Up ahead we see the group on stilts again. There is also another very tired looking couple and they ask us how far it is to Lavacolla. I don’t know, but have a guess. I am too tired to check the guidebook and am longing to reach Lavacolla myself.
It is a shock to be walking beside a major motorway and to see the pace of the cars and hear the roar of engines. I am anxious about the crowds ahead of us in Santiago after weeks of quiet and in the mountains, almost supreme silence. At last there is the international airport at Lavacolla. The hotel must be close now.
I am interested in staying at Lavacolla because it is an important historical pilgrim stop. This little village, now on the map because of the airport, used to be the place where pilgrims stopped to wash (lavar) and purify themselves before entering Santiago. Gratifyingly, we find ourselves with a bath in our ensuite at the hotel. It feels very symbolic to be in this place, being able to fully immerse myself (thanks to the unexpected bath) and having the time to reflect upon the journey.
The bath is not the only surprise for us on arriving at the hotel. The restaurant has a 2014 Michelin award. We are starving, but this Michelin awarded restaurant does not keep pilgrim hours. Dinner will begin at 8 p.m. which is still early by Spanish standards. The Maître D’Hôtel is cross with us for arriving early at the dining room. He ignores Bruce and me, as well as the mother and daughter pilgrims, also waiting for a much-needed dinner. The four of us retreat to the lounge bar. Thankfully, the bar tender takes pity on us and brings Bruce and me the specialty tuna pastry tart. Bruce has a local beer and I a local white wine. Beautiful. We continue to wait with the mother and daughter.
The lounge window looks out onto the carpark and we see the chef arrive at 7.55 p.m. He seems to be cutting it a bit close to the bone. I wonder how long it takes a chef of Michelin award status to prepare a meal. The tuna pastry will suffice me until breakfast, but I cannot pass up the opportunity to dine so illustriously.
The Maître D’Hôtel is now all smiles and seats us at a table set with white linen and silver cutlery. Our pilgrims’ garb is not quite up to the dinner service standards. My meal includes potatoes and fish. I am too tired to eat, but eat anyway. The food is well presented and tasty, worthy of the Michelin award. I have a second glass of the local wine. We agree to leave early in the morning as we need to arrive at the cathedral one hour before the Pilgrims’ Service at midday. The pews will be quickly taken.
Lavacolla to Santiago
12kms (7.5ml) to Santiago
The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions.
The little soon forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile,
A kind look, a heartfelt compliment.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)
May 1, Day 41
I AM THE FIRST TO wake, and not wanting to disturb Bruce, I retire to the bathroom with my iPad. I seat myself on the toilet with the lid closed as there is no chair. There is also no wi-fi connection. The breakfast lounge is open and the waiter is thoughtful when seating me to ensure a strong internet connection. He then brings me the biggest café con léche I have yet had in Spain. It is very good.
My emails and blog up to date, I take time to reflect. I am just twelve kilometres away from the cathedral. I remember the perception that the first one third of the Camino is physical, the second third mental and the final third spiritual. I believe that my life is a spiritual journey, but I do not know in this moment, if my pilgrimage has had a spiritual focus. The physical and mental aspects have been so dominant. Perhaps I had expected to stop noticing the physical and mental demands of the journey. I recall Professor Mason Durie’s Te Whare Tapa Whā perspective of health and wellbeing, where the four areas of one’s life need to be in balance: the spiritual (taha wairua), mental (taha hinengaro), physical (taha tinana) and social (taha whānau). I have had six weeks of ‘leisure’ to notice, that if one area of myself is unhappy or not well, then that area takes my focus at the expense of the other areas. I just let the other three areas fend for themselves as I take them for granted. For example, I cannot recall when I stopped taking off my socks and boots at the midday break to air dry my feet. I must have assumed that the days of blisters were long gone. The days of blisters are not yet over. I will be walking into Santiago with a new small blister. Hopefully, not a big deal, but I had stopped, without noticing, an important physical practice - care of my feet.
I reflect on the friendship, conviviality, companionship, laughter, and pain shared with fellow pilgrims, some of whom I hope to stay in contact with. I remember those pilgrims who had to end their Camino before they had planned to and the pain of their ending. I think of the pilgrims who have already completed the Camino Frances and others that will do so today, the same day as us, all being well.
I recall some of the people who live in the villages, towns and cities through which we have passed and whose names I will never know. These people have gifted me with smiles and their spoken Buen Camino. I remember the women and men who served us our coffees and hot chocolates in the bars where we stopped. With little shared spoken word, the women touched my arm or back, with brief, light touches and we exchanged smiles.
Through the small mountain hamlets so many of the older folk were walking with the aid of at least one walking stick. Hip replacements do not seem to be an option in the remote places. One elderly couple, he with his stick on his left side and she with hers on her right, were walking with their two free arms encircling one another’s waists, held in the embrace of the two outside sticks. They took up the width of the country road as they walked and talked together. Their knees and backs were bent, but their minds and eyes were alert and engaged.
I remember an elderly woman with very skinny legs and ankle high boots. Her back was bent over as she leaned on one stick and carried a small shopping bag in her other hand. Her back was towards me as she began to open the latch of the rickety gate leading into the unkempt backyard of her home. I debated whether to greet her. She must be sick of pilgrims passing by her home. Pilgrims for the most part wearing expensive tramping gear and carrying expensive backpacks. I decided to risk it. “Hola.” She turned to look at me and smiled, her wrinkled face aglow. The memory of that shared moment brings tears to my eyes. Such memories are very precious.
I am surprised at the emotion I feel. I have met so many strangers, ever so briefly in some instances, but they continue to provide enrichment. As their faces pass before me, I hope that my brief contact with them has enriched their lives, as they have done mine. I don’t know what it is like day after day, to watch pilgrims from other countries walking through your world and life, noticing the expensive gear, while accepting they want to travel on as small a budget as possible. It is a comfort to remember that many villages are being restored and re-populated, enabled by money from pilgrims. I hold my memories in gratitude and with some pain, I realise. Perhaps the pain of grief at an anticipated separation is always present when receiving the gift of an acknowledged encounter.
I am glad of our decision not to photograph very many of the local people as we passed them by. I did not want to interrupt their lives by taking photos. Even with their permission, to be constantly taking photos of the communities through which we walked, would have positioned me, I think, as a voyeuristic tourist. One of the exceptions to the decision was when we saw a couple of builders walking on a high side beam of a house. The house was framed up, but still without roof or walls. Both men were carrying chainsaws as they strode along the beam. There was a degree of scaffolding pipe, but it didn’t seem as if it could be adequate. We recalled the many health and safety laws in New Zealand and waved to the men. They grinned and waved and we took that as permission to take their photo.
The children we have passed have stared at Bruce. Spanish men standing in groups have also stared at Bruce. Bruce’s beard has become even more Gandalf-ish in the past six weeks.
I can no longer remember ho
w many crosses, marking the deaths of pilgrims, we have passed along The Way. Can it be that so many have died? My pre-Camino reading had informed me how arduous and risky the pilgrimage was during the medieval era. I had not been expecting to see so many memorials to pilgrims who had died in more recent times.
I do not know what emotion I will experience when I reach the cathedral, but as I sit in the hotel lounge writing down my thoughts, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the people who have been kind and good to me over the past six weeks. I am happy as I realise that Bruce and I will soon be seeing Wayne and Julia again, despite lingering longer to walk to Finisterre. I have missed the sea. The smell of the ocean is just four days’ walk away: first there is Santiago.
It is a rather steep climb and poorly waymarked up to the television studio of Galicia at 396 metres above sea level. A little further on we summit Monte do Gozo (Mount of Joy). In medieval times, pilgrims, on a clear day would have had their first sight of the Catedral de Santiago. No such joy for us. We look down on the spreading suburbs of Santiago. There is not even a hint of spire despite the fine weather. The mount itself, while no doubt an agreeable place one thousand years ago, has been transformed into a modern ugliness. There is a large eight hundred bed albergue, free of cost for pilgrims which is a fine thing, but the many carparks are claustrophobic.
Then it is downhill into the city and we search for those yellow arrows which can become elusive in larger cities. As we pass through the outskirts of the city, a male pilgrim begins to walk beside us. Neither Bruce nor I are gracious. We do not want this man’s company as we head to the cathedral. Because of my determination to reach Santiago on the last day of the six weeks, we have pushed hard the two previous days and are now totally focused on ‘just getting there.’ A companion would be a distraction. The pilgrim admonishes us. “Do not be in such a hurry. You are in Santiago. Relax and take it easy as you approach the cathedral.” It is sound advice, but I do not want to hear it. Bruce and I quicken our pace.
Loose the cords of mistakes binding us
The cathedral is harder to locate than we expect. Of course, as we could have guessed, the last few kilometres to the cathedral are uphill. There seems to be a maze of cobbled streets and there are a lot of people about on this public holiday. We see other pilgrims ahead and follow behind, trusting they know where to go. Bruce, now very tired, is getting annoyed with the non-appearance of the cathedral.
We look up and there she is - right in front of us. We have reached the Praza do Obradoiro; the very large plaza of Santiago. The cathedral is enormous with one of the main spires shrouded in scaffolding and netting. There is a broad staircase leading up to the front entrance of the cathedral, but first we want to get our compostelas and then we will go up the stairs to the midday pilgrims’ service.
There is the inevitable queue of pilgrims in line for their compostelas. Where have they all come from? We recognize just a few of them. First in the queue now and it is my turn to be asked the question, “What was your purpose in walking the Camino?” In the moment of answering my reply becomes, “Spiritual.” I had set out wanting the spiritual, mental and physical challenges of an endurance walk. I also needed time-out from the demands of my complex life. My pilgrimage is giving me the time and space to think about my current life and my future. I am relieved that I was not asked, “Did you walk every step?” I must remember to update my curriculum vitae when I return to New Zealand. Will a New Zealand potential employer be as impressed as Spanish employers obviously are, with a compostela?
We make it to the cathedral in time for the Pilgrims’ Service, but not in time for a seat. The cathedral seats one thousand and there must be about two thousand people in the main church nave. Bruce and I are so tired we lean against the gigantic stone pillars, built to hold aloft the enormous soaring ceiling. Today the pillars are there to serve Bruce and me as well. Among this crowd, it looks like there are more tourists than pilgrims and I am annoyed that I, in my weary, footsore pilgrim state, cannot have a seat on a pew because of tourist usurpers of our Pilgrims’ Service.
Cameras and videos are held aloft, their flashes ever visible. The service, in the crowdedness and the flashing of cameras, is more like a show or a circus rather than the quiet, reverent space I had expected and which I have been eagerly anticipating. Cathedral personnel walk around asking people to refrain from using their cameras, but the battle is lost early in the service.
A pilgrim alongside us whispers, “It was not like this two years ago. It is since the release of that movie, The Way. The tourists come to the Pilgrims’ Services, in particular, to see the swinging of the gigantic silver thurible.” (The metal censer, known as the Botafumeiro, in which incense is offered up to God as a symbol of the prayers of the people ascending to heaven, is suspended from chains. Legend has it that the Botafumeiro was originally used to clear the cathedral of the stench from the pilgrims’ bodies and, also, to fumigate any lice or other insects they brought with them into the cathedral.) “When the movie director asked if he could film the swinging of the censor, at first the church authorities said no, but later they changed their minds - unfortunately.”
By now I am angry, angry at the people who keep bobbing up and down with cameras to satisfy the lust to record memories or what is it they want to record? I am so disappointed. The experience is worse than an anti-climax,
Loose the cords of mistakes binding us,
As we release the strands we hold of others’ faults
The service continues and the thurible begins to swing. Even more people rise to their feet, abandoning the sought-after pews. As the censer swings, the enormous, resonant and beautiful organ begins to sound. Gradually my anger diminishes as I listen to the music and watch the large, but graceful thurible swing, in slow arcs, across the heads of the congregation almost to the ceiling. Down it swings then up again, almost to the ceiling on the other side of the nave. The organ music matches the majesty of the Botafumeiro. I remember that it is a festival and public holiday. Perhaps that is why there are so many tourists at the Pilgrims’ Service. At the end of the service a choir begins to sing and many people leave. The music soars high into the Romanesque splendour. Bruce and I sit on one of the now vacant pews and let the music soothe our agitated spirits. I take a photo of the organ pipes.
I think about St James, known as St James the Great, and the effect of his visit to Galicia. He is reputed to have made just ten converts. Now, on this one day, at one service, the cathedral is hosting two thousand at one time. I wonder what my legacy will be even just a few years after my death? A person can live and die and not know the effect of her life upon others. I hope I leave a legacy of love.
With very mixed emotions, we start to walk our tired bodies away from the cathedral. We now need to find an albergue. “Bruce, Vivianne.” It is Peter. He has been sitting in a corner bar watching out for us. Peter is staying in an albergue about three kilometres away from the crowds and we decide to follow him, despite having to back track. We have arrived at the end of our first Camino. Perhaps now we can take some time to collect our thoughts and share together what this Camino might mean for, and to, us.
Bruce needs to sleep, so I sit quietly in the albergue, watching pilgrims walking the last leg to the cathedral. What I am certain of is my gratitude for life, for the provision of all we need and for safety. I am also glad I am through with walking for today and tomorrow. My poor feet need a rest. We will spend two nights in Santiago before beginning El Camino de Finisterre. As Bruce sleeps I think about going to buy chocolate. I am concerned I have developed a habit – when Bruce has his afternoon sleep – I consume a block of chocolate and that is often after eating a chocolate croissant for second breakfast.
We do not meet up with our part-time Aussie buddies. Neither of us can face the walk back into the main cathedral square to hunt for their albergue. We are so weary we do not think about catching a taxi.
&nbs
p; Day 2 in Santiago
May you succumb to the danger of growth
John O’Donohue (1956 - 2008)
May 2, Day 42
JOE BENNETT REASONED IN HIS book, Hello Dubai, that religion was no longer religion when it became a “spectator sport for tourists.” We decide to go back to the cathedral. After all we have just walked seven hundred and eighty kilometres to be here. After a sound night’s sleep, we determine to attend the 10.30 a.m. mass in English, in one of the small side chapels. When we arrive back at the plaza there are horses practising a formation sequence. I am entranced. I love horses and if I am ever asked which animal I would choose to describe myself, I will always choose a horse.
I decide the Romanesque cathedral is wonderful with its interior dressed in simple grey stone. It has a lot less glitter and bling than the Burgos Cathedral and on day two, minus my backpack and without two thousand other people crowding me, I am less overwhelmed.
There are just twenty pilgrims in the small chapel. Two priests from Ireland are leading our service with a third Irishman helping them. The pilgrims come from Ireland, the USA, Italy, and New Zealand and we began in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The Gospel reading is of Jesus crossing Lake Galilee, the subsequent feeding of the people with a little food from a small boy and the gathering up of the leftovers. Our Camino is likened to crossing lake water, moving away from comfort and the known, to be greeted with different environments and situations. We are asked to acknowledge the ‘small boy presence’ in our communities, in the lives of those who are marginalized and usually overlooked. I reflect that it is also important for me to not overlook that which is small in my own life and what this might bring to me. The pilgrim congregation is then asked to share ‘our scraps’; to share what we have gained and have been enriched by in ‘crossing the water’. We are also asked to share what others in their generosity have shared with us.
Kiwi on the Camino Page 27