“O most loving Father, give unto me to behold for all eternity face to face Thine own beloved Son, whom now upon my pilgrimage I purpose to receive under a veil, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, world without end. Amen.”
____Oratio Sancti Aquinitatis Ante Missam[i]
Into Villa-franca del Bierzo
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Iglesia de Santiago de Peñalba
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Nuestra Señora de Cruñego
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San Francisco
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San Pedro
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Santa María
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San Nicolas
On the Way: Cacabelos to Villafranca del Bierzo
We departed Cacabelos rather late in the morning; indeed, later than we had planned the evening before. We had had a late dinner the evening before, and we knew that the weather would be cool the next day. There was, consequently, no need to depart early. Some German pilgrims on the side of the road delayed us yet longer as we reached the outskirts of Cacabelos. They hailed us to where they sat, and insisted that we try some of the piping hot sweetbreads that could be had for a farthing at the Panadería. I had a couple of freshly baked chocolate neapolitanos. It was so inexpensive Fred whispered under his breath that he felt he was stealing from the good-natured baker.
Thus fortified by the products of the baker’s trade, we walked briskly toward the town of Villafranca. Having crossed the río Cuu out of Cacabelos, we followed the arroyo Valdepedroño until we parted with it by bearing to the left by Pieros back onto the Camino. There is a church in Pieros, dedicated to St. Martin, with evidence that it dates back at least to 1086.
We walked north of the Cerro de Ventosa, atop of which is the Castrum Bergidum, the site of an old Asturian town, captured by the Romans. It is that ancient town’s name, at least the last part of it, that gave the name to this valley of the Bierzo.
Immediately beside an old farmhouse, Fred’s pack broke. The shoulder straps of his back pack had completely torn. He insisted that we go on as he repaired his pack. I gave him some nylon rope I had with me. I had a hunch that he intended to do more than fix his pack. I suspected he also intended to sketch a quaint farmhouse that stood nearby from the rock on which he sat to fix his pack. We said goodbye to the good pilgrim Fred. We were not to see him again.
From the farmhouse, the Camino crossed the arroyo Valtuille by means of a bridge, and just beyond the brook, on the pilgrim’s right, was the Venta del Jubileo, an old inn. From here we climbed until the Camino joined with the road from Valtuille de Arriba. We followed that road called the camino de la Virgen by turning left and heading down. The road led us, ever so gracefully, into the village of Villafranca del Bierzo.
Villafranca del Bierzo is the Villa Francorum, the town of the Franks, and it sat nestled in a valley at the confluence of the Burbia and Valcarce rivers and surrounded by mountains. The road led us directly to the church of Santiago, which we sought to enter to give thanks to God for a good and healthful walk, full of good thoughts, and a happy heart. Dating from the twelfth century, the church has an aged and worn multilobed north portal, called the puerta del Perdón. Pilgrims too sick or weak to continue to Compostela gained here—by special dispensation—the same spiritual benefits. The journey here was long enough, and for the old and infirm it took away the need to climb the range of mountains into Galicia. When it comes to sin, the Church, like God, like the Father of the Prodigal Son, appears sometimes rigorous if we persist in sin’s thrall, but always meets us more than half-way if we seek freedom from it.
The castle of the marquis of Villafranca, which dominates the town, was built in the 15th century. It is a square, crenellated structure of yellow rock, with four round, squat and barrel-looking towers, also crenellated, at its corners. The towers are topped with round tiled roofs that rise to a sharp point, and look like witches’ hats.
We stopped at an albergue in Villafranca, and met the hospitaller, a man named Gus. White-haired but hale, this German man was a gifted polyglot. He spoke his native German, and his acquired English and Spanish with perfect ease and nary an accent. He wondered at my Spanish until he discovered the land of my birth. Gus offered to take our packs up to the town of O Cebreiro, so to free us from their burdens on the difficult climb up the mountains ahead.
The offer was tempting, for release from the packs for one day promised greater distances and a great relief. I accepted the offer. “The packs,” I thought, “did not make a vow to take no wheeled thing, and I did not take a vow to walk with a pack.” I only had vowed only to take no wheeled thing. Gus’s offer left my vow untouched, unbesmirched. Even if there was some relationship between the pack and the vow, as Belloc observed the essence of a vow is in its literal meaning. The literal intendment of the vow allowed for it. And this was much less a breach—if it was one at all—than the more lax Belloc justified by that rule, for he rode on a cart and hung his feet of the edge dragging them on the ground and later even justified riding a train on his pilgrimage to Rome.
Villa Franca de bucca Vallis Carceris
Cruñego = Cluniac
Leave Villa-franca
Over the río Burbia to the río Valcarce
Follow the vía Romana north of the Valcarce and down toTraba-delo
Villafranca del Bierzo to O Cebreiro
From Villafranca to the town of O Cebreiro, the way was long and uphill. It would have been most difficult, and perhaps unachievable, with our packs. Villafranca is about 500 meters above sea level and O Cebreiro lies high in Sierra de los Ancares at 1,300 meters. A medieval cleric complained that these mountains, which divide Galicia from Castille, were difficult and wearisome to traverse. But he crossed during the cold of winter, and we did not. From Villafranca onwards the culture becomes notably Galician, though the provincial government remained Leonese until shortly before O Cebreiro where we formally passed from the province of León into the Galician province of Lugo. From Villafranca nearly to Santiago, the way is rural, the churches rustic, the homes humble.
Released from the burden of our packs we walked briskly uphill and out of the town of Villafranca. Once out of Villafranca we crossed the cold and crisp waters of the río Burbia and soon met the waters of the Valcarce. As we approached the Madrid-La Coruña highway (N-VI) we had to decide which way to go, for the guides posited three possibilities: (1) following the N-VI; (2) the vía Dragonte; and (3) the ruta Romana. We decided on the ruta Romana, bearing right just beyond the Burbia River. It took us up almost 500 meters to Pradela (1020 m.) via the southern face of the cerro del Real and the northern of the Pena de Roldán.
On the steep Roman route to Pradela we walked among chestnut trees with their catkins, and tall pines. These rose from the ground that was covered in broom and gorse and in rich green grass and ferns. The smell of resin filled the cool air, and we panted generously as we climbed up hill. Released from the weight of the packs, Randi and I made good time and passed dozens of burdened pilgrims.
I I I
Per gravia quidem itinera et laboriosus montes fridosque nivibus et glacie praete-ritae hiemis
Somewhere between the Cerro del Real and the Pena de Roldán between Villafranca and Trabadelo, I came across a clearing in the path. On the ground by the path, passersby had written messages using small stones. One read “Prisciliano Vive.”
Oh Priscillian! Ape of St. James! I could not tolerate your stain on the side of the hill. I could not countenance your illegitimate appropriation of the Apostolic Way, for the jurisdiction of the Councils of Toledo and Braga and the homilies of St. Turibius reached this far! Truth’s jurisdiction is the heart and so there is no sanctuary from it. A pilgrim’s feet follow his heart, and in my case both were given to St. James. So it was that my feet shuffled back and forth over the stones until the heretic’s name—the patron of magic, dualism, and revolt—was erased from the side of that hill. If I am accused of intolerance, I can only say, “Santiago made me do it!”
I I I
over the río Balboa, into Portela, Ambas-mestas, Vega de Valcarce, Ruitelán,
As I walked without the pack through the mountains, I thought how the pack was a spiritual analogy of the burden of a pilgrim’s inordinate affections. Contrary to the teachings of the dualists such as Priscillian, it is not the body that keeps us from union with the Divine, which is our goal, it is the burden of our inordinate affections. Only the pure in the body shall see God. There is no such thing as someone pure in the soul, but not in the body, although it may be the case that one is pure in the body, but not in the soul. Fundamentally, the call of Christianity is to be pure in both body and soul, for only the clean of heart shall see God. The heart is of both flesh and spirit.
From the top of the Peña de Roldán, we took a steep descent into the town of Trabadelo, which was by the highway. From the town of Trabadelo we walked on the narrow shoulder of the highway and were continuously threatened by large trucks that whizzed past us without care. So we walked past the arroyos Paradela and Valdelobos to the town of Portela del Valcarce. At Portela we stopped for a snack.
From Portela we left the highway and walked on a paved road, through the farms and fields of a narrow valley bordered by mountains. Upon crossing the río Balboa, we entered the village of Ambasmestas. The waters of the tributary Balboa mix with those of the río Valcarce, giving the town its name, which means mixed waters. As we passed through town, we paused to see a religious procession in which the whole town joined. It was the feast day of Our Lady of Carmel, and she must be patroness of the town, for an image of Our Lady headed the procession. There did not appear to be a single denize of the town who did not participate in the procession.
Castrum Sarra-cenium
Further on, by the town of Vega de Valcarce, we saw the remnants of the 14th/15th century Castro de Sarracín to our left, and on the right we saw nothing of its companion castle, the Castro de Veiga, which one time stood guard in these parts. From these heights, the castles protected this defile from outlaws and armies. Now no longer needed and so for a long while, the castles have practically disappeared. Perhaps they were destroyed when no longer needed so that thieves, brigands, and other malcontents would not find them comfortable hideouts.
across the río Valcarce into Herrerías.
From Vega de Valcarce we headed downhill through a wood of beautiful chestnut trees to Ruitelán. Here in Ruitelán San Froilán and his disciple San Attilanus lived as hermits according to tradition. St. Froilán was later to become bishop of León and patron of the city of Lugo, and St. Attilanus bishop of the neighboring diocese of Zamora. At León’s cathedral I had prayed before the relics of San Froilán. A chapel in Ruietelán is dedicated to the holy bishop who died circa 905.
From Ruitelán we headed up a lovely trail on the mountain’s side to Herrerías, a tiny hamlet where the old Hospital Inglés, mentioned by Pope Alexander III in a papal bull of 1178, once operated. So did blacksmiths of strong arm and strong heart, for they wielded heavy hammers with great facility according to Picaud. I accepted both upon human faith, for my eyes saw neither sign of hammer or forge nor sign of a hospital here. I did not have the leisure to go searching for them, for my leisure had been given to St. James, and my heart was set on reaching the village of O Cebreiro.
I I I
La Faba, Lamas, and Laguna de Castilla
León,
Castilla y León
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Lugo,
Galicia
From Herrerías on the architecture changed significantly. It became more Celtic and primitive. The uphill route from Herrerías to the town of La Faba is called by the locals the camino de la Faba. The walk was steep. The trail intertwined with the muddy bottoms of an arroyo, for we frequently walked on flagstones and boulders over flowing water. Finally, we crossed the arroyo Refogo by means of an old Roman bridge, and encountered the famous corredoiras, or mountain paths, which lead us to the town of La Faba. These corredoiras are narrow paths, used by the subsistence farmers and their carts, and they run under arches of trees, so it seems that one is walking through a dark yet airy tunnel of green. At times the corredoiras run deep in the ground, and walls of soil and stone rise up many feet on either side of the pilgrim. It is cool and fresh in the shade of these mountain paths.
The trees thinned out and the climb became less steep as we left the valley of the Valcarce below us on our climb to O Cebreiro through La Faba. At La Faba we saw our first palloza. The pallozas, the design of which were originally brought here by the Celts, are simple, rustic, and primitive structures with round walls built of rock, heavy square stone lintels, and roofed with thick straw thatch.
From La Faba we headed to Laguna de Castilla, a small, but prosperous farming village. It was the last town of the province of León. At a marker that divides the province of León and Galicia, I stopped. I kissed the soil of León on one side of the marker, and kissed the soil of Galicia on the other. I was careless in kissing the soil, and got dirt in my mouth. I spit—whether the soil was Leonese or Galician I did not know—but I spit it out in Galicia.
I I I
From Laguna de Castilla we climbed, with weary feet but happy hearts, into Galicia. “This country,” Picaud tells us, “is wooded. Provided with excellent rivers, meadows and orchards, and with plenty of good fruits and clear springs.” Of its fruits and of its peoples, Picaud tells us further:
Bread, wheat, and wine are scarce, but rye bread and cider abound, as do livestock and beasts of burden, milk, and honey. The sea fish is either enormously large or small. The land abounds in gold and silver, fabrics, the fur of wild animals and many other goods, as well as in Saracen treasures. The Galicians, ahead of the other uncouth nations of Spain, are those who best agree in their habits with our French people; but they are irascible and contentious.[ii]
Villaus = La Faba
Portus mons Februarii inde hospitale in cacumine eiusdem montis in Gallecia
While we may have been pleased to enter into Galicia, we had yet happier hearts as we drew into the village of O Cebreiro. O Cebreiro is a humble hamlet grown around a church, whose origins as an ancient monastery founded to help the pilgrims to Compostela can be traced to the year 836. The apse of the church is slightly sunk into the ground, and it is built of heavy gray and rusticated granite, with a rugged flagstone roof. The church is surrounded by the primitive structures of Celtic design called pallozas. The inside of the church was small, but it had one nave and two side aisles nevertheless. A ponderous yet lovely stone crucifix commanded the square main apse. The main apse was of two bays, and had a barrel vaulted ceiling. The main nave was of three bays separated by square piers. Simple hammer-beam wood structures supported the weight of the flagstone roof. The beams rested on rock anchors that jutted out of the thick stone walls. The ceiling was of rough-hewn timber. Likewise, the side aisles had slanted ceilings of rough timber.
To the right of the crucifix at a side apse was a silver tabernacle on an altar. To its right a statue of Santa Maria La Real. Above the tabernacle was a large box of glass and within this box resting on red velvet were an old chalice, a paten, and a couple of vials or reliquaries. Before these implements I knelt, for here before me was the Mystery Most Great.
I I I
About the Way: The Mystery Most Great
The town of O Cebreiro is famous throughout Europe, and not just to the pilgrims of Compostela who pass through the Puerto de Piedrafita and tarry here. It is the town of the Mystery Most Great, for it is here that a great Eucharistic miracle occurred in the 1300s. The marvelous story is that a peasant from the nearby hamlet of Barxamajor climbed up the mountain trails during a winter storm to hear his daily Mass. The parish priest, whose faith in the Magnum Mysterium was weak, was offering Mass. When he saw the peasant’s sacrifice, the priest grew angry within, thinking the peasant a fool to come the distance in the cold of a winter blizzard to worship but wine and bread. But the real fool was the priest (the 15th century Spanish poet Lincenciado Molina called him a “clerigo idiota”), for he had caved into the testimony of his senses, and refused the sure guidance of the dogma of the Church and the Word of God. Following the consecration, clearly through no merit of the priest but by his ordination—ex opere operato not ex opere operantis—the host turned visibly into the Lord’s Flesh and the wine turned visibly into the Lord’s Blood, the accidents unusually following the usual substantial change.
Until you reach O Cebreiro, gateway to Galicia
i
O Cebreiro
Is this place of the Celtic pallozas the Monsalvat in Spain, scene of Richard Wagner’s last opera Parsifal? I do not know. But, in O Cebreiro I heard strains of music clear from Bayreuth. I think this may have been a miracle:
Wein und Brod des letzten Mahles The wine and bread of the last supper
Wandelt’ einst der Herr des Grales, Transformed by the Lord of the Grail
Durch des Mitleid’s Libesmacht, By the means of the power of the love
In das Blut, das er vergoss, In the Blood that He shed,
In den Leib, den dar er bracht! In his Body that was broken!
So Richard Wagner, who I’ve read referred to the autos sacramentales of the Spanish playwright-priest Calderón in writing Parsifal, wrote of the Mysterium Fidei in his libretto and his stave book; pity that for him and for us that, with his prodigious genius, he never engraved this Mystery in his heart.
Whether humble O Cebreiro was the scene of Wagner’s opera or not, it claims to be the scene of this great Eucharistic miracle, and I prayed before the very same. And the memories of the Holy Grail do run deep here, so much that the Gold Grail and the Holy Sacrament are charged on the coat of arms of Galicia, on a field azure under a crosslet and two pales of three crosslets each all argent. And I sung here sotto voce so that none but God could hear me that most wonderful of hymns in thanksgiving to the Sacrament, the Pange lingua of St. Thomas of Aquino.
Höchster Heiles Wunder!
Hoc est enim corpus meum
Pange lingua gloriosi. Corporis mysterium Sanguinis pretiosi Quem in mundi pretium
It is by this miracle, in the town of O Cebreiro, by the frenzy of God’s love, as Blessed Josemaría Escriva calls the Eucharist, that we spent a frenzied night in the small refugio here. The refugio is designed to house eighty pilgrims, but more than two hundred pilgrims were crowded in the refugio that evening. None of the hotels or hostals had any room—so a Norwegian pilgrim told us, and so the managers of the couple of hotels we checked confirmed. The reason for the great influx of pilgrims on the route is that many pilgrims, especially the youth groups, joined the route here; they are shuttled into O Cebreiro by buses and first begin their walk from these heights.
The bathrooms were foul. They had been overused and misused by thoughtless pilgrims, and smelled of urine and feces. I did not take a shower. I did not brush my teeth. I spent that night on the floor of a narrow supply closet, on two wool blankets, next to first aid supplies, kitchen utensils, pots and pans, and other sundries.
Thus O Cebreiro gave us a night of very little comfort and very little sleep. But I learned to be thankful or eucharistic for the little I had. It rained cold rain all evening and night, and I had a much better sleep than the many pilgrims who were forced to spend a miserable night outside.
W Waning crescent moon
k
[i] Source:
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 96. “O most loving Father, give unto me to behold for all eternity face to face Thine own beloved Son, whom now upon my pilgrimage I purpose to receive under a veil, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, world without end. Amen.”
____Oratio Sancti Aquinitatis Ante Missam[i]
Into Villa-franca del Bierzo
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Iglesia de Santiago de Peñalba
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Nuestra Señora de Cruñego
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San Francisco
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San Pedro
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Santa María
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San Nicolas
On the Way: Cacabelos to Villafranca del Bierzo
We departed Cacabelos rather late in the morning; indeed, later than we had planned the evening before. We had had a late dinner the evening before, and we knew that the weather would be cool the next day. There was, consequently, no need to depart early. Some German pilgrims on the side of the road delayed us yet longer as we reached the outskirts of Cacabelos. They hailed us to where they sat, and insisted that we try some of the piping hot sweetbreads that could be had for a farthing at the Panadería. I had a couple of freshly baked chocolate neapolitanos. It was so inexpensive Fred whispered under his breath that he felt he was stealing from the good-natured baker.
Thus fortified by the products of the baker’s trade, we walked briskly toward the town of Villafranca. Having crossed the río Cuu out of Cacabelos, we followed the arroyo Valdepedroño until we parted with it by bearing to the left by Pieros back onto the Camino. There is a church in Pieros, dedicated to St. Martin, with evidence that it dates back at least to 1086.
We walked north of the Cerro de Ventosa, atop of which is the Castrum Bergidum, the site of an old Asturian town, captured by the Romans. It is that ancient town’s name, at least the last part of it, that gave the name to this valley of the Bierzo.
Immediately beside an old farmhouse, Fred’s pack broke. The shoulder straps of his back pack had completely torn. He insisted that we go on as he repaired his pack. I gave him some nylon rope I had with me. I had a hunch that he intended to do more than fix his pack. I suspected he also intended to sketch a quaint farmhouse that stood nearby from the rock on which he sat to fix his pack. We said goodbye to the good pilgrim Fred. We were not to see him again.
From the farmhouse, the Camino crossed the arroyo Valtuille by means of a bridge, and just beyond the brook, on the pilgrim’s right, was the Venta del Jubileo, an old inn. From here we climbed until the Camino joined with the road from Valtuille de Arriba. We followed that road called the camino de la Virgen by turning left and heading down. The road led us, ever so gracefully, into the village of Villafranca del Bierzo.
Villafranca del Bierzo is the Villa Francorum, the town of the Franks, and it sat nestled in a valley at the confluence of the Burbia and Valcarce rivers and surrounded by mountains. The road led us directly to the church of Santiago, which we sought to enter to give thanks to God for a good and healthful walk, full of good thoughts, and a happy heart. Dating from the twelfth century, the church has an aged and worn multilobed north portal, called the puerta del Perdón. Pilgrims too sick or weak to continue to Compostela gained here—by special dispensation—the same spiritual benefits. The journey here was long enough, and for the old and infirm it took away the need to climb the range of mountains into Galicia. When it comes to sin, the Church, like God, like the Father of the Prodigal Son, appears sometimes rigorous if we persist in sin’s thrall, but always meets us more than half-way if we seek freedom from it.
The castle of the marquis of Villafranca, which dominates the town, was built in the 15th century. It is a square, crenellated structure of yellow rock, with four round, squat and barrel-looking towers, also crenellated, at its corners. The towers are topped with round tiled roofs that rise to a sharp point, and look like witches’ hats.
We stopped at an albergue in Villafranca, and met the hospitaller, a man named Gus. White-haired but hale, this German man was a gifted polyglot. He spoke his native German, and his acquired English and Spanish with perfect ease and nary an accent. He wondered at my Spanish until he discovered the land of my birth. Gus offered to take our packs up to the town of O Cebreiro, so to free us from their burdens on the difficult climb up the mountains ahead.
The offer was tempting, for release from the packs for one day promised greater distances and a great relief. I accepted the offer. “The packs,” I thought, “did not make a vow to take no wheeled thing, and I did not take a vow to walk with a pack.” I only had vowed only to take no wheeled thing. Gus’s offer left my vow untouched, unbesmirched. Even if there was some relationship between the pack and the vow, as Belloc observed the essence of a vow is in its literal meaning. The literal intendment of the vow allowed for it. And this was much less a breach—if it was one at all—than the more lax Belloc justified by that rule, for he rode on a cart and hung his feet of the edge dragging them on the ground and later even justified riding a train on his pilgrimage to Rome.
Villa Franca de bucca Vallis Carceris
Cruñego = Cluniac
Leave Villa-franca
Over the río Burbia to the río Valcarce
Follow the vía Romana north of the Valcarce and down toTraba-delo
Villafranca del Bierzo to O Cebreiro
From Villafranca to the town of O Cebreiro, the way was long and uphill. It would have been most difficult, and perhaps unachievable, with our packs. Villafranca is about 500 meters above sea level and O Cebreiro lies high in Sierra de los Ancares at 1,300 meters. A medieval cleric complained that these mountains, which divide Galicia from Castille, were difficult and wearisome to traverse. But he crossed during the cold of winter, and we did not. From Villafranca onwards the culture becomes notably Galician, though the provincial government remained Leonese until shortly before O Cebreiro where we formally passed from the province of León into the Galician province of Lugo. From Villafranca nearly to Santiago, the way is rural, the churches rustic, the homes humble.
Released from the burden of our packs we walked briskly uphill and out of the town of Villafranca. Once out of Villafranca we crossed the cold and crisp waters of the río Burbia and soon met the waters of the Valcarce. As we approached the Madrid-La Coruña highway (N-VI) we had to decide which way to go, for the guides posited three possibilities: (1) following the N-VI; (2) the vía Dragonte; and (3) the ruta Romana. We decided on the ruta Romana, bearing right just beyond the Burbia River. It took us up almost 500 meters to Pradela (1020 m.) via the southern face of the cerro del Real and the northern of the Pena de Roldán.
On the steep Roman route to Pradela we walked among chestnut trees with their catkins, and tall pines. These rose from the ground that was covered in broom and gorse and in rich green grass and ferns. The smell of resin filled the cool air, and we panted generously as we climbed up hill. Released from the weight of the packs, Randi and I made good time and passed dozens of burdened pilgrims.
I I I
Per gravia quidem itinera et laboriosus montes fridosque nivibus et glacie praete-ritae hiemis
Somewhere between the Cerro del Real and the Pena de Roldán between Villafranca and Trabadelo, I came across a clearing in the path. On the ground by the path, passersby had written messages using small stones. One read “Prisciliano Vive.”
Oh Priscillian! Ape of St. James! I could not tolerate your stain on the side of the hill. I could not countenance your illegitimate appropriation of the Apostolic Way, for the jurisdiction of the Councils of Toledo and Braga and the homilies of St. Turibius reached this far! Truth’s jurisdiction is the heart and so there is no sanctuary from it. A pilgrim’s feet follow his heart, and in my case both were given to St. James. So it was that my feet shuffled back and forth over the stones until the heretic’s name—the patron of magic, dualism, and revolt—was erased from the side of that hill. If I am accused of intolerance, I can only say, “Santiago made me do it!”
I I I
over the río Balboa, into Portela, Ambas-mestas, Vega de Valcarce, Ruitelán,
As I walked without the pack through the mountains, I thought how the pack was a spiritual analogy of the burden of a pilgrim’s inordinate affections. Contrary to the teachings of the dualists such as Priscillian, it is not the body that keeps us from union with the Divine, which is our goal, it is the burden of our inordinate affections. Only the pure in the body shall see God. There is no such thing as someone pure in the soul, but not in the body, although it may be the case that one is pure in the body, but not in the soul. Fundamentally, the call of Christianity is to be pure in both body and soul, for only the clean of heart shall see God. The heart is of both flesh and spirit.
From the top of the Peña de Roldán, we took a steep descent into the town of Trabadelo, which was by the highway. From the town of Trabadelo we walked on the narrow shoulder of the highway and were continuously threatened by large trucks that whizzed past us without care. So we walked past the arroyos Paradela and Valdelobos to the town of Portela del Valcarce. At Portela we stopped for a snack.
From Portela we left the highway and walked on a paved road, through the farms and fields of a narrow valley bordered by mountains. Upon crossing the río Balboa, we entered the village of Ambasmestas. The waters of the tributary Balboa mix with those of the río Valcarce, giving the town its name, which means mixed waters. As we passed through town, we paused to see a religious procession in which the whole town joined. It was the feast day of Our Lady of Carmel, and she must be patroness of the town, for an image of Our Lady headed the procession. There did not appear to be a single denize of the town who did not participate in the procession.
Castrum Sarra-cenium
Further on, by the town of Vega de Valcarce, we saw the remnants of the 14th/15th century Castro de Sarracín to our left, and on the right we saw nothing of its companion castle, the Castro de Veiga, which one time stood guard in these parts. From these heights, the castles protected this defile from outlaws and armies. Now no longer needed and so for a long while, the castles have practically disappeared. Perhaps they were destroyed when no longer needed so that thieves, brigands, and other malcontents would not find them comfortable hideouts.
across the río Valcarce into Herrerías.
From Vega de Valcarce we headed downhill through a wood of beautiful chestnut trees to Ruitelán. Here in Ruitelán San Froilán and his disciple San Attilanus lived as hermits according to tradition. St. Froilán was later to become bishop of León and patron of the city of Lugo, and St. Attilanus bishop of the neighboring diocese of Zamora. At León’s cathedral I had prayed before the relics of San Froilán. A chapel in Ruietelán is dedicated to the holy bishop who died circa 905.
From Ruitelán we headed up a lovely trail on the mountain’s side to Herrerías, a tiny hamlet where the old Hospital Inglés, mentioned by Pope Alexander III in a papal bull of 1178, once operated. So did blacksmiths of strong arm and strong heart, for they wielded heavy hammers with great facility according to Picaud. I accepted both upon human faith, for my eyes saw neither sign of hammer or forge nor sign of a hospital here. I did not have the leisure to go searching for them, for my leisure had been given to St. James, and my heart was set on reaching the village of O Cebreiro.
I I I
La Faba, Lamas, and Laguna de Castilla
León,
Castilla y León
=======
Lugo,
Galicia
From Herrerías on the architecture changed significantly. It became more Celtic and primitive. The uphill route from Herrerías to the town of La Faba is called by the locals the camino de la Faba. The walk was steep. The trail intertwined with the muddy bottoms of an arroyo, for we frequently walked on flagstones and boulders over flowing water. Finally, we crossed the arroyo Refogo by means of an old Roman bridge, and encountered the famous corredoiras, or mountain paths, which lead us to the town of La Faba. These corredoiras are narrow paths, used by the subsistence farmers and their carts, and they run under arches of trees, so it seems that one is walking through a dark yet airy tunnel of green. At times the corredoiras run deep in the ground, and walls of soil and stone rise up many feet on either side of the pilgrim. It is cool and fresh in the shade of these mountain paths.
The trees thinned out and the climb became less steep as we left the valley of the Valcarce below us on our climb to O Cebreiro through La Faba. At La Faba we saw our first palloza. The pallozas, the design of which were originally brought here by the Celts, are simple, rustic, and primitive structures with round walls built of rock, heavy square stone lintels, and roofed with thick straw thatch.
From La Faba we headed to Laguna de Castilla, a small, but prosperous farming village. It was the last town of the province of León. At a marker that divides the province of León and Galicia, I stopped. I kissed the soil of León on one side of the marker, and kissed the soil of Galicia on the other. I was careless in kissing the soil, and got dirt in my mouth. I spit—whether the soil was Leonese or Galician I did not know—but I spit it out in Galicia.
I I I
From Laguna de Castilla we climbed, with weary feet but happy hearts, into Galicia. “This country,” Picaud tells us, “is wooded. Provided with excellent rivers, meadows and orchards, and with plenty of good fruits and clear springs.” Of its fruits and of its peoples, Picaud tells us further:
Bread, wheat, and wine are scarce, but rye bread and cider abound, as do livestock and beasts of burden, milk, and honey. The sea fish is either enormously large or small. The land abounds in gold and silver, fabrics, the fur of wild animals and many other goods, as well as in Saracen treasures. The Galicians, ahead of the other uncouth nations of Spain, are those who best agree in their habits with our French people; but they are irascible and contentious.[ii]
Villaus = La Faba
Portus mons Februarii inde hospitale in cacumine eiusdem montis in Gallecia
While we may have been pleased to enter into Galicia, we had yet happier hearts as we drew into the village of O Cebreiro. O Cebreiro is a humble hamlet grown around a church, whose origins as an ancient monastery founded to help the pilgrims to Compostela can be traced to the year 836. The apse of the church is slightly sunk into the ground, and it is built of heavy gray and rusticated granite, with a rugged flagstone roof. The church is surrounded by the primitive structures of Celtic design called pallozas. The inside of the church was small, but it had one nave and two side aisles nevertheless. A ponderous yet lovely stone crucifix commanded the square main apse. The main apse was of two bays, and had a barrel vaulted ceiling. The main nave was of three bays separated by square piers. Simple hammer-beam wood structures supported the weight of the flagstone roof. The beams rested on rock anchors that jutted out of the thick stone walls. The ceiling was of rough-hewn timber. Likewise, the side aisles had slanted ceilings of rough timber.
To the right of the crucifix at a side apse was a silver tabernacle on an altar. To its right a statue of Santa Maria La Real. Above the tabernacle was a large box of glass and within this box resting on red velvet were an old chalice, a paten, and a couple of vials or reliquaries. Before these implements I knelt, for here before me was the Mystery Most Great.
I I I
About the Way: The Mystery Most Great
The town of O Cebreiro is famous throughout Europe, and not just to the pilgrims of Compostela who pass through the Puerto de Piedrafita and tarry here. It is the town of the Mystery Most Great, for it is here that a great Eucharistic miracle occurred in the 1300s. The marvelous story is that a peasant from the nearby hamlet of Barxamajor climbed up the mountain trails during a winter storm to hear his daily Mass. The parish priest, whose faith in the Magnum Mysterium was weak, was offering Mass. When he saw the peasant’s sacrifice, the priest grew angry within, thinking the peasant a fool to come the distance in the cold of a winter blizzard to worship but wine and bread. But the real fool was the priest (the 15th century Spanish poet Lincenciado Molina called him a “clerigo idiota”), for he had caved into the testimony of his senses, and refused the sure guidance of the dogma of the Church and the Word of God. Following the consecration, clearly through no merit of the priest but by his ordination—ex opere operato not ex opere operantis—the host turned visibly into the Lord’s Flesh and the wine turned visibly into the Lord’s Blood, the accidents unusually following the usual substantial change.
Until you reach O Cebreiro, gateway to Galicia
i
O Cebreiro
Is this place of the Celtic pallozas the Monsalvat in Spain, scene of Richard Wagner’s last opera Parsifal? I do not know. But, in O Cebreiro I heard strains of music clear from Bayreuth. I think this may have been a miracle:
Wein und Brod des letzten Mahles The wine and bread of the last supper
Wandelt’ einst der Herr des Grales, Transformed by the Lord of the Grail
Durch des Mitleid’s Libesmacht, By the means of the power of the love
In das Blut, das er vergoss, In the Blood that He shed,
In den Leib, den dar er bracht! In his Body that was broken!
So Richard Wagner, who I’ve read referred to the autos sacramentales of the Spanish playwright-priest Calderón in writing Parsifal, wrote of the Mysterium Fidei in his libretto and his stave book; pity that for him and for us that, with his prodigious genius, he never engraved this Mystery in his heart.
Whether humble O Cebreiro was the scene of Wagner’s opera or not, it claims to be the scene of this great Eucharistic miracle, and I prayed before the very same. And the memories of the Holy Grail do run deep here, so much that the Gold Grail and the Holy Sacrament are charged on the coat of arms of Galicia, on a field azure under a crosslet and two pales of three crosslets each all argent. And I sung here sotto voce so that none but God could hear me that most wonderful of hymns in thanksgiving to the Sacrament, the Pange lingua of St. Thomas of Aquino.
Höchster Heiles Wunder!
Hoc est enim corpus meum
Pange lingua gloriosi. Corporis mysterium Sanguinis pretiosi Quem in mundi pretium
It is by this miracle, in the town of O Cebreiro, by the frenzy of God’s love, as Blessed Josemaría Escriva calls the Eucharist, that we spent a frenzied night in the small refugio here. The refugio is designed to house eighty pilgrims, but more than two hundred pilgrims were crowded in the refugio that evening. None of the hotels or hostals had any room—so a Norwegian pilgrim told us, and so the managers of the couple of hotels we checked confirmed. The reason for the great influx of pilgrims on the route is that many pilgrims, especially the youth groups, joined the route here; they are shuttled into O Cebreiro by buses and first begin their walk from these heights.
The bathrooms were foul. They had been overused and misused by thoughtless pilgrims, and smelled of urine and feces. I did not take a shower. I did not brush my teeth. I spent that night on the floor of a narrow supply closet, on two wool blankets, next to first aid supplies, kitchen utensils, pots and pans, and other sundries.
Thus O Cebreiro gave us a night of very little comfort and very little sleep. But I learned to be thankful or eucharistic for the little I had. It rained cold rain all evening and night, and I had a much better sleep than the many pilgrims who were forced to spend a miserable night outside.
W Waning crescent moon
k
[i] Source:
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 96.
____Oratio Sancti Aquinitatis Ante Missam[i]
Into Villa-franca del Bierzo
k
Iglesia de Santiago de Peñalba
k
Nuestra Señora de Cruñego
k
San Francisco
k
San Pedro
k
Santa María
k
San Nicolas
On the Way: Cacabelos to Villafranca del Bierzo
We departed Cacabelos rather late in the morning; indeed, later than we had planned the evening before. We had had a late dinner the evening before, and we knew that the weather would be cool the next day. There was, consequently, no need to depart early. Some German pilgrims on the side of the road delayed us yet longer as we reached the outskirts of Cacabelos. They hailed us to where they sat, and insisted that we try some of the piping hot sweetbreads that could be had for a farthing at the Panadería. I had a couple of freshly baked chocolate neapolitanos. It was so inexpensive Fred whispered under his breath that he felt he was stealing from the good-natured baker.
Thus fortified by the products of the baker’s trade, we walked briskly toward the town of Villafranca. Having crossed the río Cuu out of Cacabelos, we followed the arroyo Valdepedroño until we parted with it by bearing to the left by Pieros back onto the Camino. There is a church in Pieros, dedicated to St. Martin, with evidence that it dates back at least to 1086.
We walked north of the Cerro de Ventosa, atop of which is the Castrum Bergidum, the site of an old Asturian town, captured by the Romans. It is that ancient town’s name, at least the last part of it, that gave the name to this valley of the Bierzo.
Immediately beside an old farmhouse, Fred’s pack broke. The shoulder straps of his back pack had completely torn. He insisted that we go on as he repaired his pack. I gave him some nylon rope I had with me. I had a hunch that he intended to do more than fix his pack. I suspected he also intended to sketch a quaint farmhouse that stood nearby from the rock on which he sat to fix his pack. We said goodbye to the good pilgrim Fred. We were not to see him again.
From the farmhouse, the Camino crossed the arroyo Valtuille by means of a bridge, and just beyond the brook, on the pilgrim’s right, was the Venta del Jubileo, an old inn. From here we climbed until the Camino joined with the road from Valtuille de Arriba. We followed that road called the camino de la Virgen by turning left and heading down. The road led us, ever so gracefully, into the village of Villafranca del Bierzo.
Villafranca del Bierzo is the Villa Francorum, the town of the Franks, and it sat nestled in a valley at the confluence of the Burbia and Valcarce rivers and surrounded by mountains. The road led us directly to the church of Santiago, which we sought to enter to give thanks to God for a good and healthful walk, full of good thoughts, and a happy heart. Dating from the twelfth century, the church has an aged and worn multilobed north portal, called the puerta del Perdón. Pilgrims too sick or weak to continue to Compostela gained here—by special dispensation—the same spiritual benefits. The journey here was long enough, and for the old and infirm it took away the need to climb the range of mountains into Galicia. When it comes to sin, the Church, like God, like the Father of the Prodigal Son, appears sometimes rigorous if we persist in sin’s thrall, but always meets us more than half-way if we seek freedom from it.
The castle of the marquis of Villafranca, which dominates the town, was built in the 15th century. It is a square, crenellated structure of yellow rock, with four round, squat and barrel-looking towers, also crenellated, at its corners. The towers are topped with round tiled roofs that rise to a sharp point, and look like witches’ hats.
We stopped at an albergue in Villafranca, and met the hospitaller, a man named Gus. White-haired but hale, this German man was a gifted polyglot. He spoke his native German, and his acquired English and Spanish with perfect ease and nary an accent. He wondered at my Spanish until he discovered the land of my birth. Gus offered to take our packs up to the town of O Cebreiro, so to free us from their burdens on the difficult climb up the mountains ahead.
The offer was tempting, for release from the packs for one day promised greater distances and a great relief. I accepted the offer. “The packs,” I thought, “did not make a vow to take no wheeled thing, and I did not take a vow to walk with a pack.” I only had vowed only to take no wheeled thing. Gus’s offer left my vow untouched, unbesmirched. Even if there was some relationship between the pack and the vow, as Belloc observed the essence of a vow is in its literal meaning. The literal intendment of the vow allowed for it. And this was much less a breach—if it was one at all—than the more lax Belloc justified by that rule, for he rode on a cart and hung his feet of the edge dragging them on the ground and later even justified riding a train on his pilgrimage to Rome.
Villa Franca de bucca Vallis Carceris
Cruñego = Cluniac
Leave Villa-franca
Over the río Burbia to the río Valcarce
Follow the vía Romana north of the Valcarce and down toTraba-delo
Villafranca del Bierzo to O Cebreiro
From Villafranca to the town of O Cebreiro, the way was long and uphill. It would have been most difficult, and perhaps unachievable, with our packs. Villafranca is about 500 meters above sea level and O Cebreiro lies high in Sierra de los Ancares at 1,300 meters. A medieval cleric complained that these mountains, which divide Galicia from Castille, were difficult and wearisome to traverse. But he crossed during the cold of winter, and we did not. From Villafranca onwards the culture becomes notably Galician, though the provincial government remained Leonese until shortly before O Cebreiro where we formally passed from the province of León into the Galician province of Lugo. From Villafranca nearly to Santiago, the way is rural, the churches rustic, the homes humble.
Released from the burden of our packs we walked briskly uphill and out of the town of Villafranca. Once out of Villafranca we crossed the cold and crisp waters of the río Burbia and soon met the waters of the Valcarce. As we approached the Madrid-La Coruña highway (N-VI) we had to decide which way to go, for the guides posited three possibilities: (1) following the N-VI; (2) the vía Dragonte; and (3) the ruta Romana. We decided on the ruta Romana, bearing right just beyond the Burbia River. It took us up almost 500 meters to Pradela (1020 m.) via the southern face of the cerro del Real and the northern of the Pena de Roldán.
On the steep Roman route to Pradela we walked among chestnut trees with their catkins, and tall pines. These rose from the ground that was covered in broom and gorse and in rich green grass and ferns. The smell of resin filled the cool air, and we panted generously as we climbed up hill. Released from the weight of the packs, Randi and I made good time and passed dozens of burdened pilgrims.
I I I
Per gravia quidem itinera et laboriosus montes fridosque nivibus et glacie praete-ritae hiemis
Somewhere between the Cerro del Real and the Pena de Roldán between Villafranca and Trabadelo, I came across a clearing in the path. On the ground by the path, passersby had written messages using small stones. One read “Prisciliano Vive.”
Oh Priscillian! Ape of St. James! I could not tolerate your stain on the side of the hill. I could not countenance your illegitimate appropriation of the Apostolic Way, for the jurisdiction of the Councils of Toledo and Braga and the homilies of St. Turibius reached this far! Truth’s jurisdiction is the heart and so there is no sanctuary from it. A pilgrim’s feet follow his heart, and in my case both were given to St. James. So it was that my feet shuffled back and forth over the stones until the heretic’s name—the patron of magic, dualism, and revolt—was erased from the side of that hill. If I am accused of intolerance, I can only say, “Santiago made me do it!”
I I I
over the río Balboa, into Portela, Ambas-mestas, Vega de Valcarce, Ruitelán,
As I walked without the pack through the mountains, I thought how the pack was a spiritual analogy of the burden of a pilgrim’s inordinate affections. Contrary to the teachings of the dualists such as Priscillian, it is not the body that keeps us from union with the Divine, which is our goal, it is the burden of our inordinate affections. Only the pure in the body shall see God. There is no such thing as someone pure in the soul, but not in the body, although it may be the case that one is pure in the body, but not in the soul. Fundamentally, the call of Christianity is to be pure in both body and soul, for only the clean of heart shall see God. The heart is of both flesh and spirit.
From the top of the Peña de Roldán, we took a steep descent into the town of Trabadelo, which was by the highway. From the town of Trabadelo we walked on the narrow shoulder of the highway and were continuously threatened by large trucks that whizzed past us without care. So we walked past the arroyos Paradela and Valdelobos to the town of Portela del Valcarce. At Portela we stopped for a snack.
From Portela we left the highway and walked on a paved road, through the farms and fields of a narrow valley bordered by mountains. Upon crossing the río Balboa, we entered the village of Ambasmestas. The waters of the tributary Balboa mix with those of the río Valcarce, giving the town its name, which means mixed waters. As we passed through town, we paused to see a religious procession in which the whole town joined. It was the feast day of Our Lady of Carmel, and she must be patroness of the town, for an image of Our Lady headed the procession. There did not appear to be a single denize of the town who did not participate in the procession.
Castrum Sarra-cenium
Further on, by the town of Vega de Valcarce, we saw the remnants of the 14th/15th century Castro de Sarracín to our left, and on the right we saw nothing of its companion castle, the Castro de Veiga, which one time stood guard in these parts. From these heights, the castles protected this defile from outlaws and armies. Now no longer needed and so for a long while, the castles have practically disappeared. Perhaps they were destroyed when no longer needed so that thieves, brigands, and other malcontents would not find them comfortable hideouts.
across the río Valcarce into Herrerías.
From Vega de Valcarce we headed downhill through a wood of beautiful chestnut trees to Ruitelán. Here in Ruitelán San Froilán and his disciple San Attilanus lived as hermits according to tradition. St. Froilán was later to become bishop of León and patron of the city of Lugo, and St. Attilanus bishop of the neighboring diocese of Zamora. At León’s cathedral I had prayed before the relics of San Froilán. A chapel in Ruietelán is dedicated to the holy bishop who died circa 905.
From Ruitelán we headed up a lovely trail on the mountain’s side to Herrerías, a tiny hamlet where the old Hospital Inglés, mentioned by Pope Alexander III in a papal bull of 1178, once operated. So did blacksmiths of strong arm and strong heart, for they wielded heavy hammers with great facility according to Picaud. I accepted both upon human faith, for my eyes saw neither sign of hammer or forge nor sign of a hospital here. I did not have the leisure to go searching for them, for my leisure had been given to St. James, and my heart was set on reaching the village of O Cebreiro.
I I I
La Faba, Lamas, and Laguna de Castilla
León,
Castilla y León
=======
Lugo,
Galicia
From Herrerías on the architecture changed significantly. It became more Celtic and primitive. The uphill route from Herrerías to the town of La Faba is called by the locals the camino de la Faba. The walk was steep. The trail intertwined with the muddy bottoms of an arroyo, for we frequently walked on flagstones and boulders over flowing water. Finally, we crossed the arroyo Refogo by means of an old Roman bridge, and encountered the famous corredoiras, or mountain paths, which lead us to the town of La Faba. These corredoiras are narrow paths, used by the subsistence farmers and their carts, and they run under arches of trees, so it seems that one is walking through a dark yet airy tunnel of green. At times the corredoiras run deep in the ground, and walls of soil and stone rise up many feet on either side of the pilgrim. It is cool and fresh in the shade of these mountain paths.
The trees thinned out and the climb became less steep as we left the valley of the Valcarce below us on our climb to O Cebreiro through La Faba. At La Faba we saw our first palloza. The pallozas, the design of which were originally brought here by the Celts, are simple, rustic, and primitive structures with round walls built of rock, heavy square stone lintels, and roofed with thick straw thatch.
From La Faba we headed to Laguna de Castilla, a small, but prosperous farming village. It was the last town of the province of León. At a marker that divides the province of León and Galicia, I stopped. I kissed the soil of León on one side of the marker, and kissed the soil of Galicia on the other. I was careless in kissing the soil, and got dirt in my mouth. I spit—whether the soil was Leonese or Galician I did not know—but I spit it out in Galicia.
I I I
From Laguna de Castilla we climbed, with weary feet but happy hearts, into Galicia. “This country,” Picaud tells us, “is wooded. Provided with excellent rivers, meadows and orchards, and with plenty of good fruits and clear springs.” Of its fruits and of its peoples, Picaud tells us further:
Bread, wheat, and wine are scarce, but rye bread and cider abound, as do livestock and beasts of burden, milk, and honey. The sea fish is either enormously large or small. The land abounds in gold and silver, fabrics, the fur of wild animals and many other goods, as well as in Saracen treasures. The Galicians, ahead of the other uncouth nations of Spain, are those who best agree in their habits with our French people; but they are irascible and contentious.[ii]
Villaus = La Faba
Portus mons Februarii inde hospitale in cacumine eiusdem montis in Gallecia
While we may have been pleased to enter into Galicia, we had yet happier hearts as we drew into the village of O Cebreiro. O Cebreiro is a humble hamlet grown around a church, whose origins as an ancient monastery founded to help the pilgrims to Compostela can be traced to the year 836. The apse of the church is slightly sunk into the ground, and it is built of heavy gray and rusticated granite, with a rugged flagstone roof. The church is surrounded by the primitive structures of Celtic design called pallozas. The inside of the church was small, but it had one nave and two side aisles nevertheless. A ponderous yet lovely stone crucifix commanded the square main apse. The main apse was of two bays, and had a barrel vaulted ceiling. The main nave was of three bays separated by square piers. Simple hammer-beam wood structures supported the weight of the flagstone roof. The beams rested on rock anchors that jutted out of the thick stone walls. The ceiling was of rough-hewn timber. Likewise, the side aisles had slanted ceilings of rough timber.
To the right of the crucifix at a side apse was a silver tabernacle on an altar. To its right a statue of Santa Maria La Real. Above the tabernacle was a large box of glass and within this box resting on red velvet were an old chalice, a paten, and a couple of vials or reliquaries. Before these implements I knelt, for here before me was the Mystery Most Great.
I I I
About the Way: The Mystery Most Great
The town of O Cebreiro is famous throughout Europe, and not just to the pilgrims of Compostela who pass through the Puerto de Piedrafita and tarry here. It is the town of the Mystery Most Great, for it is here that a great Eucharistic miracle occurred in the 1300s. The marvelous story is that a peasant from the nearby hamlet of Barxamajor climbed up the mountain trails during a winter storm to hear his daily Mass. The parish priest, whose faith in the Magnum Mysterium was weak, was offering Mass. When he saw the peasant’s sacrifice, the priest grew angry within, thinking the peasant a fool to come the distance in the cold of a winter blizzard to worship but wine and bread. But the real fool was the priest (the 15th century Spanish poet Lincenciado Molina called him a “clerigo idiota”), for he had caved into the testimony of his senses, and refused the sure guidance of the dogma of the Church and the Word of God. Following the consecration, clearly through no merit of the priest but by his ordination—ex opere operato not ex opere operantis—the host turned visibly into the Lord’s Flesh and the wine turned visibly into the Lord’s Blood, the accidents unusually following the usual substantial change.
Until you reach O Cebreiro, gateway to Galicia
i
O Cebreiro
Is this place of the Celtic pallozas the Monsalvat in Spain, scene of Richard Wagner’s last opera Parsifal? I do not know. But, in O Cebreiro I heard strains of music clear from Bayreuth. I think this may have been a miracle:
Wein und Brod des letzten Mahles The wine and bread of the last supper
Wandelt’ einst der Herr des Grales, Transformed by the Lord of the Grail
Durch des Mitleid’s Libesmacht, By the means of the power of the love
In das Blut, das er vergoss, In the Blood that He shed,
In den Leib, den dar er bracht! In his Body that was broken!
So Richard Wagner, who I’ve read referred to the autos sacramentales of the Spanish playwright-priest Calderón in writing Parsifal, wrote of the Mysterium Fidei in his libretto and his stave book; pity that for him and for us that, with his prodigious genius, he never engraved this Mystery in his heart.
Whether humble O Cebreiro was the scene of Wagner’s opera or not, it claims to be the scene of this great Eucharistic miracle, and I prayed before the very same. And the memories of the Holy Grail do run deep here, so much that the Gold Grail and the Holy Sacrament are charged on the coat of arms of Galicia, on a field azure under a crosslet and two pales of three crosslets each all argent. And I sung here sotto voce so that none but God could hear me that most wonderful of hymns in thanksgiving to the Sacrament, the Pange lingua of St. Thomas of Aquino.
Höchster Heiles Wunder!
Hoc est enim corpus meum
Pange lingua gloriosi. Corporis mysterium Sanguinis pretiosi Quem in mundi pretium
It is by this miracle, in the town of O Cebreiro, by the frenzy of God’s love, as Blessed Josemaría Escriva calls the Eucharist, that we spent a frenzied night in the small refugio here. The refugio is designed to house eighty pilgrims, but more than two hundred pilgrims were crowded in the refugio that evening. None of the hotels or hostals had any room—so a Norwegian pilgrim told us, and so the managers of the couple of hotels we checked confirmed. The reason for the great influx of pilgrims on the route is that many pilgrims, especially the youth groups, joined the route here; they are shuttled into O Cebreiro by buses and first begin their walk from these heights.
The bathrooms were foul. They had been overused and misused by thoughtless pilgrims, and smelled of urine and feces. I did not take a shower. I did not brush my teeth. I spent that night on the floor of a narrow supply closet, on two wool blankets, next to first aid supplies, kitchen utensils, pots and pans, and other sundries.
Thus O Cebreiro gave us a night of very little comfort and very little sleep. But I learned to be thankful or eucharistic for the little I had. It rained cold rain all evening and night, and I had a much better sleep than the many pilgrims who were forced to spend a miserable night outside.
W Waning crescent moon
k
[i] Source:
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 96. “O most loving Father, give unto me to behold for all eternity face to face Thine own beloved Son, whom now upon my pilgrimage I purpose to receive under a veil, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, world without end. Amen.”
____Oratio Sancti Aquinitatis Ante Missam[i]
Into Villa-franca del Bierzo
k
Iglesia de Santiago de Peñalba
k
Nuestra Señora de Cruñego
k
San Francisco
k
San Pedro
k
Santa María
k
San Nicolas
On the Way: Cacabelos to Villafranca del Bierzo
We departed Cacabelos rather late in the morning; indeed, later than we had planned the evening before. We had had a late dinner the evening before, and we knew that the weather would be cool the next day. There was, consequently, no need to depart early. Some German pilgrims on the side of the road delayed us yet longer as we reached the outskirts of Cacabelos. They hailed us to where they sat, and insisted that we try some of the piping hot sweetbreads that could be had for a farthing at the Panadería. I had a couple of freshly baked chocolate neapolitanos. It was so inexpensive Fred whispered under his breath that he felt he was stealing from the good-natured baker.
Thus fortified by the products of the baker’s trade, we walked briskly toward the town of Villafranca. Having crossed the río Cuu out of Cacabelos, we followed the arroyo Valdepedroño until we parted with it by bearing to the left by Pieros back onto the Camino. There is a church in Pieros, dedicated to St. Martin, with evidence that it dates back at least to 1086.
We walked north of the Cerro de Ventosa, atop of which is the Castrum Bergidum, the site of an old Asturian town, captured by the Romans. It is that ancient town’s name, at least the last part of it, that gave the name to this valley of the Bierzo.
Immediately beside an old farmhouse, Fred’s pack broke. The shoulder straps of his back pack had completely torn. He insisted that we go on as he repaired his pack. I gave him some nylon rope I had with me. I had a hunch that he intended to do more than fix his pack. I suspected he also intended to sketch a quaint farmhouse that stood nearby from the rock on which he sat to fix his pack. We said goodbye to the good pilgrim Fred. We were not to see him again.
From the farmhouse, the Camino crossed the arroyo Valtuille by means of a bridge, and just beyond the brook, on the pilgrim’s right, was the Venta del Jubileo, an old inn. From here we climbed until the Camino joined with the road from Valtuille de Arriba. We followed that road called the camino de la Virgen by turning left and heading down. The road led us, ever so gracefully, into the village of Villafranca del Bierzo.
Villafranca del Bierzo is the Villa Francorum, the town of the Franks, and it sat nestled in a valley at the confluence of the Burbia and Valcarce rivers and surrounded by mountains. The road led us directly to the church of Santiago, which we sought to enter to give thanks to God for a good and healthful walk, full of good thoughts, and a happy heart. Dating from the twelfth century, the church has an aged and worn multilobed north portal, called the puerta del Perdón. Pilgrims too sick or weak to continue to Compostela gained here—by special dispensation—the same spiritual benefits. The journey here was long enough, and for the old and infirm it took away the need to climb the range of mountains into Galicia. When it comes to sin, the Church, like God, like the Father of the Prodigal Son, appears sometimes rigorous if we persist in sin’s thrall, but always meets us more than half-way if we seek freedom from it.
The castle of the marquis of Villafranca, which dominates the town, was built in the 15th century. It is a square, crenellated structure of yellow rock, with four round, squat and barrel-looking towers, also crenellated, at its corners. The towers are topped with round tiled roofs that rise to a sharp point, and look like witches’ hats.
We stopped at an albergue in Villafranca, and met the hospitaller, a man named Gus. White-haired but hale, this German man was a gifted polyglot. He spoke his native German, and his acquired English and Spanish with perfect ease and nary an accent. He wondered at my Spanish until he discovered the land of my birth. Gus offered to take our packs up to the town of O Cebreiro, so to free us from their burdens on the difficult climb up the mountains ahead.
The offer was tempting, for release from the packs for one day promised greater distances and a great relief. I accepted the offer. “The packs,” I thought, “did not make a vow to take no wheeled thing, and I did not take a vow to walk with a pack.” I only had vowed only to take no wheeled thing. Gus’s offer left my vow untouched, unbesmirched. Even if there was some relationship between the pack and the vow, as Belloc observed the essence of a vow is in its literal meaning. The literal intendment of the vow allowed for it. And this was much less a breach—if it was one at all—than the more lax Belloc justified by that rule, for he rode on a cart and hung his feet of the edge dragging them on the ground and later even justified riding a train on his pilgrimage to Rome.
Villa Franca de bucca Vallis Carceris
Cruñego = Cluniac
Leave Villa-franca
Over the río Burbia to the río Valcarce
Follow the vía Romana north of the Valcarce and down toTraba-delo
Villafranca del Bierzo to O Cebreiro
From Villafranca to the town of O Cebreiro, the way was long and uphill. It would have been most difficult, and perhaps unachievable, with our packs. Villafranca is about 500 meters above sea level and O Cebreiro lies high in Sierra de los Ancares at 1,300 meters. A medieval cleric complained that these mountains, which divide Galicia from Castille, were difficult and wearisome to traverse. But he crossed during the cold of winter, and we did not. From Villafranca onwards the culture becomes notably Galician, though the provincial government remained Leonese until shortly before O Cebreiro where we formally passed from the province of León into the Galician province of Lugo. From Villafranca nearly to Santiago, the way is rural, the churches rustic, the homes humble.
Released from the burden of our packs we walked briskly uphill and out of the town of Villafranca. Once out of Villafranca we crossed the cold and crisp waters of the río Burbia and soon met the waters of the Valcarce. As we approached the Madrid-La Coruña highway (N-VI) we had to decide which way to go, for the guides posited three possibilities: (1) following the N-VI; (2) the vía Dragonte; and (3) the ruta Romana. We decided on the ruta Romana, bearing right just beyond the Burbia River. It took us up almost 500 meters to Pradela (1020 m.) via the southern face of the cerro del Real and the northern of the Pena de Roldán.
On the steep Roman route to Pradela we walked among chestnut trees with their catkins, and tall pines. These rose from the ground that was covered in broom and gorse and in rich green grass and ferns. The smell of resin filled the cool air, and we panted generously as we climbed up hill. Released from the weight of the packs, Randi and I made good time and passed dozens of burdened pilgrims.
I I I
Per gravia quidem itinera et laboriosus montes fridosque nivibus et glacie praete-ritae hiemis
Somewhere between the Cerro del Real and the Pena de Roldán between Villafranca and Trabadelo, I came across a clearing in the path. On the ground by the path, passersby had written messages using small stones. One read “Prisciliano Vive.”
Oh Priscillian! Ape of St. James! I could not tolerate your stain on the side of the hill. I could not countenance your illegitimate appropriation of the Apostolic Way, for the jurisdiction of the Councils of Toledo and Braga and the homilies of St. Turibius reached this far! Truth’s jurisdiction is the heart and so there is no sanctuary from it. A pilgrim’s feet follow his heart, and in my case both were given to St. James. So it was that my feet shuffled back and forth over the stones until the heretic’s name—the patron of magic, dualism, and revolt—was erased from the side of that hill. If I am accused of intolerance, I can only say, “Santiago made me do it!”
I I I
over the río Balboa, into Portela, Ambas-mestas, Vega de Valcarce, Ruitelán,
As I walked without the pack through the mountains, I thought how the pack was a spiritual analogy of the burden of a pilgrim’s inordinate affections. Contrary to the teachings of the dualists such as Priscillian, it is not the body that keeps us from union with the Divine, which is our goal, it is the burden of our inordinate affections. Only the pure in the body shall see God. There is no such thing as someone pure in the soul, but not in the body, although it may be the case that one is pure in the body, but not in the soul. Fundamentally, the call of Christianity is to be pure in both body and soul, for only the clean of heart shall see God. The heart is of both flesh and spirit.
From the top of the Peña de Roldán, we took a steep descent into the town of Trabadelo, which was by the highway. From the town of Trabadelo we walked on the narrow shoulder of the highway and were continuously threatened by large trucks that whizzed past us without care. So we walked past the arroyos Paradela and Valdelobos to the town of Portela del Valcarce. At Portela we stopped for a snack.
From Portela we left the highway and walked on a paved road, through the farms and fields of a narrow valley bordered by mountains. Upon crossing the río Balboa, we entered the village of Ambasmestas. The waters of the tributary Balboa mix with those of the río Valcarce, giving the town its name, which means mixed waters. As we passed through town, we paused to see a religious procession in which the whole town joined. It was the feast day of Our Lady of Carmel, and she must be patroness of the town, for an image of Our Lady headed the procession. There did not appear to be a single denize of the town who did not participate in the procession.
Castrum Sarra-cenium
Further on, by the town of Vega de Valcarce, we saw the remnants of the 14th/15th century Castro de Sarracín to our left, and on the right we saw nothing of its companion castle, the Castro de Veiga, which one time stood guard in these parts. From these heights, the castles protected this defile from outlaws and armies. Now no longer needed and so for a long while, the castles have practically disappeared. Perhaps they were destroyed when no longer needed so that thieves, brigands, and other malcontents would not find them comfortable hideouts.
across the río Valcarce into Herrerías.
From Vega de Valcarce we headed downhill through a wood of beautiful chestnut trees to Ruitelán. Here in Ruitelán San Froilán and his disciple San Attilanus lived as hermits according to tradition. St. Froilán was later to become bishop of León and patron of the city of Lugo, and St. Attilanus bishop of the neighboring diocese of Zamora. At León’s cathedral I had prayed before the relics of San Froilán. A chapel in Ruietelán is dedicated to the holy bishop who died circa 905.
From Ruitelán we headed up a lovely trail on the mountain’s side to Herrerías, a tiny hamlet where the old Hospital Inglés, mentioned by Pope Alexander III in a papal bull of 1178, once operated. So did blacksmiths of strong arm and strong heart, for they wielded heavy hammers with great facility according to Picaud. I accepted both upon human faith, for my eyes saw neither sign of hammer or forge nor sign of a hospital here. I did not have the leisure to go searching for them, for my leisure had been given to St. James, and my heart was set on reaching the village of O Cebreiro.
I I I
La Faba, Lamas, and Laguna de Castilla
León,
Castilla y León
=======
Lugo,
Galicia
From Herrerías on the architecture changed significantly. It became more Celtic and primitive. The uphill route from Herrerías to the town of La Faba is called by the locals the camino de la Faba. The walk was steep. The trail intertwined with the muddy bottoms of an arroyo, for we frequently walked on flagstones and boulders over flowing water. Finally, we crossed the arroyo Refogo by means of an old Roman bridge, and encountered the famous corredoiras, or mountain paths, which lead us to the town of La Faba. These corredoiras are narrow paths, used by the subsistence farmers and their carts, and they run under arches of trees, so it seems that one is walking through a dark yet airy tunnel of green. At times the corredoiras run deep in the ground, and walls of soil and stone rise up many feet on either side of the pilgrim. It is cool and fresh in the shade of these mountain paths.
The trees thinned out and the climb became less steep as we left the valley of the Valcarce below us on our climb to O Cebreiro through La Faba. At La Faba we saw our first palloza. The pallozas, the design of which were originally brought here by the Celts, are simple, rustic, and primitive structures with round walls built of rock, heavy square stone lintels, and roofed with thick straw thatch.
From La Faba we headed to Laguna de Castilla, a small, but prosperous farming village. It was the last town of the province of León. At a marker that divides the province of León and Galicia, I stopped. I kissed the soil of León on one side of the marker, and kissed the soil of Galicia on the other. I was careless in kissing the soil, and got dirt in my mouth. I spit—whether the soil was Leonese or Galician I did not know—but I spit it out in Galicia.
I I I
From Laguna de Castilla we climbed, with weary feet but happy hearts, into Galicia. “This country,” Picaud tells us, “is wooded. Provided with excellent rivers, meadows and orchards, and with plenty of good fruits and clear springs.” Of its fruits and of its peoples, Picaud tells us further:
Bread, wheat, and wine are scarce, but rye bread and cider abound, as do livestock and beasts of burden, milk, and honey. The sea fish is either enormously large or small. The land abounds in gold and silver, fabrics, the fur of wild animals and many other goods, as well as in Saracen treasures. The Galicians, ahead of the other uncouth nations of Spain, are those who best agree in their habits with our French people; but they are irascible and contentious.[ii]
Villaus = La Faba
Portus mons Februarii inde hospitale in cacumine eiusdem montis in Gallecia
While we may have been pleased to enter into Galicia, we had yet happier hearts as we drew into the village of O Cebreiro. O Cebreiro is a humble hamlet grown around a church, whose origins as an ancient monastery founded to help the pilgrims to Compostela can be traced to the year 836. The apse of the church is slightly sunk into the ground, and it is built of heavy gray and rusticated granite, with a rugged flagstone roof. The church is surrounded by the primitive structures of Celtic design called pallozas. The inside of the church was small, but it had one nave and two side aisles nevertheless. A ponderous yet lovely stone crucifix commanded the square main apse. The main apse was of two bays, and had a barrel vaulted ceiling. The main nave was of three bays separated by square piers. Simple hammer-beam wood structures supported the weight of the flagstone roof. The beams rested on rock anchors that jutted out of the thick stone walls. The ceiling was of rough-hewn timber. Likewise, the side aisles had slanted ceilings of rough timber.
To the right of the crucifix at a side apse was a silver tabernacle on an altar. To its right a statue of Santa Maria La Real. Above the tabernacle was a large box of glass and within this box resting on red velvet were an old chalice, a paten, and a couple of vials or reliquaries. Before these implements I knelt, for here before me was the Mystery Most Great.
I I I
About the Way: The Mystery Most Great
The town of O Cebreiro is famous throughout Europe, and not just to the pilgrims of Compostela who pass through the Puerto de Piedrafita and tarry here. It is the town of the Mystery Most Great, for it is here that a great Eucharistic miracle occurred in the 1300s. The marvelous story is that a peasant from the nearby hamlet of Barxamajor climbed up the mountain trails during a winter storm to hear his daily Mass. The parish priest, whose faith in the Magnum Mysterium was weak, was offering Mass. When he saw the peasant’s sacrifice, the priest grew angry within, thinking the peasant a fool to come the distance in the cold of a winter blizzard to worship but wine and bread. But the real fool was the priest (the 15th century Spanish poet Lincenciado Molina called him a “clerigo idiota”), for he had caved into the testimony of his senses, and refused the sure guidance of the dogma of the Church and the Word of God. Following the consecration, clearly through no merit of the priest but by his ordination—ex opere operato not ex opere operantis—the host turned visibly into the Lord’s Flesh and the wine turned visibly into the Lord’s Blood, the accidents unusually following the usual substantial change.
Until you reach O Cebreiro, gateway to Galicia
i
O Cebreiro
Is this place of the Celtic pallozas the Monsalvat in Spain, scene of Richard Wagner’s last opera Parsifal? I do not know. But, in O Cebreiro I heard strains of music clear from Bayreuth. I think this may have been a miracle:
Wein und Brod des letzten Mahles The wine and bread of the last supper
Wandelt’ einst der Herr des Grales, Transformed by the Lord of the Grail
Durch des Mitleid’s Libesmacht, By the means of the power of the love
In das Blut, das er vergoss, In the Blood that He shed,
In den Leib, den dar er bracht! In his Body that was broken!
So Richard Wagner, who I’ve read referred to the autos sacramentales of the Spanish playwright-priest Calderón in writing Parsifal, wrote of the Mysterium Fidei in his libretto and his stave book; pity that for him and for us that, with his prodigious genius, he never engraved this Mystery in his heart.
Whether humble O Cebreiro was the scene of Wagner’s opera or not, it claims to be the scene of this great Eucharistic miracle, and I prayed before the very same. And the memories of the Holy Grail do run deep here, so much that the Gold Grail and the Holy Sacrament are charged on the coat of arms of Galicia, on a field azure under a crosslet and two pales of three crosslets each all argent. And I sung here sotto voce so that none but God could hear me that most wonderful of hymns in thanksgiving to the Sacrament, the Pange lingua of St. Thomas of Aquino.
Höchster Heiles Wunder!
Hoc est enim corpus meum
Pange lingua gloriosi. Corporis mysterium Sanguinis pretiosi Quem in mundi pretium
It is by this miracle, in the town of O Cebreiro, by the frenzy of God’s love, as Blessed Josemaría Escriva calls the Eucharist, that we spent a frenzied night in the small refugio here. The refugio is designed to house eighty pilgrims, but more than two hundred pilgrims were crowded in the refugio that evening. None of the hotels or hostals had any room—so a Norwegian pilgrim told us, and so the managers of the couple of hotels we checked confirmed. The reason for the great influx of pilgrims on the route is that many pilgrims, especially the youth groups, joined the route here; they are shuttled into O Cebreiro by buses and first begin their walk from these heights.
The bathrooms were foul. They had been overused and misused by thoughtless pilgrims, and smelled of urine and feces. I did not take a shower. I did not brush my teeth. I spent that night on the floor of a narrow supply closet, on two wool blankets, next to first aid supplies, kitchen utensils, pots and pans, and other sundries.
Thus O Cebreiro gave us a night of very little comfort and very little sleep. But I learned to be thankful or eucharistic for the little I had. It rained cold rain all evening and night, and I had a much better sleep than the many pilgrims who were forced to spend a miserable night outside.
W Waning crescent moon
k
[i] Source:
[ii] Melczer, Pilgrim’s Guide, at 96.
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