A Coruña--The English Road

I couldn´t resist one more little trip today. I took the train an hour north to the port city of A Coruña. The 100 km distance between A Coruña and Santiago is called the English road because after 1339, this would have been the way the English pilgrims would come to Compostella. In the 12th century the English king, Henry II (didn´t you see the movie "Lion in Winter"?), traveled to Compostella along the same road that I took beginning in his French possession of Aquitaine. However, the English subsequently lost that territory and with the onset of the Hundred Years War with France in 1339, the land route across France and northern Spain was closed to English pilgrims. Consequently, Chaucer´s Wife of Bath and the autobiographer Margery Kempe would have boarded a ship in southern English (usually Portsmouth) and landed in A Coruña.

Today, the city is quite large, and full of monuments to interest the historic/literary minded. The medieval English pilgrim´s first sight would have been the great lighthouse on the point of the harbor. There has been a lighthouse on that point since pre-Roman times. The current impressive structure is called the Tower of Hercules; built in the early 1700s, it actually encases the 13th century structure that English pilgrims would have seen. Rounding the point, ships confronted the fort--Castille San Anton. Yes, another castle! It´s a 13th century fort that guarded the inner harbor. In the 16th century they began adding cannon that are still in place. Interestingly, the fort houses a museum of Celtic artifacts--there was (and still is) a considerable Celtic community in and around this harbor. The Englishman William Wey took the pilgrimage along this route in 1456, and he wrote that there were more than thirty English ships in the harbor on his arrival. This was true for me today--A Coruña is a favorite excursion cruse for English tourists. There was a huge luxury liner in the harbor that had landed hundereds of tourists from the British isles. Medieval pilgrims would have visited two important churches: the Church of Santiago and the Church of the Maria del Mar (Mary of the Ocean). The former was a great, square construction typical of the early 12th century--about 1120. The Marian church dates from the early 1200s and was a particular favorite of English travelers. William Wey and others remarked in their travel narratives that services in both Latin and English were available in the Chruch of Maria del Mar because a group of English Franciscans had built a residence beside the church to serve the many pilgrims from their native land.

Okay, that´s the history/literature lesson. I´ll just add that A Courña was an unexpectedly beautiful city. It is much larger than Compostella and the port was busy with trade and tourism. The massive and aptly named Tower of Hercules was fun to climb--yes, you can go to the top of this giant lighthouse and look out over the Atlantic (actually a little scary from its height). The sea breeze was fresh and salty, and with the endless horizon of the ocean on one side and the mountains of Spain on the other, the view was spectacular. It´s likewise amazing that this area has been constantly inhabited for more than three thousand years. My interest in medieval pilgrimage is only a moment in time to this place.

Well, lots of fun in A Coruña, and I´d recommend a trip there, but this evening I´m packing for my flight on Ryan Air to London. I will offer a few conclusions to my pilgrimage in my final few entries. ¡Hasta Luego!

Rituals--A Little Santiago History

I admit I´ve been lax in giving you Texans a sense of the actual spectacle afforded the pilgrim in the city. First, many of you know that the Compostella pilgrims are "Concheiros"--we even enter the city on a street so named. The reason, of course, is that every pilgrim walked with the sign of the Compostella pilgrimage--a round, flat sea shell ("concho" in Spanish). Not only is St. James reouted to have arrived by sea, but also, according to some legends, he carried such a shell and used it as a plate. Medieval pilgrims would beg for food using the shell. Additionally, they hoped that carrying the shell would ward off robbers who would be reluctant to steal from a person on a mission from God (okay, I borrowed that last phrase from the "Blues Brothers" movie). You Chaucerians will remember from the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales that Chaucer calls attention to the "palmeres"--those pilgrims to Jerusalem who carried the palm branch or wore little palm leaves on their clothing. The Compostella shell is a similar signifier. Entering the old city, you walk past the monastery of San Pedro de Fora--in the Middle Ages it was actually a pilgrim hospital (much needed). The Cathedral itself is a church within a church. The Romanesque building was erected in the latter half of the 12th century with Maestro Mateo overseeing the four entrance doors and their famous statuary. The church that Chaucer´s Wife of Bath (a fictional character who is supposed to have visited Compostella) or Margery Kempe (a medieval English woman who narrated her biography) visited would have had one tall, square tower, and one shorter one. Early in the 17th century, there was concern that Mateo´s treasures were being destroyed by the elements; plus, artistic tastes and expectations of grandeur had changed, so they built a shell around the original cathedral. Today, three of Mateo´s doors are recessed within an ornate, Baroque facade. The towers have been extended to be equal in height and are covered with similar ornamentation typical of the Baroque period. The Wife of Bath probably wouldn´t have recognized the place from the outside.

There are lots of traditions about being in the church itself. Pilgrims are supposed to place their hands on the pillar of St. James at the south door and make a wish. They rap their heads on a statue of Maestro Mateo in hopes of being similarly inspired. Then you walk behind the great alter and place your hands around the neck of St. James figure that stands just above the vault holding his remains. Pilgrims are supposed to whisper a desire or need or utter the reason that brought them to Compostella. So much for personal rites. At the pilgrim mass, the Botufumerio is the ultimate moment of spectacle. The world´s largest censor, the Botufumerio is filled with incense. At the conclusion of the mass, eight priests lower this huge, silver censor, light the incense, and begin swinging it back and forth across the great trancept of the building. I can only say that it´s amazing--this great smoking thing being hauled back and forth in a great arc just above people´s heads. This tradition began in the Middle Ages as a way to lessen the stench of we stinky pilgrims--many of whom had failed to properly wash in Rio Lavacola.

Well, today I visited Pardón, the place where James´s boat is supposed to have landed. The church there still has an L-shaped stone at the alter that is reputed to be the very landing place of James´s remains. Pardón might have been the center of Jamesian veneration, but a bishop ordered the remains transferred to Compostella in the 1040s. The priests of Pardón have jealously held on to the landing stone. Tomorrow, I´ll either go to Finisterre or to A Coruña--and visit a couple of last churches here in Compostella. Then, London on Thursday. I can just about taste the home-cookin´ now.

Albergue Nights

I ate breakfast, as I have the past three days, with a fellow pilgrim I first met at dinner in Astorga, Neils Andreasson. Neils and I are a lot alike; we´re both solitary walkers who enjoy the company of our own thoughts, but we both like a little company at meals. Neils speaks only Finnish and English, so he felt linguistically isolated in some albergues where French, German, Italian, and Spanish are the dominate languages. I have more Spanish than Neils, but we were both happy to find each other whenever our paths crossed. A retired homebuilder, Neils is a strong, wirey man who speaks very quietly but always with good humor. He´s looking forward to seeing his grandson who has already started in his first indoor soccer league back home in Finland (yes, the Finns are crazy for soccer like the rest of Europe). Today, we shared our last meal. Neils always has a toasted ham and cheese sandwich for breakfast--it´s not a real preference, but he learned to say "sandwich--jamon y queso" early in the walk and just went with what worked. We talked a little about the cathedral and our trip. After breakfast I walked him to the bus stop where he would catch the bus to the airport, fly to Madrid, then change flights home to Finland. We shook hands--and then, yes, exchanged a man-hug.

Saying good-bye is part of this trip. Tomorrow, five of us--Yvon and Minnon from France, Roberto from Italy, Christina from Ireland, and I--will travel out to Finisterra together. Wednesday, Yvon and Minnon catch the train back to St. Malo in France and Roberto takes his flight to Italy. Christina and I are on the same Ryan Air flight for London on Thursday. It feels like a high school graduating class splitting up. More pilgrims came walking into Compostella today, but I didn´t recognize many faces. You get to know people for a day or two ahead or behind you, but one by one, we´re all going back to our lives. So here, have a couple of albergue stories that I hadn´t told before--the reason why you can become good friends in the space of a few days or weeks.

WORLD CUP REMATCH
One night in Burlada, a group of us were having the pilgrim meal in a small albergue when the subject of the recent World Cup final came up. Two Italian men were happily reliving every moment while two French guys contested the entire affair as suffering from inequities including refs who were paid off to Italian players who shouldn´t have been allowed to compete. Over dessert, the Italians bet the French that they could beat the French right then and there--if they only had a ball. The manager of the albergue, a Frenchman who was a member of the Society of St. James, reached behind a counter and pulled out a soccer ball. That was it--they insisted that we all head up to the local school to play the official World Cup Rematch. Now, I´ve tried to express in past blogs that after hiking 24km, NOBODY is in any condition to play anything other than cards. But we went. One of the Italians was pretty drunk, so we put him in a goal. The French used two goalies--a woman from Austria and a woman from Australia. One of the French suggested that these two should work together since they came from practically the same place (he may have been a little drunk too). I was an Italian for the evening. I don´t really have to describe the match. Everyone was in sandals or socks. None of us could run. Long John Silver would have been a better striker than any of us. The Austrian woman literally had a bandaged foot, and the Australian´s idea of defense in goal was to shout, ¨"No, No, No!", whenever the ball was successfully nudged in her direction. I think the Italians actually scored more goals, but as darkness fell, the Italian men graciously proclaimed that the French had triumphed. The World Cup Trophy (an empty wine bottle) was awarded in the middle of the field, and the victors were paraded back to the albergue. Every international conflict should be so easily and amicably resolved.

STONE SOUP
Evelyn Tanner loves the story "Stone Soup." It´s a children´s tale about a guy who comes to town, tosses a rock in a pot, then convinces the rest of the populace of the goodness of gravel. Well, it works with adults too. One night about 10 days ago, we´d just about had it with eating out. There was a grocery right next to the albergue, so a German couple bought a bag of potatoes and just wanted boiled spuds. They were complaining that they´d had to buy too big a bag--they couldn´t possibly eat all these potatoes--when a French cyclist spoke up, agreeing that he had had to buy a big bunch of carrots, his favorite snack on the trail. Just then a young couple from Franch enterted carrying their bread and cheese, and another German woman said that she´d go buy some lamb if we could put everything together in a stew. Smiles went all around as we began to get excited about a little home cooking. Now, Dianna will attest that I love to eat, but I don´t like to cook, so I suggested that I buy some wine. Yvon, my French pal, spoke up saying that he would go along, "To help Jerry spend his money wisely." Yvon had previously made fun of the fact that I rarely drank wine and clearly had no understanding of the fruit of the vine. I bought a couple of bottles (under his close direction), and Yvon bought another with a bottle of lemonade ("For the Germans to mix with their wine--they know just a little more about wine than you do"). Eleven of us sat together and shared a meal to which everyone had contributed something. No dinner tasted better. And don´t worry, Evelyn--we remembered to take the stone out.

Yes, Santiago

Thanks to Dianna, Kathleen, and Jonathan for posting the news that I arrived in Santiago de Compostella. I love the picture from the camera taken last night. The walk in was soggy and difficult, but exciting. I saw friends with whom I´d been walking along for the past couple of weeks. We strolled easily at first through more of that verdant forest we have come to expect in Galicia. I thought of my colleagues and friends back home who would be waking to a Saturday after a week at work--wondered a little what I´d been doing this time in a couple of weeks. We passed the Lavacola River. Okay, so I have to tell you that ¨Lavare Collium¨ is actually a Latin phrase that means ¨to wash the privates.¨ Pilgrims were supposed to stop and wash themselves before entering St. James´ holy city; even St. Francis is reputed to have washed at the crossing of the river. I had taken a shower the night before, so I did not feel so compelled (but I took a picture, of course). After crossing the Lavacola, we started the climb up Mounte do Gozo. From the mountain´s top we could just make out the cathedral for a moment before it was swathed entirely in a fierce rain storm. Fifteen minutes later, driving rain covered us. For the next two hours, pilgrims struggled into the city in a nearly blinding storm.

But we made it. I entered the Old City, walked through the cathedral, and waited in a line of pilgrims for nearly an hour to receive my pilgrim certificate indicating that I had walked the long way. I found a cheap hotel in the Old City (a dive, but dry with hot water), took a nap, and, as you can tell from the picture, went back into the cathedral. By the way, I hope you like the outfit. Almost every bit of clothing I had was wet, and it was in the 50s last night. If you look closely, you´ll see I´m wearing a pair of shorts over my long-johns. Since my boots were wet, the outfit is complimented by a pair of thick hiking socks with my shower sandals. I expect this look to sweep the European fashion scene. Today, I attended the noon pilgrim mass during which all the newly-arrived pilgrims heard their names read aloud. I was the only America to have arrived yesterday who started in France; there were 22 of us who had walked from St. Jean Pied-du-port.

So, here´s a little story about my arrival yesterday. I staggered into the cathedral, still half-blind with the rain, and I immediately saw Christina, a woman from Ireland whom I had last seen in Rouncevalles on the second day of the trip. We had eaten dinner with a couple of Italians and a Frenchman all of whom had wanted to blame me personally for the war in Iraq. Christina had arrived ahead of me, and the two of us went to the information desk to ask directions for the pìlgrim certificate. As we approached the desk, a man heard us talking and came up asking, "Do either of you speak Spanish?" I said, "A little--and I have a dictionary." He was Canadian and explained to us that he had made a promise to his wife eighteen months ago--just before she died of cancer. She was a devout Catholic, and he had promised to make the walk to Santiago and that his first act on arriving in the cathedral would be to light a candle for her; he was desperate to make the receptionist understand that he wanted to buy a candle. He began crying halfway through his explanation, and Christina was no help at all--she just started crying and hugging the man. I pull apart the wet pages of my Spanish/English dictionary to find the word "Vela"--"Ah, Vela!" the woman at the desk responded, and for one euro, a candle was produced. We all exchanged damp hugs, and the Canadian disappeared into a crowd of pilgrims.

There´s a saying on the Camino--"Everyone walks their own Camino." In part, that means that we all started with our own reasons. On my Camino, I think I´ve learned a little about history, literature, culture, and perhaps more. Some hikers came along just for the exercise, others rode the busses, while still others carried burdens that were not visible on their backs. I´m going to spend several days here--visiting museums in the area, traveling to Perdon where St. James´ boat is reputed to have landed, and visiting Finisterra--the end of the land as the ancients knew it. I will be continuing my blog for at least a week or so. Then, as Christy Drenner commented a couple of days ago, I´ll find a new Camino to walk.

Santiago!

Whoop, there he is!

Today, Jerry made it through heavy rain into the City of Santiago! Dad asked us to make this entry because he is in the old part of the City and Internet access is not available. We had talked about there being webcams in the Santiago Cathedral (thanks Uncle Lloyd), and Dad was able to find one at the Alter of St. James. He called us so we could see him LIVE in Santiago! He hurried back in just before the Cathedral closed for the evening, and you can see him at the bottom left of the picture.

He hopes to make an entry sometime on Sunday, so stay tuned...

One Day Away

Well, I arrived in Arca Do Pino about half an hour ago; the albergue doesn´t open for about 20 minutes, and there was an internet connection available at the grocery across the street. Arca is the last pilgrim hostel before Santiago--19 km, or about 12 miles, or about 5 to 6 hours away.

Last night, those of us in the Pension, about 14 pilgrims, gathered around the TV in the lobby to watch the news. They showed radar of the hurricane coming ashore. The actual number of injured has been lowered to about 50, but the damage is fairly extensive. While we watched, thunder rolled across the valley and heavy rain still pelted the area. Fortunately, this morning at about 7:00, the rain subsided to just a pleasant patter, and by 10:00 I was walking in sunlight. Have I mentioned that I love Galicia? It´s late September, and the countryside looks like East Texas or the piney woods--down around Huntsville--in the spring (not that I´ve done a lot of time in Huntsville, you understand). The walk today was bittersweet; it´s difficult to figure out if I´m looking forward to seeing Santiago or if I´d like the walk to go on another week or two. It´ll take a while to assess all that I´ve seen and learned. Walking has certainly placed the region within my intimate understanding, and it has given me a good deal of opportunity for contemplation. I suppose that it´s usual to say that I can´t believe that I´ve done this. But don´t worry--there´s not an ounce of pride in that statement. Waiting outside the albergue are three men who began their Camino on June 24. They left their town in the Netherlands and have walked every step of the way. The truth is that I feel greatly humbled by both distance and all that I´ve seen.

Tomorrow, I´ll climb to the top of Monte do Gozo--the Mountain of Joy--about 5 km outside of Santiago. Its western slope affords the pilgrim a first glimpse of the city and its cathedral. I´ll let you know how that feels. I suppose for the last time I´ll sign my entry, ¡Buen Camino!

Still Walkin´

I don´t know how closely American news sources report European weather, but last night Hurricane Gordon came ashore at A Coruña, about 38 miles northwest of me. It packed winds in excess of 100 mph and did considerable damage to the harbor along with injuring more than 60 people. Additionally, it spawned several tornadoes. One touched down about two miles north of me, and another knocked out the water and electrical services in Ribadiso--my destination for today. The prediction this morning was heavy rains for the next three days. The only hint that I had of anything were the heavy winds battering my windows last night; I had opted for a "Pension," an inexpensive tourist hotel, in order to get a night´s rest away from the sometimes hectic albergue. At about 7:45am and in a driving rain, I rounded the corner from my pension to pick up the Camino, and I was suddenly confronted by a crowd of more than 70 people spilling out of a hotel lobby at the local bus stop. A German couple I had seen several times told me about the night´s tumult and the day´s dismal predictions. Apparently, most of the pilgrims had decided to ride directly to Santiago that day. They encouraged me to do the same since the bus was due at 8:20. Well, I grabbed a cup of coffee in the hotel lobby and waited. When the bus arrived, there was a crush of people that I just couldn´t be a part of. There were only 40 avaliable seats, but the driver promised that another bus was being sent and would arrive in about one and a half hours. That was my cue to hit the trail. I did, after all, come to walk, and to be honest, there´s a little too much of my dad in me sometimes. He´s what American Indians would call a "contrary"--if everyone else says "Yes," his answer will inevitably be "No."

And what a wonderful day. Since Sarria, the trail had become crowded; Sarria is the final town in which a pilgrim can be certified as such and qualify for a certificate (suitable for framing) of pilgrimhood on arrival in Santiago. Busloads of people join the trip--and I mean that literally. A tour bus forwarding your luggage from hotel to hotel allows pilgrims to walk burden-free. The bus even meets groups and supplies lunch. If a pilgrim gets tired, the guide calls the bus and arranges for a pick-up when the trail crosses the road. The towns themselves reflect the comercial nature of the Camino the closer we get to our destnation. There are shops on every town square that sell momentos and trinkets. I saw a plastic, cross-eyed statue of St. James pointing in both directions--very amusing. Although I shouldn´t have been too surprized; as evidenced in the many available, historic narratives, commercialism has been a part of the pilgrimage since the practice began. Just have a look at Chaucer--why do you think that the Merchant and the Pardoner are along? For the indulgence?

Did I say it was a wonderful day? All the fair-weather pilgrims, all the bus-riders, all the kids just out for a hike were gone. I walked almost alone, recalling those days outside of Castrojeriz when I couldn´t see another person for a km in either direction. I stopped at the Church of Santa Maria in Melide--it was locked. After a half-hour search led by a local woman, a neighbor who had a key was found and I was treated to a private viewing of the detailed, 14th-century paintings within. Have I mentioned that I love Galicia? I walked through forests of oak, pine, and eucalyptus trees--some of the latter rising more than 100 feet high. In the little town of Boente, the parrish priest of the Chuch of St. Rocamador was standing outside under his umbrella, waving me over. When I came inside, I found that he´d already grabbed three others. He wanted to offer a special blessing to the pilgrims who had continued their trip in the weather. He spoke from a little notebook, calling for safe travels in French, German, and English--the languages of we four. Then, the German pilgrim asked if he could sing a song. For the first time, I really looked at him through my rain-dimmed glasses, and noticed that it was Jon--the Lutheran choir director who sang at Portomarin. I didn´t recognize the tune, but sometimes, the force of a moment is carried more in the emotion than in the understanding. It was a wonderful day.

Tonight, I´m clean, warm, and safe in Arzua, the town past poor Ribadiso. The albergue was full to overflowing with pilgrims who bused ahead. I was sent to a Pension that charged me 30 Euros for a single room--even though the sign behind the desk indicated the charge for a single was 22. And they demanded cash--no credit cards. But it was okay--nothing could dampen my sprits after such a day. ¡Buen Camino!

A Mighty Fortress

After yesterday´s blog entry, I went out to explore the town of Portomarin. On the banks of the Rio Miño, the ruins of a castle, church, and walls of the Order of St. John are still visible. The town´s most impressive, and complete, site is the Templar church of San Nicolas. Sitting high on a hill, the church appeared from the perspective of the trail into town to be some sort of fortress. Its walls rose straight up--all the support for their height was interiorized in the church´s structure. The four corners of its great rectangle were topped with towers, and the entire building was ringed with ramparts. There is little doubt that the Templars intended this 12th-century edifice to serve both as a church and as a defensive keep. Inside, the nave consisted of a single, great rectangle. The walls still retained a little paint from the 14th century--a tribute to the artists who painted on the still-wet plaster. That´s the history lesson--and you could probably have seen and learned as much on the internet. Now, why traveling is an essential human pursuit. I was studying the painting at the front of the church when someone began singing. One of the visiting pilgrims was singing out in a beautiful, resounding baritone a familiar tune in an unfamiliar language. It was "A Mighty Fortress is Our God"--in German, of course. At the end of three verses, the half-dozen of us in the church broke out in applause. The docent of San Nicolas asked the singer if he would mind a repeat performance for the pilgrim mass that night at 9:00. It turned out that Jon is choir master of his Lutheran church back home in Germany, and he and his wife had been walking the Camino since Pamplona. He was overcome by the combination of the shape of the church and its fine accoustics and just felt compelled to break out into this seminal Lutheran hymn. Luther--at a Catholic mass? Amazingly, the Camino accomodates many blends of history and spirituality. No need to ask where I was at nine that night.

Today, on my way to Palas de Rei, I took about a 9km detour to see the remains of the monastery of Vilar de Donas. Built in 1184, it was under the protection of the Order of St. James and was a location where some of its knights were buried. The chruch reflects a change from the early to the late Romanesque styles, incorporating more rounded curves, for example, than the church of San Nicolas. The entire alter area still retains its stucco paintings--one, a spectacular image of Christ rising from the tomb. Other images included early patrons of the church in full Medieval dress--a treat for the fashion historian. On the remainder of the road into Palas de Rei, we passed a 10th-century cross that was decorated on one side with the Madonna and Child and on the other with the Crucified Christ. The decoration at the base of the cross clearly reflected Galicia´s Celtic heritage. Just another day on the Camino. I am currently in a cafe and the "65km to Santiago" sign is right outside the door. ¡Buen Camino!

Galacia

Today, I walked from Sarria to Portomarin across the heartland of Galacia. Even an early morning rain couldn´t dampen this day that was full of those little moments that I hoped to find in coming to Spain. Galacia receives more than twice the rain that Texas does, so there are no Texas-brown farmlands; I was confronted with shades of green mixed with the grey granite--the hard bones of these hills. The clouds themselves are full of surprises. Sometimes, they would settle right on top of the trail, and I´d find myself walking entirely in a white mist. Other moments, the cloud would distain the hill to reveal a valley below and hint at the coming sunlight. Once, as I was topping a ridge, a cloud rose just above my head. Long, white streaks seemed to race down into a crevasse giving me a sort of vertigo, inviting me to fly with them. I raised my walking stick high over my head, and whisps of cloud swirled in little vortices around the slender shaft.

I took an opportunity to stray a bit from the path in order to see a small, 12th-century church, Iglesia de Ferreiros. There wasn´t all that much to recommend the building except that I´ve enjoyed looking at these local Galacian churchs, most of which were built in the pre-plague years of the 12th and 13th centuries. All have been built half buried in the ground--their walls rising hardly above my head. The storms and winters of Galacia are famously harsh, and these churches were obviously built to endure the environment. You step down into a sanctary and stand surrounded by the rough-hewn, granite blocks. Each church, however, has some little touch that makes it unique--you can just imagine the parishioners wanting to make their church different by adding a bell tower, or laying the path to the alter with valued pink granite, or by elevating the alter on carved, stone blocks. Iglesia de Ferreiros had lions carved into the tympanium, the archway over the front door.

After seeing the church, I stepped across the dirt road to have a coffee at the only cafe in town. Just as I had the hot cup in my hands, a church bell began to ring. The woman who owned the cafe explained that it was Tuesday, and on that day each week, the curator of the church rang the knell--the death bell. On that past Thursday, a 69-year-old church member had died, and the curator had driven over from his farm on his tractor and began slowly to toll out the 69 strokes to honor this loss. Even as the bell was ringing, two Spainish National Guardsmen dropped in along with a local farmer. The Guard patrols the countryside much like our own state troopers. They ordered their coffee, while the local man opted for a liquor that was thick and yellow and served in a small, cold glass accompanyed by a hot cup of tea. They talked about the politics of the Camino, the owner of the bar complaining that the Spanish government had laid out the path through some larger towns just to make some powerful politicians happy. She very kindly complimented me for tracing out the way to their church, a long-time sanctuary for pilgrims. At about the same moment, the two guardsmen and I rose to leave, but the owner wouldn´t hear of it. She remembered that her daughter had made a cream tort the night before, and she wanted all of us to try some. Before we could object, little plates were produced, and mom went into the back of the bar and come out with the leftovers--little squares of congealed cream covered with chocolate. It was wonderful. She was so pleased by our compliments that she called her daughter away from the laundry to receive our thanks. We tried to pay for the treat, but neither would hear of it. I think it would have diminished their joy in sharing a bit of their lives with us. One of the guardsmen came away with the recipe for his wife.

The curate was just driving away in his tractor when I came out of the cafe. Mom, daughter, guardsmen all wished me a ¨¡Buen Camino!,¨ but I came away with far more than their good wishes.

Odds and Ends from Sarria

Hey big brother, hope the coffee is on because I´ve got a few stray thoughts and descriptions from Spain.

First, I took the long way around from Triacastela to Sarria in order to visit the Monastery of Samos. Since the 6th century, it has been constantly in use for monastic observance--for the last thousand years by Benedictines and an associated order of nuns. One building actually dates from the 8th century, but the extensive complex underwent major additions in the 16th and 18th centuries. There are still over 100 nuns and brothers in the facility. They venerate, among others, Saints Julian and Basilisa; they were a married couple who observed strict chastity. Some historians have suggested that the saints were meant to inform this mixed-sex facility.

Now for just stuff:
EVENINGS--every day, you walk until two, three, or four o´clock until you reach the hostel. After showers and clothes washing, a strange ritual takes place. We hold an informal, de facto Walter Brennan walk-alike contest. You remember Walter Brennan--Grandpa McCoy--"To Have and Have Not"? He had, as he described it in "The Real McCoys, "a hitch in the git-along." Everyone staggers around, favoring one knee or another, or trying to nurse a blister on one foot or another. The result is a comic display of silly walks--to say nothing of the groans to get into or out of a chair. Well, you try walking 13 to 15 miles a day for a month and see what happens.

BEER--is cheaper than Coke. No, really. A 12 to 14 ounce glass of beer costs 1 euro. A .20 liter Coke (I´m not sure what that is in ounces, but it´s less than 6) in a glass with one cube of ice sets you back 1.20 to 2 euros. Additionally, they drink beer with lemonade in it here. No kidding; lots of folks order a beer/lemonade mix that comes in a huge glass for about 1.50. I haven´t been brave enough to try it, but my Danish friend, Hans, says it´s the only way to drink beer.

WAITERS--have a kind of strange ritual of pretending not to want to be paid. The first time that I bought lunch in a cafe, I immediately held out a 10 euro bill, and the woman at the bar looked shocked and offended. She took the money, but handed me change along with a hurt expression. The second time that I tried the same thing, a man simply refused payment. I wandered to a table a bit confused and ate a rapid, unsettling lunch. Here´s how it´s supposed to work. You´re supposed to sit down. Eat. Relax. Talk. Go to the bathroom. Sit some more. Then, and only then, you suddenly remember, just as you´re leaving, to offer payment as an afterthought.

I´m on my way to visit the church and monastery here in Sarria. Tomorrow, 22 km and Portomarin for a Templar church. ¡Buen Camino!

Villafranca del Bierzo to O Cebreiro

I haven´t had an internet available for a couple of days. I made the walk from Ponferrada in good shape--still thinking about that Templar castle, of course. But these towns have a way of demanding your attention. Friday and Saturday in Villafranca del Bierzo were fiesta days; their patron saint is Christ del Espiranza. They depend on Christ at the moment that his spirit left his body on the Cross. Literally at that moment, Catholics believe that Hope came into the world--thus, the Villafrancans call upon Christ of the Hope. They had a parade in front of the 16th-century chruch in which church elders carried a large image of Christ on the Cross--a depiction of that moment of perfect hope. Later, there were fireworks, a fair for kids (including bumper cars, but the guy who ran the ride said that I was too big!?), and another parade led by drummers and celtic bagpipe players. Yes, bagpipes--I´m in a part of Spain once inhabits by those same Celts from the British Islands. A group of people wearing tall costumes of Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, a Templar knight, a Moor, and others followed the band. I did tour the town; it had a very nicely decorated 13th-century church and a 17th-century, Jesuit seminary complete with a statue of its founder, Ignatius Loyola. The real gem was a small 12th century church dedicated to St. James. In the 15th century , the pope proclaimed that any pilgrim too sick or infirm to make the entire trip to the city of Santiago could receive the same plenary indulgence by standing in the doorway of the Chruch of Santiago in Villafranca. I, of course, did this, so don´t worry about me, folks, I´m covered.

On Sunday, I made the 30km hike up to O Cebreio. The climb up the mountain, the steepest on the pilgrimage, was difficult, but the glistening sunlight and fresh, cool breeze were only eclipsed by the stunning scenery. These are the mountains of Galacia, and they are granite hard, but covered with lawn-green fields broken only by stands of pine and oak trees. At the top of the mountain, you are afforded a spectacular view across mountain and valley. Additionally, there is a village, Cebreio, that hasn´t changed in 800 years. There is an 11th-century church surrounded by round, stone houses with thatched roofs. The church holds two great treasures: a 12th-century image of Mary and the Christ Child, and a communion cup and planten which are associated with a miracle. According to legend validated by the Vatican in the 15th century, a priest and pilgrim saw the wine in the cup literally turn to blood. The original cup is one of Galacia´s most treasured artifacts (its image is on the Galacian crest and flag).

Today, I´ve had a slogging-wet walk to Triacastela. Everyone on the trail is beginning to build a slow sense of excitement--only a week to Santiago!

p.s. No, Frank, I did not find the Holy Grail in the Templar tunnel; I did, however, find the Maltese Falcon behind a false wall.

Ponferrada

Indulge my rememberance. When I was eleven and living in Virginia, my family took a little trip up to see the Civil War battlefield at Gettysburg, PA. Like most boys my age, I was fascinated with anything having to do with the Civil War. We visited the Lutheran Seminary near where the engagement began, and we went to the park headquarters, but then, to my horror, a cold, light rain began to fall. My parents made a crazy decision that I´ve never forgotten. They made button up my sweater, then put my older brother´s sweater on over it and told me to go out a have a good time. I saw Little Round Top where Chamberlain won a Medal of Honor with the 20th Maine. I saw the unrelenting boulders in Devil´s Den where so many died. But most memorably I watched in my mind as Pickett´s broken lines crossed the terrifyingly flat field where Virginia died.

Today, eleven-year-old Jerry showed up in Ponferrada. Yes, the adult in me visited the museums and looked at the prehistoric and Roman artifacts. I photographed the churches. But people--there´s a castle here. The Knights Templar! Imagine them returning home in the early 1100s having won Jerusalem back to Christianity. What secrets did they find in the Holy Land? As the castle walls rose, they offered protection to the pilgrims walking to Compostella. Somehow, that same cold rain began to fall, and I just couldn´t help myself. A sensible adult would have sought out a warm cafe, but I raced across the walls--stopping at every slit to check for seige towers or attackers. The remains of the old chapel and the knight´s hall called up ancient ceremonies, lost since the order was excommunicated by the pope in the early 1300s. For goodness sakes--there were even ramps to roll large rocks down on the heathens, and a great keep, and a secret tunnel that led down to the river. What boy could want for more?

Okay, I´m back to my fifty-one-year-old self. I´ve walked all the way to Villafranca del Bierzo, and I haven´t even found a place to stay for the night. I guess I´ll go and do the sensible thing--now, at least.

Over the Top

The last couple of days have been more rewarding that I can adequately record here. First, the walk from Astorga to Rabanal del Camino was glorious--a bright beautiful day, temperatures in the 60´s, a 20km stroll that continued slowly upwards through rolling hills and past mines dating back to the Romans. Rabanal itself is a spiritual respite. It sits halfway to the climb over the highest elevation on the trip--almost 5,000 ft. Benedictine monks run one albergue and the Confraternity of St. James operates the other. The monks offer Vespers, the evening prayer, each evening with a liturgy that is 900 years old. In fact, the small, old Templar church there has been under their continual care for that period of time. At 9:00 the townspeople--about 20 or so--came out an led a prarade from one hostel to the next to the church. A couple of men played flutes--one looked a little like an Irish penny whistle, while the other was more like a recorder, but had only six stops. They played a high-pitched, frantic dance tune while another man banged out a rythm on his drum--bang-bang-bang, bang, bang--over and over! The women clacked along on castanets, and the rest of us just danced behind them. We locked arms and kind-of skipped our way through the narrow streets while temperatures fell into the 40´s. The parade came to a halt at the church where the locals had us line up in two lines and do a whirling dance to another high-stepping tune. What a time! Then we went into the church again at 9:30 for our final pilgrim blessing and for the blessing of our rocks.

Rocks? Yes, the next day´s hike took us past Cruz de Ferro--the highest point on the pilgrimage. Since the time that the pilgrimage began, pilgrims have been leaving a stone at this point. In the 12th century, the hermit Gaucelmo, a guardian of the trail like St. Dominic of the Walkway and San Juan de Ortega, placed an iron cross on a tall pole at the site. For hundereds of years, walkers have left a stone as a symbol of a burden they want to be rid of--a weight that they want to turn over to God or to St. James for their keeping.

The climb up and up to Cruz de Ferro was made easier for me by good company. At the albergue operated by the confraternity, I met Mike, a maritime insurance man from Alaska and Seattle. Instantly likable and a great talker (Jim he really did remind me of you), Mike is an ex-Marine turned businessman, and he did have some great stories to tell. Walking through fog and cold rain, we were at Cruz de Ferro before we knew it. We took our pictures and left our burdens in the mist--we exchanged what would have been a fine view for the magic of the being wrapped in clouds. On the walk down to Molinaseca, we broke into sunlight that revealed magnificent rolling mountains and steep, granite drop-offs. We finished about 25km together with dinner that night.

This morning, Mike and I strolled along for 9km into the city of Ponferrada. I had a little work to do at the museum and at the Benedictine monastery, so we parted company. One of the miracles of this walk is how quickly, literally in the space of 36 hours, you can meet and become friends with strangers. ¡Buen Camino, Mike!

Spanish Reporter

I´m walking along at a little past 11:00am, and what do I find but a working internet in a bodega. My brother, Lloyd, says that I´m his ¨morning cup of coffee,¨ so I decided to give him a report from Spain for his early entertainment.

THE MATINS--very interesting (if you don´t recognize this, read the previous entry). I´m afraid that my flesh, however, was weak. I was supposed to spend the time between midnight and 3:00 reading or in prayful contemplation. I tried reading, but the light was poor, my eyesight was failing, and I was tired from the day´s walk (enough excuses?). So, yes--I fell asleep. I think the brother who had to awaken me before 3:00 was a little irritated, but hey--I recall that Peter, James, and John also fell asleep, and I have nothing like their virtues. Nevertheless, a memorable experience.

SOCKS--yes, the great sock question has been answered. If you recall from one of my first entries, I had been told to buy three different kinds of socks by three different experts. Here is the correct answer: Smart Wool. The silver blend socks do not help reduce odor--after an hour in my boots, they stink. The magical synthetic socks are fine, but they take two days to air dry after washing. One night last week I became frustrated with them and lay them across a lamp shade. Five minutes later, I smelled something burning. Yep--synthetic fibers melt. They had little holes melted in the middle, but--get this--they were STILL WET! I didn´t even give them a funeral--I just threw them in the trash.

HATS--you´ve got to have one to protect from the sun. Lots of walkers have a sort of ball cap with a neck shade attached. Cowboy hats are very popular--especially those straw hats with the broken brims. I, however, wear a Genuine Tilley Hat. When I was looking for headgear, I wanted to buy the cheap, broad-brimmed canvas hat (which would have been destroyed the first week). Kathleen and Jonathan bought me an early birthday present by giving me the Genuine Tilley Hat. It floats; it repels rain; it keeps its shape; it is fully washable; it has a lifetime replacement guarantee. It´s even recognizable--other Genuine Tilley Hat wearers come up to me and ask if I´m from Canada (it´s made there). When I say, ¨No,¨they guess the UK or Australia. We have a club--a conspiracy of knowing that we have the best hat on the trail.

SECOND HAND SMOKE--it seems as though everyone here smokes. There are few ¨smoke free¨ areas, so you just have to submit to it. Some days, after an arduous walk or on a hot day, you walk into a cafe hoping for a cool drink, and a cloud of smoke envelops your face before you can say ¨¡Hola!¨ I´m stting in quite a fog right now; hey, Mark--you could save on ciggs just by taking a deep breath. Well, it´s the culture (and it was, afterall, a gift from the New World).

That´s it for now--I want to get back on the trail. If you didn´t read the entry on Astorga that I made about 14 hours ago, scroll down. In the mean time, good morning, big brother--and ¡Buen Camino!

Astorga

Beginning with the walk, this day has been an inspiring one. The path from Hospital de Orbigo to Astorga took we pilgrims over a rise that opened to a grand view of the Leon Mountains and Astorga sitting nestled on a hill in the valley floor. The star on the map below marks Astorga, my current location.

 
All my dad needs to know about Astorga is that it is the chocolate capital of Sapin (Edit--Spain). When the uses of cocoa were discovered in the New World, the Spanish began shipping the beans back to Astorga for processing. They´ve been making chocolate here for 300 years, and there are chocolate shops every block to prove it. And yes, Dad, I began my stay in Astorga with a tour of the Museum de Chocolata--complete with samples!

For the chocolate-uninterested among you, Astorga was founded in the first century as a Roman provincial hub; the remains of the Roman bath, walls, western gate, and villas are revealed in the city through tourable excavations. Additionally, there is a museum dedicated to the many artifacts found here--coins, statuary, funeral markers, mosaics, pottery, metal objects. Then, of course, there are the old churches--the 11th century church of San Bartolome is a highlight. Sitting next to a monastery founded by St. Francis of Assisi, San Bartolome is not only beautiful, but it houses (in the deep, secret recesses of who-knows-where) the Gonfalon! If you don´t know what that is, then perhaps you can reach Chuck Hope at TCC--or read ¨Sharpe´s Company,¨ a book by Bernard Cornwell. Okay, the Gonfalon is a kind of flag or banner--supposed to be the one that led the Spanish Christians to victory over the Moors during the Reconquista. Aside from these elements of the obscure past, Astorga has a 15th century, Gothic cathedral, Santa Maria. Nevertheless, the real gem of the town (and the one you´ll see on the web site or tourist brochures) is the Episcopal Palace built just about 100 years ago. It was designed by Antoni Gaudi (yes, the guy who helped design the Barcalona neo-Gothic unfinished giant that is either the world´s greatest church, or a useless eyesore--depending on your point of view). The Palace looks like a fairyland structure--a kind of Boris Villejo dreamscape. The Cardinal was supposed to use it as his residence, but the cardinal moved, so this fantasy building is the Museum of Los Caminos, housing priceless Christian art from the past nine centuries on four decorous, art nouveau floors.

Finally, I should mention what I´m doing tonight. I´ve been invited (though prior arrangement with a monastic brother) to say the ¨Matins¨ at the monastery. Matins, or the ¨Night Office,¨ are prayers, hymns, or psalms performed at midnight and/or at 3:00am. They have been saying the Matins on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays for 900 years here. Tonight, they´ll have a novice participant. Rest well, Metroplex; I´ll say a prayer for you.

p.s. On a difficult climb today, I started humming hymn number 340 with each step I took. Okay United Methodists, get out your red hymnals, and see which one it was (do you think it´s okay to hum a Protestant hymn in such a very Catholic country?).

Just Another Perfect Day

Now I have to define ¨perfect.¨ See if this works. I started at the rare book collection at the University of Leon. They set out early editions of Cervantes just to impress me (it worked), but the heart of the collection was in Incanabula (that would be books printed between 1455 and 1500) and in medieval manuscripts. I had e-mailed ahead my interest in medieval music, so 20 manuscripts of music, complete with notation and illustration, were waiting for me. I spent hours--I could have spent days. These are works of art in themselves, representing years of veneration and careful preservation. The single most impressive manuscript was a 14th century collection of music, fully illustrated on magna-folio; that is, it was hand written and drawn with four colors of ink on sheets of vellum (calf´s skin) cut to large size--about 22x29 inches per page. Simply perfect.

Then I cheated. I rode the Leon city bus to the very edge of the city so that my walk to Hospital de Orbigo would be only about 12 kilometers. I was anxious to see the 19-span, medieval bridge that links the towns of Puente de Orbigo and Hospital de Orbigo. I arrived by 6:00, found an alburge, showered, and came right back to photograph the bridge. Here´s why. In 1434, Suero de Quiñones was in love (all together now--aaaaawwwwwww). But, of course, his lover rejected him. Don Suero decided that the only way to overcome his unrequited love was to purify himself through manly contest--specifically, he and eight of his squires posted a challenge to all knights passing the bridge over the Rio Orbigo to joust. His goal was to break 300 lances in knightly contest. Over a period of a month and a half, 63 knights did indeed take up the offer. Afterwards, Don Suero and his squires made the pilgrimage to Santiago where he left a gold bracelet commemorating his higher love for God. That bracelet is, in fact, still in the cathedral in Santiago. Evern more alluring for me, the stories surrounding the life of Don Suero de Quiñones are reputed to have inspired the character of Don Quixote.

So, try your best to imagine this. I´m sitting at the end of the long, eleventh-century bridge, right across from a fifteenth-century church and an Atlantic cool front has just rolled over the Leon Mountains into Hospital de Orbigo. Night is falling, and I survey the field where Don Suero fought to wrench tortured love from his blighted heart. I have an ice-cold coke in my hand. Isn´t that the end of a perfect day?

Sahagun and Leon

It has been three days since my last entry--you just try to find a working internet connection or an open Internet Cafe on Sunday in Spain. I´ve traveled the long, flat road from Sahagun to Leon and spent a day in the big city.

Sahagun was once an important stop on the Camino. It was home to more than 50 monasteries and societies, most associated with an expansive Cluniac complex. The French monastery of Cluny sent priests in the 12th century to begin building in the area. What remains today is historically interesting, but also a sad, sagging sight. I say sagging because the buildings weren´t constructed from the same material as buildings farther to the west. Due to the lack of suitable stone in the area, the locals here built out of baked, red bricks. Consequently, what remains is slowly melting in the elements--you can literally see walls bowing and roofs sagging. Two large church sanctuaries remain, and the gates to an expansive complex still stand as traditional pilgrim passageways; otherwise, little remains. Interestly, because of the inferior building materials, the sanctuary walls do not rise as high as eleswhere, nor do they have vaulted, stone roofs--even today they have timbered, thatched roofs.

The road into Leon follows the highway and the train track through fields of wheat, oats, and other grains. You enter through an industrial area and the western rail yard--not the city´s best features. Nevertheless, the city itself offers 2,000 years of history to consider. Originally an indiginous village, the town began to take shape in the first century when the Roman VIIth legion founded a camp here--the city´s name ¨Leon¨ literally comes from ¨legionem,¨ or the word for legion. Impressive round towers and the remains of walls still mark the original Roman quadrangle. Aaaah, but the cathedral. It is Leon´s gem. Anchoring one corner of the ancient quad, the cathedral was built on top of the old Roman baths and on another, earlier Christian church. The current structure was built entriely in the 12th century and represents Gothic style at its best. More than 20 soaring panels of stained glass and three rose windows fill the interior with colored light. Somehow, this feels more like a church than Burgos´ cathedral. Burgos, although filled with material and artistic treasures, was almost a cacophony of styles and expressions--all polished to a high gloss. Leon´s uniformity of idea and simplicity of height and color speak more directly to the human spirit.

I heard mass Sunday morning in the 900-year-old Balilica de San Isidro, then had a good day museum hopping. This morning, I meet with the kind folks at the University of Leon´s rare books collection for a few hours with the written word. Then, down the road. ¡Buen Camino!

Cantigas

Anyone who knows me knows that I have an abiding passion for Medieval and Renaissance music. Among my favorite compositions are the Cantigas de Santa Maria, the Songs of Saint Mary, written in the 13th century in the court of Alphonso X of Spain. A few years ago, Dianna and I visited Scarborough Fair for the first time, and we fell instantly for the music of a group called Cantiga. They perform, among other works, the Cantigas, taking the themes from the original text and extemporizing as modern jazz artists might--as they might have nearly 800 years ago in Spain. Alphonso, called "El Sabio" (The Wise) because he blended Christian, Jewish, and Islamic cultures, wanted to venerate Mary at the height of what is called the Marian cult in the Middle Ages. The the words to the Cantigas narrate not only the life of Mary, but the more than 400 songs also describe miracles attributes to Mary throughout 1200 years of Christian history. In effect, they are a portrait of Marian veneration.

Why the history lesson? One of my goals for this trip was to visit the place where the Cantigas were first performed--to absorb the atmosphere in which these works of surpassing beauty were engendered by artists so long ago. Yesterday, I spent nearly two hours in the village of Villalcazar de Sirga--just a little Tierra del Campos town now, but home to the 12th century church of Santa Maria la Blanca. This was home to the Cantigas--the church of "Mary of the White"--where Alphonso X first heard many of the songs. It´s as much a fortress as a church; El Sabio was a Templar knight, and the chruch doubled as a Templar chapter house. A great, squarish building, it has a beautifully decorated porch and double transept interior repleat with images of Mary throughout. When I entered, the curator was playing a CD of Gregorian chant--it´s what most visitors expect for mood-music, I guess. I just sat and--okay, I´ll admit it--looked a little awestruck until he came over and asked if I had any questions. His demeanor changed entirely when I mentioned the Cantigas--he ran into a vestibule where the CD player was and immediately put on a CD of the Cantigas. He invited me into an area off limits to tourists and showed me a 14th century copy of 76 of the songs. He discussed an image of Mary that is reputed to have been Alphonso´s favorite. Then, he just left me alone to listen and imagine. Truely, I could hardly bring myself to leave Santa Maria la Blanca--a little repository where the discerning visitor may still hear as well as see the vestages of European history and culture.

I walked the long, rising hill out of town, humming my favorite cantigas to the rhythm of my steps. As I reached the top of the hill, two miles distant from the church, I turned around for one last look. Silly, I know, but I raised my hiking pole as a farewell and thanks, and at that very moment a lovely breeze blew up from the direction of the church. Another Marian miracle--worth a song? Oh, probably just a thermal or a wind blowing across the top of a rise . . . probably.

p.s. A special thanks to the members of Cantiga--Bob, Charry, Michelle, Mark, Max, Jamal and Martha--for keeping the music alive (visit them at www.cantigamusic.com). And especially to you, Martha, for helping to inspire this trip. I think I heard your harp echoing in the church yesterday.

Burgos and Beyond

They may call it Tierra de Campos, but this part of Spain looks like West Texas to me. This is the first computer I´ve found in three days--I haven´t even been able to call Dianna by phone for that time (found a satellite phone, but the calling card wouldn´t work). Anyway, Burgos! I felt like I was strolling through history. I had no idea that the cathedral was so beautiful--polished marble and limestone. The great dome was, in my opinion, more beautiful than Westminister Abbey. And the Cid´s are buried there! You know, El Cid (Charlton Heston) and his wife Jimena (Sophia Loren). The cathedral also houses an impressive collection of religious art in the cloister--I mean, they have a Da Vinci for goodness sakes. I really had no idea at the nature of the exhibit. Additionally, I toured the remains of the medieval castle on the hill (used by the French between 1808-09 during the Peninsular Campaign), and I followed the old medieval wall around as it was met on four corners by different churches (12th to the 16th century in construction). I do have to say that I felt a little un-nerved by a museum collection of gold artifacts used in private and public liturgical practice. There were dozens of works of art--tri-folding alter pieces and communion chalices--all made of gold in the 16th century. What concerned me, of course, was that the gold was wrung along with the blood of the Aztec and Inca peoples of the New World. How could such an object with such an origin have been used with full devotion?

Since Burgos, I´ve been walking. Spent a great night in Castrojeriz--a little town that failed to grow as Burgos did. All that remains is the ruined castle on the hill and three impressively large, if dilapidated, churches. One of them even houses a collection of more than 20 paintings by Spanish artists of the Renaissance. The church is rarely visited now, but the local church authorities won´t part with their prized collection. Tomorrow--Iglesias Santa Maria la Blanca!

p.s. Mom, Dad, Dianna--you guys will be amused to know that as I was climbing 1,000 ft. up a mountain outside Castrojeriz, I started singing ¨Cool Water¨ (¨Keep a-movin´Dan, he´s the Devil not a man, and he spreads the burnin sands with water!).

p.p.s. Thanks to all who respond--sometimes it keeps me going. Vicki, a double thanks for the kind words when I was a little down--yer a pal.

p.p.p.s. Dad, you´d have enjoyed the walking the last couple of days--dry and hot. Miss you.

The Builder Saints

The past couple of days--from Santo Dominico to San Juan de Ortega--I have been walking on roads and passing over bridges built 900 years ago by two local men who were good friends, Dominic and Juan. According to his hagiography (saint´s story), St. Dominic was born around 1040 in a small town on the way to Santiago. He twice applied to monarseries for study, but they found him to be illiterate (modern scholars believe he may have had a learning disability). Dominic became a hermit, but as years passed, he noticed the trouble pilgrims had with local hills and rivers. This monasterial reject began building a bridge near his cave to help pilgrims on their way. He dedicated a chapel for their use--this grew into a church. With the help of Alphonso VI, he opened a hospital, improved the roads for miles to and from his buildings, and started his own monastery. Juan became a convert to Dominic´s cause, and from a location about 35 miles away, connected roads, built more bridges, and opened his own church and hospital complex. Between them, these two men reached out over more than 50 miles of the Camino.

Today, we still use the bridges. The crypts of these two saints are part of the large churches they helped establish. Of course, modern roads have succeeded the crude ones they helped build. The hospital complex of San Juan is little more than rubble outlined in the arid desert. Dominic´s hospital was nationalized by the Spanish government several years ago and is today a swanky tourist resort. Most of the pilgrims I know couldn´t or wouldn´t afford a night´s stay (170 euros--over 200 bucks!), but they do let us poor pilgrims into the lobby to take pictures.

I don´t know how you assess this information. Percy Shelley´s poem "Ozymandias" uses as its theme that the works of men are short-lived and will be subsumed by nature. I know it´s true. Nevertheless, it seems too abstract to frame our lives in such a historic perspective. Dominic and Juan saw needs and reached out; I´m not sure that they were concerned with longevity or later judgments. As an educator, I know that many of the things I say or teach in class will soon evaporate from the minds of my students--sometimes before lunchtime. But we´re still out there building bridges and roads and even mending ignorance from time to time. Will it last? Most of my colleagues just see the immediate needs of the community and reach out, leaving longevity to take care of itself. I teach with a lot of builder saints.

Home Thoughts from Abroad

Okay, so I borrowed the title from Mark Twain´s trip through Europe to the Holy Land. This is certainly my most self-indulgent entry to date, but it´s Sunday night and I have an hour or so before the nuns in the convent lock all the pilgrims in and I´m a little homesick. I miss my friends at TCC, and I miss you guys in Duncanville and at TUMC (Dianna forwarded pictures from that last Sunday). I wonder from time to time what Frank would make of some of the things I´ve seen--wish I had you here. I miss hugs from my kids and parents and wifey (I told you this was entirely self-indulgent!), and I miss Texas food.

That´s my subject (such as it is) on this installment of ¨Home Thoughts¨--food. I miss chili and Dianna´s home-made turkey soup. As my good friend John Shumaker knows, I like a hamburger every now and then (whenever I can sneak one from Dianna´s notice). Now, I don´t mean a Whopper or a Big Mac--I mean a big ol´Fudrucker´s hamburger or something like that. Everything in Spain seems to have ham--¨jamon¨--on it, or there´s cheeze, or there´s egg--never beef. Well, you won´t believe it. After exploring the town and looking at the shrine to Saint Dominic, I found a restaurant called ¨Hambergerer and English Pub.¨ The spelling of hamburger was a little suspicious, but I ran excitedly in and asked,¨¿Tenes hamburgers aqui?¨ (¨Do you have hamburgers here?¨ ¨Si!¨was the answer, so I ordered one with a Coke. I could hardly wait. Beef. And Dianna didn´t have to know. What did I get? A long French baguette. When I lifted the top off, I found white cheeze and egg topping two thin, fried pork chops. It was a ham-burger. Sometimes even the food loses a little in the translation.

Take care of each other back home.

One Night in Najera

The walk to Najera yesterday across the rolling hills of this part of Spain was quiet and easy. The town itself offered several special attractions. Perhaps I should give you an insight into the daily routine. Wake up at 6:20 or so, pack, get whatever is available for breakfast (always buy a piece of fruit in a market before going to sleep), and hit the trail. Walk, walk, walk. Then get into Najera and go to the albergue (the pilgrim hostel). Unfortunately, it was full by around 1:00, so I had to go to a local hotel--they gave me a ¨pilgrim price¨ (about a 25% discount--28 euros for a single). Strip off your clothes; take a shower; wash stinky clothes in the sink and hang them up. Take a nap. Now, it´s 2:30 and you´re ready to see the town.

Najera contains the mortal remains of many of the 11th and 12th century kings and queens of Navarre. The hotel itself was named for Fernando III who united the crowns of Leon and Castille in 1216. Passing the 9th century ruins of an early church, you´d see the Monasterio Santa Maria de la Real--a great fortress of a church and monastery that holds the amazingly beautiful tombs--carved stone coffins--of not only the royalty but also of their children. The church itself is built into the side of a cliff incoporating a cave where Sancho the Great is said to have see the Virgin Mary. The length of one wall is devoted to those children who died at early ages; one incredible stone box is carved with the 12 apostles and a relief from Revelations and holds the 12th century remains of an 18-month-old boy. In the cloister--a lovely collonade of carved stone--are the two crypts of Pedro ¨the Good¨ and his wife; they died four years apart, and their crypts are decorated with scenes taken from their lives. The writing and the carving on some of the crypts have melted away with time.

There was a wedding at the church in Najera that night. The wedding party set off fireworks, and the townspeople gathered for their usual fun and relaxation in the plaza. Najera is special because the plaza sits astride the Rio Najerilla; people strolled back and forth across a couple of foot bridges. Few even raised an eye to the long-abandoned hermit caves in the hillside. The wedding celebration went on into the night as I went to bed.

Today, I went to early mass in Najera and took to the road for Santo Domingo de la Calzada--and it all starts again.

Logroño en La Rioja

One day isn´t always like the next on this trail in Northern Spain. The 14 mile hike from Estella to Los Arcos took me across country that, in a way, revealed its history at a glance. The Camino takes you from hilltop to hilltop--sometimes climbing 200 meters (that´s over 600 feet for you conversion deficient). Every small town has its own church--usually built between the 12th and 14th centuries (for those who don´t know, Europe suffered a series of plagues during the 14th and 15th centuries that limited collective building projects). From one particular hill, I could see seven churches, monasteries, or convents situated to overlook the landscape from various points of high advantage. Only three of these were still used or inhabited--the others had generally fallen into disuse after the 18th century. Certainly, the overwhelming influence of the church in a past age was on display. This area is also noted for its active hermit ¨communities¨--I know, that sounds like an oxymoron, but many of them gathered in common locations, but lived apart. Dotting hillsides, are fallen piles of rubble that may have once marked a hermit´s cave--some, a local pointed out, were used as late as the last century by shepherds for shelter. Now, shepherds live in campers with attached tents. Welcome to modernity.

I said not every day is the same--I met my first American on the trip! I was just walking into Los Arcos at the end of my hike (looking forward to photographing a 12th century crusader-style church) when I saw a little commotion at the pilgrim hostel. Three other pilgrims had just helped Christina from Minnesota into town. Poor Christina said that she had been walking along when her knee popped as she stepped from stone to stone. They suggested taking her on to a clinic in Viana (about 8 miles), and this 24-year-old compatriot asked me to ride along to keep her company. On the way, she explained that she graduated from the University of Minnesota (go figure!), and that she wanted to do ¨Something important--you know, really important¨--before entering the business world. The doctor in Viana really couldn´t tell anything from an x-ray and suggested treatment in Logroño, or a flight home. It looks like a tear of the outside, lateral ligament. Christina cried. She couldn´t believe that she´d managed the mountain stage at St. Jean only to be brought down on the plateau. I hugged her--she cried a little more--and then I rolled her wheelchair over to a phone so that she could call her parents.

Today, I walked the last 6.5 miles into Logroño. A big town (130,000) with three great cathedrals. Hope I´m doing something important.