Pilgrim's Road

sometimes it was not like prayer at all but simple reminiscence, a reliving of the journey.
    I wondered how the medieval pilgrims faced the same task. We would use virtually the same words but no doubt mean different things by them. Nor had I changed my mind about the likelihood of the remains of St James being here in this silver casket. St James of the Gospels, the brother of John, son of Zebedee, disciple of Christ had nothing at all to do with this place as far as I was concerned, not in the corporeal sense anyway. The St James who was enshrined here, the St James I had gradually become aware of on the pilgrimage, was what had come from the hearts and minds of the thousands and thousands of people who had walked the Camino de Santiago for all these hundreds of years, struggling with meanings, with conscience, with faith and with the lack of it. It was because of them that there was a Camino , and all I could hope to do was to add my prayers to theirs, just as I had added my stone to the pile at the foot of the cross at Foncebadón. Coming to the end of my list I could now go up the steps on the other side and set about enjoying this splendid place.
    While I was waiting next day for the priest who would check my credentials and, if they proved worthy, award me my Compostela , a young man told me that I was lucky to be there on this day for I would see the botafumeiro swung at mass in a little while. This was indeed a piece of good fortune. Being so early in the season there were few special masses where this unique ritual took place. The botafumeiro is an enormous silver censer, so big and heavy that it is carried in on poles by two burly townsmen clad in dark red robes. Further red-robed acolytes let down a chain and pulley suspended from the centre of the transept and attached the censer to it by a rope as thick as an arm. Then, with the incense lit and smoking thickly, the botafumeiro is swung to and fro across the transept with all four men controlling the ropes. I had not anticipated the colossal great arc it would make — a hundredweight or more of gleaming metal sweeping backwards and forwards, nearly touching the ground before swinging up again almost to the ceiling, the incense rising in great obscuring clouds. With the blaze of gold from the great high altar behind, the scene had a wonderfully barbaric quality, like Rembrandt’s huge painting of Belshazzar’s Feast.
    Much of Santiago seemed like that, tremendously special but without fuss; things simply happened around one without the need to make great efforts. I had booked into the small friendly Hotel Suso, a short stone’s throw from the cathedral, where I had a tiny room high up under the eaves and Roberts was locked up somewhere out of harm’s way. No one needed a bicycle in Santiago. For several days I wandered in and out of churches, palaces and monasteries, any one of which would have been a worthy expedition in its own right; and at least once a day I was in the cathedral. As with all such truly great buildings it could not be taken in all at once, but had to be absorbed slowly, with frequent breaks for refreshment in one of the many convenient little bars.
    Just sitting on the steps of the cathedral looking out over the Obradoiro square was refreshing because of the view of the pleasant rural landscape beyond. Because the countryside was so plainly in sight I never had the oppressive sense of being hemmed in while in Santiago, often the case with other cities.
    Within the confines of the medieval city there was also Santiago’s market, another delight that repaid several visits. Under one roof was gathered the wealth of Galicia’s land and coastline — fruit, vegetables, dairy produce, meat and fish — all in great abundance like an overflowing cornucopia, displayed with neatness and artistry. It was even better than the restaurant windows for studying the amazing variety of shellfish, the octopuses and the great range of fish. The restaurants that flanked the market were particularly good too, though so far I had not had a meal in Galicia that was not both good and reasonable; that was yet to come.
    If Santiago presents a problem for the visitor it is its extraordinary abundance. Its architectural riches alone are so extensive that no one with less than a month to spend there can hope to do more than scratch the surface. There are details, like the marvellous tympanum over the door of a little church dedicated to St Felix, that you