Camino de Santiago
“When you get
Spain do the Camino de Santiago, go to St. Jean Pied-de-Port and ask for a
pilgrim’s credencial at the tourist office,” said eldely man, as we sat in the Sligo
youth hostel. His face was as deeply furrowed as a ploughed field and his twinkly
eyes were framed by shaggy hair and beard. Chance is my polestar when I travel,
rather than the guard rails of guide- books. This elderly Frenchman was my
Gandalf.
Two weeks later, I
joined the scattered line of pilgrims as I pushed the bike up over the pass
into Spain. In complete contrast to the solitary world of bike touring, the
hostel in the Roncesvalles monastery was overflowing with the wonderful
untidiness of humanity. The mood was upbeat with anticipation of the 800km trek
across medieval Spain that lay ahead.
Within a week, I
had totally lost track of time and place as I followed the faded yellow arrows
painted on walls or the brass scallop shells embedded in the sidewalk. The
kindness of the hospitaleros who ran the alberques along with easy-going chat
of my fellow perigrinos made it feel like travel might have been before borders
and identity cards. The narrow cobble streets and ancient farmland made it feel
like I was peddling through history. In the evening we would gather around the
dinner table; dreadlocks, lawyers and the footloose all shared food and stories,
Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales came off the page (Chaucer accompanied the Black
Prince here in 1368 to victory at the battle of Najaro) . The bunk beds butted
up against each and your neighbour could be a Latin beauty or snore and flounder
like a sea-elephant. The evening scene was like a field medic outpost as agony
was unbooted.
“Why are you doing
the Camino?” was an oft-asked question in moments of reflection. It is a daily
struggle for me to take life seriously. I could have replied that I yearned for
my mind, body and spirit to mesh together like the clay-clogged gears on my
bike. Instead, I would tell the story about a fight I had with one of the
Little People when I was a kid resulting in being cursed for life (specific to
horses). I was on the road to St. James to lift the spell, this was necessary
because curses don’t come bubble-wrapped and over time, like breast implants,
there is leakage and this was now affecting other aspects of my life*,for a
full account see A Gift and A Curse posted elsewhere on this blog.
In Santa Domino I
met up with a fellow cyclist, Marie-Pier from Quebec, we biked together for the
next week. My bike touring had been solo up to now, initially, because I had no
idea of my ability, then because I like the independence of just going and then
meeting up with like-minded people on the road. Sometimes we chatted and other times we just
peddled for hours side by side without needing to talk, just soaking up the
magic of it all. The word, companion, comes from the Latin, com pani, meaning - with bread; we made
a point of feasting on fresh baguette and cheese in front of the three cathedrals
in Leon, Burgos and Santiago.
Twice I attended
the pilgrim’s Sunday service at the Santiago cathedral. It was an extraordinary
fusion of the sacred and the sublime mixing with spiritual adventurers still
carrying backpacks and walking sticks. The clothes tell the story - pilgrims
travel light carrying only the clothes they wear and these are now tatterdemalion,
in contrast to the embroided vestments of the priests.
Cape Finistera was
the next stop and the pounding surf was surprisingly warm. This was the edge of
the 10th century world for the early pilgrims, for me, it was a
turnaround. Rain and cold made it a chilly ride along the coastal Camino east
towards Sandander. I had two weeks before the ferry home; I wanted to walk the
Camino, however, many of the albergues were closed for the season. A chance
remark by a hospitalero put me on the bus to the village of Orgiva in the far
south of Spain. Warm sunshine and the prospect of living in a tipi in an
eco-community would be a pleasant change from the gravitas of medieval
monasteries. I though staying in a hippy commune would be a breeze – not so. Fortunately,
I learnt resilience at an early age, in fact, my brother reminded me of an
incident from our schooldays when we were swapping stories at the start of this
trip.
“You don’t want
your meat?” said the assistant matron, her voice cut the chatter like a knife.
I stared at the bowl with its gobs of fatty gristle and then back to her.
“Perhaps you would
like dessert then, we have fruit salad today”, her was tone was as cold as her
stare.
Oh, fruit salad, I thought, this is a rare
treat from the usual soggy bread pudding.
“Yes please, Miss
Grey,” I replied.
My horrified
younger brother looks on as she ladled the sliced peaches and cherries into the
bowl of gristle and congealing grease. Hughes, author of Tom Brown’s Schooldays,
had sat on these same benches over a century earlier. Little had changed, it
was however, perfect schooling for hole-in–the-wall travel.
I was welcomed at
Beneficio, as the community is called, with friendly detachment. About 200
people live here in an assortment of tents, yurts and makeshift shelters. The
big tipi is the focal point and thirty or more gather here every evening for
dinner. In mid-afternoon a conch is blown to summon volunteers to collect
firewood from high up the canyon or to help prepare dinner. Dishes are cleaned
with ash and this is also sprinkled on bedrolls to deter bugs. The conch booms
out again in early evening to summon the hungry. It is a real achievement to
feed this many people with dahl or rice and chappaties each day on about five
euros collected in the magic hat that is passed around after the meal. We ate
by the light of the huge fire burning in the center of the tipi. The heat
disappears out the huge opening in the top and I crawl into my sleeping bag,
fully clothed, to stay warm. Bongo and tabla drums beat all night and most of
the day.
Back in the early Seventies fireside chat
sparkled with ideas and craziness like cinders shooting into the night sky. In
northern Spain I passed through a medieval world, now i was living in one and
it wasn’t very comfortable. During the day, I’d saunter into the village
through the orange groves. The expatriates at the sidewalk cafe were also
living on the margin and had an equally tenuous grip on reality. The drumming
beats on, but there is no song. The download generation may not realize how
accurately music told the story of the Sixties. CSNY turned the dramas into
poetry, Jagger and Richards captured the kickass adventure of it all and out of
the smoke rose the Dark Side of the Moon giving form to the duality of
existence. The Camino and the commune defined that duality.
