“Caſte doune thy ſcrippe and they burdon,
for all they pilgremage is comen to a jape.”
____ Satan to the Pilgrim, Pylgremage of the Sowle[i]
Depart O Cebreiro
Through pine woodsby Lagúa de Tablas to Liñares
On the Way: O Cebreiro to Triacastela
Randi and I woke early and left O Cebreiro through pinewoods. It was raining very cold rain, which served us well to wash away any grogginess we had acquired from our restless sleep. It was a singularly gray morning—gray mist shrouded gray pines; gray lichen hung on the gray boles of trees; gray fog hung over every gray ledge. The cold, gray and dank air hung around you like a wet blanket, or like cold heavy smoke. Had it been a clear morning, the scenery would have been a marvel. But as it was the fog and rain censored from our view the great heights and deep valleys of this region. So in the gray of the morning we traveled through the hamlet of Lagúa de Tablas and toward village of Liñares do Rei. Prior to daybreak, the rain ceased.
We ascended to the Alto de San Roque, which is 1,270 meters above the level of the Cantabrian Sea. To our left was the watershed sierra do Ranadoiro. The rains and snows that fall south of here go west following the pilgrim to the Atlantic Ocean; the rains that fall north of here go north to the Cantabrian Sea. The wind here grew fierce. So strong were the gusts that I had to hold on to my hat with my free hand. To a Galician lounging in the warmth of his house, it would have looked as though I was tipping my hat to the Lady the Wind.
We plodded uphill, past the watershed towards the town of Hospital de la Condesa. The path teemed with pilgrims. Huge groups of Spanish pilgrims appeared here as if dropped from the sky. But they were not dropped from the sky, they were dropped off by buses. Some have dubious motives and feet of clay. We caught a young pair of these, hiding from the cold mist in the narthex of the Church at the town of Hospital de la Condesa, smoking pot. What surprised me was that they had no shame about it, for the young pair laughed and giggled as if we were the fools for being there and not they.
From Hospital de la Condesa we headed to Padornelo, population three, but fully equipped for worship with its own church, founded and served at one time by the great knights of the Order of St. John. The church of San Xoán church retains its ancient dedication to St. John the Baptist, patron of the order.
Linar de Rege
Ascend Alto de San Roque (1264 m.)
Hospital de la Condesa
Pador-nelo
(pop. 3)
Alto do Poio
(1337 m.)
Gentle descent into Fonfría do Camiño
A short, but steep, climb to the Alto de Poio greeted us after Padornelo. At the height of the Alto de Poio we reached the highest point of the entire Camino francés. There was once a hermitage here that was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, but I saw no evidence of it. We were, however, surprised by a café. Chilled, starved, and thirsty, we stopped for hot coffee, a bocadillo, and a tortilla.
I I I
On the Way: The Galician Woman With Warm Eyes
From the Alto de Poio we began a slight descent on the carretera and later through some dirt paths through the town of Fonfría do Camiño. Traveling through the town of Fonfría we were met by an old woman. She had a white scarf over her head to shield herself from the cold and wind. She wore a frayed but clean red dress, which was bleached with age, and over it an apron of white cotton. The woman stood at the edge of the road, in the cold wind, between her house and her barn. She had a plate in her hand, and in it sat warm crepes that she had fixed only minutes before.
The crepes were warm, and she offered them to us for 200 pesetas or whatever we could afford. At 200 pesetas I thought them overpriced. But I admired her capitalistic gumption. And more. When I looked into her brown eyes, the old woman stole my heart and robbed me of my reason. For they took me by surprise. Her eyes were young, and full of vigor and life. Despite her wrinkled face, stooped frame, and body parched with age, I fell in love with this woman of Fonfría. These eyes must have stolen many a Spanish heart in their youth, and they had lost little of their vitality. There was no hint of bitterness or sadness in these warm Galician eyes, as we frequently find in the old in countries where youth is idolized. The joy and beauty of her eyes overcame me. I bought two crepes, at 200 pesetas a piece, and gave her a 100 peseta tip beside, although the tip she was almost horrified to take. As I gave her a 500 peseta coin, she noticed my sandals.
“Those are not made for walking in this weather,” she observed.
“Worry not, for my feet feel great in them,” I replied.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“From the United States.”
“There are many American pilgrims coming this way,” she observed.
“May there be many more!”
The crepes were so very warm. The woman sprinkled them lightly with powdered sugar and folded them thrice. The crepes were then so very warm and good and sweet.
With these few words, and the words of commerce relating to the crepes besides, ended our brief encounter. But from them I knew she was a strong, pure woman, who had no guile and little if any vice. If the world was full of women like this, I thought as I swallowed my crepe, there would be no war and no lack of love and many of our miseries unknown. My only regret was that I neglected to ask this old woman her name, and that I failed to get a chaste kiss from her.
From Fonfría we traveled past the Sierra do Orbio, all covered with clouds, and down a dirt road and correidoras into Biduedo, which sits far down on the northern slope of the Serra do Caldeirón. Biduedo means birchwood in Gallego, or abedules as they are called in Spanish. There is a hermitage dedicated to St. Peter. It claims to be the smallest hermitage on the Camino de Santiago.
Biduedo skirting Monte Cadeirón
Through Filloval, As Pasantes
Through Ramil into Triacastela
k
Santiago
We went past Biduedo around the west slope of the Monte Caldeirón. With the Peña Furada behind us and the Monte Ouribio to our left, we descended to Filloval past As Pasantes, and then to Ramil. The chestnut trees surrounded us and robbed us of light. From Ramil we took the steep slope down to the Rúa do Peregrino into Triascastela. At Triacastela we spent the night. The pilgrim’s refuge was full, so we hired some rooms at a private home, part of which was let to pilgrims for the night.
The town Triacastela is named for three castles, which are said to have been on the top of the mounts Ouribio, Meda, and Caldeirón, but they are long since destroyed. The town and its name survived the loss of its castles. The church at Triascastella, dedicated to Santiago, is Romanesque. It sits around the local cemetery.
In ancient days, Picaud tells us, the pilgrims here were given a stone to carry with them to the kilns at Castañeda in order to make lime for the construction of the basilica at Compostela. But the heyday of the building days are over for Compostela, and so no such burden is required of the pilgrim today. The good archbishop of Compostela does not now ask the pilgrim to bring heavy stones toward his city, but—I’m sure because I later heard him say so in his homily at Compostela—he still asks the pilgrim to bring his heart to the furnace of God’s love.
Tria Castella, in pede scilicet eiusdem montis in Gallecia, ubi peregrini accipiunt petram et secum deferunt usque ad Casta-niollam ad faciendam calcem ad hopus basilice apostolice
k
[i] *** Pylgremage of the Sowle, Book I, Chp I, p. 2 “Caſte doune thy ſcrippe and they burdon,
for all they pilgremage is comen to a jape.”
____ Satan to the Pilgrim, Pylgremage of the Sowle[i]
Depart O Cebreiro
Through pine woodsby Lagúa de Tablas to Liñares
On the Way: O Cebreiro to Triacastela
Randi and I woke early and left O Cebreiro through pinewoods. It was raining very cold rain, which served us well to wash away any grogginess we had acquired from our restless sleep. It was a singularly gray morning—gray mist shrouded gray pines; gray lichen hung on the gray boles of trees; gray fog hung over every gray ledge. The cold, gray and dank air hung around you like a wet blanket, or like cold heavy smoke. Had it been a clear morning, the scenery would have been a marvel. But as it was the fog and rain censored from our view the great heights and deep valleys of this region. So in the gray of the morning we traveled through the hamlet of Lagúa de Tablas and toward village of Liñares do Rei. Prior to daybreak, the rain ceased.
We ascended to the Alto de San Roque, which is 1,270 meters above the level of the Cantabrian Sea. To our left was the watershed sierra do Ranadoiro. The rains and snows that fall south of here go west following the pilgrim to the Atlantic Ocean; the rains that fall north of here go north to the Cantabrian Sea. The wind here grew fierce. So strong were the gusts that I had to hold on to my hat with my free hand. To a Galician lounging in the warmth of his house, it would have looked as though I was tipping my hat to the Lady the Wind.
We plodded uphill, past the watershed towards the town of Hospital de la Condesa. The path teemed with pilgrims. Huge groups of Spanish pilgrims appeared here as if dropped from the sky. But they were not dropped from the sky, they were dropped off by buses. Some have dubious motives and feet of clay. We caught a young pair of these, hiding from the cold mist in the narthex of the Church at the town of Hospital de la Condesa, smoking pot. What surprised me was that they had no shame about it, for the young pair laughed and giggled as if we were the fools for being there and not they.
From Hospital de la Condesa we headed to Padornelo, population three, but fully equipped for worship with its own church, founded and served at one time by the great knights of the Order of St. John. The church of San Xoán church retains its ancient dedication to St. John the Baptist, patron of the order.
Linar de Rege
Ascend Alto de San Roque (1264 m.)
Hospital de la Condesa
Pador-nelo
(pop. 3)
Alto do Poio
(1337 m.)
Gentle descent into Fonfría do Camiño
A short, but steep, climb to the Alto de Poio greeted us after Padornelo. At the height of the Alto de Poio we reached the highest point of the entire Camino francés. There was once a hermitage here that was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, but I saw no evidence of it. We were, however, surprised by a café. Chilled, starved, and thirsty, we stopped for hot coffee, a bocadillo, and a tortilla.
I I I
On the Way: The Galician Woman With Warm Eyes
From the Alto de Poio we began a slight descent on the carretera and later through some dirt paths through the town of Fonfría do Camiño. Traveling through the town of Fonfría we were met by an old woman. She had a white scarf over her head to shield herself from the cold and wind. She wore a frayed but clean red dress, which was bleached with age, and over it an apron of white cotton. The woman stood at the edge of the road, in the cold wind, between her house and her barn. She had a plate in her hand, and in it sat warm crepes that she had fixed only minutes before.
The crepes were warm, and she offered them to us for 200 pesetas or whatever we could afford. At 200 pesetas I thought them overpriced. But I admired her capitalistic gumption. And more. When I looked into her brown eyes, the old woman stole my heart and robbed me of my reason. For they took me by surprise. Her eyes were young, and full of vigor and life. Despite her wrinkled face, stooped frame, and body parched with age, I fell in love with this woman of Fonfría. These eyes must have stolen many a Spanish heart in their youth, and they had lost little of their vitality. There was no hint of bitterness or sadness in these warm Galician eyes, as we frequently find in the old in countries where youth is idolized. The joy and beauty of her eyes overcame me. I bought two crepes, at 200 pesetas a piece, and gave her a 100 peseta tip beside, although the tip she was almost horrified to take. As I gave her a 500 peseta coin, she noticed my sandals.
“Those are not made for walking in this weather,” she observed.
“Worry not, for my feet feel great in them,” I replied.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“From the United States.”
“There are many American pilgrims coming this way,” she observed.
“May there be many more!”
The crepes were so very warm. The woman sprinkled them lightly with powdered sugar and folded them thrice. The crepes were then so very warm and good and sweet.
With these few words, and the words of commerce relating to the crepes besides, ended our brief encounter. But from them I knew she was a strong, pure woman, who had no guile and little if any vice. If the world was full of women like this, I thought as I swallowed my crepe, there would be no war and no lack of love and many of our miseries unknown. My only regret was that I neglected to ask this old woman her name, and that I failed to get a chaste kiss from her.
From Fonfría we traveled past the Sierra do Orbio, all covered with clouds, and down a dirt road and correidoras into Biduedo, which sits far down on the northern slope of the Serra do Caldeirón. Biduedo means birchwood in Gallego, or abedules as they are called in Spanish. There is a hermitage dedicated to St. Peter. It claims to be the smallest hermitage on the Camino de Santiago.
Biduedo skirting Monte Cadeirón
Through Filloval, As Pasantes
Through Ramil into Triacastela
k
Santiago
We went past Biduedo around the west slope of the Monte Caldeirón. With the Peña Furada behind us and the Monte Ouribio to our left, we descended to Filloval past As Pasantes, and then to Ramil. The chestnut trees surrounded us and robbed us of light. From Ramil we took the steep slope down to the Rúa do Peregrino into Triascastela. At Triacastela we spent the night. The pilgrim’s refuge was full, so we hired some rooms at a private home, part of which was let to pilgrims for the night.
The town Triacastela is named for three castles, which are said to have been on the top of the mounts Ouribio, Meda, and Caldeirón, but they are long since destroyed. The town and its name survived the loss of its castles. The church at Triascastella, dedicated to Santiago, is Romanesque. It sits around the local cemetery.
In ancient days, Picaud tells us, the pilgrims here were given a stone to carry with them to the kilns at Castañeda in order to make lime for the construction of the basilica at Compostela. But the heyday of the building days are over for Compostela, and so no such burden is required of the pilgrim today. The good archbishop of Compostela does not now ask the pilgrim to bring heavy stones toward his city, but—I’m sure because I later heard him say so in his homily at Compostela—he still asks the pilgrim to bring his heart to the furnace of God’s love.
Tria Castella, in pede scilicet eiusdem montis in Gallecia, ubi peregrini accipiunt petram et secum deferunt usque ad Casta-niollam ad faciendam calcem ad hopus basilice apostolice
k
[i] *** Pylgremage of the Sowle, Book I, Chp I, p. 2
for all they pilgremage is comen to a jape.”
____ Satan to the Pilgrim, Pylgremage of the Sowle[i]
Depart O Cebreiro
Through pine woodsby Lagúa de Tablas to Liñares
On the Way: O Cebreiro to Triacastela
Randi and I woke early and left O Cebreiro through pinewoods. It was raining very cold rain, which served us well to wash away any grogginess we had acquired from our restless sleep. It was a singularly gray morning—gray mist shrouded gray pines; gray lichen hung on the gray boles of trees; gray fog hung over every gray ledge. The cold, gray and dank air hung around you like a wet blanket, or like cold heavy smoke. Had it been a clear morning, the scenery would have been a marvel. But as it was the fog and rain censored from our view the great heights and deep valleys of this region. So in the gray of the morning we traveled through the hamlet of Lagúa de Tablas and toward village of Liñares do Rei. Prior to daybreak, the rain ceased.
We ascended to the Alto de San Roque, which is 1,270 meters above the level of the Cantabrian Sea. To our left was the watershed sierra do Ranadoiro. The rains and snows that fall south of here go west following the pilgrim to the Atlantic Ocean; the rains that fall north of here go north to the Cantabrian Sea. The wind here grew fierce. So strong were the gusts that I had to hold on to my hat with my free hand. To a Galician lounging in the warmth of his house, it would have looked as though I was tipping my hat to the Lady the Wind.
We plodded uphill, past the watershed towards the town of Hospital de la Condesa. The path teemed with pilgrims. Huge groups of Spanish pilgrims appeared here as if dropped from the sky. But they were not dropped from the sky, they were dropped off by buses. Some have dubious motives and feet of clay. We caught a young pair of these, hiding from the cold mist in the narthex of the Church at the town of Hospital de la Condesa, smoking pot. What surprised me was that they had no shame about it, for the young pair laughed and giggled as if we were the fools for being there and not they.
From Hospital de la Condesa we headed to Padornelo, population three, but fully equipped for worship with its own church, founded and served at one time by the great knights of the Order of St. John. The church of San Xoán church retains its ancient dedication to St. John the Baptist, patron of the order.
Linar de Rege
Ascend Alto de San Roque (1264 m.)
Hospital de la Condesa
Pador-nelo
(pop. 3)
Alto do Poio
(1337 m.)
Gentle descent into Fonfría do Camiño
A short, but steep, climb to the Alto de Poio greeted us after Padornelo. At the height of the Alto de Poio we reached the highest point of the entire Camino francés. There was once a hermitage here that was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, but I saw no evidence of it. We were, however, surprised by a café. Chilled, starved, and thirsty, we stopped for hot coffee, a bocadillo, and a tortilla.
I I I
On the Way: The Galician Woman With Warm Eyes
From the Alto de Poio we began a slight descent on the carretera and later through some dirt paths through the town of Fonfría do Camiño. Traveling through the town of Fonfría we were met by an old woman. She had a white scarf over her head to shield herself from the cold and wind. She wore a frayed but clean red dress, which was bleached with age, and over it an apron of white cotton. The woman stood at the edge of the road, in the cold wind, between her house and her barn. She had a plate in her hand, and in it sat warm crepes that she had fixed only minutes before.
The crepes were warm, and she offered them to us for 200 pesetas or whatever we could afford. At 200 pesetas I thought them overpriced. But I admired her capitalistic gumption. And more. When I looked into her brown eyes, the old woman stole my heart and robbed me of my reason. For they took me by surprise. Her eyes were young, and full of vigor and life. Despite her wrinkled face, stooped frame, and body parched with age, I fell in love with this woman of Fonfría. These eyes must have stolen many a Spanish heart in their youth, and they had lost little of their vitality. There was no hint of bitterness or sadness in these warm Galician eyes, as we frequently find in the old in countries where youth is idolized. The joy and beauty of her eyes overcame me. I bought two crepes, at 200 pesetas a piece, and gave her a 100 peseta tip beside, although the tip she was almost horrified to take. As I gave her a 500 peseta coin, she noticed my sandals.
“Those are not made for walking in this weather,” she observed.
“Worry not, for my feet feel great in them,” I replied.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“From the United States.”
“There are many American pilgrims coming this way,” she observed.
“May there be many more!”
The crepes were so very warm. The woman sprinkled them lightly with powdered sugar and folded them thrice. The crepes were then so very warm and good and sweet.
With these few words, and the words of commerce relating to the crepes besides, ended our brief encounter. But from them I knew she was a strong, pure woman, who had no guile and little if any vice. If the world was full of women like this, I thought as I swallowed my crepe, there would be no war and no lack of love and many of our miseries unknown. My only regret was that I neglected to ask this old woman her name, and that I failed to get a chaste kiss from her.
From Fonfría we traveled past the Sierra do Orbio, all covered with clouds, and down a dirt road and correidoras into Biduedo, which sits far down on the northern slope of the Serra do Caldeirón. Biduedo means birchwood in Gallego, or abedules as they are called in Spanish. There is a hermitage dedicated to St. Peter. It claims to be the smallest hermitage on the Camino de Santiago.
Biduedo skirting Monte Cadeirón
Through Filloval, As Pasantes
Through Ramil into Triacastela
k
Santiago
We went past Biduedo around the west slope of the Monte Caldeirón. With the Peña Furada behind us and the Monte Ouribio to our left, we descended to Filloval past As Pasantes, and then to Ramil. The chestnut trees surrounded us and robbed us of light. From Ramil we took the steep slope down to the Rúa do Peregrino into Triascastela. At Triacastela we spent the night. The pilgrim’s refuge was full, so we hired some rooms at a private home, part of which was let to pilgrims for the night.
The town Triacastela is named for three castles, which are said to have been on the top of the mounts Ouribio, Meda, and Caldeirón, but they are long since destroyed. The town and its name survived the loss of its castles. The church at Triascastella, dedicated to Santiago, is Romanesque. It sits around the local cemetery.
In ancient days, Picaud tells us, the pilgrims here were given a stone to carry with them to the kilns at Castañeda in order to make lime for the construction of the basilica at Compostela. But the heyday of the building days are over for Compostela, and so no such burden is required of the pilgrim today. The good archbishop of Compostela does not now ask the pilgrim to bring heavy stones toward his city, but—I’m sure because I later heard him say so in his homily at Compostela—he still asks the pilgrim to bring his heart to the furnace of God’s love.
Tria Castella, in pede scilicet eiusdem montis in Gallecia, ubi peregrini accipiunt petram et secum deferunt usque ad Casta-niollam ad faciendam calcem ad hopus basilice apostolice
k
[i] *** Pylgremage of the Sowle, Book I, Chp I, p. 2 “Caſte doune thy ſcrippe and they burdon,
for all they pilgremage is comen to a jape.”
____ Satan to the Pilgrim, Pylgremage of the Sowle[i]
Depart O Cebreiro
Through pine woodsby Lagúa de Tablas to Liñares
On the Way: O Cebreiro to Triacastela
Randi and I woke early and left O Cebreiro through pinewoods. It was raining very cold rain, which served us well to wash away any grogginess we had acquired from our restless sleep. It was a singularly gray morning—gray mist shrouded gray pines; gray lichen hung on the gray boles of trees; gray fog hung over every gray ledge. The cold, gray and dank air hung around you like a wet blanket, or like cold heavy smoke. Had it been a clear morning, the scenery would have been a marvel. But as it was the fog and rain censored from our view the great heights and deep valleys of this region. So in the gray of the morning we traveled through the hamlet of Lagúa de Tablas and toward village of Liñares do Rei. Prior to daybreak, the rain ceased.
We ascended to the Alto de San Roque, which is 1,270 meters above the level of the Cantabrian Sea. To our left was the watershed sierra do Ranadoiro. The rains and snows that fall south of here go west following the pilgrim to the Atlantic Ocean; the rains that fall north of here go north to the Cantabrian Sea. The wind here grew fierce. So strong were the gusts that I had to hold on to my hat with my free hand. To a Galician lounging in the warmth of his house, it would have looked as though I was tipping my hat to the Lady the Wind.
We plodded uphill, past the watershed towards the town of Hospital de la Condesa. The path teemed with pilgrims. Huge groups of Spanish pilgrims appeared here as if dropped from the sky. But they were not dropped from the sky, they were dropped off by buses. Some have dubious motives and feet of clay. We caught a young pair of these, hiding from the cold mist in the narthex of the Church at the town of Hospital de la Condesa, smoking pot. What surprised me was that they had no shame about it, for the young pair laughed and giggled as if we were the fools for being there and not they.
From Hospital de la Condesa we headed to Padornelo, population three, but fully equipped for worship with its own church, founded and served at one time by the great knights of the Order of St. John. The church of San Xoán church retains its ancient dedication to St. John the Baptist, patron of the order.
Linar de Rege
Ascend Alto de San Roque (1264 m.)
Hospital de la Condesa
Pador-nelo
(pop. 3)
Alto do Poio
(1337 m.)
Gentle descent into Fonfría do Camiño
A short, but steep, climb to the Alto de Poio greeted us after Padornelo. At the height of the Alto de Poio we reached the highest point of the entire Camino francés. There was once a hermitage here that was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, but I saw no evidence of it. We were, however, surprised by a café. Chilled, starved, and thirsty, we stopped for hot coffee, a bocadillo, and a tortilla.
I I I
On the Way: The Galician Woman With Warm Eyes
From the Alto de Poio we began a slight descent on the carretera and later through some dirt paths through the town of Fonfría do Camiño. Traveling through the town of Fonfría we were met by an old woman. She had a white scarf over her head to shield herself from the cold and wind. She wore a frayed but clean red dress, which was bleached with age, and over it an apron of white cotton. The woman stood at the edge of the road, in the cold wind, between her house and her barn. She had a plate in her hand, and in it sat warm crepes that she had fixed only minutes before.
The crepes were warm, and she offered them to us for 200 pesetas or whatever we could afford. At 200 pesetas I thought them overpriced. But I admired her capitalistic gumption. And more. When I looked into her brown eyes, the old woman stole my heart and robbed me of my reason. For they took me by surprise. Her eyes were young, and full of vigor and life. Despite her wrinkled face, stooped frame, and body parched with age, I fell in love with this woman of Fonfría. These eyes must have stolen many a Spanish heart in their youth, and they had lost little of their vitality. There was no hint of bitterness or sadness in these warm Galician eyes, as we frequently find in the old in countries where youth is idolized. The joy and beauty of her eyes overcame me. I bought two crepes, at 200 pesetas a piece, and gave her a 100 peseta tip beside, although the tip she was almost horrified to take. As I gave her a 500 peseta coin, she noticed my sandals.
“Those are not made for walking in this weather,” she observed.
“Worry not, for my feet feel great in them,” I replied.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“From the United States.”
“There are many American pilgrims coming this way,” she observed.
“May there be many more!”
The crepes were so very warm. The woman sprinkled them lightly with powdered sugar and folded them thrice. The crepes were then so very warm and good and sweet.
With these few words, and the words of commerce relating to the crepes besides, ended our brief encounter. But from them I knew she was a strong, pure woman, who had no guile and little if any vice. If the world was full of women like this, I thought as I swallowed my crepe, there would be no war and no lack of love and many of our miseries unknown. My only regret was that I neglected to ask this old woman her name, and that I failed to get a chaste kiss from her.
From Fonfría we traveled past the Sierra do Orbio, all covered with clouds, and down a dirt road and correidoras into Biduedo, which sits far down on the northern slope of the Serra do Caldeirón. Biduedo means birchwood in Gallego, or abedules as they are called in Spanish. There is a hermitage dedicated to St. Peter. It claims to be the smallest hermitage on the Camino de Santiago.
Biduedo skirting Monte Cadeirón
Through Filloval, As Pasantes
Through Ramil into Triacastela
k
Santiago
We went past Biduedo around the west slope of the Monte Caldeirón. With the Peña Furada behind us and the Monte Ouribio to our left, we descended to Filloval past As Pasantes, and then to Ramil. The chestnut trees surrounded us and robbed us of light. From Ramil we took the steep slope down to the Rúa do Peregrino into Triascastela. At Triacastela we spent the night. The pilgrim’s refuge was full, so we hired some rooms at a private home, part of which was let to pilgrims for the night.
The town Triacastela is named for three castles, which are said to have been on the top of the mounts Ouribio, Meda, and Caldeirón, but they are long since destroyed. The town and its name survived the loss of its castles. The church at Triascastella, dedicated to Santiago, is Romanesque. It sits around the local cemetery.
In ancient days, Picaud tells us, the pilgrims here were given a stone to carry with them to the kilns at Castañeda in order to make lime for the construction of the basilica at Compostela. But the heyday of the building days are over for Compostela, and so no such burden is required of the pilgrim today. The good archbishop of Compostela does not now ask the pilgrim to bring heavy stones toward his city, but—I’m sure because I later heard him say so in his homily at Compostela—he still asks the pilgrim to bring his heart to the furnace of God’s love.
Tria Castella, in pede scilicet eiusdem montis in Gallecia, ubi peregrini accipiunt petram et secum deferunt usque ad Casta-niollam ad faciendam calcem ad hopus basilice apostolice
k
[i] *** Pylgremage of the Sowle, Book I, Chp I, p. 2
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