Pilgrim's Road

tan, with an elegant version of a pilgrim’s wide-brimmed hat. The large modern rucksack, however, quickly dispelled the notion of it being a medieval ghost. When I drew level I discovered an even less likely phenomenon, an American woman who was studying European medieval history and who was walking the Camino as a part of her course. Her name was Amy, and she said she never mentioned her studies to anyone back in her home state of Colorado as people there didn’t believe there was any history before George Washington. Being in Europe was wonderful, if for no other reason than to be accepted as normal. She had started her walk from the Pyrenees, and like me had stayed in refugios along the way, varying this with a night at a fonda or small hotel every so often for the luxury of a bath.

     
    Both of us were delighted to meet a fellow pilgrim, and we stopped at a bar for a coffee while we exchanged experiences of the road. Amy removed her boot to ease a painful blister, and as soon as the woman behind the bar noticed this she asked a customer who spoke English to tell us about the ‘town healer who cured sick pilgrims’. Intrigued, Amy replaced her boot and, escorted by two young children from the bar, we were taken to a house on an a higher terrace of the town. The children explained about Amy’s foot to the young Spaniard who opened the door and he immediately ushered us upstairs to an old-fashioned parlour on the first floor. In a country of cold rooms, this one was particularly chill, but spotlessly clean and sparsely furnished with rather beautiful antique pieces, clearly the room where guests were received. After a while the young man returned with an even younger woman in a dressing gown, carrying between them a bowl of water, soap, towel, a bottle of alcohol and various plasters and bandages. No one spoke while Amy’s foot was being bathed and dressed, but afterwards we were taken to the warm pleasant family room and given coffee and biscuits. A plump, jolly older woman, the mother, joined us, together with several other people including the man from the bar, Miguel, to translate for us. Amid shrieks of laughter, lots of embracing and back-slapping, we learnt that the family of three brothers and a sister were all ‘healers’ having inherited the skill from their father who was now dead. Any pilgrim suffering aches, pains or blisters was tended to the best of their ability, before being sent on their way. Amy’s offer of payment, even to donate to a favourite charity, was fiercely refused. It was a privilege, a duty, to look after the pilgrims; there could be no talk of payment. The mother said she often fed pilgrims too. ‘Nothing,’ she said, echoing the earlier remarks of Father José María, ‘was too good for pilgrims.’ She couldn’t understand the attitude of that terrible village down the road (Hornillos del Camino) who had once refused a pilgrim a glass of water!
    One fascinating detail of the house was shown to me by the pretty daughter, still in her dressing gown. Outside on the balcony was the metal door of a long shaft that ran under the floor of the living room. A wood fire was lit in it, and it supplied the underfloor heating to the apartment, a copy of the original Roman hypocaust, confirmed Miguel.
    I left Amy at Castrojeriz where I’m sure she had a splendid rest day and pushed on for Frómista. There were several very particular churches in the next few miles which I would be very sad to miss. The pattern about opening hours, as far as there was one, seemed to be that all churches were closed between one and five, while some were never opened, or at least not in April and May.
    It was about fifteen miles to Frómista, and I pressed on at more than my usual speed, stopping only at Boadilla del Camino, where a Gothic cross, its shaft covered with scallop shells was far too lovely to not to be admired in detail.
    The day was warming up deliciously and I would have been happy to stop more often, but I resisted distractions in the hope of getting to Frómista before locking-up time. I might have known there was no need to hurry, however. Even though it was barely midday when I arrived, the church was firmly locked. Fortunately much of its attraction is the lovely exterior. The Romanesque church of San Martín at Frómista is like no other monument on the Camino. It is a beautifully balanced building of a particularly lovely golden stone, with a wealth of terracotta tiled and