I'd thought it might just be me, but in fact there were 6 other people joining me in the monastery that day. I'd spent some time talking with pilgrims in the English hostal before the monastery opened later that afternoon. Ricardo the Spaniard showed up late in the afternoon and I told him I was staying in the monastery next door. He was such a sweet, shy soul, and like me was better off away from the madding-crowd. I was very glad the next day when he arrived to have a few day's stay. I was waiting outside for the doors to open for a while when another pilgrim approached me and starting chatting with me.
"Are you religious or are you just walking around?" He asked in English, despite being German, words carefully chosen and appealing quite gloriously to my sense of humour. The very idea! Wondering around for hundreds of miles? There's nothing 'just' about it!
"I'm quite spiritual but I'm not..."
"Organised?" He finished, again, hitting the nail on the head rather acutely.
"I'm definitely not organised!" I replied.
Finally a Monk emerged. Another pilgrim with me was a German lady who'd just completed the entire pilgrimage, but having seen the monastery along the way she had told herself she'd come back and spend a week there. You can spend as long as you like - it is run on donations and you help out with cooking and cleaning. Unlike the hostals/albergues, you are not thrown out at evil o' clock. You can stay all day and sit in the living room on the sofa reading a book from the library. A library which has books from at least 7 different languages. It was a haven. Pure and simple.
Other pilgrims staying were mostly German, but for two young women from South Korea. They barely had any English. They were just lovely. The hospitalerio (man running the hostal: they were once called hospitals, with the old meaning of hospitality!) was a wonderful young man from Valencia. He was also hilarious. And an excellent cook. He wanted us to phone his mother and tell her how well the meals were going so she'd stop giving him a hard time. Poor boy! Having a Spanish Momma must be oppressive at times!
I had grown concerned about how cold it was going to be (we were pretty high up in the mountains by now) so I'd made use of a large water-proof duffle coat that had been left behind at Astorga. I'd carried it all the way with the feeling I'd need it later. And I was right. It was bloody cold! The monastery did not have heating, and June was taking a year off. It was 10 degrees.
Obviously, what with being in a monastery, there was more of a religious 'angle'. The Camino, although a Catholic pilgrimage, welcomes everyone nowadays. There are a great deal of people spiritually motivated rather than founded in an organised religion. But there were even more just doing it for the walk. Especially the Germans. Late last year, a book was published in Germany by a famous comedian who'd walked the Camino and detailed his adventures. Consequently, 8 out of 10 people were German. And over 50. Anyway, I'd approached this with an interest in all things spiritual, having read Paulo Coelho's book 'The Pilgrimage'. I also adore walking and the freedom it gives me. I'd rather walk for an hour than get the bus for 10 minutes, for instance. But I have found myself trusting a force greater than myself in recent months - certainly more so in the last year. I don't know what that means. I wondered if the Camino might help me to discover something.
I attended church services/prayer (performed in Gregorian chant) which were open to the public (pilgrims) and tried to shake off any pre-conceptions or influence from my overtly antheistic immediate family. The services were very simple. They took one short lesson from the bible, translated it into German, English, Spanish and French and also had booklets translating their Latin verse into those respective 4 languages. Therefore, what came through was morality, decency and inclusion. A message for everyone.
You did not have to be religious to stay at the monastery. You did not have to be anything. It was the very shining example of acceptance, tolerance and brotherhood.
After the evening service there was confession. You could confess in 5 languages, as the Monk in charge was multi-lingual. I have no idea (and I still don't) what you're supposed to confess, or how you're supposed to do it. Never done it. I'm not sure what the Catholic Church considers to be worthy of confession (except for just about everything) so I didn't know where to start. But I was intrigued. I've always felt like I don't belong when I've walked into a church. Like I don't have the right to be there. Like I don't know the rules or I'm pretty much bound to have broken them anyway. But as this was the Camino, I decided that it was now or never. I said almost exactly all of this to the head Monk, Juan Antonio. He was very kind and rather amused by me. I told him I felt completely blind but I thought I should give it a shot. He advised that I read a certain passage of the Bible and talk to him afterwards. But he very firmly said that the whole idea is one of Love, and to have a relationship with Christ. He said that should be the focus, not the sins. As I related to my friend Kris, I immediately thought of the packet of Smarties I stole from a newsagent when I was 5. I didn't tell him about it. God surely already knows about that. My mother made me take them back, though.
Tuesday 19th June
The next day, I helped with the cleaning and then sat in the library reading. Juan Antonio had recommended the Gospel According to Luke. I recognised a great deal of it, even having never previously read the Bible. Feeling like a total fraud, I kept getting flashes of Mel Gibson's The Passion of The Christ. But I didn't want to go back to the Monk and say, "Hey it's OK - I saw the film version!!!". Jeepers. Can you say travesty??? I actually wanted to read more, but it took me most of the day besides other duties, and I could not take it with me.
Later that day more pilgrims rolled in. Frank the German was among them, still quite unwell. He was also tired. We shared English/German solidarity on the subject of continuous talking - a hobby of the Spanish and the Italians.
"They go to sleep talking, they wake up talking," he said, dryly. This made me laugh for some time.
I had the fortune that day, to finally meet someone else from England. Her name was Kate, and she'd walked from León. Despite the impressive proficiency of the Germans in English, it was a delight to talk utter shite (because no-one does that like the English) with Kate. Word-play, irony and understatement. It's an English institution that I sorely miss here in Spain. I used to have entire conversations in metaphor. Picking up on a ludricrous chat from 2 weeks ago. My, she was a breath of fresh air. We proceeded to incorporate 'malarkey' and 'shenanigans' into our discussion on the Camino, as well as liberal use of the words, 'thingy, doodah, watsit and fuck.' I hadn't felt so at home in weeks.
The pilgrims were given meals, included in the whole deal. It was the best food I have had during my stay in Spain. The hospitalario even provided me with vegetarian alternatives. We said grace before each meal. He said he'd developed a way of saying it as fast as possible to get to the food, but he was joking. He was an extremely devoted man, with a lovely sense of humour.
I went for a walk around the town before sunset. I found myself trailing up a hill towards a farm. Then I saw one of the Korean women. She was the quieter one. Her name was Mi (me) which I was happy about because I could pronouce it. She and her friend had taught me the word for good (it sounds like Chiwawa if you take off the last 'wa' and don't dawdle on the i, so it's Ch'wa). She was wandering alone. I'd felt sorry for her, because most conversation at the monastery was in German. I couldn't understand it either, but English would have been more inclusive. I smiled at her and said how beautiful I thought the scenary was (sounds trite but it actually really was breathtaking). She nodded. Most of our conversations had been in mime and when I spoke to her I used all my wits as a TEFL teacher in the hope she'd get the meaning. To my surprise, she asked me a question, in fairly coherent English.
"Why you do this road?" she asked shyly. We were a few metres apart. I felt towards her as I would feel towards a horse or an elephant; I didn't want to get too close - not for danger, but out of respect for a creature which I feel has tremendous grace and elegance. She was entirely in her own space, but inviting me in all the same.
"Um, I've wanted to do it for a while. I love walking. And I'm searching."
She understood what I said and gave me a warm grin.
"And you," I asked, "Why are you doing the Camino?"
She paused and tried to find the words.
"Ahh," she started with a self-conscious smile. Then she said, very slowly, "For peace in my heart. And prayer."
I was so touched that of the little English she knew, she had such beautiful words. As she said them, she mimed, and placed her hands over her heart.
That moment meant a lot to me. It was a perfect silence, in perfect nature, between two souls finding a way to communicate. I'd felt bad about encroaching on her space, but I was so glad I'd approached her. I felt sure she'd never have asked me that question around the others. Her friend was also so very kind and warm, but her English was better. She laughed and joked with the others. Mi was floaty and gentle.
I was due to leave the following morning, as were the Korean girls. We were packing. Mi approached me once more. She gave me a small token. It was a silly Korean mobile accessory - I'd seen them a great deal in Seoul airport a couple of years before. But it was never about the actual item with the pilgrims. She was giving me something to remember her by and as a token of affection. I knew I wouldn't see them again. I was again touched and quite embarrassed I had nothing to give in return. It remains one of my most precious momentos.
Wednesday 20th June
I awoke early to attend Lauds, the morning prayer. Another Gregorian chant. The monks were a little tired that morning and made a couple of mistakes. Well. I'm a singer, but not at 7.30am I'm not. And not in Latin.
Afterwards I returned to the monastery for breakfast. I said goodbye to all the people I'd met. It wasn't easy as I was so comfortable being there with all of them. I felt I'd no longer need the duffle coat so I left it behind for another pilgrim who was bound to need it. So I left a donation and the coat off my back.
Those two days could just have easily been on another planet. One pilgrim said, the most enchanting thing of all, was connecting with people of all ages, backgrounds, genders, colours, thoughts and nationalities. It became so irrelevant. It was pure peace. Not solemn, introspective peace, joyful, belly-laughing peace. Peace of sharing things with one another, laughing at ourselves and each other, respecting our differences. The milk of human kindness. I may well return to that haven on the hill. Just to remind myself what humanity can be.
Before I left, I owed a visit to Juan Antonio again. I told him I'd read Luke, and had almost a feeling of deja-vous, but then again the Bible and its message are fairly intrinsic in our society. He smiled. He reiterated that it's a relationship. That grows and grows. And it's about love. I told him how much my short stay had meant to be, and how material things mean so little to me now. When the material worlds disappears, what are you left with? I told him that after my mother died, everything external felt unreal, and everything inside me felt real. Same as my dreams which felt more real than my day to day living, which swiftly became 2 dimensional. I told him how I'd had a good job, a mortgage, a lovely flat with lovely things. And how the emptiness inside me was amplified by the fact that they meant nothing, how I realised that I needed more from life - that I wanted to be alive in the moment to live in the moment. I explained I'd sacrificed material comforts to have that freedom, to feel alive, in touch. In touch with what I couldn't be sure. I said that I'd prooved to myself that I could hold down a very good job and buy shiny new things and make a very good home for myself, but without someone to share it with it may as well been a coffin. I had come as far as I could with that kind of life. I told him I felt like a child playing on a beach. Once my sandcastle was built, I wanted to smash it down and build another. The pleasure is in building. Not having.
Juan Antonio invited me back, saying that they could use a good English teacher to help them improve their conversation. I said I hoped life would take me that way. He said that his Italian is ridiculous because as an opera lover all of his Italian is poetic. We laughed at that. I have the same problem with my German - I know lines of Schumann songs but that's all. He was a delight to speak to. We said our goodbyes and I began to make my way up the path.
Before I got very far, Ricardo joined me. He'd come out of his shell a great deal in the last day or so. He was good fun at the meals. And after glimpsing his photography, one hell of a talent too. With him I was fulfilling my role again (as I realised in retrospect) and the one who notices the shy and tries to include them. There were many times I needed someone to do that for me and I often still do. So I know how it feels. Ricardo told me he believed I was about to embark upon what he considered to be the best part of the entire Camino - and this is a guy who's already completed it 3 times. He then handed me a beautiful pink flower. Another flower!
"Buen Camino" he said.
I thanked him, and gave him the traditional two kisses and squeezed his hand. He had such a beautiful aura about him - peaceful, innocent, kind, but wise. Again I got the impression he would not have felt comfortable talking with me in front of anyone else so he'd sought this privacy. He made me feel special. There was nothing more to it - we hadn't even exchanged email addresses, but there was something richer about our exchange as a result of that. He waved me goodbye and returned to the village to continue his stay. I turned and began to walk, feeling like I'd been given the freshest air, and the lightest load.
I walked to Molinaseca that day. It was the toughest physical challenge, not due to reaching the highest point of the Camino (1517m) as that had been a gradual climb over a few days. But the decent lasted several, and I mean several hours, in the cold rain. It was 24km, with only the first 9 being uphill. Therefore I had 15km in which to drop from 1517m to 595m. The hardest bit was that so much of the path was not grass or earth, but rock. With the rain, it was slippery rock. At one point I stood staring at a steep slope in the rain considering that if I slipped and hit my head, that could well be it. I'd seen very few pilgrims that day and many were either further on ahead (I'd left at 9am and they'd probably left at 6am) or stopping in previous small villages. However, I just decided to be very careful. My hiking pole became a crucial aid.
These pictures are from the summit:
The Iron Cross. All around are tokens left by pilgrims at one of the most important shrines of the Camino. Having nothing to give, I left my pink flower, the gift of it always in my heart.
No camera could capture the beauty of that day.
Just in case you've lost you're way on your trip to Rome or Jerusalem.
After a dog attacked me, taking with it a large portion of my plastic coat, and a car drove by as I was urinating in a bush, I'd really rather had enough. I lurched into Molinaseca at around 5pm that day, physically exhausted. I got over the beautiful Roman bridge, saw that the albergue was another 2 km, and walked into a private hotel. It was still absurdly cheap, and to be honest, I would have paid what I paid just for the unspeakable luxury of having a hot bath. The fact that the bed was officially the most comfortable bed in Europe was just a bonus.
I had planned to get a bus to Ponferrada that would connect with another bus for Sarria - where most pilgrims start the final leg of the Camino. Sarria is the last place you can start which still qualifies for the Compostela (certificate). It is actually around 111km from Santiago. I was missing about 100km, and didn't like to get the bus again, but I felt that it was more important to meet up with Chexie in Santiago, and to be in Finisterre for my birthday, than it was to drag myself up the 900m climb of El Cebreiro with knees that were applying for annual leave.
Thursday 21st June
I met Frank the German again that morning, this time resolved to go home and rest. It wasn't working out so he was going to Santiago by bus that day. I was sorely tempted to join him as I was getting the same bus but merely getting off earlier, but I dragged myself off at the right point.
It was in one of world's most painful bus stations (soulless, waiting room, time has no meaning kind of place where you lose the will to live) that I was re-united with a favourite pilgrim. Pascal the old Frenchman from Bordeaux who'd reminded me so much of De Kelley. He was wondering around looking completely lost. We shared an absolutely priceless conversation over breakfast which he bought for me, being such a gentleman and all. We could still hardly speak to each other, but I managed to explain I was going to Finisterre, so he drew a little map for me so I'd know where to go once I was there. He had not been so well. He had a bad headache and he'd had a fever. So 'zee wife' was picking him up from a bigger town that he was getting a bus to. I gave him a Frenadol sachet (hot lemon, lemsip) and tried to explain that it was Spanish and very strong. I couldn't remember French for strong so I had to act the whole thing out, which was really something and amused him no end.
We were both tired and trying to communicate was quite an effort. I had the inevitable three hour Spanish wait for my bus ahead of me. His arrived and we wished each other well. I was so glad I'd seen him again.
By the time I got to Sarria nothing was funny. I felt more exhausted from waiting in bus stations and orienteering around towns than from rambling over mountains. I found an internet cafe for the first time in several days and sent out a reassuring message to anyone who might worry. I then went to bed. At 5pm. I got up at 7pm and ate my sandwich. I went back to bed at 7.30pm. I was done in. And now, it was 111km to go with no buses. This was a good feeling. Just expanse of walking and four days to do it in. Therefore getting sleep was my biggest priority. But I felt achy and lonely - the albergue was full of French and German pilgrims. Little did I know, one of the most enchanting parts of my journey was waiting for me the very next morning.
PART SIX
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