The Final Chapter - How Many P's
(Written on a rainy day in Santiago.)
How many ps are there in that phrase about planning and performance? Yes, I had pounded over 200 km of road in preparation, but mostly in a pair of comfortable shoes. Yes, my boots were old and trusted friends. Had we not walked over 1,000km together? Yes, I coped easily with my pack before so did it matter that it was already overweight without the necessary litres of water. Probably yes, I was over-confident. But what really did for me was my feet, pulverised by endless kilometres over unforgiving square cobbles. I had no pain from the pack. My legs were fine, had they not done over 33km per day on three occasions! My right foot, loyal friend, was O.K once the huge blister on the ball dried up. What did for me was my left foot. It possessed a little toe that was a weeping and bloody mess which hit my boot with every forward step. (Though what s new, many of you reading this will have suffered such pain stoically).
So 240km on I hobbled into Santiago and decided it would be foolish pride to try to go to Finisterre. Pride, because who wants to admit publicly to the world on the internet, that they did not get to their second objective. But also unfair, unfair to my fellow pilgrim McGregor who was so fit on the last day that he literally, at times, danced ahead of me into the town, and on several occasions cheerfully walked back to rejoin me having got too far ahead.
Whilst I mention my walking companion I must give praise to him. To spare his blushes I will call him Hugo McGregor. We walked 150 miles together in cheerful pilgrim companionship. He, dieting all the way, but, not once complaining when I hunted around town for an evening meal, or when I climbed slowly up a rocky ravine. THANKS HUGO!! (If you readers will forgive a private joke - the Laird Campbell of Glencoe thanks his loyal ghillie McGregor!)
But enough of the endless focus on me. The countryside of Northern Portugal is beautiful. It is very similar to the wooded stretches of Galicia with eucalyptus trees and vineyards abounding. The route is a true camino, each day starting with a climb uphill out of a river valley. The country people on the route were, almost without exception, welcoming and helpful. The dogs, almost without exception, snarling and unfriendly.
The route is comparatively little used so pilgrims and the pilgrimage seemed little known. In fact we passed as many pilgrims going in the opposite direction to Portugals pilgrim shrine of Fatima. That route is marked with blue arrows and if we could not find a yellow one we took the opposite direction to the blue. Once our route from the airport crossed the true Camino, on day two, the way marking was adequate if not to Frances standard. Once in Galicia the familiar concrete way post with its blue tile often lacked its distance plate. Little wonder since the route is, or has been, altered and the plates give distances to three decimal places, e.g. 75.384km. Since that is quoting the distance to Santiago to the nearest metre little wonder a change of route makes them inaccurate. How do they position them in the first place, with GPS?
Albergues seemed few and far between - one we sought was closed for renovation and another had only been open for Holy Year. Thus we stayed in far too many hotels - it alters the spirit of things.
And what of spirit? I entered the familiar medieval streets of Santiago like returning to an old friend, but that friend had forgotten me. Passing first on the way in the Hotel Suso - I stayed there one night last time - I called in, but there was no room for me this time. The Tourist Office was moderately helpful supplying a map and list of hostels and hotels. They seemed more interested in filling in a statistical return with the fact they had helped one English and one German. Perhaps they too have targets to meet. The Pilgrim Office was almost empty and Hugo and I sat at a desk to yet again supply statistical information. The girl recorded two Germans aged between 58 and 60. Not two Germans I corrected her. We received our Compostelas - no cardboard tube this time for the precious document - I merely folded it neatly and tucked it into my Credencia. (As an aside why is the CSJ pilgrim passport so much less practical in format than the folded-concertina-style continental ones?) Our arrival was phoned through to the Cathedral as we said we were off for Mass and that was it. Anticlimax? No, but certainly not the buzz of last time.
At the Mass Hugo and I are the last pilgrims announced - from Porto one German one English. That brilliant nun, who is Cantor for the Mass, sang well. The sermon was too long. Sitting for the first time in the side nave the botifumerios flight over our heads was wildly fantastic and then it was all done.
Now I am no longer a pilgrim, I wander the town just another tourist awaiting my flight home. After too many days here the town is losing its appeal. I attend Mass daily and realise I was lucky to be greeted on arrival by the Botifumerio. Of the five Masses I attended only two - Friday and Sunday - had the spectacle. On other days pilgrims and huge crowds of tourists waited expectantly only to be disappointed.
Visits to Museums and staring in endless shop windows fill my days. The shops windows all contain the same tacky souvenirs. I actually saw a man buy one of those brown medieval-style pilgrim hats! The one highlight of the day is my evening meal at the renowned Café Manolo - a must for any pilgrim - how do they do such a varied menu, such large portions, so many courses, such good cooking, for the price? The staff so endlessly friendly. Mentioning staff the locals seem disinterested, we are their living not their friends. In the Pilgrim Museum I told the man at the counter, I am a Pilgrim, his expression clearly said So what!
It is time I go home before I lose my love of this town.
(Now home) Congratulations to Shani!!