Pilgrim's Road

cross, the ground falls away sharply from the road and a range of hills spreads out as far as the eye can see. The valleys were filled with mist and each range of hills was no more than a dark brushstroke. The sun was somewhere behind the mist, invisible, but adding a faint translucence so that the scene appeared quite unearthly and wildly beautiful. I thought as I gazed at it, that it was as close to a vision of heaven as I was likely to see in this life.
    There was a moment almost as wonderful a few hours later as I came over the 1327-metre peak of Santa María del Poyo to a fresh panorama of hills and wooded valleys, basking in golden sunshine and spreading westward as far as the eye could see. After the first exhilarating descent summit followed summit, and it would have been hard work had I not stopped often to take in this wholly delightful corner of Spain. The rain-washed countryside was reminiscent of Wales and Cornwall and wonderfully restful after the arid regions of Castile. But while Galicia recalled other Celtic lands it was quite different from any of them. Even the fine granite crosses bearing their sturdy figures of Christ, which were a feature of the region, were nothing like the tall crosses of Ireland and Western Scotland with their intricate interwoven patterning. Galician patterns where they occurred were geometric and angular.
    A frequent and particularly entertaining feature of the landscape were the hórreos. Had I not seen something vaguely similar in Central Africa I might have thought the Galicians buried their dead in elaborate small tombs raised on tall pillars, as the ancient Lycians had done, particularly as the miniature pitched roofs were finished off with crosses and various ornamentation. But the elaborate little structures were storage chambers, and the pillars were padstones to prevent rats getting at the grain.
    The fields tended to be small, very neat and well cared for, and like everything else in the countryside had a delightfully old-fashioned look about them. As for the villages and small hamlets, with their pallozas, horreos and other venerable stone houses and churches, they seemed caught in a time warp. It was small wonder that I made only very slow progress westward that day.
    The idyll continued until I found I was sharing the road with imperious trucks that belted along at a furious rate, coating everything around them with a fine dust. I thought at first they were carrying loose cement, but then I remembered reading in Aimery Picaud’s guide that medieval pilgrims had taken large stones from near Tricastela and carried them five leagues to where they were made into lime for the building of the new cathedral at Santiago. After that the nuisance of the trucks was tempered by the thought that I might be witnessing the continuation of one of the longest running businesses in history.
    By mid-afternoon, with all the many stops, I had made only twenty-five miles when I halted in the small village of Samos outside the charming baroque façade of a simply enormous monastery. I was about to ring the bell and see if I could have a quick look at the place when a monk in the habit of a Benedictine popped his head round the door and beckoned me in. It was exactly as though he had been expecting me, and without preamble began to lead me around on a tour of the cloisters.
    The elaborate complex took up most of the wooded valley, which in consequence seemed much larger from inside the walls than from outside. It was one of the oldest Benedictine foundations in Spain predating the finding of the body of St James by at least three hundred years. When the Moors overran the area in the eighth century it had been abandoned, and was revived again when they had retreated in the ninth.
    The present vast place was begun in the twelfth century, but it had burnt down so often that it is all a bit of a mish mash now, with some strange statuary, especially one of large bare-breasted females cavorting in a fountain, not usually the sort of thing associated with monasteries. The entire top floor around the great cloister, replaced only a few decades ago after yet another disastrous fire, was decorated with a series of the most awful modern paintings showing the life of St Benedict. In fact, apart from the charming exterior façade, which was the west wall of the church, I can’t say I liked any of it very much, but as the monk enthusiastically led me on I wasn’t able to escape. The interior of