The Story Of Saint James

Saint James, one of the disciples of Jesus, travelled to Spain but had little success in spreading the Holy Word. He returned to Jerusalem but was beheaded by Herod in AD44. Following his martyrdom, according to the legend, his body was transported by his followers from Jaffa back to Spain, landing at present-day Pádron, 20 km from the place today called Santiago de Compostela. This journey was considered a miracle as it apparently took only a week - and was done in a boat made of stone. Saint James' body was buried nearby and forgotten about for 750 years. Then in the 9th century a hermit called Pelagius dreamed of a bright star, surrounded by other stars, shining over an isolated spot in the hills. 3 bodies were discovered there - purportedly those of Saint James and 2 of his followers. King Alfonso II (791-824), King of the Asturias, built a church and monastery over the site of the tomb and a town grew up around it - known as campus de la stella, or campus stellae, later abbreviated to compostela.

I took this photo of a statue of Saint James, standing aloof from the modern-day traffic, in Molinaseca, much further along the route.

Burgos Or Bust

I woke early next morning feeling a little crazy, slightly mad. Was it a by-product of the previous night's wine? Had Juan Antonio slipped something into those omelettes? I felt completely rested and ready to walk. My head felt light. My knee seemed in pretty good shape. My feet were singing. I had an energy rush. All long distance walkers have days like this now and again. You just want to walk, walk, walk. Fast and far. It would all be effortless, I thought. Oh dear, how deluded can you be...

Fernando, Tere, Irene and I all left the albergue togther but I soon forged ahead. The path flirted with the noisy N-120 once more. Just before Villafranca there's a nasty bit - 2 bends and a bridge - where you have to walk along the edge of the road. Trucks growled past too close for comfort. In Villafranca I stocked up with provisions.

Then it was up, up, up through the oak and pine forests of the Montes de Oca. This is a lovely area, but that morning was very misty and I couldn't see much. It didn't matter. I simply concentrated on what was close at hand. It was like a secret, subterranean world under those ancient, mossed oak trees. I climbed to the highest point at 1,100 metres. And raced on - now mainly through pines - along the sandy trail. Some parts were quite difficult to walk - soggy sand and cloying mud. I saw no one at all except for one lone cyclist who had to dismount and push his bike on this challenging terrain. After what seemed a very long time the path descended and I reached the Augustinian monastery of San Juan de Ortega. I stopped at the bar next door for a rest and a beer.

San Juan, like his mentor Santo Domingo, dedicated himself to serving the Santiago pilgrims and built churches, hospitals, bridges and hostels along the Camino. This remote and beautiful place used to be dangerous for the medieval pilgrim. You were a very long way from anywhere and there were bandits in the woods. The 1st glimpse of this monastery through the trees must have been very welcome. Fortified by a beer or two, my thoughts became even madder and more crazily ambitious. Perhaps I could walk all the way to Burgos and catch up with my pilgrim friends who'd left me behind at Santo Domingo? I'd already walked 25 km. Burgos was a further 28 km away. Could I walk 53 km - 2 stages in 1 day?

I passed through Agés - with its simple medieval stone bridge built by San Juan de Ortega - and Atapuerca, where a curious village dog followed me for a kilometre or so along the stony path up to the Sierra Atapuerca. No doubt the views from the cross at the summit are breathtaking on a clear day. But the mist still hung around so I pressed on, noticing again the little nearby things - like a circular maze constructed by pilgrims out of stones and pebbles.

It was now downhill all the way to Burgos. As I lost height the mist cleared and the views opened up. You could see the city in a blurry haze on the farthest horizon. Though the open-cast mine on the right was not so edifying. All I remember now is that I stumbled painfully through lots and lots of villages, ducked and dived among many busy arterial roads on the outskirts of Burgos, then steeled myself for the dead straight 7 km stretch from Villafria along the hellish N-1 into the city's historic centre. I more or less crawled into one of the 1st hostales I saw. I was totally exhausted and my knee was a nest of vipers. My feet were lead weights of pain and suffering. I thought of the words Thierry had sagely expressed all that time ago on the French section of the Way: Il faut souffrir un peu pour devenir de plus en plus pèlerin!

My photo is of the splendid Gothic cathedral in Burgos.

Walking And Writing

Can I mention a couple of walking blogs which are giving me enormous pleasure?

The first is a new blog called Beating the Bounds - a blog about walks, thinking about walking, reading about walking...and maybe other stuff. It was inspired by reading Richard Adams' book A Nature Diary, a day by day account of the things Adams saw each day in the countryside. This is a thoughtful, observant blog which concentrates on our own backyard, picking up on the ordinary local things we often overlook in our rush to the distant and the exotic.

The second, Walking and Writing, is a blog I've been reading for a while. Though there are only 2 or 3 posts a month, it's absolutely top quality stuff and well worth reading and rereading. This is how Linda Cracknell describes her blog: In July 2007, I started a major project to write a collection of journey-essays recounting walks which follow human resonances in wild landscapes. This is the result of a Creative Scotland Award supported by the National Lottery through the Scottish Arts Council. This blog is a reflection of some of my thinking as the project develops.

God Help Us

The Guide for Pilgrims to Santiago catalogues the full range of catastrophes which could overcome the traveller on the roads in the twelfth century... The pilgrim is warned that the eight-mile ascent of the Port de Cize, the principal pass over the Pyrenees, is a steep climb; that in Galicia there are thick forests and few towns; that mosquitoes infest the marshy plain south of Bordeaux where the traveller who strays from the road can sink up to his knees in mud. Some of the rivers are impassable. Several pilgrims had been drowned at Sorde, where travellers and their horses were ferried across the river on hollowed-out tree trunks. Other rivers were undrinkable, like the salt stream at Lorca, where the authors of the Guide found two Basques earning their living by skinning the horses who had died after drinking from it. Pilgrims were in theory exempt from the payment of tolls, but nevertheless the Guide reports that the local lords exacted payment from every traveller in the Béarn. At the foot of the Port de Cize, pilgrims were searched and beaten with sticks if they could not pay the toll...

From Jonathan Sumption's book Pilgrimage: An Image of Mediaeval Religion (1975)

My photo was taken in the abbey church of Saint-Pierre, Moissac.

El Dorado In Belorado

On 25 November I limped round Santo Domingo and explored the town. But most of the time I tried to rest my knee in my hotel room. I took a very long bath. I wasn't used to having nothing to do. The next morning my knee felt so much better. I thought that - if I took it slowly - I could walk the next 24 km to the albergue at Belorado. And this I did, passing the house in the photo on the way.

Between the villages of Granon and Redecilla you see a monstrously ugly sign stating that you are crossing from La Rioja into Castilla y Leon, the largest region in Spain. Approximately half your time on the Camino is spent walking through this vast region and 3 of its 9 provinces: Burgos, Palencia and Leon.

It was a relief to reach Belorado. Much of the afternoon's route had been dangerously close to the N-120 yet again. I liked the place. It was wonderfully scruffy and ordinary. It was typical of many villages and small towns in northern Spain. It certainly had no desire to tart itself up for the tourists. Thank God. Not that it got many tourists anyway. Only pilgrims.

The albergue was small and friendly. The hospitalero in charge was called Juan Antonio. I found my Spanish pilgrim friends Fernando and Tere already there. There was much hugging, kissing and general embracing. In Belorado's delightful main square I met another pilgrim, Irene from Slovenia, in front of the Church of Santa Maria which was temporarily closed for repairs. She was petite with a mass of dark curly hair, and was incredibly slim and fit. I showed her the way to the hostel.

Fernando and Tere went shopping for tapas which we all shared - cheese, chorizo, olives, crisps... and 2 bottles of Rioja. Fernando cut up the cheese and the chorizo with his big boy scout knife. Later Juan Antonio, a former chef, cooked the evening meal which was served at 8pm on a big wooden table in the kitchen - soup (which had been simmering all afternoon) followed by tuna omelettes. Payment was by donation only - whatever you could afford. Earlier Juan had summoned us into the back garden and proudly shown us his "tame" wild rabbits which he fed every day. I joked with Irene that we'd almost certainly be eating rabbit stew that night. A joke which did not go down terribly well - I discovered later she was vegetarian!

Juan Antonio was a larger-than-life character. He'd walked the Camino, or variations of it, 12 times. Now he'd put on a little weight and catered for the pilgrims. The lifestyle seemed to suit him. When the others had gone from the kitchen, Juan took me to one side. He wedged a log into the wood burning stove and selected another piece of New Age music for the CD player. "Here, take this," he said, and thrust a cockleshell lapel pin, emblazoned with the red cross of Saint James, into my hand. "Don't tell the others," he winked. "This is my special gift for you."

Random Kindness And Senseless Acts Of Beauty

My favourite quotes from John Brierley's A Pilgrim's Guide to the Camino de Santiago:

When you meet anyone, remember it is a holy encounter. As you see him, you will see yourself. A Course In Miracles

We are speeding up our lives and working harder in a futile attempt to buy the time to slow down and enjoy it. PAUL HAWKEN

Your daily life is your temple and your religion. KAHLIL GIBRAN

Practise random kindness and senseless acts of beauty.

I am not a human being on a spiritual journey. I am a spiritual being on a human journey.

To attain knowledge, add things every day. To attain wisdom, remove things every day. LAO TZU

If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain. DOLLY PARTON

A Pleasant Evening And A Painful Morning

Il faut souffrir un peu pour devenir de plus en plus pèlerin! THIERRY, the Parisian backpacker

A pleasant evening was passed in the albergue at Santo Domingo. Matt, the Australian, was there with his dog (he'd found it straying in the Pyrenees and had adopted it). Matt was tired of working at bum jobs for a living so had decided to wander round Europe instead. In the warmer weather earlier that year he'd often slept out in the woods. Matt wore hippie clothes and had long hair and a beard. He looked like Jesus. Also there was the amenable Hiroshi from Japan. He'd given up a well paid managerial job with a Japanese IT company to walk the Camino. I asked him why. "I had no choice," he replied. "I felt I had to follow my heart."

The next morning 25 November I found I couldn't walk. The last few hours of the previous day's walk had been hard. Throughout the trip I'd been having ongoing trouble with my feet. Though my boots were excellent - beautifully made, Vibram-soled Scarpas - I think they were just a little too narrow for me. Normally any foot aches and pains would vanish by morning. This time they were still there. Plus a big problem with the right knee which had developed from a tingling sensation and a dull ache to full-blown, pulsating agony. I could hardly put my right leg down on the ground.

Another rest day or two were urgently needed. I told my travelling companions to walk on ahead. I booked into a hostal, a small hotel. You are only allowed to stay one night in the albergues. Besides, I wanted some comfort, and somewhere to bathe my feet and rest my knee...

Symbols And Sandwiches

It's 50 km from Logrono over the rich, red earth of La Rioja to Santo Domingo de la Calzada. We split the journey by spending a night in the new albergue municipal at Nájera. For me too much of the 30 km stretch to Nájera was frustratingly close to the busy N-120 highway. But it helped that every so often truck drivers would sound their horns in greeting and encouragement. On a wire fence - perhaps 1km long - above the road, passing pilgrims had attached thousands upon thousands of crosses which they had woven from grass and fashioned from bark and twigs. Laurent was fascinated by the fact that one pilgrim must have placed the very 1st cross at some point - and someone had placed the next one, and someone the next, until thousands of successive pilgrims had run with the idea and taken part in the ritual, continuing what had become a tradition. He remarked what an extraordinary leap of faith that very 1st pilgrim must have had. A bit like planting the first acorn of a future oak forest. This fence-frieze of crosses meant something much more than the sum of its collective parts. It was an example of how something big and important could grow from tiny, individual acts.

The next day we took a detour in Azofra to visit the Cistertian abbey of Santa Maria at Canas. This was founded in 1170 and then, as now, was occupied by an order of nuns. Unusually, natural light flooded the building through high alabaster (rather than stained glass) windows. Laurent, an expert in medieval stone work and ecclesiastical history, held us spellbound with his accounts of monastic life and his unravelling of religious symbolism in the paintings and treasures displayed in the abbey's museum. Unfortunately I've now forgotten a lot of what he said - and it was difficult for me to understand everything at the time, as I had to keep translating complex architectural terms from the French. We spent a couple of absorbing hours there in the Abadia Cisterciense. But finally the biting cold drove us into the friendly bar-restaurant opposite. Laurent put on his most flirtatious expression and cheekily asked the waitress if we could eat our packed lunch in the bar. Of course, she let us. Well, he was French! After more quiet country roads and wide straight farm tracks we arrived in Santo Domingo later that afternoon.

Winterlude

The seasons they are turnin' and my sad heart is yearnin'/To hear again the songbird's sweet melodious tone... BOB DYLAN Moonlight from Love And Theft

I've just been for a walk round the village on this mild January afternoon. Crocuses were in full bloom in the churchyard. Snowdrops and primroses were out, and daffodils and bluebells pushing through. A single celandine was in flower on a shady bank by the stream. Blue tits, great tits, robins and wrens were very active in the trees and bushes. An early spring again this year?

A Frenchman Ate My Food

The next day 22 November a fine natural track took us to the village of Torres del Rio (see 1st photo) with its 12th century Iglesia de Santo Sepulcro linked with the Knights Templar (more of the Knights Templar later - they are associated with much of the route) and the octagonal church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. These churches are respectively on the left and right of the photo. In Spain the churches were often sadly locked, whereas in France they were usually open.

My 2nd photo shows some of the typical landscape on the way to the beautiful, historic and architecturally significant town of Viana, a major pilgrim halt. Cesare Borgia, of Italy's infamous Borgia family, is buried here in the Church of Santa Maria. He was the son of Roderigo Borgia (elected Pope Alexander VI in 1492) and brother of Lucrezia. Commander of the Papal armies, he was banished to Spain on the death of his father by his father's papal successor. He died near here defending Viana in the siege of 1507. He was a friend of both Leonardo da Vinci (who had been his military architect) and Niccolo Machiavelli. During the course of his life he fathered 11 illegitimate children.

Just before Logrono we entered the region of La Rioja, renowned of course for its wonderful wines. After passing a wetland nature reserve, the outskirts of Logrono were a little grim. There were roads, there were trucks, there was ribbon development. The weather had deteriorated, the skies were grey, there were squally showers. However when we crossed the wide Ebro river, and reached the proper town itself, we found it delightful.

Logrono is a lively university town, the capital of La Rioja, with a population of 130,000. I liked it very much. The 3rd photo gives a detail of its impressive Plaza del Mercado which fronts the late 14th century Gothic cathedral. That evening I shopped for fresh minced beef, vegetables and garlic in its atmospheric, traditional covered market, and for linguine and tins of tomatoes in its large modern supermarket (Logrono is a seductive blend of the old and the new). I cooked the old fall-back favourite of English-style spaghetti bolognese for my pilgrim friends in the albergue municipal. Success! I made a huge amount but every plate was wiped clean. Even le cuisinier Laurent had to admit it was rather good. A FRENCHMAN ATE MY FOOD AND ENJOYED IT! This was indeed a proud moment.

Water Into Wine

Many strange things happen on the Camino. But if I told you of a fountain gushing not water but wine you wouldn't believe me. Yet it's perfectly true. Just beyond Estella, at the Bodegas Irache, there's a tap dispensing free wine. The 1st photo shows my Spanish pilgrim friends Fernando and Tere there. Doing what you would do if you came across an absolutely free source of wine. We drank. Then we drank again. And again. We filled up plastic bottles with the stuff. We danced and pulled funny faces in front of a webcam. We took some very silly photographs. Later I heard of a German guy whose Camino stuttered, then came to a temporary stop here. He kept returning for the free wine. He was drunk for days.

Just beyond the wine fountain, in front of a lovely tree-lined square, stands the Benedictine Monastery of Irache. It had just opened so we went inside. I believe it's going to be turned into a posh hotel at some time in the future. Then it felt rather like a museum, but the adjoining 12th century Romanesque Church of San Pedro was peaceful and very beautiful.

Later we ate lunch and took a siesta on a rocky outcrop. Could life get any better than this? Probably not. Spain, sunshine, friends, a picnic spot miles from anywhere in a stunning landscape, bread, cheese, olives... and miracle wine, of course... My 2nd photo was taken somewhere near this little spot of heaven on earth.

Later still we passed olive trees and vineyards and pinewoods and red-earth farmland, and the countryside became ever more remote. There was not a sound, not a dwelling place, not a car - not even a tractor. A track led us sinuously through the Portillo de las Cabras, the Pass of the Goats. Eventually we reached Los Arcos. It had been a golden day.

Los Arcos has 4 pilgrim hostels. We stayed at the Albergue La Fuente. That evening some inebriated locals entertained us in a bar, showing us arcane card games and tricks with toothpicks. We left carrying bags full of the oranges they'd given us. The meal we ate that night in the albergue was memorable. Laurent acted as French cuisinier (what a surprise) and cooked dinner for us all. First bread and soup, then ham and cheese savoury pancakes. Afterwards pancakes filled with dark melted chocolate... Yum! And did I mention the wine..?

Stars, Stones And A Doorway

From Puente la Reina to Estella (meaning 'Star', which recalls 'Compostela' - or 'Field of Stars' - the goal of my journey, and 'The Milky Way' - another name for the Camino) it's only 21 km. During the morning there were a couple of heavy rain showers which turned the clay path into a mudslide. After 8 km I met up with a French pilgrim called Laurent in the hilltop village of Cirauqui. I'd seen him briefly before in a shop in Puente la Reina, where we'd introduced ourselves.

Laurent proved to be a uniquely interesting person and the most stimulating company. We were to walk together on-and-off for the next week. He lived in Provence and had taken the pilgrim route from Arles to Puente la Reina via the Col du Somport. What was remarkable was that he had deliberately decided to rely on free, spontaneously given hospitality for the 1st part of his journey. It was a kind of spiritual experiment to test out the true meaning of the word 'hospitality' and the generosity of strangers. He had managed OK - but had lost weight! He had found people on the whole very kind, but sometimes even priests would turn him away...

Laurent was a stone mason by trade. He sold commercial pieces over the Internet, but his true passion lay in creating the individual, non-commercial sculptures he would carve and keep himself - for the love and freedom of it, and for his own personal satisfaction. He had a need to follow his own artistic calling rather than the dictates of anyone's commission. He had spent an ascetic year preparing for the Camino in complete isolation, working without distractions on a pilgrim sculpture in his studio. He told me his grand project for the next 10 years of his life (he was in his late 40s) was to restore a beautiful but ruined stone chapel near his home. More of Laurent to come, for he was the most knowledgeable and unusual person, with a real commitment to the spiritual side of life...

We passed olive groves and asparagus beds. We ate the few sweet remaining grapes left on the vines. We picked almonds. They were soft and delicious. When we reached Estella we found a lovely, historic little town built on a meander of the river Ega. The most tasteful Christmas decorations festooned the streets. I realised with a start that Christmas was fast approaching...

The striking doorway in the photo was taken in the village of Maneru between Puente la Reina and Estella.

Peregrine

Seeing Loren Webster's photo of a peregrine falcon yesterday reminded me of a book I bought the year before last by J. A. Baker called simply The Peregrine. It was originally published in 1967, but a new edition came out in 2005 with an introduction by Robert Macfarlane, one of my favourite writers on wilderness. Very little is known about John Alec Baker, the author, except that he lived in Essex. Even the date of his death seems to be a mystery. Perhaps he is still alive?

The Latin name for the peregrine falcon is falco peregrinus. Falco means hook or sickle-shaped - a reference to its curved beak and claws. Peregrinus means foreigner, traveller, wanderer, pilgrim - undoubtedly an acknowledgement of its long migratory flights in spring and autumn, and also its lonely sky-gliding journeys in search of food. Peregrines are one of the fastest birds on earth, sometimes diving or 'stooping' at 100 miles per hour to kill their prey.

In Baker's book, a classic of natural history writing, nothing happens very much. But we become utterly absorbed in the peregrine's world. Baker is obsessed with the bird. He eats, sleeps and drinks nothing else. We, too, share almost as intensely in the bird's life as readers. The book's written in a style which is a mix of close observation and poetic imagination. From any page I could choose a quotation showing Baker's fine writing and demonstrating his close identification with the falcon. Just at random how about this:

Beyond the line of poplars, he circled and began to soar again. This time he pulled across the wind, rising swiftly to the north-west, moving far out and very high above the river valley. Gliding, spiralling, hovering, sculling, he seemed to be freed at last from his orchard obsession. Free! You cannot know what freedom means till you have seen a peregrine loosed into the warm spring sky to roam at will through all the far provinces of light. Along the escarpments of the river air he rose with martial motion. Like a dolphin in green seas, like an otter in the startled water, he poured through deep lagoons of sky up to the high white reefs of cirrus. When my arms were aching, and I could watch him no longer, he blurred into a tiny speck and vanished from the bright circle of my vision. Soon I found him again, and saw him grow larger. Gradually, steadily, he grew larger. From thousands of feet above the valley he was diving back to the orchard, which he was not yet ready to leave completely. He grew from a speck to a blur, to a bird, to a hawk, to a peregrine; a winged head shouldering down through the wind. With a rush, with a flash, with a whirr of wings, he came down to the hedge ten yards away from me. He perched, he preened, he looked around; not tired, not tested even, by his half-hour of festive flight. With the whole valley to choose from, he had chosen to came back to the orchard where I was standing. There is a bond: impalpable, indefinable, but it exists.

The Old Bridge At Puente La Reina

The Albergue Padres Rapadores lies immediately on your left opposite the Iglesia del Crucifijo (Church of the Crucifixion) as you enter Puente la Reina. I spent the night there very comfortably. In many ways it's a flagship for the excellent Spanish albergue system. For around €5 you can expect bunk-bed dormitory accommodation with mattress and blankets (you bring your own sleeping bag), heating (the adequacy of this varies - but there's often the option of making a log fire which is great), hot showers, a communal eating area/relaxation room, and a kitchen which is usually well stocked (except in Galicia) with pots and pans, cutlery and cooking utensils, and basic foodstuffs like salt, pepper, olive oil and balsamic vinegar. (Its cupboards may also contain packets of pasta, tins of lentils and suchlike, left behind by previous pilgrims.) There may be Internet access too. You can't ring ahead and reserve a place in these albergues. You just turn up and it's first come, first served - priority being given to pilgrims on foot. Not that booking a place would be at all necessary during these late autumn and winter months - each night there was only a handful of pilgrims. Early next morning 20 November I set off under the stone arch connecting church and monastery down Puente la Reina's narrow main street (Calle Major). It had been squally in the night but now the wind had died down somewhat. I popped into the Iglesia de Santiago but left before morning mass got to the Eucharist bit. I walked out of town via the celebrated 12th century pilgrim bridge (see photo) over the river Arga. Some consider this bridge the most beautiful in Spain. Though perhaps not the houses behind.

Death In The Afternoon

I left the suburbs of Pamplona and its university, its cranes, its new housing blocks. And stopped for a beer in Cizur Menor just outside the city. It was only late morning but I felt like a brief rest. The bored, red-lipsticked, black-haired bar girls were either languidly staring into space or talking passionately into their mobiles. It was still hours before they had to set the tables for lunch which in Spain starts at 3 pm. Refreshed I headed out into a bare and treeless countryside of red-brown earth. Arid, red-brown hills reared up all around me. This was a quite different landscape from the gentler, more rounded, wooded hills near Roncesvalles. I had never seen such a landscape in all my life. I passed a memorial to a pilgrim who had died at a spot close by.

It seemed an age to reach the windy top of the Alto del Perdon, the Hill of Pardon. No guide book study or map reading was necessary. You just placed your feet in the direction of the whirling monopods of countless wind turbines which desecrated the wide hill on the south-west horizon. But right then I didn't feel like being a Don Quixote tilting at windmills. On the summit there's an east-west procession of medieval pilgrim silhouettes sculpted in wrought iron. It was no place to hang about for long as the wind blew chill. I slipped and stumbled down the stony slope on the other side. From here you could see all the villages for the next 12 km mapped out before you in a meandering line: Uterga, Muruzábal, Óbanos - and Puente la Reina, my day's destination.

At Uterga I witnessed a sad accident. A cat raced across the village street and was crushed by a car right in front of me. Its legs twitched convulsively. A passer-by urged me to put it out of its misery by striking it with my walking pole. But as I approached it stopped moving. A couple of weeks later another pilgrim caught up with me and told me she had seen the dead cat and had carefully carried it to the side of the road. I wish I had done that. This incident haunted me for days afterwards. I felt somehow guilty for an accident that was not my fault... I kept thinking about Hemingway, and the killing of bulls, the ritual spilling of their blood. Spain was something else. Something more primitive... The path stretched before me like a snaking wound through the open landscape.

Traditionally and mystically there are 3 stages of the Camino: from Roncesvalles to Burgos lies the Way Of Reflection; from Burgos to Leon the Way of Penitence; from Leon to Santiago the Way of Glory. I had begun the Way of Reflection. Would I ever attain the Way of Glory?

My photo shows the church porch at Puente la Reina.

Pamplona

On 18 November I crossed the river Arga by the medieval bridge, the Puente de la Magdalena, walked over a further drawbridge and through the Portal de Zumalacárregui, and so entered Pamplona. It was early on Sunday afternoon and the shops were shut (when are they ever open in Spain?) but there was plenty of life on the streets and in the bars and cafés.

I wish I could tell you that I explored diligently the historic sites of this vibrant city, that I researched the fascinating history of King Louis I and Ferdinard V and the French troops which occupied Pamplona during the Napoleonic Wars, that I was awestruck at the famous cloister of the 14th century cathedral, that I sought out the early Gothic churches of San Cenin, San Nicolás and Santo Domingo, that I tracked down the places associated with Ernest Hemingway when he was a frequent visitor here in the 1920s, that I learnt about the encierro, the crazy bull-running festival that takes place each year from 7 July, which is the feast day of Saint Fermin, Pamplona's patron saint...

I wish I could tell you I walked the city's many parks and green areas and admired the modern sculptures in them, that I spent hours in the Museo de Navarra noting its treasures and antiquities, that I investigated the star-shaped 16th century citadel and its gardens...

But I did none of these things. What I did do however was eat and drink. I remember the warm glow of the lively bars as you entered, teeth chattering, from the cold streets. The street vendors selling hot, roasted chestnuts in the chill, evening air. The elegant glasses of red wine. The plates of tapas temptingly lined up - fried prawns, octopus and squid, mussels in white wine, anchovies with green peppers, bite-sized pork pieces with garlic, chicken in spicy tomato sauce, piquant chorizo, patatas fritas, sardines in olive oil, eggs with tuna, ham and cheese omelettes...

Aeolian

Although it's probably far too early to think about spring being around the corner, in the garden the winter aconites are in flower and the snowdrop, daffodil and crocus shoots are all coming through. Here's a poem I wrote about the coming of last year's spring. We all need a bit of cheering up on this wet and miserable January morning.

aeolian

long months hibernating
then hearing your voice melting snowfall

no axe breaking the frozen sea
but soft wind warming cold river

from dark earth crocus flowers
and cherry blossoms on twisted twigs

black crows strut on black earth
tricking the eye

and coyote howls the world
back into light

Both the the crow and the coyote figure - often as "trickster" characters - in various creation myths. Aeolus is the Greek god of wind. So "aeolian" means "carried by the wind" - new life, or inspiration perhaps. Coleridge mentions the strings of this Aeolian lute in his great ode, Dejection; and Lawrence talks of the wind that blows through me in his poem Song Of A Man Who Has Come Through. The 3rd line is supposed to recall Franz Kafka's idea that a book (art) must be the axe to break the frozen sea within us.

Earth Pilgrim

Practise spirituality in everyday life. MAHATMA GANDHI

We must become the change we want to see in the world. MAHATMA GANDHI

I am an Earth Pilgrim. If I've learnt anything from my journey in life, it's come through wandering this wonderful world. SATISH KUMAR

Hope everyone caught today's Natural World programme on BBC2. The ecologist, writer, thinker, peace campaigner, former Jain monk and Gandhi disciple Satish Kumar gave a spiritual interpretation of Dartmoor in all its seasons. He defined Nature as what is born and what will die - of which we are all a part. Death and birth, winter and spring, are both to be welcomed, both to be celebrated. Both are essential aspects of life's continuum. The changeless cycle of death and re-birth - this is how he understands the meaning of eternal life. The universe is one poem, one verse, one song - a totally interdependent, self-organizing, self-healing system. (Have a look at James Lovelock's books on Gaia for a sympathetic "scientific" perspective on this.) Kumar comments, after walking through Dartmoor's ancient Wistman's Wood: Nowadays people don't get Enlightenment - because they don't sit under a tree.

3 qualities are necessary for a quality life, believes Kumar - CLARITY, SIMPLICITY and COMPASSION.

Beautiful Navarre

It took me 2 days to walk the 44 km to the walled city of Pamplona, capital of Navarre and historic capital of the Basque Country. From Roncesvalles the route led easily along undulating paths which crossed 3 river valleys ( the Urrobi, the Erro and the Arga rivers) separated by the wooded high ground of the Alto de Mezquiriz and the Alto de Erro. In Burguete, the 1st village I went through, I bought bread and cheese and chorizo sausage, which I ate lying on a patch of grass near the Alto de Erro. It was a remote and beautiful sunny spot in front of a ruined inn (now a cattle shelter) at an altitude of 800m. A cyclist and a couple of pilgrims drifted by. For much of the day the trees had closed in, but from this high viewpoint you could see rolling wooded hills stretching as far as the horizon. Then I climbed down an entertaining rocky path into Zubiri.

Passing a malodorous magnesium extraction plant on the outskirts of this small town, I walked 5 km along the Arga valley to Larrosoana, which I entered over its medieval bridge. The albergue was right in the centre but unusually it had no kitchen (in the evenings pilgrims often prepared their own meals and shared them), so I ate a delicious dinner of Basque food and wine at a bar-restaurant just around the corner. There I saw again 2 lovely Spanish pilgrims, a brother and sister called Fernando and Tere (short for Teresa), whom I'd met in Roncesvalles and at other times throughout the day. I would keep bumping into them for the next 8 days - and with each encounter the delight at seeing each other increased, and the hugging and kissing got more ecstatic!

Roland's Horn

Roncevalles (Ronceveaux in French) is famous for the Battle of Roncevalles Pass - especially for the rather embellished and distorted legend it became, as recounted in the Song of Roland (La Chanson de Roland), the oldest work in French literature.

On 15 August 778 Charlemagne (742/747-814), King of the Franks, was returning to his Frankish kingdom over the Pyrenees from Spain, when the rearguard of his army was opportunistically attacked, slaughtered and robbed at Roncesvalles Pass by native Basques. This was the worst defeat of Charlemagne's reign. Among these unfortunate soldiers was a certain Hrodland, Prefect of the Breton Marches.

However the epic chronicler of the Song of Roland has airbrushed history somewhat in order to retrieve Frankish pride and to accord with a growing sense of Frankish Christian national identity. Hrodland has turned into Roland, Charlemagne's nephew; the Basques have become the Saracens; and this time Charlemagne heads back to Spain to avenge the death of his knights.

In the Chanson 400,000 infidel Saracens ambush the small band left behind to guard the pass. Roland, with his trusty sword, Durandal, and his men fight heroically but are impossibly outnumbered. Charlemagne has told Roland to summon him back if in trouble by blowing his horn. This Roland refrains from doing until only a few of his brave knights remain alive. When he does finally put the horn to his lips birds fall from the trees, the ground shakes, chimneys topple down from houses, and people cry out from the pain in their ears. Charlemagne turns back but it's too late for all have perished.

The Song of Roland exists in various different manuscript sources, the earliest version being the Oxford manuscript dated somewhere between 1140 and 1170. It's an example of a chanson de geste, a literary form of epic poetry telling heroic deeds, written between the 11th and 15th centuries. Lines of early chansons de geste have assonantal endings, but later poems are fully rhymed.

Charlemagne is a pivotal figure in European history. He's considered the founding father of France and Germany. Indeed he was instrumental in christianizing and unifying the whole of Europe. He turned the Frankish kingdom into a Frankish empire, and, having conquered Italy, was crowned Emperor by the Pope.

Is God Feminine?

That first night in Spain I and a small band of other pilgrims attended the 8 o'clock pilgrim mass in the Iglesia de Santa Maria, the church of Saint Mary, in the tiny settlement of Roncesvalles ('valley of thorns'). At the end of mass the 5 of us stood at the altar rail and were duly blessed. Afterwards we shared a simple pilgrim meal in the local bar - bread, soup, trout, deep-fried potatoes and yoghurt, accompanied by a bottle of rough local wine. As usual we swapped stories. The conversation ranged far and wide. One of the pilgrims was a chaplain with the New Zealand armed forces in Afghanistan. He had some interesting practices. One was that he always referred to God as 'She' rather than 'He'. I countered with my own view that God was non-gender-specific. Later it was freezing cold in the dormitory of the refuge, but I was snug and warm inside my sleeping bag with a blanket laid over (the refugios and albergues always provided additional blankets) and I soon fell asleep.

The Clarity Of Parables

Ten years ago, I walked the breadth of northern Spain along the Way of St James, the ancient and arduous pilgrimage route that leads to Santiago de Compostela, where the remains of St James the Apostle are said to rest in the cathedral crypt. The 500-mile, month-long journey, I have increasingly come to realize, was a seminal event in my life. Along the pilgrimage trail, episodes and encounters unfolded with the clarity of parables. I was variously taken in by shepherds, gypsies, country priests, and nuns under vows of silence. I was shut out by one of the archbishop's underlings. I walked through unsullied landscapes of immense beauty and the dark, labyrinthine medieval quarters of Pamplona, Burgos, and Leon. I encountered living saints and misanthropes. I harvested apples and olives, joined a wedding party, and nursed a vagabond through a particularly vicious bout of delirium tremens. But more than anything else, I had the opportunity to reflect and to meditate. The Way of St James was not only a taxing physical journey, but a spiritual exercise.

From Nicholas Shrady's Sacred Roads: Adventures from the Pilgrimage Trail (1999)

A Day To Remember

The Route Napoleon is 26 km long with a cumulative ascent of 1390 metres and it took me 7 hours to complete - 7 of the best hours of my life. (Napoleon used the route to get his troops in and out of Spain during the Peninsula War.) It's strenuous in parts - but hardly beyond the ability of your average hill walker. For me the day was a total joy. The miles seemed to fly by as I climbed higher and higher, and as ever more spectacular views opened up all around me (see 1st photo). The 1st 16 km is uphill - but after that it's more or less downhill for the rest of the crossing. Half the distance you follow a narrow tarmacked road, but it's very quiet with hardly any traffic. Then it's by natural pathways all the way to Roncesvalles.

After 11 km I reached the panoramic viewpoint of the Pic d'Orisson, where I perched precipitously on a narrow ledge of rock for half an hour and ate my picnic lunch. Close by was a statue of the Virgin Mary, the Vierge d'Orisson, which you can see in the 2nd photo. This statue had been brought here from Lourdes by shepherds. High above me 12 griffon vultures soared effortlessly in the thermals. There's a bigger concentration of these magnificent birds here than in any place in the world. It was bitterly cold. When I began walking again I'd lost all sensation in my nose, ears and lips. But I soon warmed up as I continued along the trail.

It was still a further 5 km to the border. The road now became a path ascending between huge rocks. There was a deep frost and some patchy mist but no real snow. I passed a tiny mountain refuge hut and soon arrived at the border fence and found the border marker stone. I was in Spain! The path climbed more gradually now through beech woods up to the Col de Bentarte. I took a picture of some frosted tree tops illuminated by the sun (3rd photo). A stray dog followed me for a few kilometres.

At the Col Lepreder there was another choice of routes: either down a winding, treacherously icy road or by a more direct, stony path which descended steeply through more woodland. I took the latter. Leaving the high plateau behind me I raced down this delightful track, pausing again briefly for a bite to eat and to take in the view which was more restricted now because of the trees. This forest is one of the largest remaining beech woods in Europe.

All too quickly the path levelled out and I glimpsed the roof of Roncesvalles abbey through the trees. I would spend the night here in the spartan refuge of the old hospital adjoining this monastery. What a day to remember...

Saint-Jean

I had now walked 750 km from Le Puy and was in urgent need of another rest day to take stock before attempting the crossing of the Pyrenees. And what finer place to spend it in than Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port (Donibarne Garazi in Basque) which means "Saint John-at-the-Foot-of-the-Pass". It's a border town with a population of 1400 on the river Nive. You enter via the famous Porte Saint-Jacques (see photo) at the top of the steep, cobbled Rue de la Citadelle. The ramparts of the old citadel or fortress loom above. It's a pretty little town, full of many examples of traditional Basque-style houses with their balconies and overhanging roofs.

From here there's a choice of 2 routes to Roncesvalles. In very bad weather I suppose it's safest to follow the road route along the valley of the river Valcarlos. But for the true pilgrim there really is no choice. It has to be the route Napoleon, a high route up to the Col de Bentarte used by shepherds and pilgrims since time immemorial. So at 9 am on 16 November I set off, rested and eager, through the Porte d'Espagne, and left Saint-Jean behind me. It was a bright, cold, sunny morning, with just a hint of mist...

The Mystery Of The Unknown

For centuries the Pyrenees basked in the mystery of the unknown. Unaccountably dismissed as holding little of importance to the climber, mountain walkers ignored them almost completely. But all that has changed and the Pyrenees have now become the focus of attention for mountain activists of all degrees of commitment. Not just walkers and climbers, but parapente enthusiasts, mountain bikers, white-water kayak buffs, bird-watchers, butterfly and flower lovers, cavers, and those who gain a thrill from descending horrific waterfalls and seemingly inaccessible canyons - the sport known as canyoning. As an arena for outdoor adventure the Pyrenees fulfil so many dreams.

The Alps they are not, and it would be a mistake to attempt comparisons. These are mountains of another order, with something to offer every climber and walker. There are peaks in excess of 3000 metres that are within reach of most hill-walkers weaned on the heights of Snowdonia or the Lakeland fells, but also vertical faces of awesome stature to test the stamina and expertise of the ardent rock specialist. There are valleys lost in the transient mists where weeks of high summer pass with barely a vistor - though these admittedly are growing fewer with the passage of time. There are tracts of unspoiled upland to answer the dreams of the devoted backpacker, and acres of alpine flowers of such rich variety that the botanist could happily spend months of worthwhile exploration there...

...The range is one of startling contrasts. On the northern slopes mountains fall steeply to the plains, while the Spanish side is confused by a series of successive ridges - or sierras - which run in a maze away from the main crest to subside in the badlands of the Ebro basin. In the west the Basque country receives heavy, moisture-laden winds from the Atlantic, but the eastern sector has a truly Mediterranean climate with low rainfall confined to the winter months, and summers that are very hot.

Scenically the landscape is full of diversity, offering a rich variety of features guaranteed to excite and entice the first-time visitor. Forests of oak, pine and beech in the west are far removed from vineyards and orchards that dress the sun-baked plateaux of Catalonia. But between these two extremes the High Pyrenees contain all the attractions of alpine scenery: sharp, irregular peaks splashed with snow, shallow glaciers, deep, trench-like canyons, great amphitheatres (cirques), and many hundreds of glistening mountain tarns.

From the Introduction to Walks and Climbs in the Pyrenees (2001, 4th ed) by Kev Reynolds

Four Stone Crosses

It was only 90 more km to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the gateway to the Pyrenees. I walked this in 3 days, passing through many Basque villages with strange sounding names - Quinquilemia, Uruxondoa, Larribar-Sorhapuru, Uhart-Mixe, Ostabat-Asme... The photos were taken at the church in Gamarthe.

The fields were full of docile, pale-coloured Blonde d'Aquitaine cattle. These are big and hardy beasts, the 3rd largest breed in France after the Limousin and the Charolais.

I arrived at an important crossing of Roman roads marked by the Croix de Galzeteburia, where several pilgrim paths merged with my own route from Le Puy, the Via Podensis. On one side of this ancient stone cross was carved the figure of Christ, on the other was the Virgin and Child.

As I drew nearer the mountains, the weather became wetter and more changeable.

On 14 November, the day after my birthday, I finally reached Saint-Jean. It had taken 29 days to get there. Imminent was the Pyrenean crossing I'd been looking forward to so much, and there was talk of snow...

The Basque Country

I was now walking through the beautiful Basque Country, known as Le Pays Basque in French and Euskal Herria in the Basque language. The Basque Country is a distinct cultural and ethnic area (population 3 million) of considerable antiquity in south-west France and north-central Spain.

There are 7 traditional Basque regions: Zuberoa, Lapurdi and Lower Navarre in the Northern Basque Country of France; and Navarre, Guipuscoa, Biscay and Alava in the Southern Basque Country of Spain. It has little autonomy in the French part, but in the Spanish regions - particularly Guipuscoa, Biscay and Alava, united as the Autonomous Basque Community - it enjoys extensive political and cultural freedom under its own Nationalist government. The ABC has its own police force and its own radio and TV stations. It controls its own education and health systems.

The Basque language, Euskara, is fascinating and unique. It's known as an "isolate". That is a language not obviously deriving from or related to any other language.

Despite many attempts over the centuries - for example during the time of the French Revolution or in Franco's Spain - to suppress and marginalize Basque culture, and integrate it into the French and Spanish nation-states, Euskal Herria is well and thriving. And long may it continue. Incidentally, the Spanish Autonomous Basque Community is one of the wealthiest regions in Spain.

A section of Basque society has always been struggling for complete political independence, for the establishment of a sovereign nation-state. In most people's minds the extreme form of this nationalism is represented by the paramilitary organization of ETA, designated as a terrorist organization by the EU. In 2006 ETA declared a permanent ceasefire after 40 years of fighting for independence. But a year later this was annulled.

Today's amazing fact... 75% of all British people can be traced back genetically to this area!

I took the photo in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, capital of the traditional Basque region of Lower Navarre.

Bandits And Angels

Listen. Here is a little story. A little story about something lost and something found. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Once upon a night in my simple lodgings on the long and winding road called the Chemin de Saint-Jacques or the Camino de Santiago or simply the Way, someone stole €50 from me. I knew who he was. He was not a true pilgrim. I never saw him again.

The very next day, as I was ambling along, thinking idle, inconsequential thoughts, delighting in the mild autumn weather (nights were freezing cold, mornings often frosty and/or misty, but usually by lunchtime the sun was out, the sky was blue and it was warm), wondering how soon I dared eat my packed lunch (it was always advisable to eat this as late as possible as 1 km before lunch invariably seemed like 2 km after)... Hey, where was I? I've lost my thread. Ah, yes, I remember. I was ambling along, doing all those things - when suddenly I came upon a lady in distress.

She looked distraught. She looked disconsolate. She looked distractedly in the vegetation beside the path, searching this way and that. When she saw me approaching she hurried to meet me. "I lost my car key while walking the dog," she explained. "I've been looking for ages but I can't find it. It's hopeless. My dog's lying by my car back there - she gestured behind her - utterly exhausted. She can't possibly walk home. And we live miles from here. Have you a mobile phone?"

I said I had and put it in her hand. She phoned her neighbour but her neighbour did not answer. She gave me back the phone in despair. "I really don't know what to do" she wailed. I thought for a few moments. I scanned the grass. It was an impossible task. Then I thought again. I tried to think logical thoughts. I realized that this lady was just a little neurotic, a bit haphazard, slightly vague. So I said to her: "Just turn out your pockets in case your key's in there. You never know." With a sigh she tumbled out the contents of her jacket's right-hand pocket - chewing gum, cigarettes, tissues, dog biscuits, lipstick... and a car key.

She squealed with joy. She hugged me. She kissed and embraced me. She said it was a stroke of fate I had passed by at that moment. She said I was a manifestation of her guardian angel. And other such things. And we both returned to her car and she placed the key in the lock and it fitted perfectly and she thanked me again. Her expression had transformed itself into one of pure happiness and relief.

Then she took her wallet from the left-hand pocket of her jacket and she pressed a €20 note into my hand, insisting absolutely that I took it, she would not take it back if I refused it, in fact she would be insulted, it could pay for my night's lodging etc etc; and she gave me her address and telephone number, and said that, if I was ever in the area on holiday next year or the year after or the year after that, I must look her and her husband up, and they would welcome me, and make me a meal.

So I lost €50 and I gained €20 within the space of 2 days. I don't quite know the meaning of this story except to say, as I've said before, that there are bandits as well as angels, angels as well as bandits on the Chemin or the Camino or the Way, just as there are in 'real life'...

Hospitality

The houses of the small town of Arthez-de-Béarn line up for almost 2 km along a narrow ridge like a string of rosary beads. I arrived there on the evening of Sunday 11 November. From the church I had a proper view of the Pyrenees for the 1st time, jutting up purple and black on the southern horizon, the sinking sun hanging over them like a golden orb. They stretched hazily from east to west for as far as the eye could see. They were superb.

The local hospitalier saw me coming and rushed out to greet me. He gave me the key to the gîte d'étape. He showed me around - the showers, the kitchen, the patio where pilgrims would sit outside in the summer. Then he invited me into his cottage opposite for the ceremony of stamping my Créanciale or pilgrim passport. He introduced me to his mother, a tiny, plump lady with white hair. She was sitting at the table in the cluttered living/dining room. Crucifixes and effigies of Mary, mother of Jesus, adorned the walls. A log fire burned in the grate.

"The pilgrims are less numerous and much better behaved at this time of year," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "In the summer months there are crowds of them and they drink far too much. Now, what would you like, Ricard or whisky?"

3 Ricards later we were all talking volubly and quite incomprehensibly. It was difficult to understand their strong, southern accent. It seemed to me it could have been a harsh mixture of French and Basque. Whatever that sounded like. I was too drunk to tell. Not that I could have told anyway. If you see what I mean. But we got by. I think the conversation revolved around a possible shortcut I might take the next day.

The milky liquid had slipped down my throat easily. Ice clunked at the bottom of my glass. "Another drink? Have you tried the local spirit? It's very good. It's made from plums." The kindly matriarch then ordered her son to bring food from the kitchen - chocolate, cheese, grapes, little tins of foie gras. I tried and tasted. "But what will you eat later tonight? It's Sunday and the supermarket's shut. Fetch the pilgrim some bread."

Another half hour later and I was staggering across the street, carrying armfuls of bread and eggs, paté, cheese, and a bottle of blood-red wine. I tasted it later. It was subtle and dark and smooth as velvet. It went perfectly with the omelette I cooked in the gîte's kitchen that night. Life was good...

A World Within This One

Hindus believe in a great soul or spirit, called Brahman, or God. Brahman has no shape or form and cannot be seen but is present in everything. Each of the thousands of Hindu deities represents an aspect of Brahman. From The Atlas of World Religions (2002) by Anita Ganeri

For days I've been haunted by the quote from Paul Éluard, the French Surrealist poet, posted recently on Old Girl Of The North Country's blog: There is another world, but it is in this one.

What better example of this truth than the life and work of the great visionary mystic William Blake (1757-1827).

Blake wrote: If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. He believed that mankind allowed itself to be bounded by perceptions, and that it is the unseen mind (or understanding or soul or spirit) that truly perceives - not the 5 senses. One could say that this mind or soul "looks through" the window of the 5 senses.

There is an "Internal" and "External" world, a "Within" and "Without", in every bird, beast, flower and insect, every living thing - and also in stones and rocks and all inanimate objects. The physical form of these bodies, which we perceive with our senses, is the "correspondence" or "signature" of the soul.

Blake turned these concepts into the myths which permeate his work - his poetry, his paintings and his drawings. Nature is seen as a "veiled" goddess. She is mythologized by Blake as the moon goddess, Vala. You can also find her in the figure of Persephone, who, according to the Greek myth, wore a veil for Demeter when she fell into Hades. The Roman Minerva and the Egyptian Isis, wife of Osiris, are other personifications of this veiled goddess of Nature.

Man falls in love with Vala, is deluded by the world of phenomenal appearances, and from this follows every evil of the Fall - a story resonating in the Biblical legend of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The veil is the cause of war, materialism, all human vice and wrongdoing. The veiled face of the goddess is forever hidden from all but those few who have attained Enlightenment.

Blake also wrote: To me this World is all one continued Vision of Fancy or Imagination. Once more he's referring to another world intertwined with this world...

All such ideas and many more are discussed in the poet Kathleen Raine's erudite and exciting 2 volume work Blake and Tradition.

To Be A Pilgrim

The fifteenth-century mystic Thomas a Kempis said that no matter where a person was he or she would always be a 'stranger and pilgrim', unable to find peace unless united inwardly with Christ: for him true pilgrimage was an inner journey along the pathway of the spirit, with the living Christ as the ultimate shrine. In John Bunyan's great allegorical work The Pilgrim's Progress, the pilgrimage is one of overcoming moral obstacles and gaining self-knowledge in order to arrive at the Celestial City. Its readers become pilgrims in the imagination, accompanying Christian as he walks through the Valley of Humiliation, resists the temptations of Vanity Fair or escapes from Doubting-Castle.

Pilgrimage may not, then, necessitate a physical journey - for Kempis and Bunyan it is possible for the pilgrim to remain in a cloister or a prison cell. Even so, inner pilgrimage, like its external counterpart, still implies movement - towards a new spiritual state of being. Therefore, whether pilgrimage is made physically or contemplatively, the idea of journeying remains central to it: the pilgrim must make a journey because he or she needs time - time to reflect upon personal dilemmas or wrongdoings, or upon the great mysteries of life, such as fate, suffering and the nature of God. For the pilgrim the journey, with all its vicissitudes, is not the wearisome preamble to truth - it is the necessary way to truth, the living, arduous and joyful process by which truth can be attained.

Pilgrimage has inherent challenges and demands, highs and lows - it is a journey not to be taken lightly. Nowadays it is possible to travel to pilgrim shrines quickly and in comfort, but many prefer to expose themselves to a slow, sacred metamorphosis, realizing that the hardship of heat, cold, rain, blisters and fatigue can open the mind up to old memories and new possibilities, and can effect an emotional and spiritual purification. The destination - the shrine, the mountain or the church - signifies not the end of the journey, but the start - a portal into a new way of being, of seeing life afresh with spiritually cleansed eyes.

From James Harpur's Sacred Tracks: 2000 Years of Christian Pilgrimage (2002)

My photo shows the pilgrim tree-shrine I passed somewhere in south-west France. Where it was exactly I can't remember.

The Long Fields Of Les Landes

On either side the river lie/Long fields of barley and of rye... ALFRED LORD TENNYSON The Lady Of Shalott

Les Landes (meaning 'The Marshes') is one of the départements in south-west France's Aquitaine region. The part I crossed was flat and relatively treeless. I followed long, straight country roads and farm tracks alongside irrigation channels. Some walkers find this section of the Way tedious; for my part, I relished the contrast with what had gone before. Here are acres and acres of arable land, laid out geometrically and given over to agriculture on a huge scale. One of the biggest crops is maize.

France produces more maize than any other European country. Maize (or corn as it's known in the US and Canada - short for Indian corn) is a cereal grain and the largest crop in all the Americas. Most maize now grown is in a high yielding, genetically modified, hybrid form. Originating in Latin America, it's now - like rice and wheat - produced all over the world. It's a staple food for humans and also excellent fodder for animals. Corn meal can be made into a sustaining thick porridge. In Italy this is called polenta. In Mexico it's the basis of many dishes such as tortilla. Corn syrup comes from maize. It also forms the basis of alcoholic drinks such as Bourbon whiskey. It can be turned into a low polluting biofuel, heat (from corn stoves), plastics and fabrics, and used as fish bait in the form of dough balls. Vegetable sweetcorn is a genetic variation of maize, high in sugars and low in starch.There's cornbread. There's hominy, a corn-based dish from the south-eastern US states. There are corn flakes. There's popcorn.

Gradually the landscape changed again as I approached the département of the Pyrénées-Atlantiques and the rolling hills and river valleys of the Basque Country. I was in a state of perpetual excitement and expectation. For I was close to the Pyrenean foothills and would soon be in Spain and at the half-way point of my journey.

A Rustic Night

The Pyrenees were now only a week away and I was looking forward to my 1st sight of the mountains. I would meet very few pilgrims from here till I joined the Spanish part of the route, the true Camino, at Roncesvalles.

After a much needed rest day in Eauze I set off on 8 November for Nogaro and Aire-sur-l'Adour. In both places I spent the night. In Nogaro the girl at the tourist office directed me rather embarrassedly to a small house owned by the Church. I was assured a priest would turn up to welcome me, but he never came. However the door was unlocked so I went inside and tried to make myself as comfortable as I could in the cramped, untidy and somewhat dirty accommodation. It was all very rustique. There was no bedroom so I laid out my sleeping bag in a small communal dining room on 2 filthy mattresses I found, which I covered with a plastic table cloth. I had a restless night. Every time I changed position I slipped down onto the bare, freezing-cold floor. In Aire-sur-l'Adour I slept much more soundly in a dormitory offered at a cheap pilgrim's rate by the Hotel de la Paix.

In Manciet I passed an intriguing bull ring which was used for cattle racing (see photo). Soon I would cross the border into the département of Les Landes, the 2nd largest département in France, and one of the least populated and most densely forested.

Wilderness Walks

I have just watched once more - back-to-back on the UKTV Gardens channel - some of Cameron McNeish's spectacular Wilderness Walks. Surely the best TV programmes ever produced in the UK about wilderness treks. They featured Chris Brasher in the Cairngorms; Chris Smith on the island of Mull; Matty McNair leading a dog sled team on Baffin Island's Meta Incognita Plateau; Lesley Riddoch, the feminist journalist, in County Kerry's Macgillycuddy's Reeks; John Mackenzie, the Earl of Cromartie, in Letterewe, Wester Ross; and David Craig, the poet and historian, on the Knoydart Peninsula. Congratulations again to Cameron, and to the director Richard Else, on a wonderfully uplifting series of programmes. One of my New Year's resolutions is to get up to Scotland and experience it all first-hand...

Sir Edmund Hillary RIP

Sir Edmund Hillary died last Friday 11th January aged 88. He together with Sherpa Tenzing Norgay were the first climbers to summit Chomolungma (Everest) on 29 May 1953, one and a half years before I was born.

Hillary said: My most worthwhile things have been the building of schools and clinics. That has given me more satisfaction than a footprint on a mountain.

Read here Cameron McNeish's tribute.

Gastronomic Gascony

For the next 2 days - 5 and 6 November - I traversed the département of the Gers, part of the old province of Gascony. Gascony is one of the least populated areas of France, famous for the gastronomic delights of wild mushrooms, Armagnac brandy and controversial foie gras. It's also home to the Gascon language (little spoken nowadays), which is really a dialect of Occitan, the old language of south-west France.

I meandered through a gentle landscape of vine slopes and maize fields, and after 35 km reached Condom where I passed the night - once more in a very spacious gîte municipal and again alone. The next morning I had a sudden desire to leave early and walk in the dark to witness the dawn. At 6.30 I hit the trail. With only the occasional use of my headtorch I was soon out of town and stumbling along country lanes. The dawn was magnificent: purple, blue, orange and pale yellow streaks to a soundtrack of calling crows.

It was another long day. 33 km. My boots were pinching, causing severe foot pain. I'd had this before, but each morning the pain had miraculously eased. The final 7 km along a dead straight disused railway track to Eauze seemed very long indeed...

My photo is a view from the 12th - 13th century Chapelle Sainte-Germaine de Soldanum 10 km before Condom.

A Bath At Last

It was just 8 more kilometres to the village of Saint-Antoine, where I spent the night in the gîte d'étape. I was the only occupant. At this time of year there were few pilgrims compared with the summer months. But I preferred it that way. The pilgrims you did meet were normally very unusual and interesting people - not your average holiday pilgrims, as it were.

Alison Raju explains the origin of the name of this village in her guidebook The Way Of St James: Le Puy To The Pyrenees: The village takes its name from the religious order of the Antonins, who set up a hospital (the present chateau) for people suffering from ergotism (a disease also known as 'St Anthony's fire'), which was very prevalent in the Middle Ages. It was contracted by consuming cereal products (such as rye bread) contaminated by the ergot fungus, and resulted in a gangrenous condition of hands and feet. There was a similar such hospital further along the pilgrim road to Santiago in Spain, shortly before Castrojeriz.

I was now in the département of the Gers (the photo is a typical view).The next day an easy 23km walk - through rolling harvested fields of corn and sunflowers - brought me to the very old town of Lectoure. Here a Christian couple, Patrick and Veronique, took me in for the night at little cost. (There's a network of Catholic families and religious bodies extending welcome to pilgrims throughout the whole of the Chemin and the Camino.) They gave me the run of their beautifully appointed bathroom. I made full use of it! They had an enormous bath as well as the usual shower. It was the first bath I'd had for ages. Luxury! I slept well on a big double mattress in their attic bedroom. The next morning they invited me to share breakfast with them: fresh orange juice, coffee and croissants, bread, butter, home-made fig and apricot jam, fruit and yogurt...

In A Little Hilltop Village

In 1930 the Tarn burst its banks and flooded Moissac, destroying 617 houses and drowning 120 people. I left Moissac on 3 November and my morning's walk continued this watery theme. I followed the Canal de Garonne for 12 km. This canal runs from Bordeaux to Toulouse where it joins the Canal du Midi, thereby connecting the Atlantic Ocean with the Mediterranean Sea. (The complete stretch is known as the Canal des Deux Mers.) At one point I knew I passed the confluence of the Tarn and Garonne rivers. But it was quite misty and I couldn't make out anything very much except for the occasional lone cyclist or jogger who ghosted by. From the canalside village of Pommevic (there's a nuclear power station here but I didn't see it) I headed on a quiet country road across flat farmland towards the hilltop village of Auvillar.

Auvillar was the 1st of many bastide towns and villages I would either see distantly or visit throughout the rest of the département of Tarn-et-Garonne and in the next département of the Gers. Bastides were fortified settlements built in south-west France, in medieval Languedoc, Gascony and Aquitaine, during the 13th and 14th centuries. They were normally built to a grid pattern, and situated on hilltops for defensive reasons. The photo shows the beautifully restored medieval market hall in Auvillar's central square.

At Auvillar I encountered an artist painting, in the style of Van Gogh, a large and colourful mural for the local school. As was my custom I approached him for a chat. We talked about the big influx of English people to the area. "10% of the population of Auvillar is now English," he commented. I asked if that caused any problems (we often hear the French blaming incomers for the property price hikes affecting the whole of France). "Well, house prices have gone up, it's true," he said. "But there are many reasons for that. We have nothing against the English living here. As long as they mix in and join village society. However there are some English cliques which keep themselves to themselves and won't even attempt to learn French or take part in communal village life..."

Moissac

From Cahors to Moissac it's a further 70 km along the pilgrim route. I walked this in 3 days. The 1st night I spent at the highly recommended private gîte, Le Souleillou, near Montcuq, run by the welcoming Jacques and his wife Simone. The evening meal was exceptional as Simone was an excellent cook. I passed a most relaxing and entertaining evening in the company of Théa and Béat, a Swiss couple, and their gorgeous husky dog; and Jean-Pierre Jorres, the French actor, and his charming wife Arlette. The 2nd night was spent in unusual luxury at the Auberge de l'Aube Nouvelle (another superb dinner - I was spoiling myself!) The 3rd night I arrived at Moissac and slept there in a spotless gîte d'étape which was a former Carmelite monastery situated on a hill above the town.

Moissac is a major stopover on the pilgrimage trail, well known for its Benedictine monastery, the Abbey of Saint-Pierre. In the abbey church I was most impressed by the medieval Romanesque sculpture (1st photo shows a polychrome Holy Family carved from wood), the 12th century tympanum over the south porch (2nd photo shows a detail from this) and the 15th century cloister enclosing a garden with an enormous cedar tree at its centre. The capitals of the cloister's marble columns are composed of extraordinarily delicate carvings of animals, plants, saints and Biblical characters (3rd photo).

Auden And Armitage

W. H. Auden was born in Yorkshire in 1907. The contemporary poet Simon Armitage was also born in Yorkshire but in 1963. In 1996 Faber published a co-written collection of his entitled Moon Country, which retraced a visit to Iceland made by Auden and Louis MacNeice in 1936. However Auden and Armitage are quite different types of writer. Armitage gained a postgraduate qualification in social work from Manchester University and his first job was as a probation officer. This has clearly influenced his poetry - this, and the industrial hinterland of Huddersfield and the northern Pennines where he was born and grew up. I met Simon a few years ago at a poetry reading in Lincoln at which he signed my copy of his Selected Poems (2001). This is the 2nd poem in the book and comes from his 1st collection Zoom! (1989).

It Ain't What You Do It's What It Does To You

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi's and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I

skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stone's inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachute cord
while perched on the lip of a light-aircraft;
but I held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the tightness in the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that
sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

We may travel in search of thrills and exotic experiences or we may skim stones in our own back yard or we may comfort a child with cerebral palsy. But what matters is not just what we do. It's how we react to and interact with the experience that counts; how we register with sensitivity its effect upon us. And that "something else" experience, described so beautifully as a "tiny cascading sensation", is as much within us as it is somewhere out there.

Armitage's poems always seem effortless and are almost always conversational in tone. But behind this apparent effortlessness and conversational intimacy lies a great talent and a polished craft.