O'Cebreiro Revisited

There's snow in northern Spain and deep snowdrifts in O'Cebreiro, the gateway to Galicia - according to Johnnie Walker who's just walked through. I remember stopping an hour or two at O'Cebreiro in December 2007 on my own pilgrimage along the Camino Francés. The weather then was frosty and piercingly cold - but a brave sun shone in blue skies, burning off the valley mists by midday. O'Cebreiro (1293 m, 4242 ft) was for me not only a physical but also a spiritual high point of the journey. Although there were more hills to climb as I walked across Galicia, I seemed to coast effortlessly from here all the way to Santiago. I saw this statuette of Saint James in the Church of Santa Maria Real in O'Cebreiro:

In a bar in O'Cebreiro I met by chance an American lady from The Confraternity of Saint James who was interested in my journey. She was doing some research on the route for the Confraternity. When she heard I lived not far from Nottingham, she urged me to go to one of the Confraternity's local pilgrim reunion meetings when I got home. But I never went. I'm sure she said the Nottingham group was run by Alison Raju, who's written various Camino guides. In fact I'll be using Raju's guide to the Vía de la Plata in a couple of weeks' time.

Santiago: Field Of Stars

I wanted to place my hand on the Tree of Jesse, the central marble column of the cathedral's Portico de Gloria, the Entrance of Glory. Unfortunately it was barricaded off - presumably for renovation or repair. However I didn't really mind. It's not the time-honoured routine of pilgrim ritual that matters in the end. It's what you feel inside.

The next day, a Sunday, just before the 12 noon pilgrim mass, the west face of the cathedral looked wonderful in the sunlight. During mass the Botafumeiro, the celebrated giant incense burner, wasn't swung from its ropes and pulleys. Apparently they do that much less nowadays. I wasn't really disappointed. I met up with some of my pilgrim friends afterwards - Ezequiel, Kristin, Daniel, Hiroshi, Marlis, Sebastiane, Marco, Philippe. We all hugged. We were visibly moved. And glad to have arrived at our spiritual destination.

They were all going to eat in the bar at the Hostal Suso. But somehow I didn't feel like going with them - not at that particular moment. I wanted to be alone, to take in the particular atmosphere, to untangle the complicated thoughts and emotions which had suddenly woven themselves around my mind and heart. I stepped outside the cathedral into the cold and wintry air.

The Way Of Glory

You can't see Santiago's cathedral, the tangible goal of my 1000 mile journey, until you're almost upon it. I walked downhill from the modern statue on the Monte del Gozo, over motorway and railway, and through the suburb of San Lázaro, where there used to be a leprosy hospital in the 12th century. I scurried over the ring road and into the Rúa dos Concheiros - this name being a reference to pilgrims wearing the concha, the scallop shell symbol of Saint James. It was late in the afternoon and getting dark quickly. Minimal, tasteful Christmas decorations swung over the path. People thronged the streets. It was a Saturday. The shops and bars would be open till very late. I hurried across the tiny Praza San Pedro, Saint Peter's Square, and through the famous Porta do Camino into the old medieval city. And finally into the Praza Obradoiro, the Golden Square, which lies at the foot of Santiago Cathedral's glorious western façade. I climbed the steps up to the west door. I had arrived. I was exhausted but elated. I made some phone calls. I sent some texts. But mostly I just looked and wondered. And almost cried at the beauty of it all.

As I've written before, this final stage of the Camino, the stage between Leon and Santiago, is traditionally and mystically known as The Way Of Glory. And everything really did seem like glory to me that evening.

Mount Joy

Finally I reached the Monte del Gozo which overlooks the outskirts of Santiago. (In Galego, the Galician language, this is Mon Xoi, and means Mount Joy.) I was greeted there by Jan, a retired schoolteacher from Australia. She asked how far I'd walked. I replied: 1000 miles. She congratulated me on my achievement. We took photos of each other. It was an emotional moment.

Eucalyptus

... and in the afternoon walked through tall forests of eucalyptus trees. I crushed some eucalyptus leaves in my hand. The scent was cool and fragrant...

Santiago Dreaming

I'd spent the night of Friday 14 December in the albergue at Ribadiso. It was beautifully situated by the river bridge at the village entrance. It had received an award for its environmentally-friendly design. In the summer it must be very busy with pilgrims. That night I was the only occupant. The nearby café-bar was shut so I made do with eating leftovers from my backpack: bits of stale bread and cheese, an orange. The night was icy cold, the ink-black sky dotted with stars. I struggled to keep warm and pulled extra blankets over my sleeping bag. I could hear the sound of cats scavenging in the rubbish bins outside.

Next morning I was so keen to reach Santiago that I decided to walk the whole remaining 43 km straight off. I left in the dark, stopping in Arzúa for a café con leche. It was very cold and frosty, but as usual the sun warmed things up as the day went on. I was full of energy. I walked fast. I couldn't help it. My feet were singing. I passed more churches and wayside crosses on the way...

13 Km Marker Pillar

... until, one day, perhaps a day like the bright, sunny day of 15 December, you find there are only 13 km left to go...

The Way Ahead

The way ahead beckons and entices. You can't really get lost on the Camino. You just follow the scallop shell signs...

Here Comes The Sun

Midday sun and blue skies over the Convento de la Madalena in Sarria (1st pic)...

... and late afternoon sun just before the tiny hamlet of Ferrerios (2nd and 3rd pics).

I am reminded of how José, the hospitalero in Ruitelán, had played the Beatles song Here Comes The Sun in his albergue, though he woke us up next morning with Italian opera...

Two Dumper Trucks/One Digger/Two Crosses

Seductive

Frosty fields and morning mist ... Portomarin lies hidden somewhere in the valley (1st pic).

Numerous wayside crosses and bell towers (2nd pic) are a continual reminder of Galicia's spiritual wealth ...

... but this place sign (3rd pic) reminds one of more sensual, earthly pleasures ...

The Green Fields Of Galicia

Does this look like Spain to you? No? These are the lush, green fields of Galicia. Although it rains frequently here - when the westerly, Atlantic winds hit the mountains - I had no rain at all during my 5 and a half days walking through this beautiful region.

Chapels On Stilts

From 11 December till my arrival in Santiago on 15 December I passed through innumerable Galician farming villages. The farmers' fields were small. Some were given over to maize, but most were grazed by cattle and sheep. I also saw pigs, geese and chickens. I took away 3 strong memories from these villages: one, the barking dogs; two, the pungent smell of cow dung; three, the horreos (see pic).

Horreos (from the Latin horreum, meaning granary) were built to dry and store grain. Some date from the 15th century. Some are even built from new today. A few you could call functionally beautiful works of vernacular architecture, made of wood and stone. Most are rather scrappy - constructed from whatever lay to hand in the farmyard: bricks, breeze blocks and suchlike.

They are raised from the ground by pillars to protect the grain against rats and damp. They are roofed against the rain. Their walls are grooved for ventilation. Nowadays most are used not as granaries but for general storage.

Before I knew what they were, I thought they were some kind of religious shrine: chapels on stilts.

Hillside In Galicia

I have long admired the work of Polish-born artist Lydia Bauman. Her studio is in Lincoln - not far from where I live. Recovering from a virus contracted on a plane from Venice a few years ago, I had some time on my hands and wrote this poem about one of Lydia's prints, Hillside In Galicia, which was a get-well present from my wife. I wrote this before I had ever visited Galicia. Now I've been there I find it amazing how accurately Lydia has captured that special greenness of the fields, the indigo of the hills and the pinkish-purple of the trees.

Hillside In Galicia

Galicia: independent, Celtic-proud,

deeply rural, depopulated,

mainly untouched by package tourism,

unfrequented by medallion man,

mountains, rivers and rias, centuries-old

pilgrim trails, deep ancient roots.

Lessons of perspective, of photography,

once learnt, can be shelved, then reapplied

in a new way, freed from the realistic

or conceptual yoke, from the tender bonds

of art history: Claude Lorraine, Van Gogh

and Braque - absorbed, not brushed aside.

Vibrant swathes of colour, rough flat planes,

organic textures, scratchy surfaces.

Light pulses from within, from a pure essence

of apple-green fields, rainwashed and layered

beneath indigo hills glistening with rain...

And the white house - I'm glad it's there -

a lonely icon of the human, of settlement

and cultivation, in this glowing landscape,

animating and humanizing it, suggesting

a strong hope for us under glowering skies.

Plumb upper centre, its grey pitched roof

merges with a cleft in grey hills beyond...

A progression of fields, an array of trees.

Abstract, but not abstract like Nash.

Transfigurative, but not like Spencer.

Uncanny, but not uncanny like Friedrich.

Not symbolic or gravely mystical like Palmer.

But secretive, understated. Unsettling. And familiar.

A mediated, meditated, reflecting

and reflected inner land, or outer

inscape, or the borderland between,

evoking the Celtic sabbat of Beltane

when the border's most transparent,

the veil between worlds the thinnest.

Fluidity of shape and colour and form -

and feeling. Yes! Pure feeling above all!

Emotion is what draws you to this painting,

the way you feel it, ordinary yet numinous,

as shafts of light plumb your own deep self,

illuminating what you already knew...

The Book Of Ezekiel

In the church at O'Cebreiro pilgrim Ezequiel points to his eponymous book in the Bible.

Calvary With Hat

Didn't Paul Young once sing a song called Wherever I Lay My Hat, That's My Home?

I think a pilgrim must have drunk rather too many glasses of lunchtime wine in Sarria...

Anyhow, looks like the iconoclastic spirit of Salvador Dali is still alive in north-west Spain!

A Gift From The Gods

Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line/Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine... BOB DYLAN Shelter From The Storm from Blood On The Tracks

The natural world so readily accessed but so difficult to really touch in spirit... JOHN HEE from his blog Walkabout In The UK

For days now I've been pondering John Hee's line. Of course he's right. Despite the split infinitive! We can buy the right gear, the right maps. We can plan our route. We can walk to pretty places. We can even walk to desolate, wild and remote places. We can watch wildlife. But to 'touch in spirit'? That is a different order of things. Perhaps we can only hope for those occasional mystic moments which come at us from out of the blue, overwhelm us momentarily when we're least expecting it. I experienced some of those moments in Galicia. Beautiful Galicia! This was the best landscape since the Pyrenees. I 'crossed the line' just before O'Cebreiro. There was a marker stone. The seasons reversed. I walked from winter into autumn.

I suppose Galicia's a bit like Celtic Cornwall or Brittany, but bigger, hillier and more wooded. The scenery was absolutely gorgeous all the way to Tricastela and on to Sarria, Ferrerios and Portomarin. The weather continued to be good - sun on the tops and mist in the valleys. I walked in a dreamlike state. My feet followed the twisting paths and tracks easily and automatically. Climbing hills seemed effortless. My conscious mind - my rational, route-finding mind - switched off, and I absorbed the stillness, the silence, the beauty of my surroundings. By that I mean beauty in the Keatsian sense of beauty is truth.

Beauty walks a razor's edge. It's difficult to touch in spirit. But when you touch it, it's genuinely a gift from the gods.