The Big Walk

First break - Day 5

 Only three days into the trip and we have a major worry. Helen has a sharp pain in the arch of her foot. She started limping yesterday evening but it seems even worse this morning. Yesterday she walked in her sports sandals - we both have a pair as our back-up footwear - but today she is suffering for it - I think they are just for the rest days now! Hopefully it will improve with a day off – surely the trip can’t have gone wrong so soon? We’d never live down the embarrassment of only managing fifty six miles following three years of planning, saving and begging for a career break.

We take it easy, and breakfast with Spanish hot chocolate – thick enough to stand the spoon in and served with fried doughnuts called churros. It’s vastly preferable to trying to eat the unmelted block we bought back in Cee. We visit a museum of pilgrimage in an old gothic house, full of old maps of pilgrim trails and religious art. It’s fascinating how St James has been portrayed through history in so many guises. There’s St James in the familiar pilgrim garb, though pilgrimage hadn’t begun in his own day. There’s the other classic image, that of Santiago Matamoros – St James the Moorslayer – though the wars against the Moors didn’t begin until almost a thousand years after his death. There’s even a St James the Spaniard Slayer carved by persecuted indigenous tribesmen in Mexico. Such appropriation of James’ image goes on even now- in Bradford in 2001 a splinter group of the National Front who helped precipitate the race riots called itself the Order of White Knights and had Saint James as its Patron saint. I don’t think the humble fisherman would be pleased.

The pilgrimage itself has a similarly shaky history. He may be the patron saint of Spain, but there’s no historical or biblical record that St James even visited the country. Legend has it that after preaching here he died back in the Holy Land, but his disciples brought his body back to Galicia in a boat with no sails, steered by God. They made the journey from Palestine in only seven days before landing just south of Finisterre, burying James where the cathedral now stands here. His remains are said to have been miraculously discovered in 813, beginning the flood of pilgrims to the church built on the site. The pilgrims and the orders of knights which sprung up to protect them proved an extremely convenient help in securing northern Spain against Moorish expansion – St James himself was said to have appeared at many of the battles. Eventually the lands secured by the camino (or pilgrim route) created the base for the Christian conquest of the country. Whatever the truth of the story, the life-changing experiences of those undertaking month-long journeys to walk here are real enough.

Back at the Cathedral, a large group of pilgrims march in singing with full pilgrim regalia: cloaks, hats, scallop shells, and gourds hanging from their staffs. We follow them in for mass. It’s truly packed, and easy to imagine the scene when finishing pilgrims used to sleep here following the completion of their journey. A 200 pound incense burner known as the botufumeiro, made of silver and brass, was swung by a pulley system for the length of the nave, to help ward off the smell. It’s still there today but is only used during mass in a holy year. In the fifteenth century the cathedral was relieved of its role as a doss house by the building of the Hostal de Los Reis Catolicos outside on the square – a fantastic building and the original pilgrim hostel. Today it’s a luxury hotel, one of the oldest operating in the world.

After a fine meal of chipiriones – delicious whole baby squids – in a restaurant last night, we decide to go for the traditional option of raciones tonight – like tapas, only bigger. Enjoyable as it is, we can’t stop worrying about Helen’s ankle and whether we will be able to continue tomorrow. I can’t resist trying some tetilla, a creamy breast-shaped cheese prominent in all the delis around town. More interesting are the pimientos de Padron – a plate of lightly fried, salted green chilli peppers. Most are mild, but a few are truly fiery – it’s like playing a food version of Russian roulette. Even curiouser is the wine – the barman serves it in small porcelain beakers – I suspect he’s having a joke at our expense.