in his best Gallego and I got carried back the 10km. The hospitalera was just getting all concerned about this credencial she had found when I turned up and grabbed it, gave her a huge hug and got back in the taxi. As I was heading off a group of Canadians came past who must have thought I was cheating, but I was so pleased to be taken back to the cafe.

My mood changed when walking into Santiago itself and I finally did feel like rejoicing, through normal life in the suburbs, then into the narrow streets of the old centre, and then to the cathedral itself. It was an emotional experience and I was glad to be on my own. However I had been warned that the final arrival could be an anti-climax, as there is no finishing post, no cheering crowds, indeed total indifference apart from the old lady who accosted me and rented me a room in her house for 15 euros.

But having got rid of my pack I could start a peculiar set of pilgrim rituals. First to the Portico de Gloria of the cathedral, sculpted by Master Mateo in 1188. The central column is a marble tree of Jesse, and for 900 years each pilgrim has placed their right hand on a fixed spot, wearing down an imprint for each finger. I duly did the same, doubtless taking away a few more molecules. At the back of the pillar is a low carving of Mateo, and one stands in front of him and bumps one’s head three times on top of his head. Finally there is a head of Samson with his arms around two lions with open mouths – a hand goes in each mouth and again the head is bumped on top of the Samson. At times of the day there are substantial queues to go through all this performance, since Santiago is full of pilgrims who come by bus.

Next to the other end of the cathedral where the main altarpiece is a full size golden St James. There are steps up behind the altar, and each pilgrim can stand behind this statue and give it a hug – it was apparently traditional to put your hat on it as well but I did not dare. It is odd to look at the altar, even during a service, and see a series of hands reaching around the statue. Again there were sometimes long queues out into the square to do this, and then afterwards to go to the crypt to see the silver casket reputed to contain the remains of St James himself. So I did all this, in fact I went through it all again later on when the cathedral was empty, and I appreciated it more then.

Then I queued up and got my Compostela (certificate), booked my flight home and started to amble around the city looking for anyone I knew, in particular O. But I didn’t find him or anyone else I knew, so sat in a bar eating delicious spicy octopus, drinking cold white wine and watching terrible spanish TV – game shows, ‘Oprah’ look-alikes with people shouting at each other, and adverts like Chanel 9 on the Fast Show (my favourite was for a washing powder with the unfortunate name of “Colon”). Then bizarrely there was a big rock band playing in the main cathedral square, packed with thousands of students.

The next day I did meet up with others, including P who arrived early and got grabbed by an old lady and shuffled in to do her ‘St James hug’ without knowing what was going on. We bought the same crummy souvenirs as pilgrims have done for centuries (been there, done that, and wearing the T-shirt), and attended the packed pilgrim mass (although I was disappointed they did not use the botafumeiro, the huge censer which swings across the transept billowing incense onto the smelly pilgrims). And, inevitably, K appeared out of a backstreet, and we parted with a handshake, so maybe I have purged myself of whatever he represents in the symbolic world.