by Ailsa Piper
I had joined a different village. In the albergue were four French gents and a French couple; the surprise Australian and his Dutch walking buddy; and Anton, a Spanish watercolourist whose abstracts captured the land better than any camera ever could. Spanish José, compact and charming, and Italian Giovanni, giant in stature and spirit, were staying up the road at a casa rural, where they insisted we all join them for a home-cooked dinner. Forty-two kilometres never ended so happily.
After my evening rituals, I was rushing to the casa rural when a woman and girl arrived, both of them petite, red-haired and smiling. Joan and Lucy, the mythical other Aussies from albergue guestbooks. Mother and daughter, they were women of duende, no question.
We were full of the joys of Spanish spring as we tried to work out how and where I’d overtaken them. Were they in a bar when I passed? They went to find a room and we agreed to meet in the morning.
Now there were four Aussies in town. An invasion!
Dinner was a multilingual feast of tastes, jokes and bonhomie around a stone well in a garden courtyard. Anton had ligament problems, so I kneaded his calves in Spanish, supported Giovanni’s kitchen wizardry in Italian, and reclined in garden chairs with the French collective.
José generated conviviality. He’d spent five years in Australia decades before and had never lost his love for it. He’d worked everywhere from the mining towns of the far north-west to Melbourne’s society restaurants. He spoke thickly accented, perfectly constructed English, and was fascinated by our brightly coloured plastic banknotes. He had walked from Valencia, about the same distance as me.
The Australian man wasn’t at dinner, but we’d talked earlier as the crimson sun set, his story returning me to Brett’s. He said his wife had died the previous year, so he’d moved home after decades of living in Europe. He didn’t know where he belonged without her.
‘It takes so long to recover,’ he said. ‘Maybe forever.’
I understood why he didn’t want to be part of the group dinner. Walking is salve. Feasting takes energy.
And energy it gave, too. Stories flew around the table. Translations were attempted, and succeeded, and failed, and morphed into new stories. We ate pasta and salad, followed by cheese and membrillo, quince paste. We snuck into the albergue like naughty children, and I managed to climb up to my bunk with minimal squeaking. It was a roncar of a night, but sleep came with earplugs.
Next morning, I made a left turn out of the pueblo. I’d travelled north-west for four hundred kilometres from Granada to Mérida. I’d been heading due north for four hundred kilometres from Salamanca. Now I would veer north-west again, skirting the border with Portugal, climbing into the mountains of Galicia with my new village.
There were dozens of us. Some I knew by name, some by sight. We came and went from each other on the path. They all accepted that I walked alone.
‘Very fast,’ they would say. ‘Muy rápida.’
But I sat for longer than them, writing or staring, and so paths crossed. I relished the fleeting catch-ups …
Anton, by the side of the road, his easel out, creating a mini-masterpiece before hobbling on, grimacing and swearing.
José, eyes twinkling above his grey moustache, guarding his hips and giving me another piece of my own country’s history.
Giovanni, talking of his family in Italy, and lifting his mammoth pack as though it were air.
The French gentilhomme with white hair and beak nose, saying he’d tracked me along the Via, wanting to see who walked alone in such small boots.
Eva and Heike, the party girls, two pebbles generating ripples of laughter.
Herr Stalker, wanting to photograph us all, everywhere, in front of everything.
Joan and Lucy, Aussies in a constant state of delighted surprise. They spoke no Spanish but knew how to connect. I watched their hands clasp involuntarily over their chests, or mime sleeping, eating, drinking or joy.
Many of the most compelling pilgrim conversations were these dumbshows, no matter how idiotic we felt. Just as walking reduces humans to their most basic, so language was reduced to its essence. Mind you, no language could ever express my gratitude for the kindnesses visited on me daily in pueblos, by other pilgrims or by the road itself.
I became intrigued by the way we give thanks, needing to say it so often.
Gracias and grazie, both words for grace, are my preferred options. I also love the French merci, being tied to the idea of compassion. I like less obrigado, as it implies obligation; and danke, because I hear no music in it. But even they are preferable to our prosaic English ‘thank you’, or worse, ‘ta’.
On a perilously high outcrop above the Río Esla I wanted to shout thanks in every language. I was looking back to a bridge as a line of pilgrim-ants crossed its arch. I imagined flying out above the gorge, joining the wheeling falcons above the crags of the granite cliffs. I sensed duende moving the leaves of the encinas. Invisible forces. They were there.
In Tábara, our walking village expanded to fill the pueblo. The albergue had no beds, so the hostal took the overflow. We wandered the town, eyeing new peregrinos and greeting intimates we had known for two or even three days.
I retreated and tended my feet with arnica. A hundred and thirty kilometres in four days, they shouted. Hard tracks, they shouted. I’d been going four weeks, and over eight hundred kilometres—further than the Francés.
Il Capitano and his Soldato continued to urge me forward. They were a day ahead and texted that the albergue in the next town was ottimo. As good as it gets!
Barcelona called. ‘When are you arriving?’
They had come to seem normal, but when I stopped to consider they had never once let me down, I still marvelled at my road-angels.
I left Tábara next morning under grey skies, in a mood to match. An anciano stopped me in the square to ask if I had miedo—fear. For the first time, I answered that oft-asked question truthfully.
‘Sí,’ I told him. ‘Tengo miedo.’ I have fear. ‘Pero tengo miedo en Australia, también.’ But I have fear in Australia, too.
Finally I’d been honest. Of course I was afraid. I may be blonde, but I’m not an idiot. I knew very well that I could fall, I could be raped, I could be robbed, I could be mugged, I could be lost. But those things don’t stop me from walking into the world at home, so why should they stop me in Spain?
But why had I pretended? Why lie?
It may have been pride, but it was also protection—of myself and of those who love me. We all knew that a woman walking alone in remote areas had risks but we chose not to speak of them. And besides, I carried a whistle!
Regardless of the whys, it was a confession, and I felt stronger for it. Lighter.
Confession as weight loss. Now there’s a selling point.
As we talked, we ambled into the Saturday market.
‘Peregrina,’ stallholders called to me, offering dried fruit and jokes.
So I wandered, the only pilgrim in the pueblo. The others had made an early start, racing the rain, but I knew that if I wanted to keep my equilibrium, I should also keep my distance. There were only twenty-two kilometres to walk and when I finally left at midday—midday!—my backpack bulging with tall tales and walnut biscuits, I figured none of it mattered. Go slowly. Get wet. It’s only water.
And miracle of miracles, rain held off, so I could see an orange fox dart towards the sheep corralled in a makeshift pen, and shout at him to leave them be, paying my debt for all the sheep’s milk cheeses I’d eaten along the way.
It held off so I could inhale jara as I climbed, reminding myself that slow is best. I got to see men working their bodegas; to sip their wine; and to be taken into the Cultural Association in tiny Bercianos when rain threatened again, and plied with coffee and cake. Slow steps on soft earth. Gentling along.
Finally, I walked into Santa Croya de Tera,
the last pilgrim to the albergue. As il Capitano had promised, it was a highlight. We dried our laundry over a roaring fire. We dined en masse, and we were a mass by then—a steamy, grinning gaggle of humanity, clicking photos and tucking into home-cooked meals. We were a mini-United Nations engaged in peace talks, and my sola day meant I could participate, too. The introvertida had topped herself up and could come out to play.
‘There’s a message for you,’ José said over flan.
My Italians, of course. Il Capitano’s familiar scrawl in the visitors’ book.
A call from Leonardo. Rain is good, it softens the heart, he said.
From my husband at base camp, words that might have been written for me:
Never did I think so much, exist so vividly, and experience so much, never have I been so much myself—if I may use that expression—as in the journeys I have taken alone and on foot.
That’s J.J. Rousseau, patron saint of the lone walker. Amen to him.
There was a wish from my vengeance-seeking sinner that we might meet one day. That particularly moved me. She’d confessed without knowing anything about me.
Another sinner posed a question: If we can pay you to erase something on the negative side of the ledger, could you be paid to gain a virtue?
How to admit that virtue still seemed as far off as Santiago? I had no idea how one might gain it, for myself or for an employer.
This from another, with whom I’d hiked demanding trails: I feel like my face is hot from the smithy where I am watching the uncreated thing being created.
There were photos of Buddhas, and Irish blessings. There was more Rilke, more love, more encouragement. I went all that way looking for faith when there was already so much faith in me.
We faced four days of rain. Hail too.
The weather is malo, the TV said. Clouds will open and stay that way.
It was weather. It wouldn’t stop us. Faith can move mountains.
And whole villages.
24
By Heart
When unusual demands are placed on muscles, rips occur in the fibres and connective tissue. During periods of rest, the body will repair these rips and build strength so the muscle copes better with stress in the future.
The heart is muscle.
When I set out for the Mozárabe, I thought my heart was pretty resilient but the camino kept testing it. The more awake I became to the world around me, the more my heart had to expand.
Camino as personal trainer for the soul.
There was so much to make the muscles twitch: leaves floating to the ground like homing pigeons; the eyes of a cow, black as wet velvet; the precise circle inscribed by the outline of a tree against the horizon; the flick of a lizard’s glistening tail; the rainbow that greeted me as I walked out of the albergue at Santa Croya de Tera.
And then the rain that followed it!
Rain. Rain. Rain. The first since Act One.
I stopped to put on my plastics, tying my hood tight. My pack’s inner lining is waterproof, so I didn’t need the cover used by many pilgrims, and while my rain jacket and trousers make things steamy, at least I’m not troubled by the flapping of a poncho. Nonetheless, it was grim walking. Steady grey rain. Not mist. Not drizzle. Rain. Thumping continuous rain.
Cold, too.
A forest was being hacked to pieces on my left, and Santiago Peregrino stared at me from a rain-streaked road sign. Puddles became ponds. I had soaked boots, soaked socks, soaked feet.
I saw other pilgrims, but we never spoke. Too difficult. The German Fräuleins had left before me, but I caught up to them in a birch plantation, looking like wraiths, their black ponchos fluttering as they weaved between trees. When I overtook them, their eyes never left the mudbath path.
My phone rang. I slid it under my plastic hood and shouted, ‘Hola!’ It was my husband, at lunch at a table I know and love. A gathering of jokesters, laughing at the sound of my splashing feet, greeting me from above their plates of chicken wrapped in prosciutto.
What to say? I had chosen to be where I was. I laughed with them.
On. On.
After eleven kilometres I staggered into Calzadilla de Tera, a grey pueblo outlined against a grey sky. Nothing moved. I followed the arrows, thinking to rest in the portico of a church. The camino takes you past one, in every town.
This one tore at my heart.
The roof had caved in and gaping holes were punched in the walls. Icons, crucifixes and statues were scattered at random, in piles and in solitude. The altar was defaced and the choir stalls crumbled. Rain poured into the central aisle and vines grew over the tops of the eaves. Toilet paper curled in corners. Above all that, a steeple rose intact.
In the remains of the entrance, I removed my pack and clicked photos, documenting the end of something. People had asked for help, given thanks, and marked transitions in that place. Had hope died? Or faith? It wasn’t so much the loss of religion that troubled me, but the loss of history and of a space to gather in. Of communal palimpsesto.
Maybe it was the day, the rain. Maybe there was a vibrant community hall around the corner, hidden from the outsider. And maybe it was nothing more than that there was another pueblo only two kilometres further on and this church had out-lived its purpose. Times are a-changing …
But my heart hurt at the sight of that church, rotting in the rain.
It was a reminder. Even things that seem permanent can die.
I kitted up and walked along a canal path, pondering Spain’s Catholicism. During the Franco years, it was the only religion to have legal status; other forms of worship couldn’t even be advertised, and only the Catholic Church could own property or publish books. Laws were passed abolishing divorce and civil marriage, and banning abortion, contraceptives and homosexuality. Catholic religious instruction was mandatory.
In 1978, the Spanish Constitution was amended so that Spain no longer had an official religion. Now, while most Spanish might still identify themselves as Catholic, they don’t attend church regularly, and Spain’s birth rate, one of the lowest in the world, is testament to the fact that contraception of some kind is being practised widely.
Change.
In Spain it had been fast and, to my eyes, all to the good in the preceding thirty years. Was the abandoned church related to those post-Franco developments? The drenched terracotta waymarker didn’t answer my questions:
Walker, forgiveness is greatness of the soul. It dignifies those who give it, and graces those who receive it. May forgiveness inspire your step.
On bleak days, it was harder to forgive myself or steer my mind away from sins. That’s when I lost sight of my sinners and turned on myself, unable to differentiate between their cargo and mine. When it was hot, or I was fording rivers and navigating tricky paths, I was released. Bitter cold and incessant rain made a fertile environment for recrimination, making me recall my pride, selfishness and anger. If camino is, as some say, taking one’s life for a walk, it was on sodden days that I met my least attractive self, and I didn’t forgive her readily.
In Olleros de Tera, I stopped for coffee and warmth. It was fiesta day for a soaked Virgin, and decorated cakes were being carried under umbrellas to a waiting car. On TV, a presenter tried to make a bulldog jump through a hoop. Outside, the rain kept falling. Commonsense would have dictated staying in the bar, but instinct had taken over and it gave only one command. Walk!
Leaving town, a stooped anciano in a cashmere cardigan escorted me to the main road, saying I would never get through on the inundated cross-country camino path. He squeezed my hand in farewell and the scent of Imperial Leather soap stayed there for hours, reminding me of my father and all the times I’d snapped at him or failed to pick up the phone and call.
I crossed the swollen Río Tera, and scurried through Vega de Tera after an eagle swooped low, its whooshing wings black
and serrated, its talons sharply defined through the rain.
Road-walking in a deluge. Difficult not to fear the worst. Difficult not to recall hurts I shouldn’t have given, to punish myself and see myself as a failure. Somewhere on that storm-washed asphalt, anxiety and regret became visceral. At least, I think that was what happened. I didn’t have much time to consider. Out of nowhere, I was sobbing. Tears mixed with rain. My chest heaved. What was happening?
Grief erupted out of me like lava from that volcano in Iceland. I couldn’t contain it. I veered off the road, oblivious to oncoming trucks, and bent forward to lean on my knees, plastics crinkling and my pack a dead weight.
Several selves operated simultaneously. There was the ‘I’ who was undergoing something terrifying and the ‘I’ who judged it, deeming it unattractive and unseemly. There was another ‘I’ who was fascinated, like a scientist—‘So this is what meltdown looks like.’ And there was the Head Girl ‘I’ telling the first ‘I’ this was nonsense and to pull the selves together.
Except she couldn’t. None of them could.
My thinking was confused by rain and panic, my field of vision was limited to the spot below me as I tried not to vomit and my body spasmed as though trying to eject something poisonous.
I’ve no idea how long the onslaught lasted. It had its way.
Finally I heaved myself out of the mud and reached for my dropped walking poles so I could inch to a standing position. My pack pulled me off balance. I steadied myself and tried to breathe, looking around for an answer.
Nothing. Just the rain.
I made my way back to the road, focused on placing one foot, then another. To get somewhere, anywhere, would be enough.
I got to Bar Jesus.
In Junquera de Tera, a town of diminishing population, that was the first sign I saw. I walked in to smiles and hot tea. The barman, my saviour, insisted I sit at a table under a heater, beside a painted tile showing a man bowing before a priest. It read: It’s better to sin little than to confess much.