Undécimo día - lunes el 26 del mayo

Stanley's ankle was still bothering him (tendonitis is the expert diagnosis of the other peregrinos), so we felt no need to rush our last 11 km (6.5 mi). We got off just after 08:00, and sauntered into Santiago in glorious weather. The scenery wasn't so great - within an hour we were at the Monte de Gozo, where it appears the government is trying to commercialize the Camino (concrete plazas, road signs, stores by concession, construction everywhere, etc.). To me, it went counter to the spirit of the Camino, or at least my impression of the spirit of the Camino.

Once we got near the city center, it got better - it is typical Old-World, with narrow, irregular streets, and lots of masonry. Before we even got to the cathedral, we were accosted by an abuelita who wanted us to stay in her rooms, which we chose to do. It being only about 11:00, we had time to unpack and clean up a bit before heading off for the cathedral and the daily noon pilgrims' mass. Not too surprisingly, we caught up there to Theo, Brian, Tim from London, Sylvia, Christin and Christina, Benoit, and Josu and Julio. The cathedral has a very ornate baroque façade over a much older Romanesque building. It is fairly large inside, but without the high vaulted arches and airy windows of Gothic buildings, it was pretty dark. The altar area was extremely gilded and quite large, so quite impressive.

After the mass, we went immediately to the office where you show your credencial and get a certificate called the Campostela, although I have no clue what is says or what it means*. Apparently, this is also the place to discard your walking stick! We next walked to the bus station for information about getting to Cabo Fisterra tomorrow, then went back to our room to rest for a while. After siesta time, we went for a paseo in the old city before stopping for a proper supper - paella! - and heading back for bed. I note in passing that the shopping in the old city is not very exciting for me - cheesy souvenir shops and women's clothing stores and very little else.

Today's walk: 11 km (6 mi). Trip total: 303 km (188 mi).

Día siguiente

Here's an article clipped from the New York Times, a newspaper condensation of another pilgrim's experiences:

A Pilgrim, but a Tourist, Too

June 29, 2003
By DENISE FAINBERG

AS the cyclists whizzed by, they cried "¡Hola!" Apparently it is customary, on the Camino de Santiago, to greet fellow pilgrims with an "hola" or a "buen camino," even if they are eating your dust. "Hola," I called back, as cheerily as I could. My feet hurt.

My friend Patrick and I had left Burgos in Spain four days earlier, to hike roughly half of the famed pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela. Two storks had wheeled over the city gate as we struck westward; it seemed propitious. And in fact, a few hours later we were welcomed out of the pouring rain into our first pilgrims' refuge by Victoria, a most hospitable volunteer hostess, who showed us to our mattresses and instructed us in proper etiquette at the refugio (place boots on the window ledge or outdoors, no smoking in the dorms, lights out at 10:30, checkout time 8 a.m.)

Pilgrims have converged on northwestern Spain since the ninth century, when the burial place of St. James the Apostle was said to have been discovered in a Roman-era tomb. How the remains were identified is not detailed in any of the accounts, but never mind. Local kings understandably encouraged devotion to the site, and the cult of St. James swept Europe.

The city of Santiago de Compostela - Santiago being a Spanish form of St. James - grew up around the shrine. Devotees beat paths from France, Scandinavia, even Poland. The most frequented and the principal route still extant is the Camino Francés, running nearly 500 miles from St.-Jean-Pied-de-Port in the French Pyrenees across northern Spain to Santiago.

Pilgrimages declined following the Reformation; but centuries later, encouraged by the European Union and Unesco, which declared the Camino de Santiago a European Cultural Route in the 1980's and a Cultural Heritage Route in 1993, pilgrim numbers have soared. In 2001 some 60,000 hikers, cyclists and horseback riders received the certificate from the cathedral in Santiago verifying that they made the pilgrimage.

We were allowing ourselves a month to complete a 280-mile trek - laughably slow compared with the pace set by the more determined and competitive hikers, who think nothing of covering 20 to 30 miles a day. We were content with a daily average of 12 miles, which allowed time for an afternoon rest and a look around whatever village or town we wound up in.

Burgos, our point of departure, sits on the northern rim of Spain's central plateau. For days we walked on dirt roads through rolling fields of wheat and hay, in mid-August mostly cut. The imposing Picos de Europa bounded the horizon to the north, while on all other sides was nothing but an occasional tree or village. Griffon vultures with eight-foot wingspans soared startlingly overhead in the late afternoons. Every belfry on every church seemed to carry a stork's nest, or two or three. One hilltop stretch of road was lined with an astonishing mass of cairns, piles of stone deposited over the centuries by passers-by.

None of our guidebooks told us that walking the Camino is something of an extreme sport. On the fifth day out of Burgos, blisters the size of Susan B. Anthony dollars had appeared on my feet, abetted by a pack that was too heavy and the remarkably stony paths. I presented myself at a walk-in clinic in the town of Frómista. The doctor smiled wearily; incapacitated pilgrims are not uncommon. She treated and bandaged my feet, and the receptionist regretfully told me that since I did not have the proper health insurance, the office visit would cost $8.

Later that day, we rested our battered soles in bustling Carrión de los Condes, a great city in medieval times. Its central church is Santa María del Camino, whose Romanesque bulk sits up against the trail and shoulders aside an ancient town wall. The cool interior houses a modest masterpiece, the exquisite 12th-century polychrome sculpture of Our Lady of the Camino.

After Carrión we walked gingerly onward, our world a sparse chain of villages; from one to the next we wended our way to the region's major city, León.

Spectacular 12th-century frescoes adorned the Colegiata de San Isidoro, their vibrant earth tones depicting scenes from the life of Jesus, among other things. Later we enjoyed the intense stained glass of the cathedral, but we were happy to return from the city's buzz to our quiet cobblestone plaza, with its humble chapel of Santa María del Camino (again) on one side and our refugio, the Benedictine convent of Las Madres Carvajalas, cater-cornered across.

This refugio was efficiently run by two women who volunteered to receive pilgrims till late at night and materialized again at 6 a.m. to serve breakfast. Everyone was invited to attend Mass and sung vespers in the community's church; the nuns' silver voices were soothing, and the dorm seemed quieter than most. The women's showers didn't work, so I was sent to the gym showers in the former school. Most other refugios didn't even have separate-sex showers.

As one hiker remarked, the end of each day was a surprise. Refugios might be small or large, old or new, spotless or grungy; some were in magnificent stone halls, others in college housing; most were bunk-bed dorms with men and women housed together. One constant was that silence, though encouraged, was not much observed.

After León (approximately halfway into our trip) the path forked; as one fork followed the highway, we took the road less traveled. Soon we were walking over a heath of scrubby oak, brush and an occasional harvested field. Sometimes a few pilgrims would come up and pass me, because I was always the slowest (even Patrick sometimes hiked ahead of me), but that was O.K.

The next day brought us to the small village of Puente Órbigo, where a multiarched medieval bridge snakes across the bed of the Río Órbigo and small children on tricycles wished us "buen camino." As we marched on through the afternoon, the path wound along pastures and wood lots, which could not obscure the fact that it now tended inexorably upward.

Into the Leonese foothills we strode, stopping that night in Santibáñez de Valdeiglesias. The village was so small that it had neither shop nor bar nor restaurant, so the wardens at the parish refugio, a friendly middle-age couple, prepared a dinner of salad, Spanish rice and fruit, and all eight guests ate family-style, communicating in a mix of German, Italian, Spanish and English.

We were about to enter the Maragatería, a steep, hilly district extending from its market town, Astorga, southwest to Mount Teleno, a long, deceptively gentle ridge rising to over 7,000 feet. The topography has kept the region fairly isolated, preserving local cuisine and traditions and a feral landscape.

As the elevation rose, so did our spirits: the brisk mountain air was a relief from the heat of the plains. Between infrequent villages purple heather carpeted the country, forming ground cover even in forest. The isolation and meticulous stonework, the modest but carefully kept houses and churches, called to mind New Mexico mountain villages - that is, until I stepped into the warmth of a tiny cafe that had just opened and bought a couple of magdalenas (similar to madeleines) for breakfast.

In the early afternoon, still in León province, we arrived at flower-bedecked Rabanal del Camino, which immediately became my favorite stop. Like most towns that grew up along the pilgrim route, it stretched ribbonlike along its main street. Golden-gray stone houses tumbled along the hillside; several were posadas or restaurants. Though no tourist trap, Rabanal is appreciated by outsiders for its fresh air and mountain scenery, and even has two pilgrim refugios. But the town has received transients for nearly a thousand years and is not about to be overwhelmed by them now.

The Refugio Gaucelmo, created in 1991 from a deteriorating parish hall, was lovingly restored in wood and stone and meticulously clean. A tiny Benedictine monastery adjoins it, and the small Romanesque church of Santa María de la Asunción was two steps away. The three monks keep the church open all day (paradoxically rare along the Camino). Their mission is to offer spiritual support to the many seekers on the road, and in fact they have created a little haven of profound peace.

Rabanal is the last "homely house" before pilgrims cross the high pass of Monte Irago. We ascended next morning through the ghost town of Foncebadón, which has a view all the way back to the plains of León; and through heather and broom to Cruz de Ferro at the top of the pass (about 4,900 feet). The pass is marked by another huge heap of traveler-deposited stones, topped by a tall pole and cross. This is supposed to be a high point, literally and figuratively, of the journey. To me it was a slight letdown: pilgrims had deposited not only stones but also hiking accouterments such as T-shirts, hats, plastic bottles and even shoes, covering the pole to a height of eight feet. A sort of shrine, I supposed.

But the trail continued along such beautiful flower-strewn ridges, with views of Mount Teleno and beige Spanish cows, that I was mollified. Unfortunately, Patrick drank from a contaminated fountain beyond the pass, and we marched slowly but bravely out of the hills to Ponferrada, a town along the pilgrimage route. The next day he was well enough to eat tomatoes that farmers eagerly brought us from the fields (people are very kind to pilgrims). We slept in Cacabelos, a medieval town undergoing a construction boom in vacation homes, then set off for the next mountain range.

A few miles through vineyards brought us to Villafranca del Bierzo, set in emerald hills with its own intact castle. In the old days, pilgrims too sick or weak to go on received credit for the entire pilgrimage here at the simple stone Church of Santiago. I briefly considered this - Villafranca looked worth an extended visit - but we bought supplies for a picnic lunch and continued on.

From Villafranca one can take the low road (a highway) or a trail over a mountain. Although the highway actually follows the historical path, we chose the mountain, ignoring a hand-painted sign warning that the trail was "very difficult." After nine hours' hard labor and 17 steep miles (our guidebook had indicated 12) we collapsed into the refugio at Vega de Valcarce.

The following day's ascent to the mountaintop village of O Cebreiro, at 4,240 feet in elevation, was even more strenuous. It rose interminably - each hairpin bend had to be the last, yet it was not. Also, it seemed I had also drank from a contaminated fountain (carrying enough water is too burdensome). "Estoy mal," I explained unnecessarily to the woman who ran a cafe where we stopped. She called a taxi and I spent the afternoon wandering in a daze the few stone streets of ancient O Cebreiro.

Its round, thatched stone houses are a holdover from Celtic times. On all sides the land swoops away, making it a natural pilgrim's rest and seemingly a portal to another realm. Which it is: all the mountains of Galicia are spread out before you. You have left León, and inland Spain, behind.

Cebreiro acquired even more appeal in the 15th century, after a miracle at Mass one day where it was reported that the consecrated bread and wine visibly became the body and blood of Jesus. The sturdy pre-Romanesque-style church commemorating the event was undergoing repairs during our visit.

Stars studded the sky and fog filled all the valleys like fjords at seven the next morning when I caught the bus that transported me effortlessly down the mountain to Triacastela, where I lay gratefully in the sun till Patrick appeared. Happily, the following day I was fit to walk again.

This district resembled Tolkien's Shire. Bosky paths threaded from one hamlet to the next past burbling rivulets and bee-loud glades. In the middle of it all a valley opened up to reveal the massive monastery of Samos.

The present complex is mostly a Renaissance and Baroque affair. Its basement refugio was rather gloomy, but the German host was celebrating his birthday and offered all pilgrims cookies and Champagne that evening.

The rest of the walk was practically a romp through Galicia's green and pleasant land. And then it was the last day, and before dawn we were advancing through thick eucalyptus groves. Santiago itself is a whole other story. Pilgrims and tourists mill about the great Obradoiro Plaza and fill every street, cafe and restaurant. The noon pilgrims' Mass was standing room only. But it didn't matter. The famous botafumeiro swung in great arcs across the transepts, billowing clouds of incense. Here we saw again many of the people we had encountered along the way; it was like meeting your loved ones in heaven after life's long journey.