Travels with my Donkey

ladle of blue fire, raised it above his head and dramatically returned the contents to the mother bowl from on high. Beginning to understand why the two previous refugios erected by Jesus on this spot had been burnt to the ground, I also marvelled at this national fascination with pouring intoxicants from a great height: as well as all that flourish with the glass spouts at Santo Domingo, the cider I'd ordered in Cacabelos had been delivered from bottle to glass by a hotel barman with his stiff arms at five to eight.
    'Peregrino... mystico... Maria, Dio, universo ...'
    To the many Brazilians in attendance it must have seemed like the collected works of Paulo Coelho made flesh — ethereal, flame-lit flesh. Everyone suddenly produced cameras, and so I did too: the legacy of my diplomatic eschewal of flash was an indistinct portrayal of tramps arguing round a brazier. The incantations rose to an ominous climax, and in an atmosphere of palpable expectation Jesus poured a cupful which was passed from hand to hand with whispered instructions. 'We're not even to sniff it yet,' translated Donald, his frustration apparent even at minimal volume. I was glad he was here at least — the rest were all cyclists, and it seemed a shame to develop a supernatural rapport with people I'd never see again.
    Jesus made an announcement which included the word 'alfabético' , and followed this up with a questioning look around the flicker-lit faces. ' Australiano ?' Silence. 'Brasiliano?' A dark forest of hands, a massed, rapt babble and a thwarted yelp of protest from a bloke who'd ridden by that morning with a Belgian flag on each pannier. I wasn't surprised to see Jesus's finger alight on the same pneumatic silhouette he'd been massaging earlier; with an expression of sanctified gratitude she stepped out of the shadows and as instructed decanted the mystic brew into shot glasses. Rather anticlimactically Jesus quietly refused to partake, his wistful sigh suggesting a recent day of medical judgement.
    My little beaker was still fiercely aflame when it was passed over, and with a shrug and the realisation that this was the finale, I downed it unextinguished. Campari bitter, Cointreau sweet and somehow, despite Donald's distress at that wasteful incineration, still alarmingly potent. So potent that when I stumbled urgently to the loo in the night it didn't even hurt when I smacked my temple against the frame of the bunk opposite. Well, not the first three times.
    Barbara and Walther had stayed in a hotel, and walked up as I prepared Shinto for departure, crouched biliously at his rear end with an upturned hoof in my lap and a vacuumed cramp in my guts. They were sweet people, and had taken to initiating every fresh encounter with a summary of their latest reflections on Shinto's bridgeophobia. 'In Turkey one time we see men pulling some animals across a bridge wiss the tail, the back way.' I glanced frailly up at Walther's kind and open face. 'Tim, have you tried the back way wiss your monkey?'
    They helped me with the straps, then insisted on a gentle guided tour of the church just behind Jesus's gaff, another low-key Romanesque hall. 'Saint Agatha,' breathed Barbara, nodding at a figure regretfully proffering her own severed, lumpy tits on a tray, like a bad school dinner. Back outside, a quietly enthused Walther decoded the carved mysteries of the arch above what is known as the Puerta del Perdón, a doorway through which dying or severely enfeebled pilgrims could pass to receive a papally authenticated sick note granting them full sin-remission. Walther's hands and words described the doleful procession of hunched pilgrims shambling up to God, ready with the Book of Truth open on his knee, then skipping weightlessly down the other side, redeemed and ready for paradise. If I'd felt able I might have reciprocated with an overview of the Puerta del Salmonella, with the facial expressions reversed and the Book of Truth replaced by a squid sandwich.
    Under thickening skies I took my leave, leading Shinto uphill through outskirts whose tentative construction exuded an air of frontier finality, the last staging post before the untamed highlands. Drizzle brought out the snails, and Shinto's hoofs noisily dispatched them. The quiet N6 looped steadily upwards; the rain abated; the birds twittered their relief; the clouds darkened anew and quickly shut them up. Shinto seemed strangely eager, too eager, fired with a sort of vindictive