The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James

though we were bees. And the man beside me told me not to stop buzzing while the dance lasted, otherwise I would die within the year.
    “It is a very old superstition. Bees and ants must not be touched, for it’s believed they may be souls journeying to the Apostle’s shrine after death. That is why many go on pilgrimage to San Andrés de Teixido in the north of Galicia, for they know that if they don’t make it during their lives, they will have to make it after death, and they think it would be a colder pilgrimage after life has departed.”
    “I now know why so many writers have said that the religion of the Galicians is a survival of ancestor-worship and revolves round the cult of souls. I know now why I have so often been asked for money for the souls, and why I have known farmers give gifts of rye and wheat to the priest at harvest time and similar gifts in grain, grapes and chestnuts. It is for the souls, not for the priest.”
    “And what would happen,” said the priest, smiling, “if the people of the village were not superstitious? Why I should not be able to save my hay crop, and desfollar my maize and trim my vines and gather my chestnuts for magosto. Even as it is, I need my friends, the Civil Guards, to give me a hand with the lads in harvest time. In these days of cheap newspapers and radio, superstitions are beginning to wear thin; all the more’s the misfortune.”
    “Talking of magosto, Father, an English traveller called Swinburne, who came here in the eighteenth century, says that on the first of November, the Eve of All Souls, the people run from house to house eating chestnuts, for they believe that for every chestnut they swallow with proper faith they will deliver a soul out of purgatory.”
    “You are dangerous company for me, my son, for you’re really as superstitious as the Gallegos themselves! I suppose an Irishman is the next thing to a Gallego.”
    “Yes; and I’m proud that when I was a boy I knew the tinkers, the Irish Gypsies, who were descended from the ancient Rivet-folk and were outside the ancient Gaelic organization. I learnt to play the fiddle from tinkers and they taught me many a wild tune and put a tinker’s curse on me too.”
    “What’s a tinker’s curse?” said the priest anxiously.
    “I’ll tell you in the words of a great Irish poet who roamed the roads in Ireland:

    “You build houses! Aye, like the crows, you put stick and stick together:
    May I see a scatter of sticks, and the kites a-chase through the wood!
    You live as man and wife, you say—like the goats two and two a-tether,
    For fear ye should reach to the hedge tops, and the wild taste get in your blood.” *

    The old priest looked at me quizzically as he poured me out another glass of wine, saying: “If you play too much of that wild music, the Meigas will kidnap you before you reach the top of the hill of St. Mark. Take my advice and mind that gaitero Eladio. I’m sure he’ll lead you astray. The women in the village say he has the Evil Eye.” “I’m immune, Don Diego: I have my jet figa and I have a clove of garlic in my pocket por si acaso !”
    “You’re a hopeless case,” said the old priest, slapping me on the shoulder as he pushed me out of the door. “I see I’ll have to say a great many prayers for your soul.”

    Next morning, rather tired, Eladio and I set out for Lugo; we had had a late night for there had been dancing to Eladio’s bagpipe under the trees and we were lucky to find a Good Samaritan with two places in his car. In less than an hour we arrived at Lugo, once the capital of Spain, the Lucus Augusti of the Romans, which was the scene of so many struggles during the Suevian domination and later the Moorish invasion.
    After saying an affectionate farewell to Eladio, I went to the cathedral to pay my respects to the celebrated image of the Virgin called ‘Our Lady of the Large Eyes’, patroness of the city, which arouses great popular devotion. Her lady chapel behind the capilla mayor was thronged with women in black. The cathedral for many centuries has had the privilege of continual exposition of the Blessed Sacrament on the high altar, and Lugo, in token of this high honour has on its escutcheon two towers supported on lions and the Host in a monstrance. One of the quaint saints, whose tomb is in the cathedral, is San Froilán, the patron saint of Lugo, whose mother Froila also is buried in the cathedral, and, according to Florez, is able to cure