It’s fitting that I’m writing about The Day of Much Rain and Joy (as
noted in my journal from Spain) when the South is soaked in thunderstorms, lush
and green. The morning I left Sarria the
crowds slipped quickly from their hostels to the one warm café open for the
breakfast hour; the rain was already coming down hard and I had the feeling I’d
be soaked by day’s end.
I remember the busy breakfast – Chris and Liz from England sharing my
table and the harried bartender desperately attempting to keep up with the
orders and rowdy pilgrims. I remember
cinching down my rain gear and hustling out into the predawn twilight, relying
on my headlamp to follow the yellow arrows up through stone paths past
beautiful, shadowed statues in the alcoves along The Way. I spent the morning alone in my thoughts,
preferring to drift past small groups of pilgrims I knew, sharing coffee with
the Korean couple and pacing Gabrielle for a few uphill kilometers as she
lamented her slowness even while she put me out of breath.
The terrain looked so much like the Shire it was disturbing – all low
stone walls that framed the muddy, cow-tread paths alongside verdant fields and
overhung by large gnarled trees. I
played leapfrog with Pepper and Lisa, stopping often to look at the roadside
altars to pilgrims – wooden crosses cobbled together with sticks and string, draped
in necklaces and mementos, often anchored by a pair of worn boots and piles of
stones. Those strange heathen monuments,
written in so many languages, made me happy even in their soggy and drenched
state, wondering why this spot or that one inspired someone to create an altar,
there.
The 100 kilometer mark snuck up on me, but there it was.
Coming into Portomarin and crossing the massive stone bridge behind Lisa
and Pepper, the clouds broke and sun came down on us, rapidly turning the
afternoon into a steam bath. I checked
out the hostel Mirador with Lotus and decided against it based on the loud bar
upstairs and the party vibe, wandering further into town through stone streets
lined with shops inset underneath archways until I came out into the central
square facing the imposing church:
Uphill from the church I picked a hostel at random that looked inviting;
the hospitalera brought me in smoothly and set me up in the main bedroom over a
lithe middle aged Australian woman whose accent was so thick as to be
incomprehensible. As I made busy with laundry,
etc, Katie from Virginia made her welcome appearance. I was very glad to see her and her matching
backpack. It was also here that I first
met Angela and Martina from Germany, as I opened the door from the back deck
unknowingly onto Angela changing clothes.
The language barrier was… problematic.
I spent the afternoon reading Housekeeping at a proper café near
the church, feeling warm and free and happy, marking passages in the book as if
I didn’t know I’d give it away as soon as I was finished, sipping coffee and
beer. Dinner came in the kitchen with
the Coloradans pushing me to finish their massive leftovers; the Virginia
ladies were there and full of laughter.
The tiny kitchen was crowded with pilgrims and I was so joyous to be
part of them, even with new rain outside and a deep chill to the air.
Before the pilgrim’s mass I said a rosary at the altar to Mary, letting
the faces of people I knew from the day float through my thoughts. I ached for the Musketeers as well, and my
friends at home, to be close and part of my pilgrimage. I sat beside the Coloradans and was happy for
the sign of peace as an excuse to hug them.
I thought about the massiveness of the blocky church, its’ age and
weight, as the rain came down hard outside, how the church was serving as
sanctuary and community even in 2012 as it had for nearly 500 years on that
spot. You can milk that metaphorical cow
for all it’s worth, but it means something different in the moment – free from
history and theology, free from legalism… quiet, and safe, and whole.
