Cultural, athletic, spiritual and religious
When the man in the Peregrinos Welcome office in Santiago, Spain waved the piece of paper certifying I had completed the pilgrimage on foot for at least 100 kilometres, he asked “Are you here for cultural, athletic, spiritual or religious reasons.” “All of the above,” I stammered. Each purpose has been met, at least partly, and what remains is to integrate them back in Peterborough. I’ve had no transformational visions, no speaking in tongues, and my pre-existing concerns for our world persist. I also have an even deeper gratitude for love and beauty in my life.
But I have experienced an enlargement in all of the four aspects, too. I know more. About our world.
Two weeks in the company of a wellinformed and patriotic Galician, a man, Jorge, trained as a lawyer, who hikes even on his days off, guiding us ardently along the route, educating as we walked that northern Spanish landscape; its chestnut forests and plains, its cows, sheep and geese, cornfields and mountain passes (highest 1,300 metres); gaping at and getting inside some of those, fabulous historic buildings, mostly the castle and church kind, stupefying in their size, their soaring vaults, their carvings, gold leaf decoration and stained glass.
It has deepened my grasp of the Spanish story, its ingenuity and faith. Here for goodness sake, is where El Cid is buried in the Cathedral in Burgos. That’s the 11th century.
Next along the route is a mournful cenotaph, the very site where 300 Spanish republicans died in the civil war, in 1937. A bit further, a gypsy camp with hammocks for us to rest in and watermelon as a gift. On towards the massive stone walls of a Benedictine monastery, begun in the 6th century.
Maybe I can now define Romanesque and Gothic architecture . I can surely suss out cafes where weary pilgrims have empanadas and cafes con leche, and massage their feet. The trekking was manageable; for me, 12 to 20 km a day, but I surely should have practised Armour Hill more often. I am fitter, no question, and maybe I will join the Kawartha Hikers Club.
One hears the astonishing sound of a bagpiper under an archway in the city of Santiago, and senses that Galicia province has had some kind of a Celtic past.
That cathedral ... with massive squares on every side..prazas they are called , makes me dizzy and disoriented and delighted: arriving pilgrims, hugging, singing, crying, surge into the massive space every moment of the sunlit 14-hour day.
Youth dominate, each laden with a bedroll and water bottle and and dirty socks, but there are also lithe cyclists and middle-agers hand in hand . There are groups with national flags. These are the true amateur athletes, who look like campers with walking sticks. A chorus of languages, English really the least. Spanish predominates; French is next. My eyes tire from anxiously reading Spanish signs.
What is to be loved about Spain? Much of course. There are no roadside signs and ads. What a blessing that is. One can see the surroundings.
No salt and pepper on tables. No butter served with bread. Ask for mantequilla if you must. Outdoor socializing till nine pm, kids and all. A sense of safety on the streets. A warmth and politesse.
I hope Spain can weather its current turbulent politics , as the province of Catalonia seeks a referendum for independence. We Canadians know something painful about that.
The last reasons for making the pilgrimage are highly individual.
To be honest, there is probably more curiosity in those praying spaces than conventional Roman Catholic faith. And in the lineup to hug St. James’ statue or see his bones under the main altar. But there is a yearning and a seeking for something more too .Has the past any part in modern consciousness?
I went to an English mass at the side altar of the Cathedral. About 50 people from 10 countries there .I read the psalm and met three Canadians. We commiserated with the four troubled South Koreans who were with us.