The El Camino de Santiago, literally the way of St. James, is an ancient pilgrimage across Spain to the city of Santiago to visit the cathedral housing the tomb of St. James, one of Christ’s 12 apostles. James continued to preach across the Holy Roman Empire for several years after the crucifixion of Christ, until he was beheaded in Jerusalem by King Herod in 42 AD.
Although pilgrims have been walking to Santiago from all directions to honor St. James for more than a thousand years, one particularly popular route, the Camino Frances, was featured in a recent Martin Sheen movie, The Way. The Camino Frances stretches 482 miles from the foot of the Pyrenees Mountains in France to Santiago, Spain.
A Concord friend who also happens to be a Benedictine brother has been itching to walk the Camino for years. When he reached out to us over a year ago with a firm plan to walk the last hundred miles of the Camino Frances this September, we jumped at the chance. In all there were nine of us from Concord, five women and four men, all in our 60s and early 70s.
Logistically the trip was a challenge. We flew to Madrid, in the center of Spain, then took an all-day bus and taxi ride north to our starting point, Laguna de Castilla, on the western edge of the autonomous region of Castilla y Leon, where it abuts Galicia. Through a tour company we had arranged lodging for nine nights along the Camino Frances to Santiago, with our luggage transported and waiting for us at each stop. We planned to walk 100 miles across Galicia in eight days. We knew we had room and board and a hot shower waiting for us each day, but we had to get there on foot.
The pilgrimage took on a special significance for me when I learned last October that a good friend and college fraternity brother had just died suddenly on the Camino near Leon, having walked the entire way from France. We would be walking most of the remaining Camino Frances that John was unable to complete.
The first day on the Camino was a test and we all passed. Laguna de Castilla was cloaked in early morning mist and light rain when we set out. Although in a mountainous region, there were few trees, and the vistas were spectacular when the clouds parted. Unlike our New Hampshire mountain trails with their rocks and roots, the Camino was primarily graded gravel and some lightly traveled secondary roads, with mostly gentle ups and downs. Concrete posts mark the path, each with the scallop shell Camino symbol and a yellow arrow pointing the way. The villages along the Camino cater to pilgrims, and cafes and albergues offer bocadillos, Galician soup and excellent Estrella Galicia draft beer to grateful peregrinos.
Triacastella, our first day’s destination, is noteworthy for its limestone quarries, apparently still in operation after many hundreds of years. The limestone was used in the construction of the Santiago cathedral, and traditionally pilgrims would carry small rocks from the quarry for use in construction. I picked up a piece of limestone for my friend John, which I carried for the rest of my pilgrimage.
As we walked across Galicia we passed through countless small subsistence farming communities and barnyards. Most villages had their own small churches with distinctive open bell towers in front, each with two bells of different sizes. Apparently the soil is not deep and the churches are surrounded by above-ground family burial crypts many hundreds of years old. Homes, churches, low barns and outbuildings were all built of laid-up stone without mortar, with sturdy beams supporting slate roofs. Though very old, the stone structures were remarkably square and plumb, and most are still in use.
Large pieces of slate stuck in the ground on edge often served as fences around gardens and pastures. We shared the Camino with farmers and livestock about their daily business, and we frequently had to hold our noses and step carefully. Most Galicians spoke no English but the folks we encountered, locals and pilgrims alike, wished us “Buen Camino,” the traditional pilgrim greeting. Despite our trudging through their front and back yards, and the various cultures we represented, we never felt unwelcome on the Camino.
Traversing the hills and valleys of Galicia we crossed many streams, large and small. Bridges were often simple structures, a few sturdy stone piers spanned by massive flat rocks, plainly ancient and worn. Occasionally we encountered graceful arched bridges erected by the Romans almost 2,000 years ago, still in service. In Portomarin, the original town was built along the River Marin, which was dammed in the 1950s. The reservoir was low when we crossed the new high bridge and we could look down upon the building foundations of the old town and the Roman bridge dating to the second century but still intact and functional when not inundated by the reservoir. The old town of Portomarin was relocated to higher ground, including an historic castle-like church built by the Knights Templar, which was moved block by massive stone block by the parishioners, a remarkable act of faith. Many of the building stones still bore inscribed numbers from the dismantling and reconstruction 70 years ago.
The Camino took us through “witches’ ways,” deep woods of gnarly old chestnut trees looking particularly ominous in early morning fog and nowhere to be at night; a joyous wedding in Sarria where they threw flower petals instead of rice and the ground was littered with colorful balloons to be popped in celebration; and a village festival punctuated by daytime fireworks. Everywhere, every Camino experience, I carried my stone for John.
We ate tongue, white asparagus, leafy salads often garnished with tuna fish, entrees served lukewarm, grilled ham and cheese for breakfast and all manner of seafood, including manta ray and octopus, or “pulpo.” In Melide, which specialized in pulpo, we watched them cook the creatures whole in boiling pots and then with large kitchen shears snip the tentacles into bite-size pieces. It was actually tasty, not unlike lobster.
On the eighth day we reached the city of Santiago, a jarring contrast to our largely pastoral Camino experience up until then. Reality hit us as we walked near the runway at the Santiago airport and a large jet took off just over our heads. We walked for hours through the urban environment, still following the scallop shells and yellow arrows marking the Camino, until we reached the narrow streets of the old city and the Santiago de Compestela, the magnificent Cathedral of St. James. The airy Plaza de Obradoiro in front of the cathedral marks the official terminus of the Camino Frances and the many other caminos that arrive from all points of the compass. Arrival was a time of relief, exhaustion, gratitude, celebration and emotion for us and also the multitude of fellow pilgrims gathered there.
Our walking pilgrimage ended on Friday afternoon but the true climax was the Pilgrims Mass celebrated that evening in the cathedral. We arrived an hour early to be sure of getting seats. Sixty minutes of quiet contemplation in the hushed cathedral, after eight long days of walking and talking, was a welcome spiritual experience in and of itself. On cue the Mass opened with a phalanx of red-robed priests participating and a single nun with the voice of an angel leading the singing. The entire mass was conducted in Spanish, with a few words in English recognizing the American pilgrims and offering prayers for our hurricane victims. Despite the language barrier the Mass was nevertheless meaningful and inspirational.
The Pilgrims Mass closes with the lighting and swinging of the botafumeiro, the massive incense burner suspended on a stout rope over a pulley anchored to the very top of the cathedral. The ancient purpose of the botafumeiro, now largely unnecessary, thank God, was to fumigate the sweaty and possibly disease-ridden pilgrims after their arduous journeys to Santiago in a simpler time without showers or toiletries.
The incense is lit and immediately begins to belch pungent blue smoke. Four sturdy priests pull the rope to raise the vessel off the floor and another priest gives it a gentle push to start it swinging. Employing basic laws of physics, the priests on the rope alternately raise and lower the swinging vessel, causing it to travel in a great arc almost touching the ceiling on either side of the altar, showering sparks as the burning incense glows in the rushing air. As I experienced this spectacular ceremony for us, pilgrims who have completed our various journeys, my thoughts were with my friend John who died in the effort without reaching Santiago. I squeezed the stone I carried for him. Looking up at the belching botafumeiro at the top of its arc high over my head, tears rolled down my cheeks.
The next day we took a bus tour from Santiago across the rest of Galicia to the Atlantic coast, a welcome respite from walking the Camino. Galicia occupies the northwest corner of Spain, and the chin of Galicia which juts into the ocean is granite. At a cleft in the chin sits the ancient fishing community of Muxia, where St. James once preached from the rocks. From those same rocks I tossed my stone into the crashing Atlantic surf before me.
Buen Camino, John. May you rest in peace, my friend. I knew that later the same day in New Hampshire John’s family and friends would gather to celebrate his life and spread his ashes on Mount Moosilauke.
(Michael Gfroerer lives in Concord.)