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.