The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James

founded by Queen Isabella the Catholic when she visited Compostella with Ferdinand in 1496. She herself had tirelessly tended the sick and wounded through the war of Granada and one day she made a vow to erect a hospital close to the shrine of the Apostle who had led the Spanish troops to victory. The Royal Hospital which was built by Enrique Egas in 1501, became one of the greatest medical institutions in the world. The last page in its long history was written in the autumn of 1953 when the Generalissimo decided in view of the forthcoming Holy Year of 1954, to transform it into one of the most luxurious and up-to-date hostels in Europe. Two thousand workmen were employed day and night from September, 1953, to July 1, 1954, in order to carry out the transformation in time for the Jacobean celebrations. The Royal Hospital will henceforth be known as the Hostel of the Catholic Monarchs ( Hostal de los Reyes Católicos ) to remind the world of the famous historical tradition of the building. The modern mechanical efficiency, luxury and artistic finish of the new hostel impressed me as a fine illustration of Spanish modern enterprise, but I left its brilliantly lighted saloons and cocktail bars with a profound feeling of sadness. Outside in the Plaza del Hospital the great open space is devoid of shops, cafés or aught that could disturb the everlasting dialogue in four-part architectural harmony between the Baroque, the Plateresque, the Neoclassic and the Romanesque, of cathedral, Royal Hospital and archiépiscopal palace, but I thought of the countless pale spectres of the Santa Compaña, led by the ghost of the Catholic Queen, who would henceforth haunt the passages and patios of that Royal Hostel when the mists hang low over Santiago and the thousands of tormented souls of pilgrims who would remind the living of forgotten prayers for las ánimas.
    I fled for relief across the plaza to the twelfth-century Romanesque palace of the Archbishop Gelmirez which he rebuilt in celebration of the Pope’s decree raising the see of Compostella to an archbishopric. The palace had been half burnt in the ceaseless civil disturbances, but the archbishop transformed it into a dwelling fit for kings, and today in the noble banqueting hall with vaulted roof resting on clustered columns down the middle, we can recapture the court atmosphere of the greatest of all archbishops of Santiago because thirteen of the corbels on which the vaults rest are carved to represent scenes of festivity given by him in that very hall. We see the guests at table washing their hands before the banquet, the priest in the act of saying grace before meal, two guests at table clasping hands between their plates in token of friendship, the musicians playing bowed viols, bandurrias plucked with quill and the hurdy-gurdy of the wandering minstrels, all bearing testimony to Archbishop Gelmirez as a master of Gay saber.
    While I lingered in the banqueting hall a group of Spanish and South American poets joined me, led by my friend Jose María Castro-viejo, the modern reincarnation of a mediaeval Galician troubadour, who, in addition to being poet, hunter and fisherman, has sailed before the mast to the Gran Sol. The vaulted hall soon began to echo to his Celtic voice intoning like a shanachie the beautiful ballad celebrating the pilgrimage of Gelmirez’s beloved friend, William X, Duke of Aquitaine, who died in the Cathedral of Compostella on Good Friday in the year 1137, before the tomb of the Apostle:

    Where will yon lonely pilgrim wander,
    Where will my ancient pilgrim roam?
    Away on the road to Compostella,
    Who knows when he’ll reach his goal?
    His weary feet are stained with gore
    And he can tramp no more.

    One of the favourite halting-places of weary pilgrims in the late afternoons was the small Plaza de las Platerías, where in ancient times, as today, the silversmiths had their shops. Near the wonderful Romanesque portal is a long stone bench on which my companions and I used to rest and watch the passing crowds. Here I saw many pilgrims with whom I had associated in various towns along the road. One of them was an earnest Jacobean from Burgos, who had tried in vain to convince me of the authenticity of the battle of Clavijo in 842, when it was believed that the Apostle St. James helped the Christians to defeat the Moors and by that victory ended the shameful tribute of the hundred maidens.
    Here in Compostella when we met we resumed our argument