Passing Through

The explorer and the traveller, not to mention the tourist, may take to a pilgrimage route, but the motives for their departure, what they seek, and the significance of their ultimate destination are never those of a pilgrim. The pilgrim's progress is both an interior journey, a spiritual exercise, and a physical journey towards an actual site imbued with a divine character. The condition of the pilgrim, in fact, comes remarkably close to that of the hero. By abandoning familiar, worldly surroundings, submitting oneself to physical hardship and sometimes considerable danger, and paying homage or penance at a holy site, pilgrims, like heroes, know that they will return from their odyssey in some way renewed, or at least inwardly changed. 'A visitor passes through a place;' wrote Cynthia Ozick, 'the place passes through the pilgrim.' In describing mystical experience, Meister Eckhart used pilgrimage as a metaphor: 'the Wayless Way, where the Sons of God lose themselves and, at the same time, find themselves.' That, in a phrase, is every pilgrim's goal.

NICHOLAS SHRADY Sacred Roads: Adventures From The Pilgrimage Trail (1999)

The Aubrac Plateau

During my 5th and 6th days we climbed higher and crossed the wild, windswept plateau of the Aubrac. I loved this harsh, bare landscape of open grassland dotted with bizarrely-shaped outcrops of basalt rock. The mornings were frosty with a cold wind pushing at our backs. We moved along drailles or drove roads and passed delapidated burons or shepherds' huts - transhumance is still practised here. One night we ate aligot, a local speciality dish of melted cheese (tomme d'Auvergne, a low-fat cheese made from skimmed milk) and mashed potatoes with a little butter, cream - and garlic of course.

The photo shows my companion Thierry and Pascal, the other pilgrim in Saint-Privat-d'Allier I mentioned earlier, who arrived after me chez Jean-Marc et Marie. We have been drinking tea with honey in a hotel bar in the village of Aubrac. This small village was founded in 1120 by a Flemish knight, Adelard de Flandres, who was attacked by bandits on his way to Santiago and who almost died there on his return journey. In gratitude he founded Aubrac as a place of refuge for pilgrims. That hotel bar was certainly a warm and welcoming place of refuge for us that lunchtime.

Birdcatchers

France has an estimated 1.3 million hunters - more than any other EU country, though the number reduces annually. The trapping, shooting and eating of wild birds is widespread. 64 species can be hunted legally (again this is more than any other EU country). Much illegal hunting goes on. There are illegal tendelle traps in which thrushes and many protected species are crushed to death with a large stone after taking bait; and robins are caught in pièges a machoire, which are traps with teeth. The ortolan bunting (see pic) is eaten as a delicacy in south-west France - tens of thousands are trapped each year.

The Beast Of Gévaudan

The dates of the hunting season in France vary from place to place and for different types of animal. While I was there it was in full swing. Indeed I encountered more huntsmen than pilgrims. They were mainly chasing chevreuils (roe deer), sangliers (wild boar), lièvres (hares), lapins (rabbits) and colombes (pigeons). Signs such as Chasse Privée (private hunting ground) and Réserve de Chasse (deer park) are commonplace. Vast tracts of land are reserved for hunting to which public access is forbidden. At times the Auvergne and the Margeride hills resembled a war zone. The hills were alive with the sound of carnage. I saw few animals in the empty countryside. It was as though it had been swept clean. Yes, death stalks the little hills and valleys of the Gévaudan. It was always thus.

Between the years 1764 and 1767 the infamous Beast of Gévaudan terrorized this area. This huge wolf-like creature was described as being the size of a cow with red fur, fangs, a small head, a big chest, a black stripe down its back and a long tail with a tuft at the end. People have surmised it could have been a freakishly large wolf or wolf-dog hybrid, an escaped hyena, a wolverine, a bear or a baboon. What is certain is that there are around 200 recorded attacks by this fearsome predator, attacks which left more than 80 people dead and more than 30 wounded. It preferred people rather than farm animals, and women and children rather than men. It generally went for the head first and it had a predilection for sucking blood. There were many attempts to track down and kill the animal but with little success. Finally - and this is a controversial story - on 19 June 1767 a band of pilgrims made for the church of Notre Dame de Beaulieu at the foot of Mt Chauvet. They attended mass and took Holy Communion. A gun and cartridges were duly blessed. And with this sanctified weapon a certain Jean Chastel is supposed to have shot and killed the Beast, ending a 3 year reign of terror.

One can safely say that huntsmen and pilgrims are not natural allies. Indeed I was often chilled to see the sinister figure of a solitary hunter, gun on arm, motionless before some copse or spinney; and I would walk swiftly on. Yet I must be careful not to be hypocritical here. I often enjoyed a baguette with wild boar paté at lunchtime...

Up Hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that Inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at the door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-1894)

Sacred Sites

For the next few days - the 2nd, 3rd and 4th days of my journey - Thierry and I crossed part of the old French province of the Gévaudan and the granite plateau of the Margeride. This is a depopulated, remote and beautiful area of heath and grassland, hills and forests, rivers and streams. Because of its isolation and inaccessibilty it became a stronghold for Resistance groups during World War 2. For the length of the Chemin - but especially this section - there are numerous old wayside crosses, many with countless stones crowding the base placed by pilgrims marking their passage.

Churches, chapels, crosses and calvaries materialise frequently along the Way like spiritual punctuation marks. These Catholic shrines force one to slow down, to stop a while, to reflect and concentrate the mind on higher things... I say Catholic, but it's worth remembering many of these ancient sites were pre-Christian in origin - pagan, druid, Celtic. It's no accident that a church altar table contains echoes of a Neolithic dolmen (a burial chamber formed of 3 or more upright stones or megaliths supporting a flat capstone or table) or the stones at Stonehenge. Spiritual sites remain sacred, and this divine genius loci does not depend on whichever religious cult happens to appropriate them for a period of time...

The photo shows a dolmen I passed near Gréalou. A hunter with his shotgun, dressed in the usual green and bright orange gear, had been leaning on the chamber just before I took the picture, but he was camera-shy. It was the French hunting season and I ran into huntsmen all the time stalking anything that moved. Thankfully I never saw pilgrim pie on any menu..! This particular huntsman was chasing wild boar. You could hear these secretive animals bellowing in the woods.

The Point Of Pilgrimage

The particular reasons which drive an individual towards an act of pilgrimage are inevitably deeply personal, and in many cases beyond the exercise of logic alone. Even though the physical dangers are not as great as they once were, the psychological and spiritual ferment remains. Those who are close to the pilgrim may well ask why they have undertaken such an action. The act of pilgrimage disturbs the lives of those who surround the pilgrim.

Despite the diversity of motivation, certain themes clearly emerge. The very historicity of the sites seems to exert its own natural attraction. Pilgrims travel in search of forgiveness for sins committed and so search for cleansing. A few travel as a form of punishment inflicting hardship on themselves as they go. Others journey in the hope of physical healing and inner spiritual healing. But above all, pilgrims travel in search of God and so hope to find themselves.

How strange it is that so many are drawn to leave home to find themselves. Yet the familiar sometimes obscures the eternal, not because it is not present but because it simply cannot be recognized without the experience of a broader canvas. Those who travel have understood the essential paradox that we cannot truly find the "I" within until we have found the "Thou" without.

From Sacred Places, Pilgrim Paths: An Anthology Of Pilgrimage (1997) by MARTIN ROBINSON

Saint-Roch

Only half an hour out of Le Puy and I struck up with Thierry, a gentle ruffian from Paris - kind, cultured, sociable and impeccably mannered like most of the French people I would meet. After a divorce he had resolved to spend the rest of his life "on the road" as a routard or backpacker. We were to spend the next 10 days in each other's company.

In the evenings I would usually book into a convenient gîte d'étape in some small town or village while he went on ahead a few kilometres and wildcamped. We would meet up again the next day and walk on together. I remember one idyllic camping spot he had found near a bend in a remote country road. I caught up with him there early one misty morning. He had gathered sticks for a fire and scooped fresh, ice-cold water from a nearby stream. He offered me freshly made coffee. He had seen a fox in the night. We agreed it was paradise...

The photo shows Thierry in front of a second Chapelle Saint-Roch which stands on the border of the départements Haute Loire and Lozère. There are many churches and chapels along the Way dedicated to Saint-Roch, the patron saint of pilgrims. Saint-Roch (1295?-1327) was born in Montpellier and became a mendicant pilgrim throughout France and Italy after giving away his money and possessions. He was said to have been born miraculously with a red cross imprinted on his chest. He devoted his life to curing with the sign of the cross the plague victims he encountered on his travels.

Silence And Tears

I remember that first day on the Chemin very clearly. 17 October. Blue skies. Warm and sunny. The hills and valleys of the Auvergne. Wooded slopes and the golden leaves of autumn. Peaceful, deserted villages basking in the noonday sun. Romanesque churches with rounded stone vaulting. I kept bumping into pilgrims all day. Some shared their lunch with me as we picnicked on the grass in front of the Chapelle Saint-Roch (see photo).

By late afternoon I'd reached the village of Saint-Privat-d'Allier. It's stunningly situated on a volcanic cliff above a gorge of the Allier river. A Christian family took me in free for the night. "While you are here treat this house as your home," they said.

At twilight I climbed up to the 14th century church and went inside. The silence was profound. You could hear absolutely nothing at all. Except for the slight whirring in my head of my own automatic, pointless thoughts. And with an effort of will even these were stilled. As the darkness closed in, shapes lost their solidity, and my sense of time and place became blurred. My mind emptied itself.

Later at dinner my hosts, Jean-Marc and Marie, told me how they had met on the Camino, fallen in love, married, and then decided to open their house to pilgrims. Another pilgrim arrived. Food kept appearing. The wine flowed. Their young son chased an enormous dog round and round the room. The conversation was animated and far-ranging. I couldn't understand the half of it. I realised how rusty my French had become.

Then a strange thing happened. I don't know if it was the effect of the wine after 2 nights' lack of sleep, or whether I was touched by the kindness of strangers, or whether I was charged by the many emotions I'd felt on this, my 1st day of pilgrimage. But tears welled up inside me and I wept like a child. Jean-Marc patted me on the arm reassuringly, a wise and benign expression on his face. "Don't worry. It's quite normal," he said. "We experience this time and time again. It's necessary..."

That night I rolled out my sleeping bag in their attic-dormitory and slept long and deeply for the first time since leaving home.

Tight Connection

A long time ago I stopped off at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in the mysterious, flat Camargue region of the French Mediterranean. A land of wild horses and flamingos and ancient beliefs. In fact it must have been around the time Bob Dylan visited the place in May 1975, when he attended the annual gypsy gathering there. On 24 and 25 May each year Saintes-Maries becomes the focus for a Romany pilgrimage. Gypsies gather to pay homage to 2 Marys whose wooden statues are brought out for the occasion, the statues of Marie-Salomé and Marie-Jacobé, who are said to have fled the Holy Land (supposedly also with Lazarus and Mary Magdalene) by boat after Christ's Resurrection. But there is also a 3rd statue, the one most idolized, of the enigmatic black saint Sara-la-Kali. Pagan goddess? Dark Egyptian woman? Servant of Christ's mother Mary? Mary Magdalene? Who knows. But every year on 24 May the gypsies meet to venerate their patron saint and return her effigy to the sea in an ecstatic and symbolic ritual. For 24 May is St Sara's festival day. And also Bob Dylan's birthday, of course... And Sara the name of his greatest love...

Black Madonna

The motorcycle black madonna/Two-wheeled gypsy queen... BOB DYLAN Gates of Eden from Bringing It All Back Home

I married Isis on the fifth day of May/But I could not hold on to her very long... BOB DYLAN Isis from Desire

I mentioned yesterday the Black Madonna of Le Puy. A few words about the cult of the Black Madonna or the Black Virgin. Some statues and paintings depict the Virgin Mary with dark or black skin and are found throughout Europe, Africa and the Americas. Within the Catholic parts of Europe 400 - 500 of these representations exist, usually in the form of wooden (occasionally stone) statues or picture icons (often Byzantine in style). A large number of these, close on 200, are to be found in France, particularly southern France.

For many years scholars have argued about the significance of the black skin on the European Black Madonnas. In some cases the wood has simply darkened over time or become blackened with smoke or candle soot. But in most cases the field lies wide open for supposition and interpretation. There is no doubt that Black Virgins are venerated in a special way and have passionate devotees. They are associated with healing, fertility, miracles. Some believe they are a Christian form of the Egyptian goddess Isis; others have discovered links with the Templars, the Cathars and even Mary Magdalene. There is a very seductive theory that a Black Virgin represents a kind of divine feminine principle, a pagan earth goddess wedded to the black earth, a powerful female sexuality which the medieval Church authorities tried to suppress.

2 books I can recommend on this fascinating subject are Ean Begg's The Cult Of The Black Virgin (1985) and Lynn Picknett's Mary Magdalene: Christianity's Hidden Goddess (2003).

Le Puy: The First 60 Steps

After a sleepless night on coach and cross-Channel ferry - and much excited conversation with fellow travellers - I arrived in Lyon at dawn the next day and took a local train to Le Puy-en-Velay. Midday found me sitting in a sleepy square outside a small bar-restaurant in Le Puy eating delicious chicken and rice in the warm sunshine.

Le Puy. Famous for lace and lentils. A spectacular place high up in the Massif Central, that huge granite plateau in south-central France dotted with extinct volcanoes and hot volcanic springs. It's been a pilgrimage centre since the Middle Ages, and its Romanesque cathedral is one of Europe's oldest and most beautiful pilgrim shrines. 60 steps rise steeply to a facade of white sandstone and black volcanic breccia (see photo). Around and below it the narrow streets of the old town twist and turn.

I stayed the night cheaply at the Maison Saint-François, a gîte d'étape in one of the old alleyways, but once again hardly slept. Early next morning I made my way bleary-eyed to mass. Even though I was practically in the cathedral's shadow, I managed to lose my way through a maze of dark and silent streets and passages. Finally I crept into the gloomy interior of the cathedral by the south porch. It was just 7 o'clock. I genuflected before the statue of the Black Madonna. In the pews were a scattering of devout elderly Catholic ladies and 4 other pilgrims.

After mass we were blessed by the Bishop of Le Puy in a special pilgrim benediction ceremony. He gave each of us some plastic rosary beads and a plastic cross and a tiny silver medallion of Our Lady of Le Puy. "We have been criticized for not doing enough for the pilgrims" he said, smiling. "These are my gifts to you. May God protect you. Please pass on my greetings to the Bishop of Santiago." This most humane and charming man then invited us to take some folded pieces of paper from a basket. On these were written heartfelt supplications from people in need and distress. We were entrusted with these touching little notes. We would pray for these supplicants on our journey.

I bought for €5 a scallop shell pendant from a nun in the sacristy. The scallop shell or coquille Saint-Jacques is the single identifying symbol of the pilgrim bound for Santiago. This motif recurs consistently - in religious and secular architecture, in shop windows, on road signs - during the whole route. I also picked up my pilgrim passport, or Créanciale, which would be stamped in churches, tourist offices, town halls, bars and gîtes along the Way. This passport would prove to the cathedral authorities in Santiago I had covered the route so that I could obtain a coveted Compostela, the official certificate of completion of pilgrimage. Then I was off down the main staircase marked Grand Escalier, Direction Compostelle.

It was the start of a 1000 mile journey along the French Via Podensis and the Spanish Camino Francés, a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela; a pilgrimage made by many 1000s of travellers for over 1000 years, travellers on foot, on horseback, on donkeys, on bicycles; a pilgrimage to Santiago cathedral, reputed burial place of Saint James the Apostle, Saint James the Moor-Slayer, Saint James the Pilgrim (portrayed with wide-brimmed hat, staff, Bible and scallop shell), Saint James the patron saint of Spain.

I climbed the hill out of town and left Le Puy behind me.

I had begun my journeying, my quest. But what I was seeking, what I was travelling towards, I was not sure...

The Long And Winding Road

It was the walking trip of a lifetime. A momentous journey. Even more of a spiritual than a physical or mental experience. An obsession for some; a life-changing event for many; a challenging quest for all. An intensely personal yet uniquely communal striving towards the one goal: Santiago. This is my account of walking the Camino.

From Le Puy-en-Velay in south-central France to Santiago de Compostela in north-west Spain it's a distance of roughly 1560 km, nearly 1000 miles. I walked this in exactly 60 days, from 17 October to 15 December, averaging 26 km a day (which included 3 rest days).

3 recognized, historical pilgrim routes (starting in Paris, Vezelay, and Le Puy) cross half of France and converge at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port near the western end of the French Pyrenees. These routes are known as The Ways of Saint James, or the Chemins de Saint-Jacques. From Saint-Jean to Santiago the Way becomes the one path, the famous Camino Francés. A 4th route begins at Arles in French Provence, crosses the Pyrenees by the Col du Somport and joins the Camino at Puente la Reina.

Within the Iberian peninsula there are further paths destined for Santiago: the Camino del Norte from Irun, the Camino de Madrid, the Via de la Plata from Seville and the Camino Portugués which runs from Cape Saint Vincent via Lisbon and Oporto. There are many other routes connecting to the Camino with starting points throughout the whole of Europe.

In early October I vowed to walk the Camino. I'd known about it for ages. I had the books. More importantly I had the desire. But it was a spontaneous decision in the end. I'd arrived at a critical cross-roads in my life. I needed a spiritual reawakening. So on the afternoon of 15 October I took a coach to Lyon, France...