The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James

again and again to beware of certain rivers, and a proof that his remarks are not mere moonshine comes from the English ex-Carthusian pilgrim of the sixteenth century, Andrew Boorde, who was a doctor. He and his companions were safe as long as they drank wine, but on the return journey his English and Scottish friends died, because they drank the water.”
    Our host became impatient at so much talk about water.
    “Water rots your boots,” he cried. “To talk of water in a bodega is sacrilege. It’s like mentioning a rope in the home of a hangman, and, outside, the tavern-owners are always baptizing the wine for the love of God and their own purses. Here we have nothing but vino del moro (wine of the Moor). Old! Isidro! Bring another brace of bottles. I’ll give you my private theory about those accursed rivers between Estella and Logroño you all are talking about. Logroño is the greatest wine capital in Spain, surrounded by the earthly Paradise, the vineyards of Rioja. The Riojanos have always had an eye for business— Son gente lista —it is they who invented the legend of the poisoned rivers as a precautionary measure against their worst enemies, the craven water-drinkers, agua-fiestas, and rascally knaves who baptize the wine God has given us.”
    That night as I lay in bed in my alcove the restless sensation of spring was almost overpowering: even the moon-rays slanting across the street became a disturbing presence. The air was impregnated with the sap of spring, the scent of new cut grass and the fragrance of thyme and mint. I heard a lamb bleating in the distance and the occasional barking of a dog. Then in the green light of the dawn one cock after another crowed and there was a heavy rumbling of carts, the ghostly patter of countless sheep and the sound of bleating.
    Before leaving the hospitable town of Puente la Reina, Don Maríano la Tienda showed me the celebrated Black Santiago, who is called el Beltza (the word is Basque and means black), a tall bronzed figure with very high hat and a face as swarthy as that of a Romanichal. We also visited the sacristy of the Church of Santiago to see the ancient portrait of the most famous son of Puente la Reina, the Archbishop of Toledo, Rodrigo Jimenez de Rada, who carried the silver cross of Toledo and led the Christian hosts to victory against the Moors at the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212. On the portrait itself an account is written of the battle, describing how he captured the chains of the Moors and hung them on the bridge at Puente la Reina.

ESTELLA TO LOGROÑO AND NÁJERA

    My friends saw me off at the bridge, but Don Maríano tramped with me along the first stage of my journey. We followed the banks of the River Arga, avoiding the main road and keeping to the track which marks the original Road of St. James. On that sunny spring morning it was invigorating to step out at a good pace through the undulating valley; the birds were singing, butterflies were flitting in the sunlight and there was the buzzing of myriads of bees. We exchanged greetings with the shepherd, whom I had met on the bridge the day before, and later passed a goatherd who was lying under an oak tree surrounded by his flock. We soon came to a rustic fountain where, according to Maríano, the pilgrims used to wash themselves in the early morning before continuing their journey. After a stiff climb we reached the ancient houses of MaSeru, which belonged for three centuries to the Order of St. John of Jerusalem. Don Maríano then turned left off the main road on to a bypath which was the Jacobean road to the beautiful Romanesque church of Cirauqui perched on a hill. I said farewell to my wise mentor Don Maríano la Tienda and proceeded on my way alone.
    Soon I reached the River Salado and crossed by a picturesque bridge with two uneven arches. Here, Aymery Picaud warns pilgrims not to drink the water or allow their horses near it (quia flumen letiferum est ). He describes how when he reached the bridge he saw two Navarrese sharpening their knives in readiness for skinning the pilgrim mules or horses who would drop dead when they had drunk the water. And when Aymery asked them whether the water was fit to drink they replied in the affirmative. ‘And so’, he continues, ‘we watered our horses, and two of them straightway died, and the two men skinned them.’ I tasted the brackish water without any sinister results.
    This is a very lonely spot and gave me such an attack of