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July 25, 2023 - August 26, 2024
The Camino is sticky, she said. Once you’ve heard about it, it’s hard to shake it off.
Pilgrims traditionally dangled the shells from their staffs as they made their way to his shrine. Perhaps these had a practical function as they could be used to scoop water out of drinking troughs or to receive gifts of food, but more significantly, they were badges of purpose which enabled pilgrims to spot each other along the Way.
‘No, hospitalero is just the name for a volunteer who helps run the albergue. It’s a hangover from the Knights of St John. They were the Hospitallers,’ Jenny explained.
‘The Oakwood of Witches’ – Sorginaritz. I had been looking forward to this. In these enchanted forests witches gathered to hold their covens, supposedly practising magic. These women were shamanic, harnessing the healing powers of nature, beyond the controlling eyes of the social order. There was little evidence of the nefarious practices for which they were condemned. It was their non-conformity that got them burned at the stake.
Zabaldika to see the 13th Century church of San Esteban.
the Portal de Francia was ahead of us and we crossed this famous drawbridge, complete with massive iron chains, into the ancient city of Pamplona, as pilgrims have been doing for more than 1,000 years.
The vast wrought-iron monument at the top of the hill depicts medieval pilgrims battling against the fierce west wind and we were certainly feeling its full force as Jenny translated the inscription: ‘Where the way of the wind crosses the way of the Stars’.
Although I have been a Catholic all my life, I am not a very good one. I have little interest in doctrine and rules: my faith is quiet, my spirituality instinctive.
‘He told me that the grooves are like the sun’s rays and that they symbolise the many ways to Santiago. They all converge at the cathedral, here,’ she pointed.
Saint Iago, Giacomo, Iacobus, St James the Greater – they’re all the same person. He was one of the twelve apostles, the son of Zebedee, and brother of John. The Way of St James was originally a pilgrimage to venerate his remains. He was credited for bringing Christianity to Spain and was depicted all along the route, usually as a barefoot pilgrim carrying a staff and holding a gourd. At other times, unfortunately, he was portrayed as a warrior, the moor slayer, Matamoros. His name was used to call the ‘faithful’ to arms in the struggle to drive the Moors out of Spain during the Reconquista,
Often on this pilgrimage, I found myself moved for no particular reason, as if something deeper than my conscious thought was being stirred. Words seemed redundant and there was nothing for it but to be still, and feel.
My breath caught in my chest. Its heft stood out against the landscape that was pieced behind it in strips of greens. Day by day my sense of wonder was being reawakened and at times, I felt the beauty, like electricity, tingling through me.
Two travelling companions had seemed more than enough for me. But on that evening in the monastery, I could see that this crowd of pilgrims, my Camino cohort, was not extraneous to my journey, it was central. We were part of each other’s story and impermanent though our bonds might be, for now they were strong and binding.
The sky was heavy and a thick band of black, ominous cloud obscured the sunrise directly behind us. We were walking, as always, due west, and everything was cast in the dark shadow of the cloud. As we reached the crest of the hill the sun broke through behind us and the hillside was suddenly flooded in brilliant, golden light. The green of the crops seemed improbably bright and, instantly, the sky ahead of us was a deep, cloudless blue. The intensity of the light stopped me dead in my tracks and as I looked up I saw a red iron cross, staked in a pile of rocks at the top of the hill. Unbidden,
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I was struck by the notion that we were a travelling village, like an ancient Persian caravan. Old and young, fit and frail, priests and vagabonds, all sections of society were represented and the kindness and confirmation of this mobile community was a daily joy.
Built 100 years before the birth of Christ, León was established as the military encampment for the Sixth Roman Legion.
The 13th Century ‘House of Light’ dominated the square, its twin towers flanking an enormous rose window.
We passed through San Matteo square and carried on past Gaudi’s masterpiece, Casa de Botines, and the statue of the great man sitting on a bench. Just before the Rio Barnesega, we paused at the famous Parador hotel and posed by a statue of a pilgrim with his shoes off. The barefooted pilgrim wore a sou’wester and a giant poncho and Ali looked equally defended against the weather in her woolly hood and red gloves.
But the number of familiar faces was dwindling and we missed the members of our Camino family who had forged on ahead, dropped behind or headed home. Perhaps this falling away was also integral to the journey. Although I was surrounded by friends, most often I walked alone, lost in my own thoughts. And perhaps on this final stretch, that was as it should be. Now it was just between me and my God.
With an open heart And a quiet mind There are no doors
Although I may have made friends with pilgrims from a thousand paths... If I am not capable of forgiving my neighbours tomorrow, I have arrived nowhere.
No busques la respuesta en el Camino, el Camino es la respuesta. Do not look for the answer on the Way, the Way is the answer.
Hórreos
‘There’s no bullshit here. You see people for who they are, with all the superficial stuff stripped away. In the dark, all cats are grey, and on the Camino, we are all just travellers.’
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. – T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding, The Four Quartets 902.5kms, 1,274,906 steps, 40 nights on the road, ten packs of Compeed, nine rolls of tape, eight bags of liquorice toffees, and one bottle of rucksack-eating bed bug spray later, we are in Santiago.
Blessed are you pilgrim, when you contemplate the ‘Camino’ and you discover it is full of names and dawns… Blessed are you pilgrim, if on the way you meet yourself and gift yourself with time, without rushing, so as not to disregard the image in your heart. Blessed are you pilgrim, if you discover that the ‘Camino’ holds a lot of silence; and the silence of prayer, and the prayer of meeting with God who is waiting for you.
It would take months for me to make sense of the Camino and to realise its significance. Perhaps it would always be a feeling and not something I could intellectualise. All I can say is that something wonderful had happened to me and I was overwhelmed with gratitude, and peace. Deep peace.
Blessed are you pilgrim, because you have discovered that the authentic ‘Camino’ begins when it is completed.
