Santiago

Camino II: Wings and Stings

/ Benjamin Barnabas / 1 Comment

Hôpital de Saint-Jacques, Borce. 14.42.

Today’s march was only a little under two kilometres more than yesterday, but boy, did it feel every step of them!

I set out from Sarrance just before 7am, conscious once again that I didn’t want to book it to Borce. I had at the back of my mind that it might be sensible to push on to Urdos, if only to save me some mileage during the long climb up to Somport tomorrow, but I’m very aware that I have to keep these legs of mine in decent shape for six weeks, so no unnecessary bursts of speed or marathon days for me, thank you.

Much of the Camino today followed precarious paths along the river or the road. Arguably, the road stretches were considerably safer: rockfalls and erosion have conspired to make the cross-country sections of the road rather dangerous. Some thoughtful soul had fixed sturdy metal cords to the cliff wall for balance, but it’s plain enough that this section of the Camino sees considerably less traffic than the others.

This is most obvious in the jungle of thorns and nettles that grow about the path. For most of the morning I had to tread a jaunty path through the stinging undergrowth (overgrowth might be a better term), moving with the precision of a mountain goat to avoid the worst of them – especially when the alternative was a steep plunge into the rocky riverbed far below. I didn’t get particularly lucky, as the scars and the great red welts on my shins and neck will testify.

Between them and the mozzies, it’s been a pretty rough start to the Camino as far as bites and stings are concerned!

I crossed the threshold of the morning sun as I reached the outskirts of Bedous, disturbing a whole pack of caged hunting dogs as I did so. Their mournful barking must have been audible across the entire valley. It reminded me of a hunt I heard once when traveling through France, with the curious blast of the horn rising over the excited barks of the hunting dogs. This lot weren’t going anywhere fast, but I had a sense of the primal fear they must invoke in their quarry.

A far more pleasant sound became more and more strident as I entered Bedous: the plaintive whistles of kites. There were quite a few of them gathering in the trees around the Stade de Pierre Leyrat, the town’s rugby pitch (definitive proof that we are still in France). I didn’t give it too much thought as to why until I was flagged down by a local man out for a stroll, who pointed the kites out to me and asked me if I wanted to see a ‘spectacle’. I’m not much in the habit of saying no, so I stuck around to see what he was getting at. He was beaming and kept saying ‘ils sont impatients, ces milans… ils savent qu’il est en retard’.

Just who it was that was running late became apparent a few minutes later, when a man dressed in a red hoodie and one red glove appeared, carrying a bucket in his hand. Within seconds the kites seemed to double in number. There must have been at least forty of them, or even fifty. I haven’t seen so many in one place since the day of the winged ants in Uganda.

A small huddle of locals had gathered to watch, so I just got incredibly lucky arriving just as the kites were gathering. The man in red only apologised that the vultures were missing: ‘c’est formidable, mais ils manquent les vautours’.

They weren’t entirely missing, though. I could see at least two of them riding the thermals up above the peaks of the mountains. And they’d left a trace of their presence behind on the pitch, because when I went to collect the feathers I’d spotted from the stands, I found one which was far too big to belong to a kite. A feather from quite possibly my favourite animal in all creation: I couldn’t have asked for a greater totem to carry with me on the Camino this summer.

In case that wasn’t enough, a shepherd came down out of the hills with his dog and his flock of sheep. They seemed rather non-plussed by the small crowd gathered to watch the kites, and needed quite a bit of chivvying on from the shepherd and his dog before breaking into a run to catch up to him. Is it really a mountain adventure if you don’t see something like this?

Leaving Bedous and its kites behind, I followed the Camino about forty minutes later out of town and into the mountains. The road cut straight through a formidable gorge before winding a twisting path through via an EDF hydroelectric power station, fed by a pair of huge pipes running right up to the top of the mountains. The place seemed to be in full flow, but the only soul I could see was a woman smoking a cigarette outside the gates.

The following hour or so can only be described as an ordeal. After a brief stop in the woods, the Camino all but disappeared, and I had to improvise a path through several cattle fields. The cattle were nowhere to be seen, so their attendants – the murderous horseflies – turned their attention on me instead. And damn, they were persistent. For the best part of forty minutes or so I had to swing my baseball cap left and right like a medieval flail to keep the buggers off, and still they followed me, swarming about my head and legs through field and forest, determined to get a stab at me.

I think one of them got through, but it was hard work, flailing my arms around for so long. I guess they got as much of a workout as my legs today.

They only left me alone once I reached the cattle, at which point they must have decided that there were far easier targets than the fool with the baseball cap who had wandered carelessly into their lair.

It was quite a relief to see the road again. There wasn’t much traffic because of the repairs they’re making to the road surface, which was focused on the exact spot where the Camino rejoins the road. With any luck, that will mean they’re finished with the section between Borce and Urdos, which pilgrims have been catching the bus to avoid over the last few weeks.

The signs for Borce told a story of their own. It’s believed to come from an Occitan word, bòrça, which means farm or hamlet, but its phonic similarity to the French word for bear – ours – seems to have left a mark in its identity. Bears feature prominently in town, from local artwork and murals to the official signage on the road. And it’s this last that is the most interesting, because on both signs announcing the turnoff for Borce, you can quite clearly see the impact of a shotgun blast.

It could have been an accident, but the fact that it appears on the second sign – and only on the image of the bear – confirms that this is a local act of protest against the reintroduction of bears to the Pyrenees, after the last native bear was shot in 2004. The bears are back, thanks to conservation efforts involving the considerable population of bears in Slovenia, and they’re actually growing in number, but that’s not something that’s been welcomed by everyone.

When I was a boy, my parents took me on holiday to Les Cabannes, a mountain town on the eastern side of the French Pyrenees. There, they’d daubed the words ‘Non aux ours’ – no bears – in huge yellow letters on many of the roads (or rather, as I remember it, ours aux non, as they’d painted it in such a way that you’d read the words as you drove forward).

That was around fifteen years ago. The fury is still raw, with a local 81-year-old hunter jailed for four months for killing a bear that attacked him while he was out hunting in the mountains.

Spain has a similar problem with wolves, with one Cantabrian town leaving the severed heads of a local wolfpack on the steps of the town hall as a warning to those who would try to bring the wolf back from the edge of extinction. It’s been hundreds of years since we drove the wolf and the bear out of their homes in Europe, but the ancient fear we harbour towards these beautiful animals is still painfully present, so long as we try to share their world.

But I’m doing Borce a disservice. The village is tremendously charming, and full of running water – the most important amenity after such an arduous trek. Christian met me by one of the fountains, having lately returned from Canfranc; he and Miguel had caught the bus to the Spanish border this morning to see the impressive station, and Miguel had decided to press on from there, while Christian returned to Borce as his last stop before his journey home tomorrow. The two fellows have been a jolly presence for the first three days of the Camino, and I shall miss their company. Fortunately, it looks as though I won’t be alone for long, as there were quite a few pilgrims in Borce. It must be its status as the first (and last) stop after the train terminus in Bedous before Somport, the starting point of the Camino Aragonés.

So this time tomorrow – with any luck – I shall be in Spain. To celebrate, I had a Borçoise crêpe at the Auberge de l’Ours, following a tip-off Christian had received from the bus driver. It really was quite spectacular, and I couldn’t have left France without having one of these delicious French specialities.

Well, that’s quite enough for one day. There’s no WiFi here, so I’m relying on data to get this through to you. It’ll cost me, I’m sure, but that’s what all the hard work over the last year is for, right? That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. À demain! BB x

Camino I: The Wall

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Monastère de Sarrance, Sarrance. 15.07.

I’m sitting in the garden of Sarrance’s Premonstratensian monastery after a good morning’s walk. I didn’t have too far to go today: just over 20km, all in all, which is a good distance for the first couple of days as my feet get used to walking long distances again.

Sarrance is a quiet little village, perched on the west bank of the Aspe river which snakes its way north out of the mountains. Every now and then I see great shadows on the mountainside, cast by the hulking shape of a griffon vulture. There must be about eight or nine of them up there, circling above the craggy ridge of Escot. It feels good to be back in griffon country. It feels like home.

I left Oloron at seven on the dot this morning. Late, by summer Camino standards, but as I wasn’t aiming to travel far, there seemed no point in rushing a decent breakfast only to have to wait at the other end. There aren’t many pilgrims on this Camino, but I had a lovely communal dinner with Christian and Miguel, a Frenchman from Toulouse and a Belgian (rather, a Spaniard from Málaga who has lived in Belgium for almost his entire life and is now, to all intents and purposes, as Belgian as Leffe beer).

I set out on my own, as is my Camino tradition (and also because I know my pace tends to outstrip most pilgrims). Mercifully, somebody sent down from on high a great belt of clouds, so for the first half of the morning I was sheltered from the heatwave that is raging across Europe right now.

Which is just as well, as I was absolutely mauled by mosquitoes last night (it was far too hot to slip under even the flimsy sheet provided, never mind my sleeping bag liner), so the last thing I needed was a full morning’s sunburn to worry about on top!

Today’s stretch involved quite a bit of off-roading through the dark Pyrenean forests that cover the valley floor. There isn’t as much signposting here as there is on the Camino francés, but the reliable GR symbol (the red and white stripes) and the occasional seashell serve as decent waymarkers. I didn’t get lost once today, and that’s the important thing, because in this heat, every detour and reroute becomes a proper trial.

By nine o’clock the sun was back with a vengeance, clearing all the cloud cover in a minutes. I was sweating buckets at this point, so thank goodness for breathable fabric, or putting my backpack on after every stop would have been very unpleasant!

There’s a huge quarry carved into the mountainside just south of Lurbe-Saint-Christau. I don’t think I’d have given it much thought beyond ‘Jesus, who’d be working in this heat’ and ‘what kind of demon thinks it’s a good idea to take a huge bite out of a mountain’ until a deafening explosion caught my attention not longer after I’d passed it by. I couldn’t quite tell, but from the column of smoke and the enormous boulder tumbling down the slope it looked like the workers had dynamited a piece of the mountain.

I wonder if quarry workers ever feel a sense of remorse for what they do. It takes millions of years to build a mountain, and seconds to punch a hole in it. Or maybe I’m just being sentimental.

After the hamlet of Escot, the Camino winds its way through the forest along the banks of the Aspe River. There’s really nothing quite so pure and beautiful as a mountain stream, and I was drinking in the sight and sound of it for all of an hour and a half. It was all I could do not to strip down to my shorts and dive into the water (though I bet it would have been teeth-chatteringly chilly). I kept an eye out for otters, kingfishers, and even the Pyrenean desman, but no luck. Plenty of other critters kept me company along the road, like black redstarts, woodlarks, robins and a couple of red-backed shrikes, here near the westernmost limit of their range.

I got to Sarrance at around 11.30, making it a four-hour trek (with a half hour’s rest stop halfway). I thought I’d be far too early to check in, but one of the volunteers spotted me in the shade after the midday Mass and let me into the monastery to shower and wash my clothes, which was nothing short of bliss. Christian and Miguel showed up a couple of hours later, and we had a Leffe beer each at Miguel’s insistence while I counted raptors in the sky above. Within the space of half an hour I had clocked buzzards, honey buzzards, red and black kites, a booted eagle, kestrels and griffon vultures, all in the same airspace. No lammergeiers yet, but I’m keeping my eyes wide open for a sign of that diamond-shaped tail.

I spent most of the afternoon in the gardens, watching the vultures circling over the mountains. For about an hour there was a nearly constant drumroll of thunder to the south, but such is the natural wonder of the Pyrenees: the high mountains form one of Europe’s most imposing natural barriers, a great wall of stone that, throughout history, has cut the Iberian Peninsula off from the rest of Europe, dividing everything but the Basques and their language. A great belt of storm clouds had built itself up like mountains above the mountains, but it never did reach us here in Sarrance, breaking on the Spanish side like a besieging army. All we got was the wind, which was just what I needed after a long and hot walk.

The Premonstratensian fathers invited us to Vespers in their chapel before dinner, which was a warm and sociable affair. Christian and Miguel will take different route tomorrow, both by bus, so it may be that I find myself alone in Borce – I haven’t seen any other pilgrims on the road.

A quick leaf through the guestbook showed that the English are by far the least represented of all the nationalities on the Camino. I wonder why that is? Time was when we had one of the most famous pilgrim routes in Europe, the road to Saint Thomas A’Beckett’s tomb in Canterbury. What happened?

Naturally, we’re not a Catholic country, but I wonder if it’s deeper than that: after all, there are plenty of Europeans (and Americans) who do the Camino with no faith-oriented motivation whatsoever. Have we simply lost the culture of pilgrimage? The long and arduous journey on foot? Are we so wrapped up in our small island concerns and independence that the idea of schlepping across a landmass like Europe seems downright insane? I could name plenty of friends who consider themselves experienced walkers, but none of them has ever done the Camino. It’s not unheard of. It’s just not on our radar.

Anyway, that’s the first day of the Camino done! Only another forty-five or so to go! Here’s to them being mozzie-free, or I might just go mad. BB x

Southbound

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Gare SNCF de Dax. 10.04.

If you’d asked me what accent would be the first I’d hear on arrival in Bordeaux, gaditano would not have been my first guess. As it was, there was a family of gitanos from Cádiz waiting at the metro stop outside the airport, and they didn’t have to mention their hometown in conversation before I clocked that iconic intonation (and volume) that can only come from the southwest coast of Spain. It’s the accent that I grew up with, so I’d recognise that accent anywhere.

I had a good night’s sleep in my hostel in Bordeaux, and a proper breakfast, too, so it’s been a gentle start to this year’s Camino. It was a half-hour walk to the station from the city centre, so I had some time to appreciate the city before taking my leave.

I don’t envy the homeless in this heat. They seem to be a lot more numerous here than in similarly-sized cities in England – or maybe they’re just more visible. Sometimes I wasn’t sure whether I was looking at a sandbag or an occupied sleeping bag. Now that I’m teaching A Level French as well as Spanish, I’m trying to keep both eyes open to these things.

I was so enthralled by the stonemasonry on the portal of one of Bordeaux’s churches that I almost didn’t notice the man sleeping in the doorway. He looked like a dead ringer for a down-on-his-luck Alexandre Dumas. The way he was stretched out in sleep, he might have been a fallen detail from the paradise arches, come to life.

Granada’s Alhambra must have looked like this, once upon a time: the crumbling ruins of a peerlessly beautiful palace, its walls carved with ancient stories, become the roost of the city’s poor and dispossessed.

There was quite a surge for the southbound train at Bordeaux’s Saint-Jean station. I noticed at least one or two travellers who might have been pilgrims. I can’t think of anyone else foolish enough to have a heavy backpack on in the middle of summer, with the temperatures set to soar as high as 40°C today. In a rare turn-up for the books, there’s a beautiful French woman in a cherry-red dress in the seat next to me, but she’s fast asleep. I’ve been chatty enough already with the staff at airport security and the hostel, so I’ll save any more chitchat for the road.

As the train rattles through the sandy forests of the southern reaches of Nouvelle Aquitaine, let me show you the shell I’m taking with me.

The first time I did the Camino, I picked up a shell from a shop in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. It felt a little undeserved, buying the shell from a shop, but it is something of a Camino tradition. In the early days of the Camino, the shells were not just a pilgrim’s badge of office but also an essential part of their kit, primarily serving as vessels for drinking water from the fountains along the pilgrim road. These days, of course, they’re completely ornamental – keepsakes for the wall or mantelpiece, next to your compostela.

My original shell lasted all of five days, before shattering when I had to remove my rucksack in a hurry after a wasp went up my sleeve and got trapped (the five or six stings it gave me on its way out were with me for weeks!). I took it with me on my last Camino, but I had to have it tucked into one of the outer pockets in its smashed-up state. I didn’t want to buy a shell this time, so instead, I’ve made one of my one using a scallop shell I brought home from Saint-Malo last summer.

It’s really quite easy to do. Seashells are rather brittle, but if you heat one up over a flame, it softens the shell a little, making it a lot easier to perforate the surface without cracking the structure. I did this in my kitchen with a lighter, a hammer and a small nail.

For the cross of Santiago, I used a red Sharpie. I didn’t have any string lying around, so I made an improvised knot with the wristband from the Cofradía de Mengíbar that I picked up three years ago. That brings the total of Saints guiding me to Santiago de Compostela to four: La Virgen de la Cabeza (the Mengíbar wristband), La Virgen de la Caridad (my aunt’s rosary), La Virgen del Rocío (la más santa de mi devoción), and Santiago himself. Well, technically I suppose that’s only two, since three of them are the same person, but Spain (and the Catholic faith) would be a poorer place with only one incarnation of the Virgin Mary!

I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily that religious. Spiritual, maybe. But it is nice to know you’re not alone on the road, and because of my faith I am never alone.

And there they are. The jagged peaks of the Pyrenees. They were only ever a faraway vision in the east before, but now they’re towering above me, a colossal natural barrier between me and my grandfather’s country. It was easy to say I wanted a proper challenge from the comfort of my sofa back home, but now that I’m here, they look quite daunting. Somport – from summus portus, the high gate – looks like it will live up to its name. I hope I have the stamina.

Église Saint Martin, Pau. 11.39am.

The streets of Pau are almost empty – hardly surprising, with the temperatures soaring. I found a shop selling sturdy-looking walking sticks, but they had childish carvings of lions and eagles on the top, so I passed on. New journey, new stick… but not that stick. I can wait for the right one.

I’ve retreated into the shade of the Église Saint Martin. There were two tourists wandering around, but no pilgrims – I’m not yet on the Camino. That said, I saw at least three Japanese pilgrims in the station. They didn’t seem to speak any French. If they’re still there when I get back, I’ll see if they need a hand. Lord knows I’ve fallen foul of the French train system before!

I lit the first of many candles, said my prayers in the Lady chapel and took my leave. No stamps here, but it would be disingenuous to collect any before I get to Oloron, the real starting point of this year’s Camino. All the same, I can feel my credencial burning a hole in my pocket. The stamp fever is real!

Oloron-Sainte-Marie. 14.03.

If this isn’t a heatwave, then I’ve never experienced one. The merciless sun has driven just about everyone indoors. There’s a gentle breeze coming down from the mountains, and the twin rivers of the Ossau and Aspe sure do make the place sound less hot than Pau, where the screams of swifts seemed to increase the temperature by several degrees, but there’s no escaping the fact that it is hot out here. The Relais du Bastet, Oloron’s pilgrim hospital, doesn’t open until 3pm, so I’ve grabbed a cold bottle of water from a nearby magasin and have set up shop in the public gardens, where the sound of the fountain provides a temporary relief.

I’ll have to play it carefully over the next few days if this goes on. Early starts, absolutely, but it’s how you play the waiting game when you reach your destination, as almost all albergues shut for midday – by which point you should have stopped walking, if you value your skin – that’s the real question.

No stamps yet. I guess I’ll have to wait until I check in for stamp number one.

Well – here we are. I’ve checked into the Relais du Bastet and had a shower. The daily rhythm of the Camino will be a welcome return after the madness of the summer term. Once I’ve had a rest, I’ll go in search of some more stamps. Christian, one of the two French-speaking pilgrims on the Voie d’Arles who is sharing a room with me, has offered to cook for us this evening, so that’s dinner taken care of. I’ve missed this.

À bientôt x

Scorchio

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Gate 17, Bristol Airport. 18.52.

Blimey, but it’s hot outside. If the hordes of ruddy topless locals in the streets of Bristol weren’t enough of an indication, then the winged ants might have been. They always seem to appear out of nowhere when the heat reaches its apogee. Where I’m going, it’s a full ten degrees hotter, and here I am with a cardigan tied about my waist. I felt just slightly insane packing the cardigan, but it’s best to be prepared for all eventualities – especially when I’m up in the mountains. Heatwave or no heatwave, a lot can happen over the course of six weeks.

Check-in at Bristol was a breeze – unless you count the security team selecting my satchel for “explosive checks”. I’m not sure what they expected to find in there: seven different grades of black pen, a rubber, a pencil sharpener, three pencils, three empty pilgrim passports, a hand-drawn map, a very battered journal and a rosary of La Virgen del Rocío… but no explosives. I’m not sure they’d fit! My rucksack might be light but my satchel is, as ever, full to bursting.

I broke the habit of a lifetime and lingered in duty free, where I picked up a few last minute supplies: namely, a solar battery pack and a watch. I’ve left the guidebooks behind this time, and I’m trusting in the plans I scribbled down on three flashcards (spot the teacher), but if it comes to it, I’ll need my phone for navigation. There’s a few stops without electricity on my itinerary, and sometimes you don’t get a bed near the sockets, so a battery pack is a pretty good investment for a trip like this.

Lord knows I’ll be moving and removing the watch a lot this summer to avoid getting a watch-strap tan, but I figured it was high time I had something to look at when I hold up my wrist.

It’s funny how regional Bristol feels. Half the tannoy voices are human (London’s human airport staff bowed out of their tannoy duties years ago), and with the automated RP infiltrating just about every corner of the country these days, it’s curious to hear the voice over the speakers drag the not-so-gentle R in airport. Sometimes it feels like the only place you’ll find the West Country burr that was once so widespread is on public transport. It’s a shame. It’s really quite endearing.

My flight is at 19.25, so I had an early dinner. My usual compulsion for continuity set in, so I grabbed a burrito from the Real California stand upstairs. I had my first non-school burrito in Chicago O’Hare International Airport at the end of my American adventure, so it makes sense to start the next grand adventure with one, too.

It’s a busier flight than I expected. Mind, it is a Sunday night – if anybody were here for the weekend, I suppose this would be the obvious flight home. I’m hoping the public transport situation at the other end is more reliable than the one in Tenerife, as I don’t really fancy another late night wander. All being well, I should be in bed by midnight, and it’s not a dreadfully early start tomorrow to catch the southbound train, but I would like to see a little of the city before I go, so I might start the early morning routine and grab a bite to eat.

After Bordeaux, we’re into the swing of things. I haven’t booked anything beyond the connecting train to Oloron-Sainte-Marie, so I’m putting my trust in God and the road. For somebody who genuinely despises planning in advance, the Camino is the very best sort of holiday. I have no doubt that there will be trials ahead, but that only makes the adventure all the more exciting. We don’t get an awful lot of real adventures in the day-to-day of adult life, so I’m off chasing dreams again. Only this time they’re not red-haired and American, but European and full of light and love.

I’d better save my phone battery and stop blogging. I expect we’ll be boarding soon. Oh – and there’s the bell. À bientôt.

BB x

A Farewell to Armchairs

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The Flat, Taunton. 21.49.

Jumpin’ Jack Flash – The Rolling Stones

Tonight is my last night in the comfort of my own home. By this time tomorrow, I will have checked into my hostel in Bordeaux, the first of six weeks of bunk beds, temperamental showers and creaky metal lockers. Six weeks is as long as a half term – I have to keep reminding myself of that fact. Six weeks is a very long time to be on the road. But my bag is nearly packed and I’m starting to get itchy feet. Let’s hope that’s the only condition my feet suffer from over the next month and a half!

That’s me – a much younger version of me, that is – on my first Camino, some six years ago. A lot has changed since then! Back then, I was still a humble teaching assistant, without the PGCE or the workload that comes with it. I couldn’t walk more than a week or so of the Camino because I was being ousted from my house on site, which had caught the eye of an ambitious young minister, and I had my PGCE Numeracy skills test to revise for (which was nowhere near as hard as I thought it would be). The girl I was with at the time would also not have been overly keen on me staying away so long, so it was only an eight day affair, from St-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Logroño.

I considered various Caminos this summer, including the Norte and the Plata. The fiendish heat forecast for the summer put me off the Plata, which would have taken me through easily my favourite regions of Spain – Andalucía and Extremadura – and the tarmac trails and relatively high cost ultimately dissuaded me from the Norte. Rumours are currently circulating that they’re filming the sequel to Martin Sheen’s The Way on the Norte this summer, so I think I’ve made the right choice.

I’ve done the Francés before, so why am I doing it again? For the same reason I second-guessed the Plata: you are more likely to find people on the Francés, and it’s the people who make or break the Camino. I met an ensemble cast of characters on my last run: Mikkel the Dane, Domenico the Carabiniere, the Professor, Mamasita the German drunkard and Simas, who walked with me to the end of the road in Fisterra. People from all walks of life can be found on the Camino, and especially on the Francés, which is by far the most affordable of all the available options.

But I’m not doing the same route. Not entirely. This year I’m starting in Oloron-Sainte-Marie, some sixty-five kilometres to the east of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The Camino Aragonés – by some accounts, the “original” Camino Francés – starts a few days’ march to the south at the pass of Somport, but I want to enjoy the unbridled majesty of the Pyrenees, so rather than catching a bus to the border, I’m going to walk the last few days of the Chemin d’Arles, one of the French pilgrim roads that leads up into the mountains.

The more popular Napoleon Route from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port begins with a monstrously steep climb up and over Lepoeder summit at the western edge of the Pyrenees. I walked that way years ago with three Italian guys. One of them had done the Aragonés before and was full of praise for its natural beauty, and so it is to him, I suppose, that I owe the seeds of this itinerary.

The scenery on the Napoleon route is spectacular, and the elevation is certainly nothing to sniff at, but if memory serves, it felt more like a giant hill than a mountain (or, at the very least, a Scottish highland). The Camino Aragonés, on the other hand, cuts straight through the heart of the Pyrenees.

I’m rather picky when it comes to mountains, largely on account of having been dreadfully spoilt by a year in the rugged limestone-scarred hills of the Sierra de Grazalema as a kid. Unless it’s sheer, craggy and haunted by the hulking shadows of an eagle, it’s not mountain enough for me.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and see a lammergeier – easily identifiable by their diamond-shaped tails. Maybe. Right now, I’d settle for some mountain air. My flat has only one window that can open, and all the others are frosted and quintuple-glazed – one of the downsides of living attached to a boarding house.

After Somport, the Camino Aragonés winds down to the Aragonese city of Jaca before arcing around to the west. I’ll be joining the Camino Francés at Puente La Reina, after which I will be on familiar territory as far as León. The meseta is legendarily testing, but I wouldn’t walk it any other time of year. There’s something powerful about taking the pilgrim road straight across the Sun’s anvil.

Well, I suppose I’d better start packing my bag, and then try to get some sleep. I’ve a routine to get into, after all. See you on the other side. BB x

Smoke Signals

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Aeropuerto De Santiago – Rosalía De Castro. 14.40.

I’m back at Santiago’s very small, very civilised airport. It’s another five hours until my flight, but Galician weather is highly unpredictable and I didn’t fancy making the three-hour hike to the airport under a belt of rain clouds, so I forked out a euro and caught the bus instead. On the plus side, it gives me plenty of time to read and rest – tomorrow will involve no small amount of walking, so it’s best I don’t wear out my feet just yet.

There’s a WHSmith in the departures lounge. I wonder how much longer that outpost is for this world, and others scattered in airports across the world, now that the dependable newsagents is going under, just like Woolworths before it.

I only just made it to the 19.30 pilgrim Mass in the cathedral of Santiago last night – it took me a little longer than I anticipated to track down the books I was looking for. There was a queue outside the door, and when I was a few metres from the great doors, an attendant in a high-vis orange jacket announced that visits were now over for the day – unless, of course, we were queuing for the Mass. That thinned some of the line, but even so, it was standing room only this time… not the front row seats I enjoyed at the end of the Camino in 2023.

The reason for the crush became apparent in the last few minutes of the Mass, when a group of eight priests in burgundy cassocks approached the enormous knotted rope securing the botafumeiro, Santiago’s famously huge incense burner and, with one collective tug, began to hoist the thing into the air.

Weighing in at 80kg and measuring an impressive 1.93m in height, the botafumeiro of Santiago is one of the largest in the world, outsized only by the Christendom College censer in Virginia (because of course the Americans, not satisfied with an imitation, had to have a bigger one). Unlike its American cousin, however, the botafumeiro is more than just a showpiece. The reason for its size was to purify the air within the cathedral and thus cover up the smell of the pilgrims, who must have stunk to high heaven in the centuries before Jacotrans, Booking.com and Compede blister plasters.

The botafumeiro you see today has been in use since 1851. The original, a 15th century thurible of solid silver, was stolen by French troops in the Spanish War of Independence and supposedly melted down for coinage. This and other acts of vandalism marked the French occupation, which saw many monasteries and Roman bridges destroyed in the name of military strategy. A local legend holds that the Alhambra was nearly blown to pieces on Napoleon’s orders as the French lost their grip on Spain, spared only by the efforts of a single French soldier who had a change of heart and stayed behind to defuse the charges, saving the last remaining medieval Islamic palace in the world from being lost forever.

The botafumeiro swings alarmingly low over the heads of the faithful, reaching a top speed of 68km per hour, though never low enough to catch the heads of even the tallest German pilgrims. It’s quite a special sight, because its presence isn’t guaranteed: it’s usually only brought out on holy days, such as Easter Sunday or the Feast of Santiago on the 25th July. I missed it last time as I set out for the coast on the 25th, hoping to beat the crowds that would follow.

There is a small chance, however, that your visit may coincide with the whim of this or that religious order (or wealthy pilgrim), who can pay a certain amount of money to have the censer brought out especially for their arrival. This time I got lucky: a confraternity had traveled all the way from Goa to celebrate Mass in Santiago, so the botafumeiro was brought out. Lucky me!

After three visits to the cathedral without paying my respects to the true purpose of the Camino, I decided to make one last trip to see the tomb of Santiago himself. The first of Christ’s apostles to be martyred for his faith, Santiago el Mayor (or Saint James the Greater, if you prefer) was beheaded on the orders of Herod Agrippa. His head was buried near the spot where he was killed (now beneath the Armenian Cathedral of Saint James in Jerusalem) but his body is believed to have been transported to the Galician coast, where his remains were discovered – as they so often are – by a hermit in the woods, who saw a great light shining upon a forgotten Roman tomb.

The veracity of the legend is irrelevant: word got around and soon the final resting place of Santiago had become the most important pilgrimage site in all of Christendom. That it just so happened to coincide with a time when the Christian kingdoms in the north were desperately seeking a rallying flag to counter the Muslim forces who had taken the Iberian peninsula by storm (and the angels believe to aid them in battle) is curious, to say the least.

Santiago’s tomb is a small silver coffin, located in a crypt beneath the central altar. The eighty-strong Portuguese school trip group that I had fallen behind weren’t all that interested in the bones of Jesus’ most faithful apostle, busying themselves repeating lines from Portuguese trap songs and stealing kisses from their girlfriends in the shadows, so I had plenty of time to stop and admire the coffin undisturbed.

I was lucky to get in when I did: by the time I left via the north door, the queue to get in stretched for nearly two hundred metres around the side of the cathedral. Pro tip: get in early, or just after Mass, when the queues are at their thinnest!

I had a quick bocadillo lunch in the old town and packed my things, thinking to spend a few sunny hours in the Parque de Alameda, but I was distracted en route by the sound of shouts and firecrackers. Doubling back, I found an advance guard of local police cordoning off the Avenida de Xoán Carlos I, and behind them, an enormous crowd of youths dressed mostly in black, carrying flags, placards and loudhalers.

I could have guessed what they were going to be protesting about, and my guess would have been on the money – after all, it’s a sore tooth Spain has been nursing for several years now: the housing crisis.

The short explanation? Spain’s housing market is a shambles. By some estimates, the cost of renting a property has gone up by 78% in the last decade, driven by rampant speculation and unrestricted vulture funds. Put simply, the average Spaniard now finds it very difficult (if not impossible) to find an affordable place to live, especially in the areas most popular with tourists. This is a country where flat-sharing websites like Idealista and Easypiso hold sway: AirBnB and its kin have made Spain a tough place to buy.

This has been most keenly felt in Barcelona and the Balearics, where many properties are vacant for large parts of the year, occupied only during the summer months by foreign investors. It’s one of a number of factors forcing Spaniards to live at home with their parents well into their twenties (or even thirties), and driving others to seek their fortune elsewhere. It’s also why I’m making a point of staying in pensiones wherever I go – a far older and more sustainable method of supporting the local economy as I travel.

There’s an even more sinister side-effect of the housing crisis in cities like Barcelona. I’m referring to the okupas, or the occupation of properties by gangs and other drug-related agencies who turn vacant holiday homes into drug dens, known here as narcopisos. The shady legal status of squatters in Spain, which makes it very hard to evict without the proper authority, doesn’t help matters at all.

Yes, A Place in the Sun and your kind – this is partly your fault. By encouraging the buying and selling (and re-selling) of property along the coast, you are driving the locals out of town faster than the local wildlife was displaced before them.

Naturally, it’s Spain’s youth who are taking the brunt of this crisis – and so, quite naturally, they’re the ones taking to the streets in large numbers to complain about it. Pedro Sánchez, Spain’s Prime Minister, has attempted to address the problem by proposing a ban or even a supertax on foreign buyers, but in the regions that depend the most on tourist dollars like Andalucía and the Costa Brava, that will be a very bitter pill to swallow. So, for now, Spain will have to muddle through these murky waters until a more universal solution can be found.

The protesters marched on up the avenue, followed closely by the police and their van, carrying their riot helmets at their hips. Some of the protesters threw petards into the road as they passed. Others lit flares. I watched them go and returned to the park.

Similar protests are taking place all across Spain today. I wonder if it will come to a head? It’s hard to say, but it is fascinating to be here on the ground while it’s all going down. It isn’t often that you get to live through history in the making, especially when it’s something you teach (manifestaciones is one of the tried-and-true A Level Spanish topics).

This. This is why I travel.

The smoking incense of Santiago’s botafumeiro was meant to cover up the stink of something rotten. Seeing the smoking flares of the protesters as the police escort them through the city, I can’t help but note the connection.

I’ll keep you posted if I hear or see anything else. I trust this isn’t the last we’ll hear of it. BB x

When the Whales Came

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

As Escaselas. 12.01pm.

Rain. It started early this morning, while I was still fast asleep, but it’s coming down quite hard now. The bus has just climbed the hill north of As Escaselas and is rolling towards Sardiñeiro, its windscreen wipers working overtime. Lichen-coated hórreos, a symbol of the Galician countryside, stand shoulder to shoulder with new-build white houses with wide garages. That strange mix of ancient and modern is ubiquitous along the pilgrim road: here is a wizened fisherman in blue overalls mending his lobster creels in the shelter of an awning, above which a sign advertises (in English only) “hippie/chill-out/goa fashion”. The lady on the bus behind me talks down the phone in a Galician accent so thick it could be Portuguese, while a couple of free-spirited Germans discuss their next steps. My German is rudimentary at best, but I catch the words “Mallorca”, “Sontag” and “yogi”.

Now and then I recognise a patch of road from that summer two years ago, when Simas and I pushed on together for the Cape, in warmer days when the wind blew west and America still seemed like a land full of hope. Now, the news is full of fury as Trump’s tariffs threaten a global trade war, and the US government tells its citizens to “trust in Trump”. Americans, it should be noted, have been notably absent from the pilgrim trail over the last few days.

Three pilgrims return home on foot in coats that cover their backpacks, and one pilgrim comes back the other way, striking out for the last stage of her journey. The Camino is eternal.

Spooky by Dusty Springfield plays over my earphones as the bus pulls into the former whaling town of Cee. A crude iron sculpture on the seafront is all that remains of that heritage, besides its name, though there are honorary clues all over the place: Restaurante As Balenas, a number of whale-themed hotels, a couple of whale-shaped hobby horses in the play park and even a friendly mural on a wall near the bus station, offering a whimsical nod to that monstrous practice.

Whaling has been outlawed here since 1986. Spain was slow to adopt the ban and Galicia was one of the regions hit hardest, though by that point most of the whales had long since been driven to local extinction. Lately, however, these majestic creatures have been sighted off the coast again, after an absence of nearly forty years, including the greatest of them all, the blue whale – the largest creature ever to grace this planet.

Perhaps they’ve been driven here by the depleting of their feeding grounds further south. Or perhaps – and this is what some scientists believe – it is an ancestral memory that has brought them home, in spite of the knowledge they must have of their kind’s slaughter at the hands of man. Something stronger than fear has called them back, the same compulsion that makes the tiny swallow travel around the half world twice a year. The same compulsion, perhaps, that leads pilgrims of all stripes to seek the end of the world here, as they had done long before the legend of Santiago washed up on these shores over a thousand years ago.

There’s a small bust-up in Muros, where the bus stops for a change of drivers. The two German pilgrims get off for a smoke and return with their rucksacks. The driver tells them they’ll have to leave their bags underneath if they’re headed for Santiago, as the bus will fill up when we reach Noia. One of the two – the one who speaks Spanish – argues the toss, asking if they can keep them at their feet. This annoys the driver, who points out that other passengers will need the seats more than their bags. Keeping my rucksack on me nearly got me out of a nasty scrape when I was backpacking around Morocco, but here in Spain, there’s no need to be quite so defensive. ALSA, Spain’s largest bus company, actually gives you the option to buy up the seat next to you, which seems a bit selfish. Monbus – a smaller corporate creature by far – is a lot more democratic.

There’s an enormous queue for the bus when it reaches Santiago, almost all of them under the age of thirty. It only dawns on me then that the only young people I saw out and about in Fisterra were pilgrims, and few of them under thirty at that. Spain is much like the rest of the world in that regard: its youth abandon the towns and villages for the bright lights of the city in pursuit of opportunities in work or love, returning home only to see friends and family, or once they have a family of their own.

My digs for the night are within a stone’s throw of the cathedral – quite literally. I can hear the bells chime every half hour from my room. I made a flying visit to some of the local bookstores, but wound up returning to my old haunt in Casa del libro in search of a couple of histories on Tartessos, a current fixation of mine. So far, my specialist areas include:

  • Bandit legends and narratives
  • Spain’s founding myths (esp. Pedro del Corral’s Crónica sarracina)
  • El Cid & Frontier Epics
  • Al-Andalus & Spain’s Islamic heritage
  • Extremadura
  • 17th Century Spain (Under Felipe IV)
  • Gypsy culture and narratives
  • Spanish wildlife (esp. concerning Doñana)

Once I’ve consumed these two new acquisitions, hopefully I can add Tartessos to that list!

I did make it to Mass this evening, but that’s worth a separate blog post, I think. So keep your eyes peeled! BB x

Camino XXVII: Journey’s End

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Finisterre. The End of the World. It’s a fitting place to end the Camino, which can sometimes feel like it really does go ever on and on, down from the door where it began. Well, here we are at the end of the road. Kilometre 0. My great quest for the summer is over.

With a good thirty-two kilometres between O Logoso and the seaside town of Fisterra, Simas and I set off early this morning. One last six o’clock start, an hour or so before the dawn, to end the Camino as it began: in the dark. The churring of nightjars echoed in the forest around us as far as Hospital, after which the road climbed up over a treeless moor before slowly beginning to descend toward the clouded horizon beyond.

We passed a few alarming signs declaring ‘territorio vákner’, which didn’t make a lot of sense until we stumbled upon an enormous sculpture in the woods of a wolf-man. The ‘vákner’ was, according to 15th century pilgrim lore, a Galician forerunner of the werewolf legend, and one of a number of terrible beasts that beset pilgrims in the forests after Santiago. The more you know!

Less fantastical, though by no means less legendary, we found a Tupperware box on one of the stone walls deeper in the woods containing a number of breakfast options: yoghurts, bananas and pastries, complete with plastic spoons in case of need. The invisible benefactor, an eleven-year old local boy, was trying to raise money for a trip to Madrid. I tipped him generously via his piggy bank and enjoyed the breakfast I otherwise might not have had this morning. What a little angel!

Shortly after leaving the forest, as though out of a dream, the sea came into view. I have been so excited to see the sea after three weeks on the road and saving it as a reward for the final day was definitely the right thing to do. We came down into the busy former whaling town of Cee and had a proper breakfast of churros con chocolate, for the princely sum of 3.75€. And that’s including Simas’ café con leche. I’m going to miss how cheap this country is.

Having killed an hour, we pressed on north and west through Corcubión, which was being kitted out for a medieval fair. We detoured a little to see the coast, and were guided back to the Camino by a friendly local afflicted by throat cancer, who pointed us back to the road using a robotic device at his throat. We had not gone much further than Estorde when the sun came out, causing the white sands of the beaches to shine out like a beacon. Given the gloomy forecast for the rest of the day, we took a chance and detoured once again to one of the coves, finding it deserted. And boy am I glad we did!

This was what I walked five hundred and sixty kilometres for: truly, the treasure at the end of the rainbow. There were no pots of gold, but there might as well have been diamonds in the water: each gentle wave kicked up clouds of white sand that glittered in the sunlight like a thousand twinkling stars. Sand eels and mullets darted in silver shoals nearby and a sandpiper scurried up and down the shoreline at a safe distance from us. The way the forests practically tumble right into the ocean, ringed with beaches that shine a purer white than anything the Mediterranean can muster… I’m amazed the Galician coast isn’t as heavy a hitter on the tourist trail as the Costa Brava. Amazed – and grateful. Because from some of the graffiti on the town walls – no a la Marbellización – it’s pretty clear the gallegos don’t want it to have that level of fame either.

A special mention should be made for saint number two of the journey: Nacho, a Valencian who had set himself up on the hill overlooking the Langosteira beach with two paella dishes full of home cooking that he was handing out to passers-by, free of charge. He was quite insistent on this last point, maintaining that though he was between jobs he had enough money by the grace of God to live on, and wanted to share his luck with the world. We had a good natter about what constitutes a real paella, but above all it was really uplifting to meet such a good-hearted man from my grandfather’s region – because while I’m proud to have Manchego heritage, my grandfather was actually born in Torrevieja, which means my immediate ancestry is actually Valencian. Go figure!

We reached Fisterra just after one and checked into the albergue municipal, which was already quickly filling up. It is as well that we did, too, as it landed us the final stamp in the credencial and an additional compostela for completing the final 100km of the Camino. After a quick nap we grabbed a table at O Pirata, a very characterful port-side seafood restaurant whose staff (and hangers-on) really did give off the right vibes as a motley crew rather than a team of restauranteurs. Between our waiter, who might well be the fastest-talking man in Spain, the chef with his black bandana and earring, and the three musicians sat outside, strumming guitars and clapping along – not to mention the seafood itself, which was delicious – it was easily the best meal of the whole Camino. Best of all, they threw in a free ego massage, telling me it wasn’t just the La Mancha shirt that gave away my Spanish heritage but also my ‘actitud’. I’ve actually managed to convince quite a few Spaniards that I’m a native on this Camino, which is a huge thing for me. I’m one step closer every day to reclaiming my heritage!

After lunch, Simas went back to the albergue for a siesta but I fancied a wander around town before the forecasted rain came down. What I thought might be a museum/aquarium in the harbour turned out to be an open-air working fishery, where a raised walkway lets you look down on the fishermen at work, processing and sorting the morning’s catch. It’s a brilliant idea and a fascinating way to have a look-in behind the scenes – especially after enjoying the fruits of their hard work for lunch! One chap was sat measuring the many thousands of razor clams and sorting them by weight, which looked to be a truly Sisyphean task: it must take hours to finish before the next haul arrives and the task begins again.

Stamps and celebratory seafood platters aside, you can’t say you’ve completed the Camino unless you really do go all the way to the end of the road, which is another three kilometres down the coast to the windswept cliffs of Cape Finisterre. The pictures imply a lonely lighthouse watches the cape, but it’s also home to a hotel, a bar, a car park and a couple of souvenir shops, so it’s not as remote a spot as you might think. The steep banks of the cliffs were pretty busy when we got there, with both pilgrims and tourists from various parts of Spain, and it was a good place to bid farewell to several pilgrims I have crossed paths with on the road: Alan, the wannabe hostalero, and the French team of three, Jean-Paul, Adine and Philippe; as well as Liza the Belgian (whose wish was granted by beating me to the Cape) and Catherine the German (who wins the award for the most random encounters along the whole Camino).

I found a quieter spot lower down and sat there for a while, watching the waters of the Atlantic below. It was a good place to reflect. I let go of a lot of things at last, letting them drift from my heart through my fingers and out across the ocean. Down below, gulls wheeled and cried around the cliff edge while a sparrow and a redstart made a few dizzying sallies across the precipice. My eyes were trained on the waves, searching for one thing in particular, and after half an hour – in the wake of a fishing boat – I saw what I was seeking. Not the lonely gannet or flight of shags that rounded the cape, but a fleet of shearwaters, an endearing and highly acrobatic seabird that truly lives up to its name, flying low over the water with the tips of their wings slicing the tips of the waves like blades. I was far too high up to tell what kind they might be, but I imagine they were Balearics, given their size and number.

If the ghostly harrier and quail were the spirits of the early Camino, it’s the handsome shearwater that marks its end. While I’ve walked most of the Camino alone, I’ve had companions every step of the way, from the merry stonechats that have been with me every day to the nightjars that have kept me company in the twilight hours. If you can put a name to the sights and sounds all around you, you’re never truly alone on the road.

If you kept going in a straight line from here, you’d reach Long Island and perhaps even New York City. But unless you have the stamina of a god and the strength to match, that’s simply not possible, so here the road ends at last. I penned the words ‘Llévame contigo’ (Take me with you) into my faithful stick and planted it in the earth just behind where I had been sitting. I hope somebody does take it with them, and that it brings them as much joy and support as it has brought me.

I thought of its predecessor, and the feathers that had made it so memorable to other travellers on the road, and as I did, a couple of ravens suddenly appeared on the wind, soaring in circles around the cliffs below. One of those feathers I carried before belonged to a raven – so perhaps they were with me all along in spirit. I’d like to think that. According to legends of old, it was a raven that first brought the light of hope into the world.

Well, that’s a wrap. It’s now twenty to eight on Friday 28th August. The rain is falling outside and I’m booked on the 11:45 bus back to Santiago. I’m going to find myself a café near the harbour and do some writing while I wait, in this seaside town with which I have fallen in love. Galicia has been beautiful since O Cebreiro but its coast has utterly enchanted me. It feels like home, and yet like Spain at the same time. It feels like Edinburgh, Hythe and Olvera all rolled into one.

I will come back. There is more to the Costa da Morte than I have seen. I must come back. BB x

Camino XXIV: Darkness into Light

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Tonight, for the first time in over two weeks, I have a room to myself. More than that, I have a bed with cotton sheets. It’s amazing how a life lived on the road makes you so grateful for something we take for granted in this day and age. That’s the magic of the Camino, I guess!

I was up before my alarm this morning, but only just. When it did go off, I was up and dressed in a matter of minutes. I did delay long enough to have my modest breakfast of a couple of pastries, a flat peach and a Cacaolat drink, but by 5.40 I was out the door, staff in hand, and determined to beat both guidebook and Google Maps’ suggestions for travel time. The former hypothesised a ludicrous 5 1/2 hours, whereas the latter recommended a more reasonable 4 hours and ten minutes from O Pedrouzo.

Setting off so early meant that for half the trek I was in the dark, but that doesn’t bother me. In fact, I’ve got so used to navigating my way home through woodland paths by night after late trains from London over the years that I’ve become quite comfortable moving around in the darkness. The snap of twigs or the call of some night creature cannot unsettle me like it once did. And so, once I’d got ahead of the five or six torch-wielding pilgrims on the road, it was just me, the night and the nightjars.

I had a lot of time to think on the Camino, and it’s these quiet early morning stretches that make you think the most. Today, perhaps more than ever with the end in sight, I felt the spirit of my grandfather walking by my side. It is for him that I walk this road, in his name that I say a prayer every day. Every step is a step closer to a man I never knew, and yet one who has been a guiding light all of my life. Naturally, it has me thinking a lot about my own mortality. The darkness will do that to you. Like my mother, I do not fear death. Suffering, pain, naturally. But not death. There’s a chance, however slight, that in death my spirit may join with those of my kin, in whose borrowed light I have walked all the days of my life. Death is just the start of the real Camino, just as pilgrims are always told the Camino starts when you return home with what you have learned. A further journey toward the light, then. That can’t be so bad.

The roar of a plane taking off overhead woke me from my reverie as I rounded Santiago’s airport, and with the rising sun, the birdsong carried away all thoughts of the other world as the blue dawn drew me on through hill and forest to the edge of the apostle’s city.

I set a ferocious pace this morning, stopping for nothing but the odd shoe in my sandals, with the result that by the time the twin spires of Santiago appeared on the horizon at Monte do Gozo, I had shaved a full hour off Google’s cautious estimate. In the end I made the nineteen kilometre trek in a little over three hours. Not bad for a morning’s work – and since I was in town before nine, I arrived bang on time to collect my compostela (the pilgrim’s certificate) as soon as the office opened on the hour.

There was a small queue already waiting, and some were there for the Finisterre credential (apparently that’s a thing), but as it’s a lower priority, they were shunted to one side. I was given the number eleven – auspicious, as it’s my birthday – and called to the desk within minutes. They must have been anticipating a tidal wave of pilgrims today, because they had pre-printed the forms and dispensed with the questions. Which is just as well, as I was prepared to defend my choice of name, but in the end I didn’t have to say a word.

With my compostela in hand, I lingered for a while in the Praza do Obradoiro, watching the pilgrims come and go. Most of the travelers with whom I shared the road earlier on should rock up tomorrow, though Simas got here yesterday, and I’m told Louis the Belgian was in town last night too.

After collecting one last stamp ahead of the four spaces saved for the Finisterre finish, I met up with Simas and we grabbed a bite to eat at Bar La Tita at the recommendation of a Georgian friend of his. And what a find! The tortilla is some of the best I’ve had on the Camino, it comes free with a drink, and keeps on coming with more drinks…! England, watch and learn!

I tried to make midday Mass, but missed out by literally two spaces, so I decided to come back later and head for the albergue instead. I was waylaid by an urban dance-a-thon which I shamelessly got involved with (they were playing Everybody Dance Now, Candy Shop and various other dance/hip hop classics, how could I say no?). Yes, I appreciated the irony of a tour guide explaining how in holy years a pilgrimage to Saint James’ tomb will cleanse the soul of all sins, while 50 Cent’s chant ‘if you be a nympho, I’ll be a nympho’ reverberated off the cathedral walls. But I had a good time!

I checked into the Seminario Menor and spent most of the early afternoon dozing off. Frankly, after averaging 28-30km a day every day for two weeks and more, I think I’d earned it.

I wandered into town for six, well ahead of the 7.30pm pilgrims’ mass, but ducked into the cathedral as soon as I reached it and took a seat near the front anyway. I killed time with my sketchbook, and from one moment to another the organ above was blaring and the priests of Santiago were processing in, arrayed in coats of black, white and red, the real tricolour of Spain. After weeks of spoken Mass, it was a welcome change to have sung Mass once again, and since they provided use with an order of device, I could finally follow along, too. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue came bellowing out of the organ to finish, and after saying one last prayer for my family, I took my leave of Santiago’s cathedral.

After skimping on lunch I figured I deserved a treat for making it here in record time – that, and a single communion wafer makes for a poor supper. So I popped into one of the bars on the busy Rúa do Franco and, eyeballing a good’un (O Barril), I ordered a surf and turf dish: zorza (Galician pork in pimentón) and zamburiñas (the iconic scallops of the Camino).

I finished the night on a little ritual with the scallops. They came in the perfect number: seven. One for each of the companions who have lit the road of the Camino for me like stars in the night sky.

I toasted each one in turn. First, my mother, who first introduced me to the Camino and walked most of the first leg with me. Second, to Paz, an Argentinian woman who was my first companion on the road over the Pyrenees in that first assault on the Camino four years ago. Third, to Simas, my final companion on the road, and the only recurring light this summer who could keep pace with me (and in so doing, ground my wandering thoughts for my own good). Fourth, fifth and sixth, to my three stalwart companions on the road this spring: Sophia, Mikkel and Lachlan, with whom I would have gladly walked this road to the end and back, and whom I have carried with me in my heart this summer. And last, but certainly not least in my thoughts, to José, my grandfather, without whom there would be no Camino.

Tomorrow is a new day. Santiago de Compostela glitters under a cloud of gentle rain, and my back is relieved to be free of its shell for two days. It’s time to explore this jewel of a city! BB x

Camino XXIII: Music in the Forest

/ Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

After over two weeks on the road, I’m finally within striking distance of Santiago. The kilometre countdown on the much-abused concrete markers has dropped to below twenty, which is less than a morning’s work (I managed more than thirty kilometres before midday today). The end is in sight!

The final two days from Arzúa to Santiago are, quite possibly, the least appealing of the Camino. And that includes the much-maligned Meseta, which I actually really treasured! Whether it’s the busier pilgrim road, the lack of connection between the hundreds of last-minute pilgrims or the endless stands of alien eucalyptus, the magic slips away through your fingers a little as the finish line draws near.

Fortunately, I had my fill of magic moments to power me through the morning.

I was up at 5am as usual with the first of the pilgrims. The turigrino girls were up and about surprisingly early, though it turned out the reason behind their haste was their pre-Camino makeup routine. Thinking I could get the jump on them by striking out early, I set out as soon as I was ready, some fifteen minutes or so before six.

I’m not one for torches, preferring to accustom myself to the darkness, so my own headtorch remained stubbornly in my rucksack throughout the first hour of darkness, even as the Camino wound its way through the dense Galician forests and I lost all the aid of starlight on the road. What I gained, however, was a full immersion in the dawn that is lost when you charge ahead with a bright light. In an ancient forest west of O Carballal, after crossing a stepping stone bridge, I was suddenly surrounded by the otherworldly churr of nightjars. I recorded the sound and played it right back, and was rewarded with a sight of two hawk-like shadows performing their wing-clap display flight against a dawn sky through the trees. They must have clocked my ruse because when I heard them again they were deeper in the forest, but the martian churring followed me right to the edge of the trees, unlike finally the light of daybreak brought it to a sudden halt.

My replacement stick had finally assumed its full inheritance, adorned as it is now with a buzzard feather, two magpie feathers and a sprig of brilliant mountain heather. Somewhere out there, near or far, my old stick may well be traveling the same road. But its successor has done a fine job and I am grateful for its aid in carrying me this far. Lacking a traveling companion, I find a decent stick to be as good a friend as a warm fire in the darkness. And I’m getting a lot better at not leaving it propped up against things when I’m readjusting my clothes!

In the woods after Arzúa, I heard the distinctive reedy sound of a gaitá. Thinking it might be somebody practicing ahead of the regional (and national) festival on the 25th, I filmed a sound bite and moved on – only to almost walk headlong into the source further along the trail. A couple of youngsters, the elder probably no older than twenty, had chosen a spot beside one of the Camino markers, set a hand upside-down and were busking for passing pilgrims: one playing the gaitá (Galician bagpipes) and the other a drum. It more than made my morning, so I tipped them handsomely and stayed to listen for a while.

I stopped for brunch rather than breakfast at a witchcraft-themed café in Boavista (no tortilla, they ran out as soon as I got to the bar) and then slogged right on. The original target, Santa Irene, would have been fine, but it was still ten past twelve and the additional forty minutes on to O Pedrouzo – shaving forty minutes off tomorrow’s final push – were just too tempting to pass up.

Obviously, I wasn’t the only one with that in mind. A sixty-strong group of turigrinos beat us all to the Xunta albergue, evidently by quite some time: they’d lined their rucksacks in a queue leading from the door right up to the road, and some of them had even rolled out their roll-mats and got into their sleeping bags to wait…! Why they thought they might need roll mats on the Camino (as I didn’t see a single tent or any other camping gear on them at all) is beyond me, but perhaps this is their method: arrive early, camp out en masse and seize the first few beds.

On the plus side, while waiting in line with the handful not attached to the group, I was mistaken for an Andalusian by one of the Spaniards. Sure, she was swiftly corrected by a real Andalusian, but the intonation that clings on since the Olvera days still seems to be enough to create a temporary disguise. At the very least, it’s a good way to delay the inevitable ‘soy guiri’.

Well, I’ve done a final run for supplies at the local Día market. I’ve had an empanada for dinner and I have what I need for breakfast, so I can cut and run tomorrow morning. If I’m quick – and the last couple of weeks are good evidence that I am – I’ll be in Santiago for 9am, so I’ll try to get my Compostela before I check in. That would be ideal! But, as I keep telling myself, there’s no rush. I have sorted my lodgings for the next couple of nights, and it’s a room of my own, so for the first time in weeks, I will be able to really kick back and rest… before the real final stretch to Finisterre and home. ¡Hasta la próxima!

P.S. It occurred to me in Día that Spaniards don’t go in for personal catering like the English do. Grab bags, meal deals, milkshake bottles and salty snacks… they’re all designed to be shared. Is that more of a reflection on our culture or theirs? Are we so isolated a nation that our own supermarkets know we would prefer to eat quickly and alone, or are the Spanish so gregarious that a vendor wouldn’t even think of stocking something that would vanish in seconds if passed around? Just one to think about.