Pilgrim's Road

nave, a door known as the Puerta del Perdón. Pilgrims who had managed to make their way as far as this ‘Doorway of Pardon’, and who were too sick to go any further, could claim the same absolution as if they had reached the shrine of St James itself. It would have been surprising if so revered a spot had not retained its atmosphere and I sat there, quite alone, for a long time gazing down on the attractive little town below, cradled among the green hills.
    Villafranca, as its name suggests, was more French than Spanish, having been founded and managed by Cluny at a time when establishing towns along the threatened remnant of Christian Spain was as important as the pilgrimage itself. Suitable Christian settlers were not all that easy to attract, so likely ones were sometimes deflected from their pilgrimage and persuaded to ply their various skills and trades in these new centres by promises of indulgences. Whether this happened in Villafranca or not I don’t know, but for a poor man, or one with little land at home, this French town in its rich valley would be a tempting proposition. And however it attracted its original population, Villafranca quickly became a prosperous centre of trade and agriculture and is today one of the most attractive towns on the Camino Francés.
    The Benedictines of Cluny were joined here by the Jesuits and the Franciscans, and all three orders built splendid churches in the town, so there were many fine monuments to visit. Villafranca’s chief delight for me, however, apart from the relaxed spacious feel of the place, was the narrow Calle del Agua, which ran down to the pleasant river and was lined with imposing sixteenth and seventeenth-century merchants’ houses, flamboyant coats of arms prominently displayed.
    There was no refugio in Villafranca, other than a plastic tent beside the church of Santiago. I thought of staying in the Hotel Commercio, a delightful period piece which made me think I had been transported back to pre-revolution France. It was a cavernous place, and what paint there was on doors and window frames was that particular shade of grey which could only be French. The scores of small bedrooms had bare scrubbed boards two or three feet wide and little iron bedsteads. There was one shower for what could have amounted to well over a hundred guests, and this was clearly a later addition — though as dated as it was possible for it to be and still remain functional. The dining room almost defied description so antique and darkly atmospheric was it, the brown walls hung with blackened pictures and barely room to squeeze between the crowded tables. But it was not a place to enjoy alone I decided, and suddenly I remembered my own small tent, and thought of it set among the green meadows I had seen across the valley.
    That evening was perfect for camping, clear and bright and not nearly so cold as it had been of late. I found a spot not far out of town where the landscape was probably very little different from what the medieval pilgrims had seen. Roberts had been manhandled up and along a steep little footpath until there was not a house in sight and I pitched the tent in a spot thick with wild flowers. Since I felt my body needed to recover from the dubious lunch, I made do without an evening meal and doctored myself with a small hot whisky instead, a sovereign remedy for most ills.
    It was lovely to be in the tent again with the doors fastened back so that I could see the stars. Santiago pilgrims must have spent many such nights in the open, wrapped in their cloaks looking up at these same skies. Aimery Picaud divides the way from the Pyrenees into thirteen stages, but even with a stout horse it is extremely doubtful that the distance — anything from 440 to 500 miles (and even more with detours) — could have been covered in even twice as many days. On foot it would have been impossible to do it in less than four weeks. Monasteries and hospices were often far apart, nor were there sufficient places in them to ensure every pilgrim could shelter for each night of his journey. On many nights they must have slept rough. I felt very much at one with them here, on the old pilgrim track above Villafranca, especially I think, because of the sense of trust in a beneficent God that always seems to go with sleeping without the protection of walls.
    I got going early next day, in spite of the extra chore of striking camp. It was as well that I did so, for the next stretch of