Friday 22nd June
I woke up at 7am. Most people had gone. I launched myself out of the albergue, eating some stale bread, and charged along in the pissing rain.
It is often said Galacia is very much like England (Yorkshire, for instance), and this is very true. Especially with the rain. For me, the scenary was no longer particularly exotic. But the freedom of walking remained intoxicating.
It also appears to be a bit Irish in places, with some ancient pagan icons. One of the icons of the region is a little witch, which is surprising for such Catholic territory. But when Christianity came to England, pagan dates and images were incorporated in to the faith in order to incorporate the people into the faith. The Easter Bunny is the sacred hare of the goddess, for instance, and the soltices and equinoxes have significant holidays attached to them. Easter takes place each year on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. The actual date of Jesus' birthday is up for discussion, but the fact it is so close to the Winter Soltice is interesting.
While trekking through Galicia I observed the festival of San Juan. This included fireworks and leaping over fires - a very old custom (ever seen The Wickerman? The original work of art, I mean, not that Nicolas Cage, someone-has-too-much-money sacrilidge.) Here's what Wikipedia says about it:
"The evening of June 23, St. John's Eve, is the eve of celebration before the Feast Day of St. John the Baptist. The Gospel of Luke (Luke 1:36, 56-57) states that John was born about six months before Jesus, therefore the feast of John the Baptist falls on June 24, six months before Christmas. This feast day is one of the very few saint's days to mark the anniversary of the birth, rather than the death, of its namesake.
The Feast of St. John coincides with the June solstice also referred to as Midsummers. The Christian holy day is fixed at June 24, but, in the old way, festivities are celebrated the night before, on St. John's Eve.
St. John's Eve (or Bonfire Night) is celebrated in many parts of rural Ireland with the lighting of bonfires. This ancient custom has its roots in pre-Christian Irish society when the Celts honoured the Goddess Áine, the Celtic equivalent of Venus and Aphrodite. She was the Goddess Queen of Munster and Christianised rituals in her honour (as Naomh Áine) took place until the nineteenth century on Knockainy, (Cnoc Áine - the Hill of Áine) in County Limerick.
Similar festivities take place in Scandinavia. Bonfires are lit and effigees burned on the evening of June 23. People jump over the bonfires to prove their courage. Traditionally, three jumps cleanses one from sin and disease. One of the centers of the festival is in Ciutadella; but many different cities and towns have their own unique traditions associated with the festival. In recent years, public celebrations have begun cordoning off the fires for safety reasons."
In Spain, they don't have safety reasons. So they still have public fires and leaping over them (they still run bulls through streets).So Galicia seemed to be a wonderful taste of Yorkshire and Ireland.
I stalked through the trees and lanes and babbling brooks before I became aware, a few kilometres in, that there was an old man behind me. He eventually caught up with me and began to chat to me. His name was Rudi, and he was a German (rather inevitably) from a town near Freiburg (the one place in Germany I've actually been to) known exclusively for its wine. He was retired, but had been a 'glueman' for over 40 years. He began walking on 2nd April from a town along the French/German border. He was 65 and as fit as a fiddle. His English wan't just proficient, it was better than that of a great deal of native speakers. He spoke poetically. He was the kind of man that you have in stories as a wise leader who's travelled everywhere. He should have been an old wizard. Actually he could have been Dumbledore. I was so enchanted by him. We spoke about all kinds of things - his children, his childhood, his battle with the rules of Catholicism, his travels (his job took him all over the world). He was able to speak a few languages. He'd spent time in China. He said that if I was going to the US I absolutely couldn't miss New York. I'm not intending to miss New York (when I finally get over there) but I wanted more details. "Why?" I asked. It is rare these days to hear a European speak so positively about the US. It's fashionable to put them down. It was therefore refreshing to hear New York spoken of like a planet of wonders, a mesh of cultures. He said it was a melting pot, but all the ingredients were still visible, meaning originality was not compromised. Cuisine, music, theatre, opera, dance, nationalities and all hours of the night. I told him I'd like to go to San Francisco also. "Fantastic city" he said, "But you must be prepared for the funny people". He gave me the low down on several world cities. He was not showing off, he was not trying to impress. I asked, and he told. Because he knew. He'd lived all over the world. He told me things about England I didn't know. Some things about her history. I said I felt a bit daft not knowing. He laughed and said, "It's nothing to do with research, or intelligence! Quite simply, I was there." Quite an effective way to learn something. Hopefully when I'm 65 I will have 'been there' too..
We'd stopped 11km along to take photos at the 100km milestone. There was a group of Italians taking photos as well. Rudi was able to converse with them. I thought of Juan Antonio the Monk and his opera and sang a bit of Nessun Dorma.
The path that day was very up and down. Eventually the rain eased off. Wet England started to look a little bit more like Spain again. I told Rudi it reminded me of Song of the South - the disney film. When I was very little, my sister and I used to sing "Zippity Doo Dah". He hadn't heard of it, so I sang it to him. He looked amused. I confessed I sang a great deal when walking along, and was sure that one day I'd turn around and with extreme embarrassment find a group of people behind me. He said that I was more likely to find him, with a cap in his hand, collecting for me. I can't believe I impressed a man like that with "Zippity Doo Dah".
I told him that I believed that simple stories often teach us more about life than anything you can learn at university or school. I recommended Phillip Pullmans' His Dark Materials, which contains this revelation, among many others. Exceptional reading. Rudi's stories about being here, there and everywhere enriched me no end.
We walked together to Portomarin and decided to get some lunch and a sello (stamp for the credencial). We walked past various shops and I saw a dress. "A dress!" I cried. "I can't wait to be a girl again!" Rudi laughed at that. "Looks just right for you!" he said. It was tempting but alas, it qualified as unnecessary weight. We walked into a bar, for a 'Menu The Pilgrim'. At one point the cafe owner came over and enquired as to the nature of our relationship. "Is she your daughter?" He asked Rudi. "No, I don't have daughters." Rudi replied matter of fact, before saying to me, "At least he doesn't think I'm your grandfather." I pointed out he was younger than my father. After the Camino had given me a mother figure in the form of Chexie, I couldn't help but feel it had now given me a father figure. (A wise one).
We grumbled over the lack of vegetables (pilgrim conversations mutated over time from the nature of one's feet to just how bad the pilgrim diet was, courtesy of Spanish cafes which consistently failed to provide necessary nutrients) and walked out to look at the main church.
"Alison?"
I spun around. On the steps was Jesse! With the girl from Hong Kong! How we'd managed to be in the same place at the same time on the same day was completely insane. I'd followed a completely random trail of my own instincts and impulses, and now here I was with someone from my very first day. Delighted to see each other, we exchanged some anecdotes before Rudi (who'd decided to join me for an extra 7km to Gonzar) and I walked on, promising to see each other in Santiago. That was one of the greatest things of that last stretch. Anyone you met, you were almost guaranteed to meet again at Santiago. There was a lovely sense of being caught in a circle that would see you there safely.
We walked 29km that day. Gonzar was a cowshed. But I was pleased to get there nonetheless. The hospitalario showed us to our beds. Or bed. Two bunks were pushed together, with two pilgrims already inhabiting the lower bunks. It looked like a double-decker double bed. Rudi looked to me to see if I was OK with that set-up. There wasn't a lot we could have done about it anyway, and frankly, there was plenty of space and I was so exhausted I didn't care a bit. I said, "I apologise if I wake up cuddling you." He blushed. I laughed at him. I showered in a lovely hot water (communal) shower, whilst having a great conversation with a german woman while we were both stark naked. It was communal but not uni-sex, though there were those on the Camino. I hid until all the men had gone. I haven't quite got that to that state of abandonment!
I had a nap, as did Rudi and about 15 others. I was waking up when I heard a picture being taken. The cheeky bugger had taken a photo of me in my sleeping bag. But then again, I had done it up, because I was cold, completely, and the only thing sticking out was my nose for air. I must have looked hilarious and he'd obviously woken up to find he was in bed with a cocoon. I feigned sleep and tried not to laugh, though I heard him chuckling. I went back to sleep for bit longer.
There was one cafe (Gonzar was a church, several cow sheds, a bar, two or three houses and a albergue) so I joined a table of Germans for a salad. The people I joined that night were all people I was with in Santiago in the end. I learnt a lot of German that evening. I complained about feeling like a man, and Rudi told me I should have bought the dress. "It would have been just right." He told me and everyone. I explained that red is not really my colour because I'm always so pale. "Not at the moment," he said. "You're bronzed". I felt attractive for the first time since I could remember. (Most of my clothes were mens clothes because I don't fit into female Spanish attire, so I spent most of the time feeling like a bloke.)
That night, we all filled into bed around 9pm/9.30pm. The naked German woman (now suitably clothed) was on the top bunk above an Italian, who'd chosen this moment, with a dormitory full of sleeping pilgrims, to make a phone call on his mobile phone from the comfort of his bed. It was 9.50pm. By pilgrim standards that's midnight. It's a testament to the character of these people, that most people found it crippling hilarious. Unbelievably selfish. He was blissfully unaware of the shhhing around him. The German woman was killing herself laughing - I mean it was so inappropriate, all you could do was laugh. He finished one phone call and began another. "Ciao ciao" he began once more. In the end someone went over and gestured to him. He immediately went quiet then. The lights were off - it wasn't like he could assume people were awake. And there was a garden and a kitchen where he could have gone. Extraordinary. Rudi had called out to him in Italian, though he found it just as funny.
I did my usual routine of waking up throughout the night, worried that I'd over-sleep and miss everything or lose everyone or whatever the hell the problem is. Rudi rolled over in the night and clocked me with his hand which was a bit of a classic moment. Bit like when he glasses fell through the gap in the middle of the beds.
Not your usual Friday night.
Saturday 23rd June
I kept looking over my shoulder that day. I was up and out before Rudi, who said he'd see me down the road at a cafe. But the problem was, I was going fast again, and he did not want to get to Santiago before Tuesday. He did not catch up.
I was delightfully happy, singing along, enjoying the scenary. The sunrise was beautiful and I felt full of energy. The temperature was perfect - very cool, and no rain. Ideal conditions. I charged on again until midday, singing along to Carmina Burana, the Beatles and Alice Faye.
I walked into Palas Du Rei, decided to find water, and bumped into Jesse again in a supermarket. We walked together and chatted non stop. He was very fast which was great for me because it was another 29km day and I needed the impotus to keep going. I stopped for breath after we overtook about 40 people on a steep slope at uber-warp speed.
"Is this an OK pace for you or is this suicide?" he asked.
"I'm fine." I replied, being British, and weezing.
The relationship blossomed; He talked, I listened (because I was too busy trying to breathe and compartmentalise the pain in my feet), and he got me to Molinde at the very reasonable time of 4.30pm. We spent a lot of time talking about world-wide conceptions of America and Europe which entertained us a great deal. The word 'Europe' means something completely different to someone living in England. To the US, 'Europe' is a land mass - a global location. To the Englishman, 'Europe' is a place of hairy armpits, cheap wine, olive oil, common currency, decent weather, raunchy films, driving on the wrong side of the road and strange languages. That's just not England. It is another planet, and NO-ONE coming from the UK considers themselves to be in Europe. Equally, to a Brit, and to Europe, the US is full of people who cannot speak properly, eat hamburgers and weak beer, are unaware there is a world outside of their borders, want God to bless their country only, cannot make a film without the US flag cropping up every 5 minutes, cannot make a film without the US being wonderful and saving all the inferior other nations, are responsible for continually putting under-weight women on screen whilst simultaneously having the fattest people on Earth, and voted in a maniac. On the other hand, to the US, the British ARE in Europe, drink tea, all speak like Hugh Grant, know the Royal Family personally, cannot make a film without Hugh Grant, cannot make more than one film a year, drink warm beer, are pointlessly modest, are overly polite, drive on the wrong side of the road and voted in a maniac.
We then agreed that people are people wherever you go, just as stupid, just as daft, just as fat and just as thin, and their films are just as crap. That's what I love about Star Trek. It takes people out of their nationalities so you can see what's left. Humanity. And the fact that by all of us being different, we are in fact all the same. The Camino is wonderful for also doing this. And of course the wonderful story of how the German and British soldiers played football together on Christmas Day, 1914:
"Christmas Eve, 1914, and not a shot fired. The Germans ask to play football and hand out drink and cigars. They are eager to swop almost anything for our bully beef," the 34 year old veteran of the Boer War, who spent Christmas in a trench near the Belgian village of St Yves, near Ypres, writes in his diary.
The much-decorated NCO (Beck won the Military Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal and was twice mentioned in dispatches) also writes about how the British and Germans sing together, exchange gifts and play football in no-man's-land.
“Point 63. Quiet day. Relieved 2 RDF (Royal Dublin Fusiliers) in the trenches in the evening. Germans shout over to us and ask us to play them at football, and also not to fire and they would do likewise,” the entry in his diary for December 24 reads.
He also describes how a German band sing Home Sweet Home and God Save the King, much to the amusement of the British troops who start feeling nostalgic about their home back in England.
“At 2am (25th) a German Band went along their trenches playing Home Sweet Home and God Save the King, which sounded grand and made everyone think of home. The music sounded grand and made everyone think of home,” a local daily quoted his diary as saying.
“During the night, several of our fellows went over "No Man's Land" to German lines and were given drink and cigars." - ZEENEWS.com
One of the few time football has lead to peace, mind!
That evening, I realised that I wouldn't see Rudi again. Jesse met up with the girl from Hong Kong (a very magical relationship was growing) and I had a look around the town. Having had such rich company the night before, such rich conversation, I felt quite a sense of loss. With everything being so intense on the Camino, I was beginning to feel what it was like for the human lab rats in Big Brother. I already had an idea - when you work on a play, it has its own time and rules - its own reality. Emotions get blown out of proportion at times - certainly in young student theatre! I was taken aback by how much I missed Rudi's company. But I was nonetheless glad I'd had it for a day.
I went back into the albergue having bought food for the evening and the next day (because the next day was Sunday and you never know what will be open). A few of the Germans I was with the night before were sitting around the table in the kitchen. Tired of bad wine I'd splashed out on a decent bottle of rioja to help relax my muscles. It was perfect - I was able to share it with everyone (I wouldn't have had more than one glass probably) and we had a good time trying to communicate in basic English and German. I went to sleep that night quite relaxed, which help me to ignore the snoring French (who are the worst) and the celebrations for San Juan.
Sunday 24th June
I awoke to a miracle. My cotton scarf was tied to my bunk. I had no idea how it got there and hadn't noticed I'd lost it. However, there was no-one around to ask.
Actually, it wasn't the first thing I woke to. The first thing was pain. It was my penultimate day walking, and for the first time, I woke up aching like hell. I hadn't taken pain killers - wanting to save them for when I absolutely needed them. So Sunday, I had one of the best days of the entire walk, off my face on codeine.
I had an energetic start when I went down to the kitchen to get my food for breakfast and lunch, and found that someone had taken it all. I'm still angry about that. There was bread, cheese, tomato, cereal bars and some garlic. It was in a bag next to my water and a can of tomato puree. (There was no fridge and the dormitory was too warm). They left the water and the can and took the bag. Furious, I ran the first kilometre (after my German friends made me sit and have breakfast in a cafe - coffee and croissant - cake for breakfast again - I could have gagged but I didn't know when I was going to eat again. Typically there was nothing savoury and no fresh fruit to eat. It's a wonder these people (Galicians) haven't died out. They are all round though) in search of someone with my carrier bag. Apart from anything else the food had been quite expensive. To assume it was left there for another pilgrim would have been totally outragious as my cheese (having had no knife) had bite marks in it, and everything was obviously belonging to someone. Entertaining fantasies of the cattle prod again, I took off at an absurd speed, enjoying the fact I could feel no pain. All around me was mist and smoke from last night's fires. Going through the woods was a little like the Blair Witch Project.
I walked and walked and walked, exclusively alone that day but for half an hour with Brian the ex-airforce pilot from the US. He gave me his life story, as punctuated by conquests of women, but with self awareness and a sense of humour which was wonderful. He was very kind to me. I would have liked to have talked with him more, but he was very slow (it was very uphill for a while that day, and I had 31km to cover) so I went on ahead after a while.
I took off, aware that I could only take so many doses of codeine without an over-dose, and that I therefore had to complete the day's walk before they wore off and I was crippled. I sang, danced, marched, laughed, and leapt through woods and villages. The last two hours were tough. The pain started to ignore the painkillers and I may as well have been walking on hot coals. I pressed on and on, free as a bird and loving it.
Feminism on the Camino - someone drew the skirt and ponytail!
I arrived at my destination, Santa Irene, around 4pm, having walked since 8am with a half hour break. I was quite shocked when I was told there was only room for one more person (this was the first albergue for 17km, so there would be plenty more pilgrims coming). I soon realised it was full of pilgrims who'd walked half the distance and got there early. There were another 15 or so people (my friends) due to get to Santa Irene that night, having walked 31km. They were sent on to the next place. It was awful.
I had a shower and found a bunk over a loud snoring man. I suddenly felt that I should check the domitories in case I knew anyone. I found a smaller one - one of the Germans was in there already. I said something to him, getting the attention of someone at the back of the room in her bunk.
Chexie. It could have brought the house down. We weren't expecting to see each other until tomorrow in Santiago! The bed beneath her was free, so I re-installed myself, having, in many ways, already reached the end of my Camino.
Monday 25th June
Santiago de Compostela.
Chexie and I agreed to walk in separately for the sake of having our personal thoughts for the last 21km into Santiago. We met at a cafe further down the path briefly as well. I had a chilling experience there, seeing on the TV how Spanish soldiers had been killed in the Lebanon in a terrorist bomb. The Spanish soldiers were there working with ONU, United Nations. And it had been my job on arriving to Madrid, to teach them English. I'd panicked and reached for a newspaper. I still feel quite bad about this. 6 boys of 19 and 20 were killed. But I felt relief when I didn't recognise any names - or a specific name, truth be told. Once I knew my friend was safe, I felt better, but it's nevertheless terrible. Spain is towards the Switzerland end of the scale when it comes to aggression.
Chexie asked me if my MP3 player helped me move along faster. I told her it most certainly did - and it set a pace for me. At that time a song had cropped up with the lyrics "F**k you I won't do what ya tell me" - a favourite of one of my sisters. "But I prefer Frank Sinatra!" I explained, which is true, but Frank doesn't help you get up the hill!!
I walked into Santiago around 1.30pm. I was tired by this point. It was all town/city so it was concrete and people. I went into the Cathedral, expecting...well, something. I was too tired. Tourists were everywhere, with their flash photography. There were no signs indicating where St James' remains were. I felt angry that the end of my walk was a total non-event. I left the Cathedral, hating all the people around me who were carrying nothing, had probably walked for 5 minutes to visit the Cathedral and insisted on bumping into me. I decided it wasn't the best time for an epiphany and trailed off to the pilgrim office to collect my Compostela, my certificate.
The Cathedral at sunset
Chexie and I checked ourselves in to the hostel we'd treated outselves to (a private room each!) and relaxed for the rest of the day. She went out to dinner with many of the pilgrims she'd met. The ones I'd been with had stopped at an albergue just outside of Santiago so they'd arrive early the next morning.
So the next day, bringing with it a thousand familiar faces, was when I really arrived.
Tuesday 26th June (Chexie's Birthday)
Mass was at 12noon. Every day there's mass for the pilgrims. If you've arrived before 11am that day (or the previous afternoon) your starting point and nationality is read out by the priest. I was the only UK person who started in Pamplona. But they read me out and I was over-joyed.
The Cathedral was full of pilgrims. Two French women asked me if I'd got my scarf. I'd never seen them before. "Yes!!!" I exclaimed. "Thank you!". With the language barrier I couldn't understand how it had all happened. "It's not us, it's the Camino," they said. I sat with the Germans. I'd helped one of them retrieve his wallet after he left it at a cafe, and he was incredibly grateful. But I was missing one person. Rudi. As I sat there, staring up at the world's largest incense burner (the Botafumeiro) I prayed and prayed that I would see him again, not knowing if he'd arrive before the evening, and this being the opportunity to meet other pilgrims I would have missed him.
The German man next to me then leaned forward and said, "Rudi is here too."
I spun around and he was there, a few seats back. He waved at me. I looked back at the altar with big eyes.
After the service, I went and spoke to him. As un-epiphany as I was feeling, he clearly was experiencing something, so I gave him his space. I later had the opportunity to say goodbye properly, and then I was able to draw the curtain on that particular experience. Brian the American had said to me that Voltaire's theory is that we take a bit of everyone we meet - if we like it, we incorporate it, and if not, we disguard it. I hope Rudi's stories can live on in me at least. He was going on to Finisterre the next morning and told me he'd think of me on my birthday. I would have liked to have walked, but I so much wanted to watch the sunset into the ocean on my birthday that I was fast-tracking on the bus.
I felt a dreadful sense of come-down that day. Emotionally it was my hardest day. I'd said only the night before to Chexie that I didn't feel as though I'd walked the Camino with an emotional struggle. It all felt effortless, as if I hadn't earned it. But I suffered on Tuesday. Chexie said she didn't believe suffering was always necessary. She told me she thinks I'm "Very good at feeling your feelings". Not that the buggers give me much choice! But I'd rather feel them than shut them off.
I saw so many people again - the lovely Canadian who gave me a beer, Kate the eccentric Brit, many Americans and Germans, and finally, as ever, Jesse and his Hong Kong girl. I feel bad that I can't remember her name, she was beautiful and friendly and her English was excellent. They'd walked almost the whole way together. Jesse explained that the French women had found my scarf along the road and recognised it from when he and I were at a cafe that day. They'd handed it to him and he'd tied it to my bed. He said he thought I'd like a little miracle to wake up to.
Chexie and I went out to dinner to celebrate our birthdays and I took some photos of the sunsetting on the face of the Cathedral. She gave me a silver pendant of a scallop shell - a sign of St James. I'd made her a card because I couldn't find a decent one. We said our goodbyes that night - she was rushing off first thing to get her plane. She'd borrowed Simon's long Johns to keep her warm (just like me she'd left her trousers somewhere!) and I had to leave them in the post office for Simon to find when he got to Santiago. I went back to my room and packed what I could for the next day's trip to Finisterre.
Wednesday 27th June (Mt birthday)
I was awoked by a faint knocking. It turned out to be the birthday fairy.
"I'm sorry but I couldn't leave without wishing you a Happy Birthday!" said Chexie, and she hugged me goodbye.
Then, just like that, it was over. And now, I had to go to Finisterre, The End of The World.
PART SEVEN
Moon rises over Santiago Cathedral as the sun sets.
The shadow of Senorita Invierno
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