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Posts tagged ‘pilgrimage’

Celebrating in Santiago

P1000625We sat down to tapas and wine at a sunny street café, just whiling away a couple of hours, watching the Santiago world saunter by. What a luxury!

Robbie and I ate calamari, gambas in garlic, olives and pimientos de patron, washed down with vino blanco and cervesa then wandered slowly along to the Pilgrim Office to join the queue for our Compostellas. It stretched all the way up the stairs and there, just arrived, were some of the best pals we had walked with over the previous weeks! We had a great reunion and as they went in search of beds we duly visited the relics of St James and wandered the streets of this hard-to-navigate old city.

P1000633We all gathered in the evening; Nathan and Carmen, Irish John, Donald, Suzanne, Brian, Elaine, Patricia and so many others at a huge happy table. A few us went on for a drink in a late bar then, under a full moon in the cathedral square, we gathered for photos beside the central shell embedded in the stone cobbles which marked the end of the Camino.

Robbie caught a flight early in the morning then I went back to the Cathedral while it was still almost empty, such a contrast to the day before. I sat quietly in a pew near the front, just reading, resting and absorbing the atmosphere for more than two hours, barely noticing the gathering crowds or that I was gradually being squeezed into a corner of the seat.

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The rest of the day was spent meeting up with pals in the streets, sitting down to share wine and tapas and then drinking mojitos till late with friends including Andreas, Lisette and Bibi.

John and Patricia were on the same flight as me to Stanstead where we hugged and said goodbye.

And it was only then that I realised my Camino was finally over.

I had my pilgrim passport full of stamps, a slimmer, stronger body, a journal and brain stuffed full of memories, experiences, email addresses and phone numbers.

Besides, I wasn’t really travelling alone: as my itchy back testified, I still had the company of the bed bugs.

A solitary voice and tears at the Pilgrim Mass

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Without breaking our stride we walked straight up the steps, out of the sunshine and into the Cathedral.

It was noisy and busy which made it difficult to concentrate on the enormity of the moment. I had been 31 days on the road, walking towards this place.

I unhooked my pack, sank into a pew, undid my boots and waited…

For what, I wasn’t sure. I was grateful to be here of course; for the strength and fitness that made it possible to walk 500 miles; for the friends made along the way; for the story and tradition of the road we had walked and for the special gift of Robbie’s company over the last week.

We wanted to share the experience with his brother so we called him in New Zealand.  Robbie went to find water and still I sat there, gazing at the extravagant gold altarpiece built to glorify St James. Waiting.

It was only 10.45am but already people were filling the 1000 or so seats. Friends and familiar faces from along the way arrived, wandering dazed down the aisles, and we greeted one another and hugged. It was emotional. Visitors, pilgrims, nuns and locals packed into every space and still more arrived and crammed in around the walls. The chatter and sense of expectation grew louder. Then we were hushed.

And the nun sang.

IMG_0766The pure sound of a solitary voice echoed round the ancient walls. We listened, captivated,  then tried to copy her as she taught us to sing alleluia to the beautiful cadences.  The magnificent organ heralded the arrival of the priests. And the mass began.

At the end the huge incense burner, the Botafumeiro was lowered to the fanfare of the organ then the tiraboleiros – the red coated attendants – took up their positions on the ropes and began to pull downwards. The choir sang. I hadn’t dared hope we would arrive on a day when the Botafumeiro was swung. Scores of people rushed up the aisle to watch and photograph it as it picked up speed and rocketed over our heads, drifting streams of smoke as it flew.

P1000638And then it was over. We laced up our boots and loaded on our packs.

We still had to find beds for the night.

Sharing the last steps

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With just 20km to go I was finding it hard to distill how I was feeling about the whole experience of walking the Camino.

The physical challenge had been relatively easy and the camaraderie and communication with people from varied backgrounds all over the globe had been the best fun I’d had in years. I’d made firm friends and laughed with them in the evenings, improved my fitness, compared feet and blisters, become more tolerant and had time to reflect on what to do, where to go, next.

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And yet … old habits and attitudes die hard. I’d given myself a deadline to reach Santiago in time for the Pilgrim Mass at noon the next day so that I could share the experience with Robbie. And that meant getting up at 5am and finding our way in the darkness through the eucalyptus woods.

We got lost and I got anxious. Maybe I hadn’t learned anything after all!

Finally, after so many days on the road, we caught a glimpse of the spires of the Catedral de Santiago de Compostela.

I felt nervous rather than exhilarated: unsure and unprepared. Our feet were sore and for the first time my back was aching. Walking through the suburbs was P1000621relentless and we were pushed along by a growing stream of day pilgrims, tourists, schoolchildren all focused on the 12 o’clock mass. Everyone seemed to be walking urgently.

The scallop shells led the way, the narrow streets were drawing us through, the excitement was palpable. We kept turning to one another and smiling. And then a square opened before us and magnificently, gloriously the cathedral steps beckoned.

We had arrived.

Slowing down on the home straight

P1000582Spain or not, my Scottish boy felt he’d earned a traditional fried breakfast of bacon, egg and toast by the time we reached the first café in Portomarín. And then cervesa at lunchtime (while we sheltered from the constant rain).

We were frozen and soaked through by the time we reached Palas de Rei so stopped at the first albergue we reached. We got bunks in the huge industrial-scale Pavillón where 112 beds are packed into two huge rooms. It was pretty horrible; everyone’s clothes were soaking wet and by the time I put my name on the list, I was 19th in the queue for the washer and dryer so there was virtually no chance of leaving in dry gear in the morning.

The bed bug bites itched all night and the next day my left shin started to ache. We were getting so close to the end now and by the time we reached Arzúa a farmacia was top of the list. We needed bandages, antihistamine for the bites and Compeed – the most popular P1000602items, it would appear. They were certainly conveniently situated on the counter!

P1000606And then we made a great decision: rather than walking the final 40km into Santiago in one day we would break it into two. So we spent a day lollygagging (as our North American friends described it) only as far as Arca o  Pino, through woodlands of eucalyptus, stopping regularly for breaks and savouring the easy walking.  Then Robbie and I spend our last night on the road eating pizza and sharing stories, experiences and photos with Nathan and Carmen.

Tomorrow morning, after more than a month on the road, we would walk the final 20km into Santiago in time for Pilgrim Mass at noon.

Shell shaped cakes on the road to Santiago

IMG_5073The scallop shell is the enduring symbol of the Camino.

It guided us through city streets, was carved on pavements and walls and it swung on the backs of thousands of fellow pilgrims as we walked The Way.

Increasingly the form appeared on our plates as Flan de Santiago, a scallop-shaped crème caramel and, as we walked through the woods a kilometer or so out of Triacastela, a giant motif marked a drinking fountain.

We filled our bottles here then crossed the lush farmlands of Galicia, walked alongside fields of cattle and through the middle of farmyards and steadings, all the way to Serria – where Robbie demanded “a decent lunch”!

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The ubiquitous Flan de Santiago

An Italian restaurant on the outskirts of town served us delicious spaghetti with garlic, oil and chilli spices; we had rosemary bread, vino tinto and tiramisu.  I didn’t think I’d be able to move again but we picked up our packs and ploughed on to Ferrerios where we got the last bunks in the municipal albergue that already contained several old friends, Carmen and Nathan, Lisette from Denmark and her entertaining friend Bibi who had just joined her.

We shared a dinner of Galician chicken and the first of many Flans de Santiago. The newcomers then headed for the bar while we old-timers got our heads on the pillows as quickly as possible.

And started to scratch.

Mussels, figs, painkillers … and poetry in the street

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We didn’t often stop for a proper lunch but today, after 25 hot and not entirely pain-free kilometers, we threw off our packs and sat down at a street table in Cacabelos and ordered tapas: juicy mussels, potato croquettes, bread, water (with painkiller) and wine. Mmmmm.  The waitress brought us a complementary bag of ripe figs from the garden too and those we ate at the table were delicious. The others didn’t travel too well.

The food slowed us down so it felt like a hard slog through the endless vineyards P1000533where workers were harvesting grapes, past a sculpture workshop and its strange colourful work outside and finally into Villafranca where we searched in vain for the “albergue with nice gardens”. Turned out it had been burned down and the gardens abandoned to weeds.

The last albergue on the outskirts of town was “completo” but Libia, the young co-owner served us tea and biscuits while she called around local guest houses and hotels. Everything was full, apart from the  “boutique” hotel, Las Doñas back down by the bridge.

So… the choice was between heaving P1000550on our packs and limping on to the next town 12m away or succumbing to white sheets, a bathroom with toiletries, clean fluffy towels and an all singing-dancing shower. Tough decision.

I met an old man in the street later that evening who was anxious to point out a plaque on a house marking the birthplace of the Spanish “famoso” poet, Enrique Gil y Carrasco. We conversed for some time (despite my limited Spanish) about P1000454national poets, I heard about the pride he felt about this native son and he listened to a wee bit of Robbie Burns right there in the fading light of the pilgrim way. We parted with great affection and hand shaking.

It’s moments like these that make the camino unforgettable.

Hitting the high point

P1000493We climbed to just below 5000ft this morning, all the way up to the simple iron cross, the Cruz de Ferro, and the last 500ft or so took forever as I kept turning round to watch the sun rising behind and below the highest point of the whole camino.

Thousands of pilgrims have left stones or tokens here so we clambered over the rough rocky track to the base of the cross for photographs then lingered on this glorious early morning as the sun grew higher in the sky. It was downhill then for the next 20km and having climbed so far and so high I was reluctant to leave the mountains.

Suzanne and I took the steep path together down through the bushes and trees and paused to look in at the settlement at Manjarin, a romantic, hippy mountain hut of wind chimes, water and organic teas.

The plan had been to walk to Ponferrada but after so long on such wonderful (but blistering P1000496hot) sheltered tracks through the valley we didn’t want to spend a night in a city so turned in instead to the Santa Marina albergue on the outskirts of Molinaseca. Proper single beds and a (not very efficient) washing machine were our reward and later we enjoyed a quiet dinner with lots of wine and laughter at a balmy outside table by the old stone bridge.

But then ensued the “war of the windows”, with the Dutch, Scots and Canadians opting for fresh air and the French contingent desiring no draughts. How we conform to our national stereotypes!

I fell asleep before it was resolved. I could still walk and nothing else mattered.

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Cowboy café and an exploding toe

P1000494I had been lucky. For three weeks I had been overtaking pilgrims limping in agony with damaged tendons or infected blisters. I’d listened to accounts of bed bug bites, strains, shin splints and knees that just couldn’t take any more. I’d seen boots abandoned by the roadside. And some injuries were so bad people had been hospitalized or had to go home.

The solitary blister on the little toe of my  left foot had been a slight inconvenience for a few days and I’d doctored it by adding layer after layer of Compeed as protection. Today, though, the pressure was growing and there was no longer enough space in my boots to comfortably contain the swelling.

I limped to Santa Catalina de Sonoza for our first stop then stumbled on to the cowboy café at El Ganso. Cowboys always bring a smile to my face!

But when we reached Rabanal (after 21k) I sank down on the doorstep of the grocery shop and really wanted to stop for the day. However my companion insisted we stick to the plan and so we set off limping up the long hill towards Foncebadón another 6km away.

IMG_0751Suddenly I felt the blister that comprised my entire little toe explode in my boot! I could walk no further.

I peeled off my boots and socks then explored the mushy mess at the end of my foot then rummaged frantically in my pack: the only option was to wear my sandals with many socks and the strap as loose as possible.  What relief – it worked!

Walking was slow though and there weren’t many beds left by the time we arrived in Foncebadón, but we didn’t end up sleeping down in the sheds beside the goats like the people who arrived even later.

There was no warm water so the cold shower was a short, refreshing one; the beers were chilled, the communal meal delicious and the vino tinto made an excellent painkiller before bed at 8.30pm.

Blister? Ah, that would be tomorrow’s problem.

Vision on the road to Astorga

P1000478I assumed it was a pain-induced mirage when a cart serving drinks, fruit, organic muesli and biscuits  materialized on the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere.  Maybe I’d just been walking for too long.

Maybe the lack of breakfast away back in Santibanez was affecting my reasoning. Could a beautiful, bronzed, barefooted man really be providing sustenance for pilgrims in exchange for a donation?

But David was real and lived up there in the ruins of an old farmstead most of the year. And gentle David had a message for the world:

“Ego destruction, love construction” was his mantra.

It wasn’t far (and all downhill) to the town of Astorga where we needed to do some sightseeing and shopping. This town had  Gaudí architecture and we needed toothpaste, shampoo and, most importantly of all, a fleece. We’d be heading up into the mountains soon and I needed something warm for the early mornings.

It was market day so we ploughed through the crowds then somehow became ensconced at a café table in Plaza Catedral for hours, drinking cervesas surrounded by the turrets of Gaudí’s Bishops Palace and Astorga cathedral.

Many friends stopped by: Suzanne, Lisette, Nathan and Carmen. Then we explored the museums and cathedral before finding bunks in the municipal albergue.

The day ended with a happy dinner, rested feet and a cozy fleece to wear in the morning.  All was well with the world.

Fighting fatigue with culture and tapas

It was Sunday afternoon and León was alive and bustling with bicycles, the streets clogged with wheels inexpertly manned by helmeted tiny children, fussing parents, old grannies – cyclists of all ages, ready for the off on an outing, or race of sorts. There was a great sense of excitement and fiesta and we found it hard to find a way through – or find a way at all actually – to the Santa María de Carbajalas Convent where we were segregated for the first time. Men to one side, women to the other.

It wasn’t late and Richard and I had walked only 25km or so but I was totally whacked when I arrived, lying down on my narrow bunk by the window and closing my eyes just the way I was: sweaty, dusty, exhausted, drained. Finally I had a shower, changed into clean clothes and wandered wearily into the street to find a table at a café where I sipped a sedate vino tinto and just watched the weekend city world wander by.

Finally I explored a little and found León Cathedral, a beautiful 13th century gothic structure that was satisfyingly simple. My German friend Andreas turned up as I sat admiring it on a bench outside and we walked round together listening to audio guides in different languages. The original architecture had been fundamentally flawed and the cathedral had gone through some hair-raising remedial work in the 18th century when its very survival was at stake. What I found fascinating about this building was that only 5000 people lived in León at the time of the original construction yet they were able to fund such an ambitious project. There’s an statue of a pregnant virgin Mary here too, which isn’t something you see too often!

Andreas claimed he knew a great tapas bar at the other end of town so we plodded off there, down endless streets (and past countless other tapa bars!) only to discover it was closed. So we sat down at the neighbouring one, drank wine, ate delicious “tapas variados” and communicated surprisingly well for the rest of the evening considering I can’t speak german and he has limited english! The wine undoubtedly eased translation.

It had been a great day. I had forgotten my exhaustion and weariness and lay down in my bunk that night believing I could tackle the exceptionally long haul the next day if I was going to catch up with other friends many, many miles ahead.

Morning would tell.

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