Its a long way to Santiago by Father Clement Mary, C.SS.R. and Katrina Harrington
www.redemptorists.org.uk or email.

The priests' tale

Let me begin by introducing our international party of pilgrims. They are: Brother Columba from Dublin, Ireland: Br. Ivan from Belgium: Brother Magdala from Samoa: Brother Francisco from Singapore and finally myself, Father Clement from Glasgow, Scotland. Our monastery is on Papa Stronsay, Orkney, a small island of approximately 250 acres which we bought in 1999.There are currently twenty-four in our community of which only two are British – a newly arrived, young Englishman and myself. The rest of the community come from New Zealand, Australia, Zimbabwe, India, Ukraine, USA, South Africa and France and some of those from South Africa and Australia are actually of Lebanese origin. The reason for this bright mix is our adherence to the Tridentine Latin Mass and to the traditional faith and discipline of the Roman Catholic Church, before all the radical changes of the sixties changed the face of Catholicism.

There are a limited number of such monasteries in the world right now but there are, as would be expected, world-wide sympathisers with the movement to preserve Catholic faith and culture and when such people think they might have a monastic vocation they very often turn to us. Anyone curious or interested can visit us at www.redemptorists.org.uk or email me.

Being a convert from the Plymouth Brethren I had never heard of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela until I joined the monastery and the first time I heard of it was while studying religious vows and their obligations. It seems that until recently a monk could make a vow to go to Compostela and nobody – except the Pope –could prevent him carrying it out. Well, that’s how I remember it anyway but I may have got it a little bit mixed up. Still, it stuck in my mind, and made me realise that this pilgrimage must have been something very special. It must have been around the same time that I learned that in the Middle Ages it was, after Jerusalem and Rome, the biggest Christian pilgrimage. That however,1991, was the last I thought of it until in spring of this year our superior asked if any of us would like to go on pilgrimage to Compostela from the 5th to the 26th of July. July 25th happens to be the feast of St. James but these dates were coincidence. They were chosen originally purely for their convenience value, but happily it was an ideal time to go. At least one priest was needed so that the brothers would have the Latin Mass each day but I was very happy to volunteer as the idea of the pilgrimage, which I had unconsciously assumed had fallen into oblivion, had already caught my imagination. The attractiveness of this pilgrimage for me was I think due to many factors. Visiting the tomb of an apostle was one the most important of these but annexed to this obvious motive was the historical significance of the Spanish Reconquest, so bound up with the devotion to St. James, and which added extra glamour to the whole history of the pilgrimage. Apart from the Reconquest’s importance for the survival of Catholicism in Europe it was also a very romantic, quixotic story and that appealed to me. Another important factor was that at last there was the possibility to make a real pilgrimage as it was always made before trains and cars. Instead of turning up at a shrine feeling fit and fresh this time we would surely feel that we had really achieved something and done something worthwhile to honour the apostle. That it was to be on foot also made it easier to connect with the pilgrims of the Middle Ages, which was again another big factor for me. The sense of history in general and then more specifically the thought of all our ancestors in the Catholic Faith who had walked this way, so different and yet so close because they shared the same Faith, made it very attractive. On a more prosaic level I also felt the need to get away from the quiet life in Orkney and stretch my legs a bit. When I started investigating practical arrangements for our trip I found the website for the Confraternity of St. James (www.csj.org.uk) which offers invaluable advice and there I found an additional motive for going to Compostela. Most of the pilgrims it said are not conventional Catholics but most of them do have at least some spiritual motive for going and indeed many walk this pilgrimage at a turning point in their lives, seeking for some solution to their problems. It seemed a useful place for a priest to be, although from my past experience I wasn’t expecting anything too dramatic. ‘But, you never know…’ I mused.

Due to time and money constraints we decided to fly to Bilbao and from there take the bus to Leon where we would begin walking. It had been a bit disappointing for me to discover that there would not be enough time to walk from the Pyrenees and much as though I would have liked to walk from at least Burgos, Leon was the only realistic choice. It takes on average only two weeks to walk from there but we had to allow for mishaps and for catching our return flight from Bilbao. We thought to ourselves that if we arrived too early in Santiago we could always visit some other place.

Oviedo
The route from Bilbao to Leon passes through Oviedo, whose Cathedral contains the celebrated relics saved from the Moors when they first invaded Spain. It was the custom in the Middle Ages for many pilgrims to Compostela to make a detour from the French Camino at Leon and walk to Oviedo to venerate these relics which are said to include the blood of the Redeemer, shreds from his garments, crumbs from the Last Supper and relics of the Virgin Mary. The Cathedral has also the Shroud of Oviedo, the face cloth of Jesus Christ when he was taken down from the cross, (but different again from the facecloth used in the tomb) and which likewise was saved from the invading Moors. For anyone interested they can read more at this web page: www.shroud.com/guscin.htm. So, after arriving in the early evening at Bilbao, Monday the 5th of July, we took the overnight bus to Oviedo and stopped to see and venerate the famous relics.

We were pleasantly surprised whilst there to be allowed to say Mass in the Cathedral. The Latin Tridentine Mass has become controversial since the introduction of the New Mass in 1969, and its devotees are often regarded distrustfully. The result is that we as adherents of the Tridentine Mass are frequently regarded as reactionaries by the Left and rebels by the Right. (See www.sspx.co.uk if you would like more information) As we consequently feared being unable to celebrate Mass in churches along the way we had packed a Mass kit in our rucksacks - complete with collapsible, lightweight altar. We also had a six man tent with us, partly in case the pilgrim hostels (albergues) might be full, but also to double up as a chapel in case of necessity. All in all we were carrying far more than other pilgrims (at least one of the rucksacks weighed 20kg) but in the end we only used the tent and the Mass kit twice for it turned out remarkably easy to get the required permission, starting with Oviedo Cathedral. The fact that in Oviedo (and in most other places too) we spoke no Spanish and they spoke no English, or even French, possibly helped but we always did do our best to explain what we wanted.

In Oviedo the upshot was that the priests and the Cathedral sacristans seemed very happy about it. So happy that we just couldn’t stop one of the sacristans from talking to us. Non Comprendo! made no impression and so for about half an hour we heard about the Pope, the Church and…who knows what else.

The Pilgrim Hostels (Albergues)
One of the reasons for starting in Leon was that was also a place where you could acquire your pilgrims passport which is a document entitling you to stay in the refugios or albergues. The passport is to be stamped at least once a day to prove that you are making the pilgrimage and this can be done at cafés, bars, churches and the albergues themselves. These albergues (everyone ends up using the Spanish name) provide very low cost accommodation, varying between five euros and donations and are an essential part of the Camino experience – and like the Camino itself the experience is not always pleasurable. It tends to get very crowded as men, women and sometimes children find a spare bunk or spare floor place and sleeping is not always easy. Most people start getting up around 6 am in order to avoid walking during the hottest part of the day, but there is no silence imposed in these places until at least 11 pm. And then there is the snoring…One of the albergues had a sign saying ‘No Snoring’ – if only it was that easy! Unless you are a heavy sleeper or perhaps better a heavy snorer, you should reckon with losing hours of sleep from the night symphony. Privacy with regard to toilets and showers was appalling in some places. One place in particular, where the bathroom was for both sexes, had showers without any screen or door, fully open to the gaze of all who walked by. I unintentionally surprised a startled senorita as I looked for a shower cubicle but that must have been a frequent occurrence. I finally took a shower while Br. Columba guarded my privacy - and sung O Soli Mio! In another place where showering was likewise a public event, but where the toilets were not supposed to be mixed, one girl was surprised by a nonchalant Spanish male touring the ladies’. In general I didn’t find the atmosphere in the albergues very congenial apart from in the one operated by the Confraternity of St. James in Rabanal del Camino, but I quite enjoyed the hectic hustle and bustle. It all helped to make you feel like a pilgrim and after all even in Chaucer the Catholic pilgrims were a motley crew.

The Pilgrimage Begins
We began walking the Camino (Spanish for the ‘way’ or ‘road’) on Wednesday morning and for the first two days the terrain was typically Spanish, very flat and arid. On the second day we reached Astorga, a very historical, small town where the Diario de Leon finally caught up with us. They had pre-arranged an interview the day before but were unable to find us in Astorga until the reporter saw Br. Ivan and Br. Columba out on the street. It came out two days later on page 20 but it was a good article and also fairly large. Being who we are, we were walking the whole way in our heavy, black woollen habits and that attracted the attention of the paper. For the most part however, despite our unusual appearance, pilgrims did not show too much curiosity about us.

An important part of the pilgrimage experience is the people you meet along the way, most of whom are interesting and some of whom are quite out of the ordinary and no account of the pilgrimage would be complete without at least some mention of the more memorable of them. On the first day a young girl from Chile, Magdalena, studying Sociology at university, struck up a conversation with us at the albergue and came to our Mass. She was a practising Catholic and as she openly admitted ‘loved to talk’ so for the next three days we saw (and heard) a lot of her. She would have liked to walk with us but could not keep up. ‘You don’t walk, you run!’ she said. In her own way she was quite a character. In Astorga Cathedral she was seen going from altar to altar singing and later she explained it was because it was the only way she knew how to pray! The next day at the Albergue in Rabanal del Camino, run by the Confraternity of St. James, to my surprise I enough found two pamphlets about prayer by St. Alphonsus de Liguori and got permission from the hosts to give one to her. That might make her prayer life easier. At Molinaseca we left her on Sunday morning, assuming we would see her soon but we never saw her again and never got to say goodbye properly. We also met two French ladies, Gabrielle and Marylene on the first day. They were clearly not practising Catholics but we made friends with them and said goodbye to them in Santiago. Gabrielle became my nurse for several days, as my feet started to blister, for which I am very grateful - especially as it was a bizarre, almost disconcerting experience for her to be so involved with a priest. She coped admirably with it however and we have been in contact since.

Apart from carrying too much in our rucksacks we also had to worry about saying Mass when we had reached our destination. While others could rest and recuperate we were visiting churches and negotiating with sacristans. And then after all that we still had to set up for Mass before we could begin. We were able to say Mass in some beautiful churches and this was definitely one of the major highlights of our pilgrimage but it took its toll on me physically. Already by the second day, in Astorga, I was feeling shattered. We had walked 32 km that day (in order to keep my promise to the journalist) and by the time I reached the town I was too tired to say Mass. About 6pm I recovered slightly and took a look round the town with Br. Columba.

In the cathedral I met two seminarians and I spoke with one of them in French. He knew all about the Society of Saint Pius X, (the main worldwide priestly Society for the defence of Catholic Tradition and with whom we collaborate), but was very friendly and enthusiastic nonetheless and asked me to pray for him in Santiago. The third day we arrived in the abovementioned Rabanal del Camino where we received a very warm welcome from the English speaking operators of the Confraternity of St. James Albergue. Next door was a monastery, and as it happened one of the monks visiting from Germany, was best friends with a priest I had studied with in seminary in Bavaria. This priest was very sympathetic towards Tradition and helped us to say Mass in San Jose Church and assisted at it himself. We made some more friends on this day. Earlier we had met a very kind German lady in her late forties, Brigitte, and I met her again at the Albergue. She was very friendly and keen to talk and although a Lutheran was indeed attending Mass along the way. For a few days we kept meeting each other on the road and at Villafranca she was even kind enough to lend me some money as our finances were becoming a problem. At the Albergue in Rabanal we met a Dutchman, Joannes and his Norwegian wife Mete. We were to see a lot of them also although they were quite clearly New Agers of some sort. They seemed to be very interested in us nonetheless. At the same place we also met Brother Julian, who works in India with the religious of Mother Teresa and who indeed had known the great lady herself. He gave us a very warm and humorous welcome and went out of his way to be helpful to us. We met him the next day too in Molinaseca. A little later along the way we became acquainted with a middle aged French lady from Paris, Anya, who was a devotee of the Latin Mass. She was walking with her Buddhist friend and both would attend our Masses whenever they could. We met again in Santiago where Anya gave her contact information so I think we might hear more from her.

The next day, Saturday, we headed off for Molinaseca. The brothers started off at a terrific pace and after half an hour I was bathed in perspiration. It was a very hard day for walking and much of it was uphill. It was becoming scenic but on the Camino beautiful landscapes are paid for in blood and sweat (but I didn’t cry). After about three quarters of the way I met Katrina, walking with a German girl, for the first time at a small village. I was already very tired and I’m afraid she didn’t make a good first impression on me. She seemed just a bit too much of a clever clogs and I felt too drained to make polite but empty conversation. After a very brief discussion with her friend about the hygiene of the fountain we were standing at and hearing Katrina’s chirpy interruption I said, ‘Are you English?’ She said she was from London, and normally I would have introduced myself but in such circumstances I just didn’t feel up to satisfying what I thought was her idle, slightly patronising curiosity. How wrong can you be! Anyway, I said ‘I thought so’, smiled and moved on. It seemed reasonably polite at the time if a bit cold and reserved. I forgot about the incident quickly and didn’t expect to see her again but little did I know…Later at the albergue I met Charles, a Catholic from Philadelphia but now living in Leon, who had already met Katrina. He was destined to become one of our party but again he didn’t make a very good first impression on me. I already knew my first impressions were not to be trusted but they seemed to be worse than ever on the Camino. Raphael the Albergue’s host was a real character. A former journalist who claimed to have been a reporter in the Gulf War, he had read about us in the Diario de Leon and instantly claimed to be our friends. ‘Hey, I am Catholic too. I remember the Latin Mass’ and then gave an embarrassingly bad demonstration of his Latinity. It seemed too corny to be true but he put his money where his mouth was and let us stay for nothing, buying us bottles of mineral water and even arranging for us to say Mass at a local church.

Pain Barrier
The next day was a turning point for me – and by consequence for the brothers also. I felt quite strong most of the way but the last two kilometres finished me off completely. The ‘fragile but determined’ Fr. Clement (the words of Gabrielle) was simply no match for the martial Br. Ivan and the raw-boned Br. Columba and the effort of keeping up with them while singing and praying together was killing me. By the time we got to our destination, Cacabelos, I could hardly place any weight at all on my feet. I could hobble about but the first contact of my feet with anything hard was extremely painful. I had never had any foot problems before, despite having once walked about 100km in three days, so I felt very disappointed for it looked as if I would have to take the bus the next day. Hopefully I would recover after a day’s rest – but I wasn’t too confident. I felt at the end of my physical resources. In the evening the brothers went into town to find somewhere to eat but just before I could get back to my room for a rest Charles arrived (it was now hours after our arrival) and started talking to me. Without my expecting it to happen, we ended up talking about Catholicism and my conversion and Charles was getting very interested. ‘I really want to continue this conversation’ he said just as Katrina, whom I barely recognised, appeared. In the end he never did continue the conversation but Katrina certainly did. After re-introducing herself she announced that she had taken a degree in Religious Studies which for a self-proclaimed agnostic I found very amusing. Religion had never held any appeal for me whatsoever until I started investigating the claims of the Catholic Church to posses the truth. So, although there was a serious point to my joking, a point Katrina seemed to appreciate, I enjoyed myself making fun of her ‘religiosity’. She seemed as amused and intrigued as I was. The next morning as planned the brothers left without me and as I was getting ready to catch the bus I began feeling a bit lonely. Living in a monastery, you are very rarely completely alone for long and I was already feeling a bit stranded when I saw Charles casually smoking a cigarette. We started talking again and I made up my mind to walk the first seven kilometres with him to Villafranca from which I could catch a bus. (For the first time in my life I had taken some pain killers and was already beginning to feel the benefit. I would take one each day for breakfast until the second last day of the pilgrimage.) Just as we were getting ready to leave, a sleepy Katrina surfaced and asked to join the party. Charles and Katrina were by far the most laid back pilgrims I had seen but it helped me immensely for I began to realise that even with my raw feet I could continue to walk, as long as I took it easy. We left the albergue half an hour after we were meant to because we had to wait for a supremely relaxed Katrina. At the entrance to Villafranca we met Brigitte again who joined the party and bought me some lunch in town at a café where Charles and Katrina joined us along with another old Dutch lady - who it turned out was a white witch. In the end our party did not leave Villafranca until around 1.00 pm. Four and a half hours to cover 7km!

The following day, the brothers set off before me while I came along at my own pace. I started with Charles who had to stop at the first café in la Faba, a mountaintop village, for a smoke and a coffee. We had been there only five minutes when Brigitte arrived and embraced us and after a short while Katrina arrived and declared she was having her third breakfast. With all this going on I was really recovering confidence in my ability to finish the pilgrimage. We all carried on together but finally I ended up having a very long and intense discussion on religion with the earnest but bubbly Katrina and that was to be the pattern for the rest of the pilgrimage. It appeared to be a very surreal twelve days for Katrina who came with us all the way to Santiago and beyond. She found herself very surprised to be talking so much with a priest and I was just as surprised at her intense interest. I very quickly realised that Katrina did know a lot about the case for and against religion and more specifically Christianity, so it was a real pleasure for me to have a battle of wits over these important questions. For all her newborn curiosity she was no pushover however, so the talks were very prolonged and continue still…We arrived that day at Hospital da Condensa at which Charles, Katrina, Gabrielle and Marilyn attended my Mass. Normally, I would have checked into the albergue first but I was afraid that the delay might furnish Katrina with a reason for missing Mass. If only I had known…As a result we both had to sleep on the floor that night, Katrina in the reception room and me in the kitchen while the brothers had beds upstairs. It was worth it though for the landscape here was so beautiful that I could have gazed at it all night. We had just crossed over the border from Leon/Castile into Galicia and the mountainous but fertile borderlands were breathtaking.

And so the pilgrimage continued until the following Wednesday when we finally arrived in Santiago. Two days after Hospital da Condensa Charles left our party for good as he had to rush back to Leon. We had never continued that conversation begun in Cacabelos but he had been a very good companion to all of us. By the time we were getting near to Santiago I had recovered quite well but still had to go slower than the frenetic brothers (at least that’s how it felt at times) in order to cushion my feet and save my breath. On Tuesday the 21st we stayed at a Albergue in Monte de Gozo, only 5km from Santiago so that we would be able to arrive early in Santiago the next day. At this albergue we noticed that we had just missed seeing Lou Reed and Bob Dylan in concert. I don’t think Dylan has played Fatima or Lourdes yet but then Santiago has become far more than just a place of Catholic pilgrimage. Katrina assumed that I would want to say goodbye now. Maybe she felt that I would not want to ‘cast pearls before swine’ any longer as we came at last to the holy shrine of St. James. I thought however it would be such an anti-climax to part so close to Santiago and invited her to come with me and all the brothers on the next day. My feet were now almost back to normal and it was only a stroll into Santiago now, so the next morning we all set off together in a party and arrived at our renowned destination.

Santiago
Santiago, small though it is, was buzzing the whole time we were there with (a mostly secular) excitement. There was a rock venue right outside the Holy Door and many t-shirts on sale with pictures of witches on broomsticks underneath the logo, ‘Santiago’. There was even a very imposing witch posing outside the Cathedral. Maybe Wicca for reasons best known to itself finds the pilgrimage attractive. Lively street parties went on late into the night and kept me awake (in bed) for most of my first night there and street artists of every description were at almost every corner.

For many Catholics the secularisation of the pilgrimage will be a great disappointment but it didn’t jar with me or prevent me from savouring the spiritual nature of the pilgrimage. I found it to be an excellent microcosm of the tangled world today and I would have been disappointed and probably even bored to find only pious, traditionally minded Catholics. (I did actually meet a young Austrian couple, making the pilgrimage from the purest, most impeccable Catholic reasons, and yet…I was slightly bored.) Aside from the precious opportunity of speaking at great length about the Faith to those who would otherwise never have any contact with a priest, I find personally that faith thrives on challenges and conflict. At Santiago however the highlight was undoubtedly, being allowed to say Mass in the crypt at the tomb of St. James. Given all the problems with the Tridentine Latin Mass it was very unexpected, but was the perfect way to finish the pilgrimage and to pray for all our special intentions. There was just enough room in the crypt for the five of us and a slightly far-away looking Katrina. The following day, although we had the chance to say Mass once more in the Cathedral we chose instead to say Mass in the Franciscan monastery founded by St. Francis when he came to Santiago on pilgrimage.

Covadonga
The day after, a Friday, we left Santiago for Covadonga. Covadonga is the tiny village in the Asturian mountains near Oviedo where the Reconquest began, which in a sense is the beginning of modern Spain. There, while the rest of Spain had fallen, King Pelayo with a handful of followers refused to surrender and made his last stand. He must have cut a ridiculous figure at the time but the last laugh was with him for after about 770 years the Spaniards indeed finally re-conquered the last Moslem foothold. There in a very romantic looking cave it is said Our Lady appeared to encourage him and later it became a place of pilgrimage – Our Lady of Covadonga.

This place had been on our agenda from the start but we were not sure how much time we would have after Santiago. If we had had more time the brothers might have preferred to go to Fatima in Portugal, but that was scarcely feasible now, whereas Covadonga is very close to Oviedo and was more or less on our homeward route.

By the time we arrived in Santiago Katrina had long abandoned her plan to walk on to Finisterre and so I invited her to come with us to Covadonga instead. I had spoken about it to her previously and it was becoming obvious to me that she was interested. As it turned out she needed little persuading. Covadonga as far as I know has never been considered to be a part of the pilgrimage to Santiago but I thought it was an ideal place to finish off (and say goodbye to Katrina), the beautiful mountain scenery adding the final sparkle to a fitting ending.

The Agnostic's Tale………

Making plans
There was just something about the Camino de Santiago that struck me. I had learnt about a wide variety of pilgrimages in my Religious Studies degree but the Camino in particular seemed to stand out. In my mind Christian pilgrimages belonged to the Mediaeval world and I was genuinely surprised that in this modern age of fast transport, such large numbers of people still continue to make the journey on foot each year! Feeling inspired by this fact, along with a keen interest in Spain and a nagging desire to learn more about a religion I had rejected, I thought about doing it myself one day. My interest was further fuelled when a friend actually walked the Camino last summer (2003). Whilst she was away, by happy coincidence Channel 5 broadcast a documentary of Britain’s controversial art critic, Brian Sewell’s journey to Santiago and my enthusiasm for the pilgrimage grew even more, and with it a fascination for Brian Sewell - but that’s another story! When my friend returned having had a positive experience I knew it would only be a matter of time before I made the journey myself.

I chose this summer to go because I had time to travel between finishing work and starting an MA course and I wanted to do something slower paced and more reflective than the usual backpacking trips. I had planned the pilgrimage around the feast of St James on 25th July when big celebrations are held in Santiago. I would arrive in the city roughly a week before hand, spend a couple of days there, then walk on to the coast to Finisterre (‘lands end’) from where I would catch a bus back in time for the feast day. Although not a Catholic or a Christian of any denomination I still regarded my journey as a pilgrimage rather than simply a long walk. I guess I thought of it as a spiritual journey, but not so much in a ‘new age’ sense but rather a journey for the benefit of my spirit, for the sake of my mental well being. I had been feeling mentally drained from working 9-5 and there were also aspects of my social life that were bothering me. I hoped that the Camino might help sort things out but I certainly wasn’t expecting any kind of experience parallel to those of Paulo Coehlo or ‘new ager’ Shirely MacLaine, whose accounts I had already read. At the time I think I was a little coy regarding my motivations and I chose my words carefully to colleagues and more distant friends – “I’m walking along a pilgrimage route” I would say, rather than “I’m making a pilgrimage”.

I decided I would start walking from the Pyrenees and that I would reach them over land rather than through the air. Somehow it felt wrong to fly over two countries in order to walk across one. Also, by remaining on the ground it felt easier to feel a connection with past pilgrims as I traced the Camino via train through Paris, Chartres and Bordeaux, visiting important churches and cathedrals along the way. This link with history was important to me and it was in Paris that I considered my pilgrimage to begin. Leaving Bordeaux I made my final train journey to Saint Jean-Pied-de-Port, the French border town from which many people start the Camino. From here I would make the rest of the journey on foot.

The Way of St James
On a literal level my journey would be from A to B, from one physical place to another, but there were also a number of other journeys taking place. Like many other pilgrims the Camino was for me also a journey of self-discovery, both in terms of my mind and my body. From the very beginning I was struck by the intensity of the whole experience and in such an environment everything seemed to become loaded with meaning and I quickly began to interpret my experiences figuratively. The variety of people I met combined with the changing landscape I walked through became multi-layered metaphors from which I needed to learn lessons from. All aspects of my journey became inextricably bound up with each other and the more I walked the more blurred distinctions became – between myself and the path, my body and my mind, the physical and the spiritual.

Sweat and tears – the first five days
The first five days on the road were a literal and metaphorical uphill struggle beginning with the steep ascent into the Pyrenees across and down into the hilly Navarre region. The first day was the most physically exhausting as I struggled up the 16km climb in the heat and then wobbled my way back down to the refugio at Roncesvalles. It took 11 hours and I think I was the last one on foot to make it that day but I got there nevertheless! The feeling of relief was immense - I’d climbed the biggest hurdle, this was the toughest bit of the route and if I could do this then I could do the rest.

I arrived an emotional and physical wreck and people quickly rallied round to ease my distress.

A Canadian pilgrim who I’d met the night before and who had passed me along the path that day, was particularly helpful and told me he’d said a prayer along the road because he was concerned about me. I am dubious about the efficacy of prayer but nonetheless I appreciated his concern and was genuinely grateful for his act. That first night I was really struck by the support network that quickly developed but I felt ambivalent towards it. On the one hand I was immensely grateful for the help and concern but I also felt an uneasy claustrophobia.

The next three days walking were much better in comparison but still a struggle up and down hills which seemed to mirror the emotional peaks and troughs I was going through. I was becomingly increasingly frustrated that I couldn’t keep up with anyone and also aware that the slower I walked the more time I would be exposed to the sun. I tried to leave earlier but it seemed to take me so long to pack my rucksack each morning that it never really happened. People would start off as early as 5.30am some mornings but I rarely got out any earlier than 6.30am. Fortunately my body wasn’t hurting too much at this point but I wasn’t really enjoying myself and I just spent each day trying to get to the next location as quickly as possible, pleased not to be walking but only when I had stopped and it was all over for that day.

The fifth day was a turning point – the usual route was diverted and seemed to be much longer as a consequence and I felt like I was dragging my body through the heat and the dust. My toes were a little sore and my rucksack was starting to pull on my shoulders. That morning I’d bumped into a few pilgrims I’d met during the first couple of days and I was grateful when we finally found somewhere to stop for lunch. Afterwards however I found it really difficult to get going again and I watched the party of four gradually disappear into the distance as I was unable to keep up with them feeling tired, isolated, alienated and depressed. I was also hitting financial difficulties because two days earlier in Pamplona I had forgotten my pin number and could not draw money out of a cash machine. I was unsure if I even had enough money to pay for the refugio that night and didn’t know my fellow pilgrims well enough yet to ask for assistance. Luckily I had enough and as I stumbled into the refugio I was relieved to see signs allowing pilgrims to stay for an extra night if they wanted. I made up my mind – I would have a day out from walking to rest, sort out my finances and stop and think about whether I really should carry on or not.

Companionship and adventure (Estella to Sahagun)
The day’s rest turned out to be a very wise decision but it didn’t start off too well. After failing 3 times in 3 different banks to buy currency with my credit card and realising my pigeon Spanish was not getting me anywhere I turned in tearful desperation to some fellow pilgrims, one of whom kindly lent me 50 euros which I was very grateful for but extremely embarrassed about. It would last me until my bank posted my pin number home and my mother contacted me with those magical 4 digits to freedom! I spent the rest of the day relaxing, doing a little sight seeing and writing in my journal. I also took time to rearrange my rucksack and cut down on the items I had with me and managed to decrease my load by over 1kg. Using the Lista de Correos system to mail a package to myself at the post office in Santiago I felt like I had also jettisoned some mental baggage. I finally accepted that I had no option but to walk at my own pace if I was going to make it to Santiago in one piece. I had less time constraints than many people so I had no need to hurry. In the kitchen that evening as I met the day’s new wave of pilgrims I knew I’d made the right decision to stay behind. I felt liberated because I no longer felt the pressure of trying to walk to the same place as everyone else. I had broken free and so could now look forward to enjoying the pilgrimage! Forgetting my pin number was a blessing in disguise!

I became more relaxed and as the landscape started to flatten out the next couple of weeks walking became much more enjoyable. I met a variety of people during this time but much of it was spent in the company of a Canadian girl from Ottowa, Mijanou. I’d first met her at St Jean Pied-de-Port but she had to stay behind a day in Pamplona to buy walking shoes as the footwear she had brought with her was unsuitable, but luckily we met up again in Estella. It didn’t happen at first but we would tend to leave the refugio together in the morning, and as she walked faster than me (who didn’t?!) she would soon disappear off ahead but we would run into each other in cafes along the way or meet up again in the same refugios that evening. We hardly ever made any fixed plans to meet though and sometimes we would lose each other for a day or so. To my surprise there were not many young females walking the Camino alone and I think we were very grateful for each other’s company.

It was during this time that I started to reflect on Catholicism a little. Both Mijanou and I attended the pilgrims’ masses in Los Arcos and Viana and although I could not understand much of what was being spoken I could appreciate the special benediction that pilgrims were called to the front to receive and noted that this happened in several churches along the Camino. A few days later however, I had a rather less pleasant encounter with Catholicism when I was awoken very abruptly one morning by a rather stern looking nun. I was staying at a refugio run by a Cistercian convent in Santo Domingo and I had incurred the nun’s wrath by oversleeping!

Relieved that I was not the only one I found the situation rather amusing and remember giggling with a young German girl on a bench outside where we ended up sorting out our hurriedly packed rucksacks and eating some supplies for breakfast! It was gone 9am before I set out and by the time I got to my destination that evening I was too tired to attend mass and in any case the novelty was starting to wear off and I remember reflecting on how nauseating I was beginning to find Catholicism. “I’m starting to feel repulsed by Catholic iconography” I wrote in my journal, “Some of the statues of Mary are so huge they look like grotesque dolls.” By the time I reached Burgos however I’d recovered enough to appreciate the magnificent Cathedral and Mijanou and I stayed in a hostel in town for a couple of days enjoying a break from the road.

The next section was very memorable as the Camino made its way through the meseta, the high plateau or tableland. I’d heard much about this stretch of the Camino from other pilgrims and learnt that some people took a bus between Burgos and Leon. My guidebook stated of this section “..You will either find it extremely tedious or, if you like undulating expanses reaching out to infinity in all directions, hauntingly beautiful…” I wanted to walk all the way but was worried how my body would cope without shade and how my morale would fare in a horizonless landscape. My fears were soon allayed and not only was the landscape bearable, it really was beautiful and I had much time to reflect during this section. Miles and miles of glorious golden cornfields seemingly stretching on forever, with the odd tree occasionally dotting the landscape.

Away from the noise and pollution of cities, the meseta felt like an oasis of calm, and it was very easy to lose one’s sense of self and time, especially when your watch had stopped working some time back. During the occasions when I would not see a single person for a good couple of hours, reality seemed like a very slippery concept and I felt as if I was travelling through a surrealist dreamscape. Walking in Dali’s homeland, the sight of melting watches would have felt highly appropriate at this point.

One evening after walking for about three hours without seeing a single soul I felt rather overwhelmed as I stumbled into a small refugio full of people who didn’t speak my language, sat around a table eating and laughing. I was expecting to find Mijanou here but didn’t and instantly I felt completely alien to my surroundings. The hospitaleros (the refugio’s host) in this place was very friendly to me – I had met him briefly in the previous village earlier that day and I got a cheer as I walked through the door. He was a little too attentive though and having Julio Inglesias played to you and your photo taken at the dinner table whilst everyone around it was chattering in a foreign language was all too much for me and I left this Mad Hatter’s Tea Party and walked on to the next refugio. My actions seemed to cause alarm and the next morning after walking about 9km to the next village where I ate breakfast, I discovered that the news had spread fast. There weren’t many young English girls walking alone on the Camino and so I was identifiable as soon as I opened my mouth!

The last day I spent with Mijanou was also memorable as her feet were causing her so much trouble that she decided she shouldn’t walk but as we were not near public transport we were advised to hitch. Much as I wanted to walk every bit of the Way there was no question of me leaving her to hitch on her own – it would be safer together. So, we spent a good few hours by the roadside failing to get anyone to stop that was driving in the right direction. In the end we went back to the village bar and it turned out someone there was going into Sahagun and so we got a lift from him. It really was quite a farcical experience as we sat there on the roadside watching the stream of pilgrims on foot and on bicycles pass us by as well as the cars and trucks! I felt like we were some kind of modern day mendicants especially when one of the cyclists hurled a cereal bar at us whilst we were waiting!!!

Nothing goes as planned (Sahagun to Cacabelos)
I had a farewell meal with Mijanou that evening as the following morning she would catch the train to Leon to give her feet a rest. After leaving Mijanou as I travelled on from Sahagun to Cacabelos there was one theme that really struck home – nothing went as planned! Whether it was taking wrong turnings, walking the longer scenic route out of Leon when I decided that morning to take the more direct road route, stopping to stay at places that looked nice rather than the place I’d circled in my guidebook, or getting distracted from my path by taking photographs or bumping into people - one thing was sure I never knew where I was going to end up that night! I started to really enjoy this lifestyle and just went with the flow. One of the pilgrims I saw a lot of during this time was Charles, an American who had lived and worked in London for a while, not far from where I live now and so we indulged in many conversations about my home town. As he was only just starting out I wasn’t too slow for him yet and as we walked I was astonished at how much I was talking compared to the inward contemplation of the previous weeks.

There were also many memorable places as well as people as I meandered around more cities along the Way, visiting the Cathedral in Leon and Gaudi’s Bishop’s Palace in Astorga. I fell in love with the village of Rabanal del Camino which I felt compelled to explore and wandered down the grassy hills to a stream below and arrived back up just in time to hear the resident Benedictine monks singing Vespers. I had only ever heard Gregorian chant on CD before and was glad to finally experience it in person in a church.

Only 10km further on I also enjoyed my stay at the quirky but basic refugio (i.e. no washing facilities and a hole in the ground) at Manjarin, run by a man called Tomas who claims to be a modern day Templar Knight and involves his guests in the daily rituals and ceremonies he performs! I bumped into Charles again there but he ventured off towards Ponferrada the next day whereas I embarked on a detour to a cave and former monastery in the mountains nearby with a German girl I’d met the previous night. Even so, both Charles and I were convinced we’d see one another again.

That day was one of my strangest and both I and my walking companion were remarking on how surreal everything was becoming. Neither of us had intended on staying at Manjarin but once we broke our journey there we just ending up staying put.

We joked that the mountains must have some strange power in them that made the whole area susceptible to strange things and that this must be at least in part responsible for our crazy adventure into the unknown where our night’s lodging could not be assured. It was in this context then that our vision was suddenly arrested by the bizarre sight of a group of monks dressed in black habits wearing rucksacks and singing as they walked along the path. We couldn’t be sure at first whether we were imagining things! Their reality was confirmed though when we bumped into them briefly at a drinking fountain and discovered that they spoke English. As they left I thought it was a pity I would not be able to speak to them properly as shortly after this encounter we turned off the Camino and made our way up into the mountains. As the day progressed we realised we had run out of time to make it to our destination and after getting caught in a rain storm we reluctantly resorted to hitching a lift to the refugio in Ponferrada where we arrived looking very bedraggled. Whilst the day did not turn out as hoped it was an enjoyable misadventure and I had already accepted things not going according to plan. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d ever been in control of my journey anyway and mused over the thought that it was being guided somehow.

The next evening then as I stumbled into the refugio at Cacabelos, it was to my delight but not complete surprise to discover not only Charles there but also the group of English speaking monks. Moreover, Charles it seemed was already acquainted with them and as I was leaving to find some food that evening I found him talking to the monk I’d spoken to at the fountain. On this occasion he introduced himself as Father Clement and gave me a leaflet about their monastery. As Charles and I ate in a Spanish fast food place Charles gave me a brief run down of the monks’ orthodox beliefs which aroused my curiosity even further.

Sore feet and a sore mind (Cacabelos to Santiago and beyond)
The day’s walk to Cacabelos had not been long but it had been along hard concrete most of the way and for the first time my feet were really beginning to bother me. Why now I asked in exasperation?

There had been days on the Camino before where my feet were a little sore but this had usually been remedied by exchanging my boots for my sandals for a day and my blisters had never been serious. Little did I know however that this was to become the start of foot problems which persisted even after I’d arrived in Santiago! The next morning more by accident than design I ended up joining Charles and Fr Clement who were walking to Villafranca . The rest of the monks had left earlier but as Fr Clement was also having feet problems he would get a bus from Villafranca to Ruitelan. We enjoyed a lazy breakfast at Villafranca and Charles and I didn’t leave there until gone 1pm but somehow we made the remaining 21km to Ruitelan in the hot afternoon, going steeply uphill with less than robust feet.

I know that the only thing that drove me to walk that far that day was my determination to keep up with Charles and the monks. I arrived quite late and so there was not much time to talk but I did find out from Fr Clement that they usually held a Latin Mass at each place they stopped at and he invited me to attend the next day. I was really touched that despite not being Christian, let alone Catholic I was welcome.

Unfortunately the next day I was in no fit state to appreciate the Mass as I was not only physically exhausted but also mentally drained from the afternoon of intense theological conversation with Father Clement that preceded it. With both myself and Fr Clement suffering from sore feet we had ended up walking at a similar slow pace as Charles had speeded up to get out of the sun. Charles was to part company for good at Sarria whereas I ended up walking and talking with the monks for the remainder of the Camino. I would attend their Latin Mass almost everyday which to my surprise I gradually grew to really appreciate.

This was the most intense part of my journey – the conversations were really interesting but also deeply troubling for me. Fr. Clement spoke frankly about Christianity as the only true religion and I found this deeply problematic. Whilst I recognise different religions (and secular ideologies) as containing some truth or truths, I regard them as all fundamentally flawed in some way and tend to favour a more holistic approach to life.

Somehow though I found myself gaining a real insight into such a mindset and this fundamentally bothered me. If I could bring myself to understand something that had previously been too repulsive to even contemplate then all the things I had taken for granted had to be rethinked. I also began to realise to my horror that on some level I actually found Christianity and Catholicism in particular very attractive.

Being preoccupied with conversation I lost all sense of time and place and I no longer cared whether I went to Finisterre or not and was even feeling a little apathetic towards reaching Santiago because I did not want my journey to end when I felt like it had only just begun.

Upon reaching the city my focus was a little confused and as I did the staple pilgrim rituals of walking past the statue and tomb of St James in the Cathedral they didn’t really seem to mean much more to me than symbols that I had finally made it!

The afternoon felt very surreal as I joined the monks as they celebrated Mass by St James tomb, aware it was a privilege to be so close to the apostle yet as a non-Catholic I felt very much a fraud. After a while though Santiago’s buzzing atmosphere began to wake me up and I started to actively enjoy being in the city. Somehow it felt right to end my journey in a place swarming with pilgrims rather than walking on to Finisterre even if my feet had’ve been up to it. I considered taking a bus there but ended up accepting the monks’ invite to accompany them to Covadonga instead even though this meant being away from Santiago during the feast day. I really appreciated the tranquil atmosphere of this beautiful place despite it being more touristy than any of us imagined and I think I would’ve felt overwhelmed experiencing the grand celebrations in Santiago on my own.

Reflections
After the monks left Covadonga I had a few days on my own to reflect on things as I made my way back to Santiago and I began to realise that I had learnt as much about myself as I had learnt about Catholicism. Even after leaving Spain I do not feel that my journey is over and I am still in contact with Fr Clement now. The whole experience has raised some challenging questions for me and indeed is continuing to do so still!

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