Camino de Santiago

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 10^th 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.