Pilgrim's Road

graceful spiralling descent. Together with their huge untidy nests balanced so absurdly on the points of pinnacles and turrets, they are my lasting memory of this splendid cathedral.
    As I rode out of the city across the narrow medieval bridge besides San Marcos, I was feeling rather the worse for wear. The two and a half days in León had been far more exhausting than any battling with headwinds, possibly because Christina, Paco and I had stayed up every night chatting in a mixture of languages until two a.m. I came back to the comparative peace and quiet of the Camino as to an old taciturn friend with whom one could happily keep silent.
    Back on the old faithful N120, there was little distraction in the twenty-five miles to Astorga. I stopped only twice in fact, once was at the old sanctuary of the Virgen del Camino, patroness of León, where the new building replacing the original sixteenth-century structure seemed absolutely in keeping with the ugly characterless architecture of León’s spreading suburbs. The modem sculptures on the façade were much too good for such a setting, I thought. They are a line of large rough bronzes of the apostles, including St James, and are, I think, a representation of Pentecost and the descent of Holy Fire. The emaciated figures all facing squarely towards Santiago seemed to be waving a goodbye and godspeed to the departing pilgrims.
    The second stop was at Puente de Órbigo, a small town with an extraordinary Romanesque bridge, so long that every book I read on the subject gives it a different length, varying from 104 to 205 metres! All accounts agree, however, on it being supported by twenty arches, so I think the longer tally must be right. Most of these arches stand on dry ground, and the Órbigo has either shrunk dramatically since the Romans first built the bridge or, more probably, it was made that length in order to clear marshland that flanked the river.
    Walking the bridge gives a tremendous feeling of the medieval Camino if only because it is a paved way denied to traffic. Far more than on an ancient track, you cannot but be aware of your feet treading the same grooves as did all the other pilgrims. I read that famous jousts had been held in the centre of the bridge in the late Middle Ages, and that would certainly have been a novel spectacle since there was not room for two horses to pass, and the defeated knight would have likely ended up in the river.
    Astorga was the next significant place on the route, but somehow, in spite of its rather exciting ramparts, I did not take to it at all. Perhaps coming so close on the heels of León it did not have much chance. There was certainly some interesting architecture, apart from the massive Roman walls, not least the Bishop’s Palace built by Gaudí in 1910. It houses the museum of the Camino now, but this, characteristically, was closed, so I could only admire the elaborate Gothic fantasy of Gaudí’s exterior which complemented the extravagance of the adjoining cathedral roof line, a splendid pot-pourri of fantastic statuary and ornamentation. The cathedral itself was open, but it had been de-commissioned and was now a lifeless dusty museum, poorly endowed and haphazardly arranged. The ticket kiosk was selling hideous souvenirs, including Scottish dolls in tartan. Still none of this really explains my dislike of Astorga.
    Sometimes it is possible to arrive at a place on quite the wrong day. Another day might have been quite different and yielded many pleasures, but on the wrong day nothing will go well. So it was with my visit to Astorga: I could not even find lunch there. After circling the town several times, I finally gave up and began to search equally hard for the route onwards. When finally I came upon the familiar, worn yellow arrow, I departed thankfully.
    Almost instantly the day improved. I was on a narrow country road heading upwards into the hills under a brightening sky. Ahead of me was the crossing of the mountains of León, through the heart of the region known as the Maragateria. A few miles out a turning to the right brought me into the cobble-stoned village of Castrillo de los Polvazares, a show case of a village, self-consciously restored to its original state — except that no mountain village would ever look so uniformly immaculate, or have its animal feeding troughs planted with flowers. But chic though it was, and used mostly as holiday homes for city folk, it had a splendid restaurant where my