The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James

Toulouse, the home of chivalry, art and ‘Gay Saber’ had lost her opportunity of rallying the South of f ranee against Paris. Languedoc with her creed of tolerance, her tradition of noble dignity and wealth were . to be absorbed by the ‘most Christian’ Kings of France, who represented the new idea of the nation.”
    “Simon de Montfort then was victorious in his death,” I said. “He changed the course of history. Why are you sad? Vous êtes foncièrement Albigeois.”
    “I am not a heretic. Nobody in Toulouse or Provence in those days was a heretic, except Raymond Roger of Foix, and he was a mere dilettante. Raymond VI, the Count of Toulouse, whom modern historians represent as a heretic, had been a Catholic all his life, and went twice on the day of his death to pray in the Church of La Daurade, and for years after his death there were bitter struggles between the Cathedral of St. Sernin and the knights Hospitaliers for the honour of burying his remains.”
    “What a pity,” I said as we parted, “that the world cannot learn toleration from the lessons of history.”

A VISIT TO LOURDES

    My journey to Lourdes by train was sheer misery for, after a drenching in Toulouse and my foot trouble, I developed, in addition, an attack of bronchial asthma. The weather was bleak and wintry, the rain still continued and I had foolishly trusted to my usual habit of travelling light, which is excellent during the summer months and even during a normal spring, but April in 1954 was the coldest for years.
    How different to the last time I had travelled the Road of St. James by Toulouse twenty years before! It was a wonderful spring and I had joined up in Toulouse with a band of students, who were tramping the road. We had set out at six in the morning for Auch, which was to be our next halting-place. One of the students was a guitarist and he and I played at the villages and our companions passed the hat round. At the village of Isle Jourdain we made so much money that we spent it on a communal feast at Auch, after saying our prayers as pilgrims in the cathedral. In those days it was easier to be a Jacobean pilgrim because I had plenty of time at my disposal, better health and stronger legs.
    My third-class carriage was crowded with people who were bound for Lourdes. Some travelled together in small groups, but many were lonely pilgrims like myself. The conversation in the carriage would have made a superstitious person, who feared the evil eye, tremble in his boots. I found myself involuntarily clutching at my little jet Galician talisman, as I listened to the conversation of my neighbours which ranged from epilepsy and tuberculosis to scrofula, quinsy and minor ailments. My feet were still hurting me and I breathed with difficulty, in spite of the tablets of Ephedrine and Benadryl. My thoughts became hopelessly pessimistic as I listened to the list of diseases, but the old man oh my left, as he snored, breathed garlic of such potency upon me that I was well nigh stifled in my corner. Nevertheless, had he breathed pure ambrosia, he could not have given me greater satisfaction, for I have always been brought up to believe that garlic is a magic herb and counteracts the evil eye. When the garlic-breather awoke from his trance we became friends and fellow-sufferers:
    “Are you getting down at Lourdes?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Going on a pilgrimage?”
    “Yes.”
    “Promesse?”
    “No.”
    “Invalid?”
    “No.”
    “Sickness?”
    “Yes: sore feet.”
    ”Rheumatism—arthritis ?”
    “Probably.”
    “Notre Dame de Lourdes vous guérira, but you must have faith.”
    Our laconic duet now expanded into six-part harmony, for the rest of the carriage joined in with their comments. Nothing cheers the heart of pilgrims more than the possibility of sharing their ailments with one another, for the ailments diminish in the telling.
    One spoke of cancerous growths; another spoke of epilepsy; a third spoke of the tuberculosis from which her daughter was suffering and called the girl to witness, but the latter blushed and would not answer. Everyone in the carriage recited a litany of complaints but my garlic-breathing friend calmed them down saying: “You must all of you have faith in Notre Dame de Lourdes.” Then the mother of the tuberculous girl pulled out her rosary and the two of them began the sorrowful Mysteries and some of the other passengers joined in, murmuring their decades as the train rattled along. My