Monday 4th
June 2012
'To
be a pilgrim …
Or
maybe, just now and again, not. The Camino de Santiago, not so long
ago an almost forgotten byway for religious eccentrics and spiritual
refuseniks, has become a motorway of the soul, travelled by all
manner of pilgrims from across the globe.
Sometimes,
however, it can get a bit too much and after one particularly trying
night in an overcrowded albergue – perhaps better described as a
snorers’ convention – I decided to take the road less travelled.
And what a road
it is. At Villafranca del Bierzo the Camino divides into three, the
‘official’ route climbing through woodland before joining the
senda – a paved path which runs alongside a busy main road for
twenty kilometres. The third option, the alluringly named Ruta
Dragonte, is spoken of in hushed tones even amongst Camino veterans.
Poorly signposted – often not signposted at all – the hospitalero
in Villafranca pooh-poohed my idea; a red rag to a bull, if ever
there was one.
So,
like a contemporary apostate, whilst my fellow pilgrims followed the
ubiquitous yellow arrow, I took a tortuously winding road that lead
up, through vineyards and orchards, into the cloudless heavens, into
the mountains I’d been eyeing lasciviously since crossing the
Meseta.
The
flat, featureless Meseta, a hiking hell that had almost broken my
soul.
The
first ascent, to the village of Dragonte itself, was a relatively
straightforward affair; I was three weeks into my camino and in good
shape. A taxi driver stopped to wish me buen camino, a
much-appreciated gesture unless, of course, he was circling like a
vulture, anticipating a premature – and lucrative – end to my
adventure. Just above the village I paused to savour the view, and
the fact that for the first time in 23 days there wasn’t a single
pilgrim before or behind; the handful of people I encountered that
day were all locals. Everyone talks about ‘forgotten Spain’, this
was the cliché come true. The Camino has brought prosperity to
villages that would otherwise have been deserted decades ago, here,
just a few kilometres away from the main drag, was a rural economy
that had changed little since the Franco era.
The path
plunged deep into a valley so opulently verdant I might have wandered
into my own, private Eden. Through gut instinct or sheer luck – I
like to think it was the former – the thin trail finally
metamorphosed into a track that took me safely to the village of
Vilar de Corales and a reassuring signpost pointing the way to
Santiago. It was noon, it was hot, there was plenty more to come.
Down
again, up again; down again, up again. By the time I’d scrambled
down the steep slope to Herrerías I’d covered thirty kilometres
and climbed – and descended – twice the height of Ben Nevis. My
fellow pilgrims might have arrived a couple of hours closer to their
holy grail, less aching in their leg muscles, but I’d come just a
little bit closer to heaven.'
Thus,
in 500 words, did I describe my hike along the Camino Francés
on Monday 4th June 2012 for a travel-writing competition
in The Daily Telegraph; brevity has never been my
forte, needless to say my entry was not published. Five hundred words
are woefully inadequate to describe the emotions aroused by what was,
quite probably, the most memorable day of walking I've ever
experienced; five thousand words would barely suffice and I'm willing
to wager the price of a bottle of top-notch gin that I'd still be
going strong long after the word count had hit five figures.
It
would be safe to say that on that day, three years ago, this thesis
was born; when it underwent that crucial transition from a nebulous
collection of thoughts conceived, many years ago, during my
undergraduate studies, to a living, breathing entity which, given
sustenance, might emerge from its pupation into a piece of bona fide
academic research.
But
more of that anon. Let's return to that day of what I can only
describe as perambulatory and spiritual intensity. For the previous
561 kilometres I'd been following, religiously, the ubiquitous yellow
arrows that make getting lost virtually impossible. And for the
previous 561 kilometres I had, of course, been sharing almost every
aspect of the camino with my fellow pilgrims; not just the path
itself but the albergues, the dormitories, the bars and restaurants,
my own personal space and, in one particular albergue, my body1.
By the time I'd reached the town of Ponferrada my patience and
tolerance were wearing pretty thin. The hike over the Montes de Leon
(the location of the iconic Cruz de Ferro where I made a point of not
adding my stone to the growing pile) had been impressive and, for the
most part, I'd managed to avoid the hordes and walk solitarily. After
561 km I was becoming a avowed anti-pilgrim and re-identified myself
as a born-again hiker.
In
Ponferrada I encountered the pilgrim masses once more, and they
seemed to have multiplied. From here the camino crosses the Hoya de
Bierzo, a wide plain surrounded by mountains; pilgrims are herded
together again and the path winds its way on or around a main road,
as it does on much of the Camino Frances.
I
cheated, jumped on a bus.
It
wasn't the first time. The walk into and out of Leon is an
interminable trek alongside another busy road and then through
suburbs and industrial estates so I took the bus from Mansilla de las
Mulas. Earlier still, suffering from a nasty chill, I caught the bus
from the outskirts of Burgos into the city centre.
I
wondered whether I might live to regret my 'cheating', that the three
missing chunks of my pilgrimage would somehow invalidate the whole
project, condemn me to such purgatorial angst that I'd have to return
to do the whole walk all over again the following year.
But
that wasn't the case. My inner hiker was winning out over my external
pilgrim; the walk was important but so was the landscape. The Ruta
Dragonte changed all that; it changed everything, reconciled
the two conflicting desires and brought with it a transformative,
ecstatic in-the-moment, in-the-landscape experience that had profound
religious consequences.
A
bit like Saul on the road to Damascus, I suppose.
From
the bus to Villafranca del Bierzo I watched a long, thick line of (my
fellow) pilgrims wind its way across the plain and couldn't help
thinking of Nietzche's herd mentality; I was beginning to take a
dislike to my fellow pilgrims and their apparent unwillingness – or
inability – to deviate from the straight and narrow. They were like
sheep, and I was in the mood for playing the wolf.
But
that ubiquitous yellow arrow's like a line of sparkling white
cocaine: alluring, irresistible and oh-so-addictive. Three year's on
and I still haven't shaken off the habit.
The
misanthropy doesn't let up; there's something about the town of
Villafranca del Bierzo that irks me all the more, especially when the
hospitalero eyes me suspiciously when he notices I've come all the
way from from Molinaseca. That would mean I'd walked 32 kilometres
and it's still early afternoon; he knows I took the bus but I don't
care. He's part of the human fabric of the Camino, the complex
network of pilgrims who hike it and those who provide services for
them; we exist in a bubble outside of which the rest of the world
might as well not exist. We're locked into the path, carve an deeper
groove from which it becomes increasingly possible to extricate
ourselves. I'm sure I'm not the first to go stir crazy and toy with
the idea of insurrection but I'm equally sure I'm not the first to be
find myself longing to return, seduced the orthodoxy of the
way. Must
be the Catholic in me.
But
I will always return. Like a lamb to the fold, like a moth to a
flame.
The
Camino de Santiago from Villafranca de Bierzo as described in John
Brierley's Camino Frances Guide, by far the most popular pilgrim
guide2.
The Ruta Dragonte is in green
|
Taking
the road less travelled was an act of defiance fuelled by the desire
to distance myself from my fellow pilgrims. Amongst Camino
connoisseurs the Dragonte route has an almost legendary status, the
El Dorado of the caminos to Santiago:
'It
is not suitable for groups but individual pilgrims might sensibly
join with another for added security in the mountains … Waymarking
is obscure and the paths beyond Dragonte are frequently overgrown by
scrub vegetation … so only contemplate this route if you are fit,
have a good sense of orientation and an instinctive nature when faced
with unexpected options. Don’t expect to get lost but allow some
additional time in case you do! Leave early in the morning …'3
And
'I
did this route last May, on my own and it was the most incredible day
of mystery and magic. I experienced every emotion possible - I hardly
saw one other person, and certainly nobody to talk to, let alone
another Peligrino until I found the wonderful Celia who opened her
'cafe' in Vilasinde and I sat with her and cried and drank and ate
the biscuits she offered brought out for me!
It
was an immense day in every way and if it had not been such a superb
day weather wise I would not have attempted it as even for someone as
'mountain fit' as I was, it was a big ask physically and mentally on
my own. Walking over the high tops past abandoned villages and
through ancient woods of huge Spanish Chestnuts or wading through
streams that had taken over the path, or waving at an old woman
staring out at me from an ancient house - I felt that I was in
another age and a totally different Spain.
I
loved that day and will never forget Celia's kindness or the
intoxicating scent of white broom and the sheer relief of finding the
path again when I thought I was lost.
A
route for anyone wanting to push themselves mentally or emotionally
or physically or for anyone who needs space and peace off the beaten
track for a day.'4
'It'
happened as I descended from the hamlet of Moral de Valence into the
deep valley of the Arroyo de Moral (arroyo = stream). Apart
from the taxi driver and an ageing farmer I'd seen not a soul since
metaphorically waving farewell, somewhat self-righteously, to the
main route just outside Villafranca; thus far I'd followed asphalted
roads and cart tracks but now the path petered out amongst orchards
and fields of vegetables and fruit. The intensity of colour was
overwhelming: deep, russet reds, warm, earthy browns and verdant
emerald greens. In the corner of this Arcadian tableau, a pockmarked
muddy pasture led to a stream.
The
hills were all around me, and the years and years of birth, growth
and decay; stabs of light cut through the overhanging eaves and
ricocheted from every bough in tiny explosions of brilliant glory.
Thicket and scrub, root and branch and leaf, turning in on me with
the irrepressible will of nature; red, not only in tooth and claw,
but in its carnal desire to consume both everything and everybody. I
was hemmed in, deep in the cleft of a riven valley and soaked in an
immutable shadow that engulfed every hue and colour except the
rippled silvery waters of the stream.
I
was lost and yet not lost; out-of-place but also acutely aware of
being-in-place. Time and space ground to a halt and, for the next few
minutes, it seemed to me that the earth span off its axis and
inverted natural law.
That's
the only way I can explain what happened; the immanent, divine
presence in the valley, flickering scarlet and emerald behind and
through the trees. Hiding, watching, guiding: I wasn't alone.
I
forded the stream; on the other side a vague path traversed the mud
and lead directly uphill. I tried it, tentatively. It didn't feel
right; call it gut instinct, hiker's intuition or sacred
interference, after five minutes walking I turned back and returned
to the stream. There was, gently contouring the slope, a faint
trail, mostly obscured by fallen leaves. I followed it, even more
tentatively, as if each trepidatious step might lead me out of my
prelapsarian Eden for I felt like an Eve, nervously transgressive and
dazzled by the infinite possibilities of creation. That way madness
lies, perhaps that's why I took the path and headed in that
direction; I'd put my trust in the numinous and the immaterial, step
by step it led me up and out of the valley on a track that slowly
became more and more distinct. Half an hour later I entered the
hamlet of Villar de Corrales and found someone to ask if this was the
way to Santiago. They smiled and nodded, as if they'd seen it all
before.
The
energy of that encounter in the valley remained with me for the
remainder of the Camino, kept me going as went down then up then down
again, to the albergue in Herrerías where I ground to a halt with a
can of cold beer in my hand. Never before I have felt such a sense of
elation, of being so 'at one' with the landscape. It had soothed my
temper, given me space, heightened my senses, pummelled and stretched
my body; left me cerebrally, sensuously and spiritually satisfied.
And
wanting more.
Everything
changed on the Ruta Dragonte. It unlocked feeling, emotion and
affect and brought me back, metaphorically and spiritually, to the
way: pilgrimage, pilgrims and I were all reconciled.
Happy
ever after? I wish!
The
following day I hiked effortlessly up the 500 metre climb to O
Cebreiro; there in the Romanesque church is a simple but exquisite
statue of the Virgin and child which immediately reminded me of the
Virgin of Biakorri I'd countered on the first day as I crossed the
Pyrenees. Outside, now deeply relaxed, I strolled towards the car
park which afforded a spectacular view eastwards over the Cordillera
Cantabrica stretching out to the horizon and beyond.
That's
when it hit me. The realisation, now made visible in distance, that I
had walked all that way, as far as the eye could see, choked me with
emotion; I didn't bother fighting the tears.
And
then came the rain. All the way to Santiago and beyond, only letting
up, by divine intervention, it seemed to me, for the last leg of the
Camino Finisterre. By then I'd become a member of a camino family, my
rapprochement with the way complete: on its terms, obviously.
It had adsorbed and assimilated me; I had come to love that which I
had, for a while, claimed to despise.
Camino
de Santiago 1, Siân Lacey Taylder 0.
Predictably,
perhaps, the arrival in Santiago, through low cloud and drizzle, was
a disappointment. It was a Saturday, the following day I made my way
to the cathedral for the pilgrim mass but there were too many
tourists; I cursed them all and made my way to another church and
another mass but even that didn't 'work'. It seemed to me that
Santiago itself wasn't 'working', not performing, at least in the way
I'd anticipated. As it happens I was wrong, landscapes – rural or
urban – don't always respond how you'd like them to. And in any
case, I had to keep walking …
During
the week it took my family and I to complete the pilgrimage, what
happened on the Ruta Dragonte, up in the mountains and down in the
valley, played constantly on my mind. As I knelt down to pray,
privately, in a corner of the cathedral in Santiago I even implored
spiritual guidance to try to make sense of it. But even the Virgin
Mary kept schtum. I took her silence as an affirmation; if I wanted
to explore the phenomenon further I'd have to return to academia.
If
it would have me ...
1 Pilgrims
spending the night at the Ermita de San Nicolas, Itero de Castillo,
have their feet washed and kissed by the hospitalero.
2 John
Brierley: A Pilgrim's Guide to the Camino De Santiago, Findhorn
Press (2009)
