THE GREAT AND SECRET SHOW
Santiago de Compostela, Sunday. I have two days to myself, following my sister’s departure. Ours has been a joyous but unheroic camino, covering 120km in six days along the Portuguese route. We slept in hotel rooms and ate restaurant meals, but we did not slackpack, something of which we were quietly proud. The companionship of a minimalist backpack and the routine of unpacking it at the end of each day, knowing exactly where the rooibos teabags — and the other pair of panties — were, became peculiar pleasures as the week went on. The greatest challenge was always the final few kilometres of the day, as rural landscapes gave way to town streets and traffic.
The destination was always elusive, but none so much as the ultimate one, the cathedral of Santiago. We had spotted her towers in the distance at midday, but the closer we came to the city the more she disappeared into the skyline.
By the time we were trudging through endless city blocks, we had no idea where her location was. Finally we found ourselves in a medieval shambles of narrow alleys and there she suddenly was, just a momentary glimpse, towering into the sky.
From the Praza do Obradoiro, onto which we were finally disgorged, we were at last rewarded with the full view of her glorious western facade.
There was no sense in which we considered ourselves pilgrims. We were just secular hikers who’d walked a rather famous trail.
But now it is Sunday and I am alone. Room service needs to come and fold my toilet paper into a pointy end, so I head for the cathedral.
The Pórtico de la Gloria is hidden behind scaffolding so I make my way to the southern door. As I submit my bag for a cursory check, the mass is just coming to an end. The priest is intoning his closing prayers. I merge with the crowd huddled to the left of the altar and wait. I’ll do my sightseeing once the service is over.
In the space above the altar hangs a brass censer the size of a super-max Weber. It is fastened by a rough knot to a rope as thick as a ship’s cable. Higher up, the rope passes through an untidy pulley before descending to its anchor on the floor.
I think it must all be a temporary arrangement and part of the
renovations. But as the priest pronounces his final blessing, a coven of ruby-robed monks kneels in a circle before the altar and someone undoes the anchorpoint of the rope. I see that it is frayed into a cat o’ nine tails and each monk grasps one tail. As they rise in slow unison, the thurible at the other end descends to the level of the altar.
A separate monk steps up and pours incense onto the coals in the bowl. A sputtering smoke rises. With both hands he stabilises the heavy vessel, then gives it a hefty push in the direction of the transept.
Up go the arms of the monks as they give it rope, then down to give it momentum on its return. Up and down they pull and release, to and fro it swings. Each downward arc whooshes past the nose of the priest.
Higher and higher it goes. Soon it is flying like a child on a swing, tippy-toes reaching for the towering ceiling.
The circle of monks widens and closes with synchronised grace, their burgundy cassocks flying. They are precision-trained athletes. They are the Galician World Cup team in Extreme Maypole!
Clouds of fragrance descend onto the faithful and the filthy, the pious and the profane all crowded together below. Slowly the monks begin their controlled deceleration, until the extra man steps up and wrestles the urn to a graceful, incenseshrouded halt.
There should be applause. I only realise now that there’s been a voice singing plainsong throughout the performance.
I am thrilled and elated.
The guidebook tells me later that the Botafumeiro stands 1.5m tall, weighs 53kg and can reach speeds of up to 70km/h per hour. It is no longer used at every mass. “You may be lucky to see it,” I read.
I have been lucky. This reluctant pilgrim has been treated to the performance of a lifetime.
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