Pilgrim's Road

that by the time we reached the priest’s open door I had a sizeable escort. The priest seemed rather a surly character, fond neither of pilgrims nor small boys. The boys scattered and I was left alone to be interrogated. I knew enough Spanish by now to point out that I was a peregrina , not a peregrino, and this brought a rough tirade down on my head, the gist of which was ‘Why are you disguised as a man then?’ Clearly he had never heard of ‘rational cycling dress’. Still my credenciales were impeccable, so he could do nothing but stamp them, his lips a thin line of disapproval. My escort then reassembled to race me to the refugio. This turned out to be a substantial range of old buildings in a back street grouped around a roughly tiled courtyard entirely filled with a large fig tree. It was a charming place, but in the middle of a major refurbishment. All the walls had just been repainted with a great deal of enthusiasm which had sent the paint flying over the beds and floor and anything else in the way. A general sweep out would have improved it no end, but they were clearly not expecting pilgrims just yet.
    The little man who showed me around seemed very bossy and emphasised every point he wished to make about the light, water and keys by poking his forefinger at my chest, a habit which always irritates me. But now, tired, bruised, traffic-savaged and sneered at by the chauvinist priest, I found it insufferable and finally told him so unequivocally. Immediately I was sorry, remembering what I had been writing about the sense of communion that is felt on the road; how easy it had seemed to see the reflection of God in everyone when things were going well, and how quickly all that can evaporate under pressure.
    Left alone I followed instructions and managed to coax a little warm water into a sort of hip bath in a dark windowless little shed. Grime and lack of amenities notwithstanding, that lukewarm bath was luxury in the context of the Camino. I felt renewed, ready for anything. I was sitting on the cleanest spot I could find on a top bunk, wearing all my clothes and sipping a restorative whisky from my diminishing store, when the little man came back.
    ‘Ubi caritasetamore, Deus ibi est ,’ I had just been reading in my prayer book — where there is love and charity, there is God.
    The people of the town, he said, had decided it was too cold for me to stay here. They had built another wing of the Casa Peregrino , to be officially opened in a month. I would be the first to sleep in it, very tranquilo , the only one there. He helped me gather my things which had been scattered around by this time, and unlocked a door in the courtyard, throwing it open with a theatrical flourish. My goodness, what a contrast! Instant luxury. Twenty-four bunks, cheek by jowl, each with its pretty flounced quilt and each with a glass and gilt shelf for possessions pilgrims might need in the night.
    There was a television room, a kitchen with all ‘mod cons’ including washing machine, and three luxuriously appointed bathrooms. Dimmer switches, net curtains, easy chairs and deep springy carpets added up to four — or even five-star luxury in my book. I found it daunting and would have much preferred the simplicity of my original quarters. Also, ironically, this splendid new wing was right on the main road with its thundering trucks. But I had no choice in the matter. This was what the town thought modern pilgrims deserved. More importantly, it was an expression of their caritas , and the little man (trying hard not to poke his finger at me) demonstrated each new wonder as though he personally was making me a gift of it.
     

11
     
    A City Full of Delights
     
    T HE walls of Mansilla de las Mulas seen from across the river made a suitably medieval start to the day, an impression of period which continued as I set off into the wide empty countryside on a narrow road alongside the northern bank of the Esla. I had almost decided against making this long detour to visit the church of San Miguel de Escalada. It would add twenty miles to the journey, and unless it dropped, most of them into the teeth of the west wind which continued to be as wicked as ever. I felt stiff from yesterday’s tumble and I wanted to get to León where I could have a rest day. It was only when I recalled what the ‘reluctant pilgrim’, Harrie, had said the day before about wasting the journey by hurrying, that I decided I must take the opportunity