Pilgrim's Road

of riches and I could not possibly hope to see them all.
    The final ten miles to Estella were made without stopping. Resisting temptation, I pedalled past the place near the village of Lorca where Aimery Picaud reported that Navarrese rogues used to encourage passing pilgrims to water their horses. The river was highly contaminated, and horses drinking from it died on the spot, at which the crafty Navarrese, who had been sharpening their knives in preparation, immediately flayed them. Picaud’s party lost two animals in this way and he was understandably indignant about it. Several pages of his guide are devoted to informing pilgrims about which Spanish rivers are safe to drink from and which have fish that are poisonous or unwholesome to foreigners. The fact that pollution was a problem in medieval times was something else that made me feel less distant from that age.
    I remembered Picaud’s assurance that Estella’s River Ega was particularly wholesome as I lay sleepless that night in the refugio , only feet away, listening to it thundering like a train on its rain-swollen passage, bearing a burden of uprooted trees and other detritus. The day had been sunny and pleasant but the amount of water that had fallen over the last few weeks was still having its effects upon the rivers of northern Spain, some of which had burst their banks.
    The refugio at Estella was large and depressing, the first floor of a run-down modern building, lacking both cooking and washing facilities. It was really no more than a place to doss down on dubious mattresses in grimy rooms, and a far cry from the comforts of Cizur Menor. Had I arrived earlier I would probably have decided to look for an hotel, though in retrospect I was glad that I hadn’t. Now that I had the opportunity to do so, it seemed important to take the journey as it came, and not to waste time and thought over things which did not matter.
    I had only just reached Estella in time to view the extraordinary twisted column in the cloisters of St Peter’s church, San Pedro de la Rúa, before it was locked up for the night. The other six or seven historic churches were already firmly shut, but Estella was the sort of place where it was very pleasant simply to wander around the old streets. As Aimery Picaud noted it was ‘full of all delights’. In his day it had been the seat of the Kings of Navarre, and very French in character (which was doubtless why the xenophobic Picaud had so approved of it). The modest palace with its capital depicting Roland’s fight with the giant Ferragut still stands, newly restored, across from the church of St Peter. In 1492 Jewish merchants expelled from Castile were invited to settle in Estella and a row of their very attractive houses stands further down the same wide street, currently also undergoing restoration.
    I discovered a pleasant restaurant for an evening meal, but although it was after nine I was the only diner. This had its advantages, for seeing me struggling with the unfamiliar menu, the waitress had time to take me to the kitchen where I was able to choose a splendid fish (Picaud had also pronounced favourably on Estella’s fish). Night had fallen by the time I had finished, and I was more than ready for sleep.
    I had collected the key to the refugio from the town hall earlier in the evening, together with a stamp for my Credencial del Peregrino. Following the directions I had been given, I set off to find my bed, with the full moon lighting my way and reflecting off the swollen river at my side.
    I couldn’t find the light switch in the dark, rambling building but through the uncurtained windows overlooking the river the moonlight poured in. I chose the smallest room and spread my groundsheet over a bed. There was no way of washing off the day’s sweat and dirt except in the dark rushing waters below, which I decided was too dangerous for more than a perfunctory rinsing of hands and face. A wet flannel would have to do for the rest.
    It was so cold that I got into my sleeping bag to read ‘Compline’. When I finished, I switched off the torch and lay watching the moon sailing among racing clouds which changed from white to bronze as they crossed the bright disc. River, clouds and moon were all of a piece, like a great symphony, echoing the words I had just been reading.
    ‘... Brethren, be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil goeth about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour, whom resist