The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James

but while we were arguing an old Irish priest whom I had known at the Eucharistic Congress of 1932 came up to greet me. In a moment I forgot all about Clavijo and the maiden tribute, for the priest and I started a long discussion about Our Lady of Walsingham whose statue tins year had been brought all the way from England as a tribute from the Norfolk Catholics to the Apostle of Spain. The gesture was a charming one, for it renewed associations with the Middle Ages, when in England the Milky Way was called ‘Walsingham Way’, so famous internationally was the pilgrimage to Our Lady’s shrine. The August-inian Priory there was founded in 1016, and was visited annually by pilgrims from all over the world. Even Henry VIII himself walked barefoot as a penitent to Walsingham and Erasmus the sceptic went there, as he describes in his Peregrinatio religionis ergo. But my priestly pilgrim would not talk about Henry VIII, for this would lead to St. Thomas Becket and the destruction of all records of the pilgrimage to Canterbury.
    “Don’t mention Henry VIII, absit omen,” said the old priest, smiling “Here, in the house of the Apostle, I do not wish to harbour uncharitable thoughts. Let us rather speak of our most beautiful English record of a soul’s pilgrimage, ThurkilVs Vision.”
    Now Thurkill was a ploughman who lived in a village near London in the thirteenth century, and one Friday afternoon, while he was working in the fields, he was visited by St. Julian the Harbourer who ordered him to prepare himself for a journey. That same night the Saint called at Thurkill’s house and took him away to Santiago. For two days and night the ploughman’s body lay in his bed at home senseless, and it was his spirit that travelled with St. Julian to Compostella and back. When they arrived at the basilica they were received by St. James and his warden, St. Dominic of the Causeway, they saw the ‘weighing of the souls’, the sufferings of the souls in purgatory, the flaming torments, the Bridge of Dread, and the white souls of the Blest waiting at the Portico of Glory. But while Thurkill was in the earthly Paradise St. Michael the Archangel said to St. Julian: “Take this man back to his body, or the cold water, which his family at home are pouring into his mouth, will choke him to death.” And lo, in the twinkling of an eye, Thurkill was back at home in his body again, and, sitting up in bed, he called out to his family, “Benedicite!”
    Such was the story the old priest recited to me in a quaint rhapsodic voice, as though it were a cantefable, and he then insisted upon leading me to the Obradoiro façade of the cathedral, and mounting the steps to the western door, so that we might see how the Portico of Glory in all the splendour of the setting sun tallied with that described in ThurkilTs vision.

    On this last evening of the pilgrimage the great west doors in front of the Portico of Glory were open, and at the head of the long flight of steps the setting sun shone full upon the arches of Master Matthew, producing the effect of a sudden transcendental vision. In the golden light the figures seemed to vibrate with life as Santiago the Apostle welcomed us into the presence of our Lord and His glorious company.
    After the short-lived moment of radiant sundown the shadows enveloped the figures, and we entered the vast cathedral, which lay in darkness, except for faint glimmering of candles in the distance.
    Many of the pilgrims had followed our example and sought the tranquillity of the basilica at dusk, the hour of meditation before the lights on the high altar are lit for prayers and Benediction. Near me kneels the old, decrepit pilgrim whom I had met at the shrine of Villasirga. He, too, like the priesdy pilgrim, has followed the double journey of soul and body, but unlike Thurkill he has no one in the world who will now awake him from his dream. Nevertheless, on his pilgrimage of expiation he has derived comfort from his hardships and sufferings, for his soul has become tempered in sorrow, and the pilgrimage has drawn him closer to the beloved ones he has lost.
    Many pilgrims I have met on my journey have undertaken the pilgrimage as a promesa, or vow, and their experience has been one of fasting, travelling barefoot and wearing the hair shirt. Their attitude, which is so characteristic of Spain today, nevertheless recalls the beautiful passage in our Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress : ‘Now I saw in my dream, that