I wake, it’s
still dark, I slept superbly well, sleep was deep and I am excited. I paddle down to the darkened foyer, surprise
a dozing night watchman, check the time, 05.40, perfect. Breakfast, at 6 o’clock is a too modest
affair, the baker hasn’t yet arrived ... However the coffee is good and I am
eager to walk. Pilgrims of long ago
would wash themselves “lava” before setting off for the final walk of 10 kms to
Santiago. The storm was my cleansing, my
ribbons washed in preparation.
I return
to the room, use the very last of my fusskraft
menta on my knees, swaddled both little toes in fleece, clean my teeth, NOK
and 1000mile sock my feet – anoint and swaddle – put on my boots with their
clean and gay ribbons, swing my mochila
into place and step out into very fresh air.
I breathe in a prayer. The skies
are leaden, the storm has left a tired drizzle in its wake, I cross the quiet
highway, walk down the narrow lane, turn left at its end and I’m on my
way. Dawn is beginning to break.
I come to
the eucalyptus forests. A Spanish
Benedictine, Father Salvado, brought them here from Western Australia where he had
founded New Norcia, the first Benedictine Abbey in Australia, in 1846. His transplants took root, multiplying with
more alacrity than his converts to Christianity. There are hundreds of thousands of eucalyptus
in Galicia, I doubt it’s a good thing, ecologically speaking, but the accompanying
fragrance of eucalyptus oil is wonderful, invigorating, stimulating. In the open fields lie Galician blond cows, pretty
faced, somnolent as the light drizzle coats them.
Some of the
Way is true to the last 40 days, cool, shady, lots to observe, hills and
dales. On and on I walk pass sleeping
villages to: Monte do Gozo! This marks the end really. I walk a long ways left, cross fields, to the
albergue for a sello and even further off the Way to climb the mount itself to
photograph the splendid statues of two pilgrims pointing in joy as they see for
the first time the spires of the great Cathedral of Santiago. It is a thrilling and lonely moment, no one
else has taken the detour to see them.
It is drizzling and dark, the mist is thick, but just as I puff my way
up the hill the sun momentarily lightens the mist for a moment to light their
backs. No worthy photos, but I attempt a
couple. The statues are huge, easy for
them to see the spires of Santiago – at five foot tall I barely reach the hem
of their shoulder capes; wouldn’t have seen much even on a clear day. Elation is part of the amalgam of feelings I
am filled with right now.
The walk
into Santiago seems long. I buy a
croissant from a surly baker, a woman, who obviously doesn’t want to be open at
this early hour – for it is early, and wet, and I may be the only customer for
a while. The suburbs go on and on, busy
intersections confuse me, pilgrims walk past me fast and purpose-bent. At a place of five directions I ask the way
of a pilgrim coming towards me, he is a strangely babbling German and refuses
to simply point to the right choice of five ways but launches into each and
every way that each and every way could get me to my destination. Frustrated, I say, stop! I am very tired, please just point me the quickest way and at
that moment another walker comes alongside and says quietly, follow me.
He proves a
strange angel, a loner, an American who has been here many days, comes here
many times, calls me ma’am and is so
excessively polite I almost doubt his sincerity. It makes me uncomfortable. Perhaps I am tired. He walks me all the way to the Cathedral and
I see on my right the Seminario Maior.
A
bell of remembrance, Maeve in Glastonbury told me to stay here. I excuse myself from my companion and go
inside to register and book a room. It
takes a while, their special pilgrim rooms are fully booked, I take a room at
the hotel price for one night, ask directions for the Pilgrim Centre so I can
get my well-earned compostela.
Outside the strange angel is sitting on the
wall in the drizzle, I am chastened at his patience, we walk to the pilgrim
centre, my delay has lengthened the queue of arrivals. My strange angel tells me to sit on the wall
inside the compound, he will stand in the long queue for me. He has, however, as we walk down through the
arcade and the steps, made strange allusions that reveal an odd way of
thinking, my antennae prickles through my tiredness. I am grateful and
cautious. Yet all went well, after an
hour he reached the door and we swapped places.
This was the
summum bonum of my pilgrimage, this
one minute moment while a charming young man writes my name in Latin on a fancy
certificate, a new design, with Saint James in full colour, and truly my
feelings do not accord with the gravitas of the moment. It is too hurried, and when all said and
done, the compostela only a piece of
paper. I walked the Camino, I have three
credencials to remind me forever, I
earned them, they have been with me all the way, my first one little short of a
miracle – a tale I will tell at the end.
I do not share the obvious thrill that some pilgrims are sharing,
shouting as they wave the rolled certificates in their tubes patterned with
scallop shells. Once again I am out of
kilter ...
The strange
angel will walk me to the monastery of St Francis, but it has just closed for the morning and
will re-open at five in the evening. I
will return for my St Francis compostela
then, this one will carry meaning for me.
I am so tired, I need a coffee, and actually, I need something to
eat. My strange angel insists on my
following him, he is fast-paced, quite far ahead but keeps looking round to see
if I am following.
Suddenly my brain
goes on walkabout and my feet slew sideways into a café. He is too far ahead and doesn’t hear my call;
I must surely buy him a coffee for his kindness. I sink into a chair, alas there is nothing to
eat but sweet things and I need a serious protein hit before I collapse, but I
settle for a coffee to settle my brain.
As I sit there the strange angel walks past on his return, I wave, he is
too fast, doesn’t notice me in the café, looks intent. I sink back down, relieved, actually. So thank you, Marvin of New Mexico, you were
an angel of the moment.
I make my
way back to the Seminario, focused on showering, changing, eating. As I pass the restaurant in the cloisters, with
its grand name Comedor Monumental who
walks out but: Jüergen! Jüergen of the
roses and the rosemary! Jüergen my best
bunk buddy of so many weeks ago! We stand
speechless, then hug hugely, delight tangible.
He has been here for a week or more, helping arriving pilgrims find
their way.
Photographs! Emails! “When I
first saw your pilgrim skirt and the bows on your boots I knew I wanted to know
you”, he tells me, laughing. We haven’t
seen each other for ages, not, in fact, since Agés, many weeks ago.
It is still
only the morning on the first day of my arrival in Santiago. What more surprises can be in store ... the
pleasure of seeing Jüergen releases a euphoria that queuing for my compostela had failed to do, I can
acknowledge the wonder of the whole walk, feel a rising sense of anticipation
at just being here, in Santiago de
Compostela.
I have been on my pilgrimage
for forty days and forty nights, a biblical reckoning, and Jüergen tells me it
is the Feast Day of Saint John the Baptist, the Botafumeiro will be swung
at midday, a Pilgrim Mass offered to bless us all – and I must hurry to find a
space amongst the thousands.
To be
continued ...
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