This is Part 6 of a 6
part series on my experiences while trekking along the Camino de Santiago (the
St. James Way) in northwestern Spain. To read other parts of the series, please
use the term “Spain” in this site’s search function.
I use my shirt sleeve to clear the condensation off of our
hotel room’s thin glass panes. I peer out into the day’s dreariness. It is one
of those Sunday mornings that if you woke up and looked out the window only to
see the same fog, drizzle, and chilly weather that greets us today, you'd roll
over, pull up the covers, and go back to sleep. But for us, sleeping in is not
a luxury we can indulge.
The fog is dense. In the low light, it is difficult to see
fifty feet in front of us. The murky, thickly-treed eucalyptus forest we are
walking through makes finding our way even more difficult. The drizzle turns to
rain. We quickly get wet and chilled to the bone. The only way to stay somewhat
dry and warm is to don our rain capes and keep walking.
A
small village church provides shelter and a temporary reprieve from the rain.
It dates back to the 14th century. Simple wooden pews fill the nave. We light a
candle and say a prayer that my mother’s health
improves while we are away. She insisted that we go saying that all will be
okay despite being weak from her chemo treatments.
Many of those we walk with share the same aches and pains.
Bad knees, sore backs, and strained tendons are common ailments. Pilgrims lean
on their walking sticks as if they were a crutch. Some have on knee braces. One
has a soft walking cast around her foot. While we pass one another, we
sympathize with each other's plight that makes a long day of walking even
longer. We all agree it wouldn't be a true pilgrimage if we didn't suffer the
same aches, pains, and bad weather we’re certain most of St. James’s followers
have endured over the years.
The morning wears on. The trail has become quiet and relatively
empty. Only occasionally do we see and speak with other pilgrims. There is only
the sound of rain on our hoods and the clicking of our walking sticks on the
trail. Our minds wander. Is our journey about the accomplishment? It is about overcoming
the rigors of walking 25 kilometers a day? Is our "destination" an
internal one, one to find out more about ourselves, instead of some far off
city in northwestern Spain?
The rains intensify and break the reverie. Today’s downpours
make the rains from previous days seem like soft springtime showers. This is a
hard, wind driven deluge. Window shutters wildly fly open and then angrily slam
shut. Farm gates swing about and loudly clang against the metal fences. Sheep
and other farm animals run full tilt from the fields and into the cover of
their barns. Ditches and stream banks are overflowing. The trail itself is now
a river of running water. Our clothing, hair and shoes are all soaked. Soreness
has settled in to add to the misery. MK soldiers on with a bad knee. My
Achilles tendon is inflamed. I can barely walk by the time we arrive at our
night’s accommodations.
Scores of pilgrims leave town the next morning at the same
early hour we do. There are 19 kilometers to go for the final and last push into
Santiago. It is raining hard again with downpours similar to yesterday. The
sunny days we have had in the past are now a distant memory. We all walk with
our heads down, knowing we need to brace ourselves for the long, wet haul we
have ahead of us this day.
We cinch the straps on our packs a little tighter as we cross
the 15 kilometer marker. Our shrunken bodies create more room now.
"Hola," I say as a fellow pilgrim passes.
"Buen Camino," – have a good walk - comes the
response.
"Gracias." My reply is muffled by the hood of my
rain cape covering my face.
While we pass slower pilgrims, many more pass us. We all wear
a variety of rain gear. Some are high quality. Others are the throw away kind
you would buy at a five and dime. MK is smiling underneath her hood. The
conditions do not deter her.
"There's nothing we can do," she says happily.
"Let's just make the most of it." Her stamina, attitude, and
resolve are second to none.
"Hola!" "Buen Camino."
"Gracias." We now cross the 10 kilometer mark. My Achilles is
inflamed again. I limp while leaning heavily on my walking stick. My water
resistant watch finally gives out. The wet is too much for it to handle.
The sound of a jet is overhead. We are in the outskirts of
Santiago, near the international airport.
My feet squish inside my boots. Any waterproofing properties they may
have had have long since disappeared. The day warms. I roast. It is hot and wet
under my rain cape. I could poach eggs inside if I wish.
"Hola!" "Buen Camino."
"Gracias." The five kilometer marker is behind us. We pass the sign
announcing our arrival into Santiago, a big modern city with large buildings,
traffic, and people going about their work-a-day lives.
We're famished. We duck into a cafe for some soup before we
finish our last kilometers through the city. We store our soggy rain gear,
walking sticks, and backpacks in the corner near our table. Puddles of water
and mud form around them. I shrug my shoulders in an "I'm sorry" kind
of way as I look at the bartender. We leave the place in a mess.
The final kilometer is through the old part of the city.
Albergues, hotels, bars, and restaurants line the streets. We turn the corner.
There lies our destination, the St. James Cathedral of Santiago. Our arrival
occurs without fanfare or ceremony. There are no bells, whistles, or marching
bands to greet us. We've finished, we've arrived, and we're done. It is that
simple.
We were hoping for something more memorable upon our arrival.
The soreness, rain, and generally wretched conditions have dampened any
euphoria we want to otherwise feel. However, as the late afternoon wears on,
our feelings and experiences transform into something different, something
unanticipated.
We attend the Pilgrim's Mass in the cathedral. Though large
and cavernous, it is full of thousands of pilgrims who are also attending this
event. The pews are nearly full despite arriving a half hour early. We find two
spaces on a bench lining the side. Mass begins. The ceremony of it all is
impressive and remarkable. Red cloaked priests descend from the altar.
Communion is given to all who wish it. Nuns lead the pilgrims in song. An
organist is the accompanist. Ornate columns and gold leafed statuary surround
us.
The Mass nears its end. The church grows quiet as the priests
re-gather at the altar. Men in burgundy robes line up behind one who has a
silver plate with the glowing embers of incense. From the domed ceiling there
extends by a rope a 120 pound round and silver incense burner. The glowing
incense is inserted. The other robed men gather around and pull down on the
connecting ropes. The burner is raised. It begins to swing, like a pendulum.
The sound of music from the organ and the nuns intensifies. Smoke fills the
church. The incense burner swings higher and higher as the robed men continue
at the ropes. It is now over my head, back to the other side, and over my head
again. The back and forth continues for minutes. So too does the music and song
from the organ and the nuns.
We deeply feel the emotion of it all. Our eyes well up.
Others are in tears. Watching the ritual, we are filled with a strong spiritual
meaningfulness. All of our hard work getting here is put into perspective. We
knowingly, but silently, contemplate our journey. We recall the kilometers
walked and the thousands of steps taken. We recall the rain, mud, soreness, and
pain endured. We recall how we prayed to overcome the on-going concerns for my
mother’s health.
The doors open. A rush of air fills the church. The incense
smoke clears as we exit the cathedral. I meet MK out on the granite steps. Her
eyes narrow, meeting mine. We are both crying. The ceremony has overwhelmed us.
We embrace then look at each other. We are struck with the realization that there
has been a memorable and climatic ending to our journey after all.
A video of this six part series is at the following link:
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