When the pilgrim . . .
Has trailed for hours through the muddy highways,
Before crossing the threshold of the church he carefully wipes his feet,
Before going in,
Because he is very tidy.
And the mud from the roads must not soil the flag-stones in the church.
But once it is done, once he has wiped his feet before entering,
Once he has gone in he no longer thinks of his feet,
He is not always looking to see if his feet are properly wiped.
He has no ears, he has no eyes, he has no voice any more
Except for the altar where the Body of Jesus
And the memory and the expectation of the Body of Jesus
Shine eternally.
____Charles Peguy[i]
Depart Santo Domingo de la Calzada.
On the Way: Santo Domingo to Villafranca
Richard and I rose early the next morning, for we had planned a long walk that day. We walked out of Santo Domingo on its cobblestone road. At the western edge of the town was the río Oja, which we passed by means of a bridge built by the stone-working, sweat-ridden Dominic. The river was bone dry this time of year. We passed by a chapel, and in it was a statute of St. Dominic. Earlier that morning, I had redone the bandages on my feet and discovered a new blister on my heel—this made three contiguous blisters on my left heel, each the size of a half-dollar. I did not know how I would manage to preserve the skin on my heel. This gave me great concern.
On the calle Real over the río Oja
By the Cruz de los Valientes
D
We traveled on a dirt road, which ran parallel to the carretera to Burgos. Midway between the towns of Santo Domingo and Grañon, on my left, I passed the Cruz de los Valientes, marker of the place of a trial by combat between a townsman of Santo Domingo and a townsman of the neighboring town of Grañon to resolve disputed title to some woodlands in the area. Martín García of Grañon won both the land and the honor of having had an Our Father recited for him at Sunday Mass in his hometown parish until just recently. It struck me that the other man was in need of the prayers more, and that the townspeople of St. Dominic may have been remiss in their duties to their unfortunate fellow. So I prayed a Pater Noster for the souls of both fellows; that is, not one Pater Noster for two, but one Pater Noster for each. Actually, I also prayed an extra for the soul of the fellow from Santo Domingo, to make up for the negligence of his townsmen.
Pater noster qui es in caelis
To Grañon
k
San Juan Bautista
La Rioja
Navarre
= = = = =
Burgos
Castilla y León
k
Virgen de la Calle
Grañon is a town about two-thirds the distance between Santo Domingo and Redecilla. It is the last town of La Rioja and the region of Navarre; we were soon to enter the lands of Castille and Leon. The town of Grañon is built by the río Villar, around a castle ordered built by Alfonso III in the 10th century.
The church in the town of Grañon is dedicated to the honor of St. John the Baptist. Disappointingly, everything in Grañon was closed. So we passed hurriedly through the town, crossed the río Villar, and headed to the village of Redecilla. As we left Grañon, the church bells rang eight times a mournful peal across the valley. Shortly later, the church bells rang eight times again. I lagged behind Richard, and soon he was lost to sight.
Some kilometers out of Grañon, but before I entered Redecilla, I left the province of La Rioja, and entered into the province of Burgos, part of the jurisdiction of the autonomous region of Castille and León.
The sun came out and lit the fields of wheat which surrounded me as far as the human eye had sight. The yellow of the wheat was so the color of tanny sand, that it looked as if I was walking through a desert. The yellow was interrupted only by veins of the green trees that grew at the edges of occasional arroyos or clumps of trees that survive up on a random hilltop, looking like oases. I walked through such land until I came to Redecilla del Camino.
Radicellas
At the church of the Virgen de la Calle in the town of Redecilla del Camino is an ancient Romanesque baptismal font with a fotified heavenly city, the civitate Dei, carved round about it. Gloriosa dicta sunt de te civitas Dei!
At Redecilla, I had some coffee—alone—and departed.
Through Castil-delgado
Detour left to Viloria
I crossed the río Reláchico and passed Castildelgado, which was to my right. It was vain here to look for the skinny castle suggested by the town’s name. I knew not to look for it, for the town in sooth is named after Bishop Delgado, who may or may not have been skinny. He is now nothing but bone, as he is buried in the Romanesque church there. At Castildelgado I took a detour from the Camino, this time to visit the town of Viloria de Rioja, and this for one sole reason: to visit the birthplace of the Saint that built this part of the road. The way was hot.
I saw some French pilgrims in Viloria, and they were taking pictures of what they claimed was the yellow house of St. Dominic. They were insistent they had the right house, but I observed no sign. I had my doubts, and so I asked a local man who wore a rust-colored beret and dusty boots. He was pushing into town a wheelbarrow full of fodder from the fields. He pointed to a house of wood and mud, downhill from where the French pilgrims were taking photographs. I went to look at the house. It was still too early; it was closed. I turned back and headed to the Camino. I passed the French pilgrims, and I left them in their ignorance.
At Viloria St. Dominic was born
Back to the Camino
To Villa-mayor del Río
Through Belorado
k
Nuestra Señora de Belén
k
Nuestra Señora de la Bretonera
From Viloria I traveled northwest back to the Camino, on which, naturally, I went west. I went by Villamayor del Río, which was not much but a pueblo of semi-abandoned and worn-out homes. It is called the town of three lies, for one does not see a great town by a river, as the name implies, but a largely-abandoned hamlet by a creek.
But the town had a fountain, and I was thirsty. At the fountain I met an old Basque pilgrim who insisted in talking bad French to me, although I kept repeating in good Spanish that I spoke Spanish and no French. He was 72 years old, and his name was José. He was a thin and wiry man, with a friendly, weather-beaten face. When young, he had served in the Spanish Foreign Legion in Morocco. We drank water together, the Basque and I, and he promised me a beer the next time we met. He showed me the cigar he intended to smoke when he got to Compostela.
I I I
From Villamayor de Río I set my sights to Belorado. Although I walked for a time with the Basque and those in his group, they soon outdistanced me. I was alone, for all the pilgrims that day had passed me. It was hot, and I was weak, and in great pain. It was between Villamayor del Rio and Belorado that I met up with great evil, and defeated it—I am convinced—through the help of Santiago Matamorros.
On the way to Belorado I was plagued with mental images, which I shall not detail, for I do not wish to burden anyone’s imagination and will not propagandize the foul work of any demon. I learned their source as I wrestled with these phantasms of imagination.
Peregrinus: What visions, so foul, so impure; from where do they come in the middle of the campo?
Πορνεία: They are my handiwork, and they surely are not foul for they please the senses. I am the desire of many men.
Pregrinus: That may be so, but it is not fitting for a pilgrim to Santiago. Reveal yourself!
Πορνεία: I am everywhere, everyplace. I am no respecter of persons.
Peregrinus: Reveal your name!
Πορνεία.: I am Πορνεία. Don’t you know me?
Peregrinus: You! Exploiter of our fallen nature! Wicked hauntress of mankind! Pagan daemon of Priapus and Venus! You are Dante’s she-wolf. Bosch painted you in his Garden of Delights. Picasso and Dali were in your thrall. You are foul and very wicked and very, very wily! You are queen of the air and of the media, and many make money off your charms and the weakness of men.
Πορνεία.: What a silly uproar! These are misconceptions of your fevered mind. Who has slandered my name so to you?
Peregrinus: Slander? Does God slander? St. Paul spoke of you in his letters to the Galatians. It is you who slanders nature.
Πορνεία.: Now, that’s a lie. Man’s nature yearns for me; how, then, can I be unnatural?
Peregrinus: You dare speak of lies, daughter of the Father of Lies? You know our nature, though good, is fallen and disposed to disorder, especially in the regions of the appetite. Modern men seem to have given into you and your siren call to impurity, but in days of old, St. Thomas chased you way with a red hot poker when you appeared in the soul of a prostitute. St. Francis bested you by rolling in the brambles and the snow. St. Augustine disposed of you when he dismissed his concubine. You appeared before the great Jerome in the deserts of Palestine dressed up as a courtesan. You spare no man and reverence nothing, for St. Alphonsus Liguori saw you once in a soutane. Tell me have you any Saints in your employ?
Πορνεία: Oh most certainly not. They are such droll and frigid fellows.
Pregrinus: Indeed, your friends are demons and the damned.
Πορνεία: Ah, but I have put a vision in you, my claws are in you, and you are mine.
Pregrinus: Oh, but your teaching is not true. I know the vision is your doing and my weakness is not my sin. Indeed, to fight you is a virtue.
Πορνεία: Have you not lost battles with me in the past?
(This question I answered in the words of St. John’s epistle)
Peregrinus: Si dixerimus quonia peccatum non habemus, ipsi nos seducimus, et veritas in nobis non est. Si confiteamur peccata nostra, fidelis est et iustus, ut remittat nobis peccata nostra et emundet nos ab omni iniquitate. Si dixeriums quoniam non pecavimus, mendacem facimus eum, et verbum eius non est in nobis.
Πορνεία: Ahh, then, you admit you have lost. You cannot fight me. You will not win, even though you quote the Scriptures, for I am the epitome of seduction and persistence.
Peregrinus: Alone I cannot fight you. But I am a pilgrim of St. James!
Πορνεία: I promise pleasure.
Peregrinus: Away! Meretricious bitch! You have a vagina dentata that bites the soul that falls for you. You are a Circe that changes us into swine. At what price the pleasure? And for how long? With what bitterness follows the pleasure? And how do you dull the sense of the holy? I may be weak, but I’m no fool. I’ve seen the portals and tympana on the way, and they always show those in your thrall on the left of Christus Iudex. That is not the place to be. My soul with the Saints!
Πορνεία: Oh spare me! How medieval!
Peregrinus: Away! In nomine Iesu!
I raised my staff and shook it threateningly, wielding it as if it were my sword. I prayed to Mary an Ave. “Santiago y Cierra mi alma!” I shouted my battle cry. Πορνεία retreated in great haste. Although I did not see it with my eyes, it is more than just a whim that makes me think Πορνεία saw behind me Santiago atop a pure white steed, wielding not his pilgrim staff, but his sword. So it was that in the hot wheat fields between Villamayor del Rio and Belorado, I had bested the demon in my little battle of Clavijo.
I I I
After this confrontation, I headed toward Belorado, a town that at one time, for a time marked the variable border between the Kingdom of Navarre and the Kingdom of Castille, for the boundary was determined for centuries by the vicissitudes of battle.
My feet hurt brutally as I walked towards Belorado—the Dolorosa of the pilgrim Hermann Künig von Vach—and to entertain myself and distract my attention from the pain, I whistled the first tune to come into my head. It happened to be Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto in D Minor, but I could not remember much of it, so the little I remembered I fashioned into an infinite loop. So whistling in the key of D minor, I entertained myself for a long time, for it does not take much to entertain a pilgrim.
I I I
When I got to the refugio, the pilgrims were all lined up by its walls waiting for it to open. Many offered words and signs of encouragement, for most knew that I was suffering. I greeted all those I knew, then went to the Church of Santa María, which sat by the arroyo Verdancho.
I prayed before the Blessed Sacrament, or rather, should I say, I tried to pray—in the ordinary way with words and with the mind—but I could not muster it. The pain in my feet was all-consuming and it distracted me to such a degree I could not focus my thoughts. I could not even offer words: for all I could do was sigh and moan. So I prayed in a fashion that I had not prayed before—offering no words, only pain. I offered my awful pain to God; at the moment that was all I seemed to have to give Him. Then I hobbled to the chapel of Santiago Matamorros to the right of the tabernacle, and asked the militant Santiago’s help to get me to his relics. I harbored great doubt about my ability to finish.
After a brief rest, Richard and I walked to a hotel (it was obvious from the line of pilgrims that the refugio was booked up). We crossed the bridge over the Tirón river. It is of stone, and it is said to have been built by Saint John of the Nettles, the saint whose remains we would see at a town that bears his name and is situated in the heart of the Montes de Oca just ahead.
I I I
After we settled in at the hotel, I had a beer or two at the bar, and spoke to a man named Jaime. He was a traveling salesman, and was selling something to the bartender. Jaime told me that he had been the hospitaller at a Burgos albergue for pilgrims and had taken a year off from his onerous duties. When he learned that I was on pilgrimage orandi causa, he knew I could be trusted with tales of Providence. He thus told me of the time St. James had saved the day.
“The year was 1993,” he started with a far-away look in his eye as he recalled the event. “It was an Año Santo, and we were expecting a lot of pilgrims. In fact, we expected the albergue to be at capacity. I had made arrangements to accommodate the pilgrims who were cyclists at the Sports Center closeby the albergue. The deal was that after the Sports Center shut its doors to the public, which was 9:00 p.m., the pilgrims could access the facilities. At 9:00 sharp, I sought out the manager. He was aware of the arrangement, but as he had not received the written authorization from the Ayuntamiento, he felt he could not admit the pilgrims. No amount of persuasion could make that stubborn man yield.”
I took a sip of my beer; he took a sip of his; and he continued. “It was Saturday, and none of the officials of the Ayuntamiento was available. I called the municipal police to help me, to see if they could track down the Alcalde. The police tried the Alcalde’s house, but told me he was not home and had left for the evening.”
“So,” he paused, “I prayed to the Apostle Santiago to lend me a hand. And what do you think happened?”
“I have no idea,” I said, “tell me.”
“No more than two minutes later, the Alcalde showed up at the back door of my refugio. The Alcalde told me he had been out with his wife and some friends. When they were on their way back he exclaimed spontaneously, ‘Let’s see what the pilgrims are up to!’ and he took the car to the albergue.”
“What’s remarkable,” Jaime pointed out, “was that the Alcalde’s spontaneous decision coincided with my prayer to Santiago.”
“That is a wonderful story,” I admitted.
He told me he had to go and wished me as he left the bar, “Buen Camino!”
k
[i] Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Holy Innocents (translated by Pansy Pakenham)When the pilgrim . . .
Has trailed for hours through the muddy highways,
Before crossing the threshold of the church he carefully wipes his feet,
Before going in,
Because he is very tidy.
And the mud from the roads must not soil the flag-stones in the church.
But once it is done, once he has wiped his feet before entering,
Once he has gone in he no longer thinks of his feet,
He is not always looking to see if his feet are properly wiped.
He has no ears, he has no eyes, he has no voice any more
Except for the altar where the Body of Jesus
And the memory and the expectation of the Body of Jesus
Shine eternally.
____Charles Peguy[i]
Depart Santo Domingo de la Calzada.
On the Way: Santo Domingo to Villafranca
Richard and I rose early the next morning, for we had planned a long walk that day. We walked out of Santo Domingo on its cobblestone road. At the western edge of the town was the río Oja, which we passed by means of a bridge built by the stone-working, sweat-ridden Dominic. The river was bone dry this time of year. We passed by a chapel, and in it was a statute of St. Dominic. Earlier that morning, I had redone the bandages on my feet and discovered a new blister on my heel—this made three contiguous blisters on my left heel, each the size of a half-dollar. I did not know how I would manage to preserve the skin on my heel. This gave me great concern.
On the calle Real over the río Oja
By the Cruz de los Valientes
D
We traveled on a dirt road, which ran parallel to the carretera to Burgos. Midway between the towns of Santo Domingo and Grañon, on my left, I passed the Cruz de los Valientes, marker of the place of a trial by combat between a townsman of Santo Domingo and a townsman of the neighboring town of Grañon to resolve disputed title to some woodlands in the area. Martín García of Grañon won both the land and the honor of having had an Our Father recited for him at Sunday Mass in his hometown parish until just recently. It struck me that the other man was in need of the prayers more, and that the townspeople of St. Dominic may have been remiss in their duties to their unfortunate fellow. So I prayed a Pater Noster for the souls of both fellows; that is, not one Pater Noster for two, but one Pater Noster for each. Actually, I also prayed an extra for the soul of the fellow from Santo Domingo, to make up for the negligence of his townsmen.
Pater noster qui es in caelis
To Grañon
k
San Juan Bautista
La Rioja
Navarre
= = = = =
Burgos
Castilla y León
k
Virgen de la Calle
Grañon is a town about two-thirds the distance between Santo Domingo and Redecilla. It is the last town of La Rioja and the region of Navarre; we were soon to enter the lands of Castille and Leon. The town of Grañon is built by the río Villar, around a castle ordered built by Alfonso III in the 10th century.
The church in the town of Grañon is dedicated to the honor of St. John the Baptist. Disappointingly, everything in Grañon was closed. So we passed hurriedly through the town, crossed the río Villar, and headed to the village of Redecilla. As we left Grañon, the church bells rang eight times a mournful peal across the valley. Shortly later, the church bells rang eight times again. I lagged behind Richard, and soon he was lost to sight.
Some kilometers out of Grañon, but before I entered Redecilla, I left the province of La Rioja, and entered into the province of Burgos, part of the jurisdiction of the autonomous region of Castille and León.
The sun came out and lit the fields of wheat which surrounded me as far as the human eye had sight. The yellow of the wheat was so the color of tanny sand, that it looked as if I was walking through a desert. The yellow was interrupted only by veins of the green trees that grew at the edges of occasional arroyos or clumps of trees that survive up on a random hilltop, looking like oases. I walked through such land until I came to Redecilla del Camino.
Radicellas
At the church of the Virgen de la Calle in the town of Redecilla del Camino is an ancient Romanesque baptismal font with a fotified heavenly city, the civitate Dei, carved round about it. Gloriosa dicta sunt de te civitas Dei!
At Redecilla, I had some coffee—alone—and departed.
Through Castil-delgado
Detour left to Viloria
I crossed the río Reláchico and passed Castildelgado, which was to my right. It was vain here to look for the skinny castle suggested by the town’s name. I knew not to look for it, for the town in sooth is named after Bishop Delgado, who may or may not have been skinny. He is now nothing but bone, as he is buried in the Romanesque church there. At Castildelgado I took a detour from the Camino, this time to visit the town of Viloria de Rioja, and this for one sole reason: to visit the birthplace of the Saint that built this part of the road. The way was hot.
I saw some French pilgrims in Viloria, and they were taking pictures of what they claimed was the yellow house of St. Dominic. They were insistent they had the right house, but I observed no sign. I had my doubts, and so I asked a local man who wore a rust-colored beret and dusty boots. He was pushing into town a wheelbarrow full of fodder from the fields. He pointed to a house of wood and mud, downhill from where the French pilgrims were taking photographs. I went to look at the house. It was still too early; it was closed. I turned back and headed to the Camino. I passed the French pilgrims, and I left them in their ignorance.
At Viloria St. Dominic was born
Back to the Camino
To Villa-mayor del Río
Through Belorado
k
Nuestra Señora de Belén
k
Nuestra Señora de la Bretonera
From Viloria I traveled northwest back to the Camino, on which, naturally, I went west. I went by Villamayor del Río, which was not much but a pueblo of semi-abandoned and worn-out homes. It is called the town of three lies, for one does not see a great town by a river, as the name implies, but a largely-abandoned hamlet by a creek.
But the town had a fountain, and I was thirsty. At the fountain I met an old Basque pilgrim who insisted in talking bad French to me, although I kept repeating in good Spanish that I spoke Spanish and no French. He was 72 years old, and his name was José. He was a thin and wiry man, with a friendly, weather-beaten face. When young, he had served in the Spanish Foreign Legion in Morocco. We drank water together, the Basque and I, and he promised me a beer the next time we met. He showed me the cigar he intended to smoke when he got to Compostela.
I I I
From Villamayor de Río I set my sights to Belorado. Although I walked for a time with the Basque and those in his group, they soon outdistanced me. I was alone, for all the pilgrims that day had passed me. It was hot, and I was weak, and in great pain. It was between Villamayor del Rio and Belorado that I met up with great evil, and defeated it—I am convinced—through the help of Santiago Matamorros.
On the way to Belorado I was plagued with mental images, which I shall not detail, for I do not wish to burden anyone’s imagination and will not propagandize the foul work of any demon. I learned their source as I wrestled with these phantasms of imagination.
Peregrinus: What visions, so foul, so impure; from where do they come in the middle of the campo?
Πορνεία: They are my handiwork, and they surely are not foul for they please the senses. I am the desire of many men.
Pregrinus: That may be so, but it is not fitting for a pilgrim to Santiago. Reveal yourself!
Πορνεία: I am everywhere, everyplace. I am no respecter of persons.
Peregrinus: Reveal your name!
Πορνεία.: I am Πορνεία. Don’t you know me?
Peregrinus: You! Exploiter of our fallen nature! Wicked hauntress of mankind! Pagan daemon of Priapus and Venus! You are Dante’s she-wolf. Bosch painted you in his Garden of Delights. Picasso and Dali were in your thrall. You are foul and very wicked and very, very wily! You are queen of the air and of the media, and many make money off your charms and the weakness of men.
Πορνεία.: What a silly uproar! These are misconceptions of your fevered mind. Who has slandered my name so to you?
Peregrinus: Slander? Does God slander? St. Paul spoke of you in his letters to the Galatians. It is you who slanders nature.
Πορνεία.: Now, that’s a lie. Man’s nature yearns for me; how, then, can I be unnatural?
Peregrinus: You dare speak of lies, daughter of the Father of Lies? You know our nature, though good, is fallen and disposed to disorder, especially in the regions of the appetite. Modern men seem to have given into you and your siren call to impurity, but in days of old, St. Thomas chased you way with a red hot poker when you appeared in the soul of a prostitute. St. Francis bested you by rolling in the brambles and the snow. St. Augustine disposed of you when he dismissed his concubine. You appeared before the great Jerome in the deserts of Palestine dressed up as a courtesan. You spare no man and reverence nothing, for St. Alphonsus Liguori saw you once in a soutane. Tell me have you any Saints in your employ?
Πορνεία: Oh most certainly not. They are such droll and frigid fellows.
Pregrinus: Indeed, your friends are demons and the damned.
Πορνεία: Ah, but I have put a vision in you, my claws are in you, and you are mine.
Pregrinus: Oh, but your teaching is not true. I know the vision is your doing and my weakness is not my sin. Indeed, to fight you is a virtue.
Πορνεία: Have you not lost battles with me in the past?
(This question I answered in the words of St. John’s epistle)
Peregrinus: Si dixerimus quonia peccatum non habemus, ipsi nos seducimus, et veritas in nobis non est. Si confiteamur peccata nostra, fidelis est et iustus, ut remittat nobis peccata nostra et emundet nos ab omni iniquitate. Si dixeriums quoniam non pecavimus, mendacem facimus eum, et verbum eius non est in nobis.
Πορνεία: Ahh, then, you admit you have lost. You cannot fight me. You will not win, even though you quote the Scriptures, for I am the epitome of seduction and persistence.
Peregrinus: Alone I cannot fight you. But I am a pilgrim of St. James!
Πορνεία: I promise pleasure.
Peregrinus: Away! Meretricious bitch! You have a vagina dentata that bites the soul that falls for you. You are a Circe that changes us into swine. At what price the pleasure? And for how long? With what bitterness follows the pleasure? And how do you dull the sense of the holy? I may be weak, but I’m no fool. I’ve seen the portals and tympana on the way, and they always show those in your thrall on the left of Christus Iudex. That is not the place to be. My soul with the Saints!
Πορνεία: Oh spare me! How medieval!
Peregrinus: Away! In nomine Iesu!
I raised my staff and shook it threateningly, wielding it as if it were my sword. I prayed to Mary an Ave. “Santiago y Cierra mi alma!” I shouted my battle cry. Πορνεία retreated in great haste. Although I did not see it with my eyes, it is more than just a whim that makes me think Πορνεία saw behind me Santiago atop a pure white steed, wielding not his pilgrim staff, but his sword. So it was that in the hot wheat fields between Villamayor del Rio and Belorado, I had bested the demon in my little battle of Clavijo.
I I I
After this confrontation, I headed toward Belorado, a town that at one time, for a time marked the variable border between the Kingdom of Navarre and the Kingdom of Castille, for the boundary was determined for centuries by the vicissitudes of battle.
My feet hurt brutally as I walked towards Belorado—the Dolorosa of the pilgrim Hermann Künig von Vach—and to entertain myself and distract my attention from the pain, I whistled the first tune to come into my head. It happened to be Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto in D Minor, but I could not remember much of it, so the little I remembered I fashioned into an infinite loop. So whistling in the key of D minor, I entertained myself for a long time, for it does not take much to entertain a pilgrim.
I I I
When I got to the refugio, the pilgrims were all lined up by its walls waiting for it to open. Many offered words and signs of encouragement, for most knew that I was suffering. I greeted all those I knew, then went to the Church of Santa María, which sat by the arroyo Verdancho.
I prayed before the Blessed Sacrament, or rather, should I say, I tried to pray—in the ordinary way with words and with the mind—but I could not muster it. The pain in my feet was all-consuming and it distracted me to such a degree I could not focus my thoughts. I could not even offer words: for all I could do was sigh and moan. So I prayed in a fashion that I had not prayed before—offering no words, only pain. I offered my awful pain to God; at the moment that was all I seemed to have to give Him. Then I hobbled to the chapel of Santiago Matamorros to the right of the tabernacle, and asked the militant Santiago’s help to get me to his relics. I harbored great doubt about my ability to finish.
After a brief rest, Richard and I walked to a hotel (it was obvious from the line of pilgrims that the refugio was booked up). We crossed the bridge over the Tirón river. It is of stone, and it is said to have been built by Saint John of the Nettles, the saint whose remains we would see at a town that bears his name and is situated in the heart of the Montes de Oca just ahead.
I I I
After we settled in at the hotel, I had a beer or two at the bar, and spoke to a man named Jaime. He was a traveling salesman, and was selling something to the bartender. Jaime told me that he had been the hospitaller at a Burgos albergue for pilgrims and had taken a year off from his onerous duties. When he learned that I was on pilgrimage orandi causa, he knew I could be trusted with tales of Providence. He thus told me of the time St. James had saved the day.
“The year was 1993,” he started with a far-away look in his eye as he recalled the event. “It was an Año Santo, and we were expecting a lot of pilgrims. In fact, we expected the albergue to be at capacity. I had made arrangements to accommodate the pilgrims who were cyclists at the Sports Center closeby the albergue. The deal was that after the Sports Center shut its doors to the public, which was 9:00 p.m., the pilgrims could access the facilities. At 9:00 sharp, I sought out the manager. He was aware of the arrangement, but as he had not received the written authorization from the Ayuntamiento, he felt he could not admit the pilgrims. No amount of persuasion could make that stubborn man yield.”
I took a sip of my beer; he took a sip of his; and he continued. “It was Saturday, and none of the officials of the Ayuntamiento was available. I called the municipal police to help me, to see if they could track down the Alcalde. The police tried the Alcalde’s house, but told me he was not home and had left for the evening.”
“So,” he paused, “I prayed to the Apostle Santiago to lend me a hand. And what do you think happened?”
“I have no idea,” I said, “tell me.”
“No more than two minutes later, the Alcalde showed up at the back door of my refugio. The Alcalde told me he had been out with his wife and some friends. When they were on their way back he exclaimed spontaneously, ‘Let’s see what the pilgrims are up to!’ and he took the car to the albergue.”
“What’s remarkable,” Jaime pointed out, “was that the Alcalde’s spontaneous decision coincided with my prayer to Santiago.”
“That is a wonderful story,” I admitted.
He told me he had to go and wished me as he left the bar, “Buen Camino!”
k
[i] Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Holy Innocents (translated by Pansy Pakenham)
Has trailed for hours through the muddy highways,
Before crossing the threshold of the church he carefully wipes his feet,
Before going in,
Because he is very tidy.
And the mud from the roads must not soil the flag-stones in the church.
But once it is done, once he has wiped his feet before entering,
Once he has gone in he no longer thinks of his feet,
He is not always looking to see if his feet are properly wiped.
He has no ears, he has no eyes, he has no voice any more
Except for the altar where the Body of Jesus
And the memory and the expectation of the Body of Jesus
Shine eternally.
____Charles Peguy[i]
Depart Santo Domingo de la Calzada.
On the Way: Santo Domingo to Villafranca
Richard and I rose early the next morning, for we had planned a long walk that day. We walked out of Santo Domingo on its cobblestone road. At the western edge of the town was the río Oja, which we passed by means of a bridge built by the stone-working, sweat-ridden Dominic. The river was bone dry this time of year. We passed by a chapel, and in it was a statute of St. Dominic. Earlier that morning, I had redone the bandages on my feet and discovered a new blister on my heel—this made three contiguous blisters on my left heel, each the size of a half-dollar. I did not know how I would manage to preserve the skin on my heel. This gave me great concern.
On the calle Real over the río Oja
By the Cruz de los Valientes
D
We traveled on a dirt road, which ran parallel to the carretera to Burgos. Midway between the towns of Santo Domingo and Grañon, on my left, I passed the Cruz de los Valientes, marker of the place of a trial by combat between a townsman of Santo Domingo and a townsman of the neighboring town of Grañon to resolve disputed title to some woodlands in the area. Martín García of Grañon won both the land and the honor of having had an Our Father recited for him at Sunday Mass in his hometown parish until just recently. It struck me that the other man was in need of the prayers more, and that the townspeople of St. Dominic may have been remiss in their duties to their unfortunate fellow. So I prayed a Pater Noster for the souls of both fellows; that is, not one Pater Noster for two, but one Pater Noster for each. Actually, I also prayed an extra for the soul of the fellow from Santo Domingo, to make up for the negligence of his townsmen.
Pater noster qui es in caelis
To Grañon
k
San Juan Bautista
La Rioja
Navarre
= = = = =
Burgos
Castilla y León
k
Virgen de la Calle
Grañon is a town about two-thirds the distance between Santo Domingo and Redecilla. It is the last town of La Rioja and the region of Navarre; we were soon to enter the lands of Castille and Leon. The town of Grañon is built by the río Villar, around a castle ordered built by Alfonso III in the 10th century.
The church in the town of Grañon is dedicated to the honor of St. John the Baptist. Disappointingly, everything in Grañon was closed. So we passed hurriedly through the town, crossed the río Villar, and headed to the village of Redecilla. As we left Grañon, the church bells rang eight times a mournful peal across the valley. Shortly later, the church bells rang eight times again. I lagged behind Richard, and soon he was lost to sight.
Some kilometers out of Grañon, but before I entered Redecilla, I left the province of La Rioja, and entered into the province of Burgos, part of the jurisdiction of the autonomous region of Castille and León.
The sun came out and lit the fields of wheat which surrounded me as far as the human eye had sight. The yellow of the wheat was so the color of tanny sand, that it looked as if I was walking through a desert. The yellow was interrupted only by veins of the green trees that grew at the edges of occasional arroyos or clumps of trees that survive up on a random hilltop, looking like oases. I walked through such land until I came to Redecilla del Camino.
Radicellas
At the church of the Virgen de la Calle in the town of Redecilla del Camino is an ancient Romanesque baptismal font with a fotified heavenly city, the civitate Dei, carved round about it. Gloriosa dicta sunt de te civitas Dei!
At Redecilla, I had some coffee—alone—and departed.
Through Castil-delgado
Detour left to Viloria
I crossed the río Reláchico and passed Castildelgado, which was to my right. It was vain here to look for the skinny castle suggested by the town’s name. I knew not to look for it, for the town in sooth is named after Bishop Delgado, who may or may not have been skinny. He is now nothing but bone, as he is buried in the Romanesque church there. At Castildelgado I took a detour from the Camino, this time to visit the town of Viloria de Rioja, and this for one sole reason: to visit the birthplace of the Saint that built this part of the road. The way was hot.
I saw some French pilgrims in Viloria, and they were taking pictures of what they claimed was the yellow house of St. Dominic. They were insistent they had the right house, but I observed no sign. I had my doubts, and so I asked a local man who wore a rust-colored beret and dusty boots. He was pushing into town a wheelbarrow full of fodder from the fields. He pointed to a house of wood and mud, downhill from where the French pilgrims were taking photographs. I went to look at the house. It was still too early; it was closed. I turned back and headed to the Camino. I passed the French pilgrims, and I left them in their ignorance.
At Viloria St. Dominic was born
Back to the Camino
To Villa-mayor del Río
Through Belorado
k
Nuestra Señora de Belén
k
Nuestra Señora de la Bretonera
From Viloria I traveled northwest back to the Camino, on which, naturally, I went west. I went by Villamayor del Río, which was not much but a pueblo of semi-abandoned and worn-out homes. It is called the town of three lies, for one does not see a great town by a river, as the name implies, but a largely-abandoned hamlet by a creek.
But the town had a fountain, and I was thirsty. At the fountain I met an old Basque pilgrim who insisted in talking bad French to me, although I kept repeating in good Spanish that I spoke Spanish and no French. He was 72 years old, and his name was José. He was a thin and wiry man, with a friendly, weather-beaten face. When young, he had served in the Spanish Foreign Legion in Morocco. We drank water together, the Basque and I, and he promised me a beer the next time we met. He showed me the cigar he intended to smoke when he got to Compostela.
I I I
From Villamayor de Río I set my sights to Belorado. Although I walked for a time with the Basque and those in his group, they soon outdistanced me. I was alone, for all the pilgrims that day had passed me. It was hot, and I was weak, and in great pain. It was between Villamayor del Rio and Belorado that I met up with great evil, and defeated it—I am convinced—through the help of Santiago Matamorros.
On the way to Belorado I was plagued with mental images, which I shall not detail, for I do not wish to burden anyone’s imagination and will not propagandize the foul work of any demon. I learned their source as I wrestled with these phantasms of imagination.
Peregrinus: What visions, so foul, so impure; from where do they come in the middle of the campo?
Πορνεία: They are my handiwork, and they surely are not foul for they please the senses. I am the desire of many men.
Pregrinus: That may be so, but it is not fitting for a pilgrim to Santiago. Reveal yourself!
Πορνεία: I am everywhere, everyplace. I am no respecter of persons.
Peregrinus: Reveal your name!
Πορνεία.: I am Πορνεία. Don’t you know me?
Peregrinus: You! Exploiter of our fallen nature! Wicked hauntress of mankind! Pagan daemon of Priapus and Venus! You are Dante’s she-wolf. Bosch painted you in his Garden of Delights. Picasso and Dali were in your thrall. You are foul and very wicked and very, very wily! You are queen of the air and of the media, and many make money off your charms and the weakness of men.
Πορνεία.: What a silly uproar! These are misconceptions of your fevered mind. Who has slandered my name so to you?
Peregrinus: Slander? Does God slander? St. Paul spoke of you in his letters to the Galatians. It is you who slanders nature.
Πορνεία.: Now, that’s a lie. Man’s nature yearns for me; how, then, can I be unnatural?
Peregrinus: You dare speak of lies, daughter of the Father of Lies? You know our nature, though good, is fallen and disposed to disorder, especially in the regions of the appetite. Modern men seem to have given into you and your siren call to impurity, but in days of old, St. Thomas chased you way with a red hot poker when you appeared in the soul of a prostitute. St. Francis bested you by rolling in the brambles and the snow. St. Augustine disposed of you when he dismissed his concubine. You appeared before the great Jerome in the deserts of Palestine dressed up as a courtesan. You spare no man and reverence nothing, for St. Alphonsus Liguori saw you once in a soutane. Tell me have you any Saints in your employ?
Πορνεία: Oh most certainly not. They are such droll and frigid fellows.
Pregrinus: Indeed, your friends are demons and the damned.
Πορνεία: Ah, but I have put a vision in you, my claws are in you, and you are mine.
Pregrinus: Oh, but your teaching is not true. I know the vision is your doing and my weakness is not my sin. Indeed, to fight you is a virtue.
Πορνεία: Have you not lost battles with me in the past?
(This question I answered in the words of St. John’s epistle)
Peregrinus: Si dixerimus quonia peccatum non habemus, ipsi nos seducimus, et veritas in nobis non est. Si confiteamur peccata nostra, fidelis est et iustus, ut remittat nobis peccata nostra et emundet nos ab omni iniquitate. Si dixeriums quoniam non pecavimus, mendacem facimus eum, et verbum eius non est in nobis.
Πορνεία: Ahh, then, you admit you have lost. You cannot fight me. You will not win, even though you quote the Scriptures, for I am the epitome of seduction and persistence.
Peregrinus: Alone I cannot fight you. But I am a pilgrim of St. James!
Πορνεία: I promise pleasure.
Peregrinus: Away! Meretricious bitch! You have a vagina dentata that bites the soul that falls for you. You are a Circe that changes us into swine. At what price the pleasure? And for how long? With what bitterness follows the pleasure? And how do you dull the sense of the holy? I may be weak, but I’m no fool. I’ve seen the portals and tympana on the way, and they always show those in your thrall on the left of Christus Iudex. That is not the place to be. My soul with the Saints!
Πορνεία: Oh spare me! How medieval!
Peregrinus: Away! In nomine Iesu!
I raised my staff and shook it threateningly, wielding it as if it were my sword. I prayed to Mary an Ave. “Santiago y Cierra mi alma!” I shouted my battle cry. Πορνεία retreated in great haste. Although I did not see it with my eyes, it is more than just a whim that makes me think Πορνεία saw behind me Santiago atop a pure white steed, wielding not his pilgrim staff, but his sword. So it was that in the hot wheat fields between Villamayor del Rio and Belorado, I had bested the demon in my little battle of Clavijo.
I I I
After this confrontation, I headed toward Belorado, a town that at one time, for a time marked the variable border between the Kingdom of Navarre and the Kingdom of Castille, for the boundary was determined for centuries by the vicissitudes of battle.
My feet hurt brutally as I walked towards Belorado—the Dolorosa of the pilgrim Hermann Künig von Vach—and to entertain myself and distract my attention from the pain, I whistled the first tune to come into my head. It happened to be Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto in D Minor, but I could not remember much of it, so the little I remembered I fashioned into an infinite loop. So whistling in the key of D minor, I entertained myself for a long time, for it does not take much to entertain a pilgrim.
I I I
When I got to the refugio, the pilgrims were all lined up by its walls waiting for it to open. Many offered words and signs of encouragement, for most knew that I was suffering. I greeted all those I knew, then went to the Church of Santa María, which sat by the arroyo Verdancho.
I prayed before the Blessed Sacrament, or rather, should I say, I tried to pray—in the ordinary way with words and with the mind—but I could not muster it. The pain in my feet was all-consuming and it distracted me to such a degree I could not focus my thoughts. I could not even offer words: for all I could do was sigh and moan. So I prayed in a fashion that I had not prayed before—offering no words, only pain. I offered my awful pain to God; at the moment that was all I seemed to have to give Him. Then I hobbled to the chapel of Santiago Matamorros to the right of the tabernacle, and asked the militant Santiago’s help to get me to his relics. I harbored great doubt about my ability to finish.
After a brief rest, Richard and I walked to a hotel (it was obvious from the line of pilgrims that the refugio was booked up). We crossed the bridge over the Tirón river. It is of stone, and it is said to have been built by Saint John of the Nettles, the saint whose remains we would see at a town that bears his name and is situated in the heart of the Montes de Oca just ahead.
I I I
After we settled in at the hotel, I had a beer or two at the bar, and spoke to a man named Jaime. He was a traveling salesman, and was selling something to the bartender. Jaime told me that he had been the hospitaller at a Burgos albergue for pilgrims and had taken a year off from his onerous duties. When he learned that I was on pilgrimage orandi causa, he knew I could be trusted with tales of Providence. He thus told me of the time St. James had saved the day.
“The year was 1993,” he started with a far-away look in his eye as he recalled the event. “It was an Año Santo, and we were expecting a lot of pilgrims. In fact, we expected the albergue to be at capacity. I had made arrangements to accommodate the pilgrims who were cyclists at the Sports Center closeby the albergue. The deal was that after the Sports Center shut its doors to the public, which was 9:00 p.m., the pilgrims could access the facilities. At 9:00 sharp, I sought out the manager. He was aware of the arrangement, but as he had not received the written authorization from the Ayuntamiento, he felt he could not admit the pilgrims. No amount of persuasion could make that stubborn man yield.”
I took a sip of my beer; he took a sip of his; and he continued. “It was Saturday, and none of the officials of the Ayuntamiento was available. I called the municipal police to help me, to see if they could track down the Alcalde. The police tried the Alcalde’s house, but told me he was not home and had left for the evening.”
“So,” he paused, “I prayed to the Apostle Santiago to lend me a hand. And what do you think happened?”
“I have no idea,” I said, “tell me.”
“No more than two minutes later, the Alcalde showed up at the back door of my refugio. The Alcalde told me he had been out with his wife and some friends. When they were on their way back he exclaimed spontaneously, ‘Let’s see what the pilgrims are up to!’ and he took the car to the albergue.”
“What’s remarkable,” Jaime pointed out, “was that the Alcalde’s spontaneous decision coincided with my prayer to Santiago.”
“That is a wonderful story,” I admitted.
He told me he had to go and wished me as he left the bar, “Buen Camino!”
k
[i] Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Holy Innocents (translated by Pansy Pakenham)When the pilgrim . . .
Has trailed for hours through the muddy highways,
Before crossing the threshold of the church he carefully wipes his feet,
Before going in,
Because he is very tidy.
And the mud from the roads must not soil the flag-stones in the church.
But once it is done, once he has wiped his feet before entering,
Once he has gone in he no longer thinks of his feet,
He is not always looking to see if his feet are properly wiped.
He has no ears, he has no eyes, he has no voice any more
Except for the altar where the Body of Jesus
And the memory and the expectation of the Body of Jesus
Shine eternally.
____Charles Peguy[i]
Depart Santo Domingo de la Calzada.
On the Way: Santo Domingo to Villafranca
Richard and I rose early the next morning, for we had planned a long walk that day. We walked out of Santo Domingo on its cobblestone road. At the western edge of the town was the río Oja, which we passed by means of a bridge built by the stone-working, sweat-ridden Dominic. The river was bone dry this time of year. We passed by a chapel, and in it was a statute of St. Dominic. Earlier that morning, I had redone the bandages on my feet and discovered a new blister on my heel—this made three contiguous blisters on my left heel, each the size of a half-dollar. I did not know how I would manage to preserve the skin on my heel. This gave me great concern.
On the calle Real over the río Oja
By the Cruz de los Valientes
D
We traveled on a dirt road, which ran parallel to the carretera to Burgos. Midway between the towns of Santo Domingo and Grañon, on my left, I passed the Cruz de los Valientes, marker of the place of a trial by combat between a townsman of Santo Domingo and a townsman of the neighboring town of Grañon to resolve disputed title to some woodlands in the area. Martín García of Grañon won both the land and the honor of having had an Our Father recited for him at Sunday Mass in his hometown parish until just recently. It struck me that the other man was in need of the prayers more, and that the townspeople of St. Dominic may have been remiss in their duties to their unfortunate fellow. So I prayed a Pater Noster for the souls of both fellows; that is, not one Pater Noster for two, but one Pater Noster for each. Actually, I also prayed an extra for the soul of the fellow from Santo Domingo, to make up for the negligence of his townsmen.
Pater noster qui es in caelis
To Grañon
k
San Juan Bautista
La Rioja
Navarre
= = = = =
Burgos
Castilla y León
k
Virgen de la Calle
Grañon is a town about two-thirds the distance between Santo Domingo and Redecilla. It is the last town of La Rioja and the region of Navarre; we were soon to enter the lands of Castille and Leon. The town of Grañon is built by the río Villar, around a castle ordered built by Alfonso III in the 10th century.
The church in the town of Grañon is dedicated to the honor of St. John the Baptist. Disappointingly, everything in Grañon was closed. So we passed hurriedly through the town, crossed the río Villar, and headed to the village of Redecilla. As we left Grañon, the church bells rang eight times a mournful peal across the valley. Shortly later, the church bells rang eight times again. I lagged behind Richard, and soon he was lost to sight.
Some kilometers out of Grañon, but before I entered Redecilla, I left the province of La Rioja, and entered into the province of Burgos, part of the jurisdiction of the autonomous region of Castille and León.
The sun came out and lit the fields of wheat which surrounded me as far as the human eye had sight. The yellow of the wheat was so the color of tanny sand, that it looked as if I was walking through a desert. The yellow was interrupted only by veins of the green trees that grew at the edges of occasional arroyos or clumps of trees that survive up on a random hilltop, looking like oases. I walked through such land until I came to Redecilla del Camino.
Radicellas
At the church of the Virgen de la Calle in the town of Redecilla del Camino is an ancient Romanesque baptismal font with a fotified heavenly city, the civitate Dei, carved round about it. Gloriosa dicta sunt de te civitas Dei!
At Redecilla, I had some coffee—alone—and departed.
Through Castil-delgado
Detour left to Viloria
I crossed the río Reláchico and passed Castildelgado, which was to my right. It was vain here to look for the skinny castle suggested by the town’s name. I knew not to look for it, for the town in sooth is named after Bishop Delgado, who may or may not have been skinny. He is now nothing but bone, as he is buried in the Romanesque church there. At Castildelgado I took a detour from the Camino, this time to visit the town of Viloria de Rioja, and this for one sole reason: to visit the birthplace of the Saint that built this part of the road. The way was hot.
I saw some French pilgrims in Viloria, and they were taking pictures of what they claimed was the yellow house of St. Dominic. They were insistent they had the right house, but I observed no sign. I had my doubts, and so I asked a local man who wore a rust-colored beret and dusty boots. He was pushing into town a wheelbarrow full of fodder from the fields. He pointed to a house of wood and mud, downhill from where the French pilgrims were taking photographs. I went to look at the house. It was still too early; it was closed. I turned back and headed to the Camino. I passed the French pilgrims, and I left them in their ignorance.
At Viloria St. Dominic was born
Back to the Camino
To Villa-mayor del Río
Through Belorado
k
Nuestra Señora de Belén
k
Nuestra Señora de la Bretonera
From Viloria I traveled northwest back to the Camino, on which, naturally, I went west. I went by Villamayor del Río, which was not much but a pueblo of semi-abandoned and worn-out homes. It is called the town of three lies, for one does not see a great town by a river, as the name implies, but a largely-abandoned hamlet by a creek.
But the town had a fountain, and I was thirsty. At the fountain I met an old Basque pilgrim who insisted in talking bad French to me, although I kept repeating in good Spanish that I spoke Spanish and no French. He was 72 years old, and his name was José. He was a thin and wiry man, with a friendly, weather-beaten face. When young, he had served in the Spanish Foreign Legion in Morocco. We drank water together, the Basque and I, and he promised me a beer the next time we met. He showed me the cigar he intended to smoke when he got to Compostela.
I I I
From Villamayor de Río I set my sights to Belorado. Although I walked for a time with the Basque and those in his group, they soon outdistanced me. I was alone, for all the pilgrims that day had passed me. It was hot, and I was weak, and in great pain. It was between Villamayor del Rio and Belorado that I met up with great evil, and defeated it—I am convinced—through the help of Santiago Matamorros.
On the way to Belorado I was plagued with mental images, which I shall not detail, for I do not wish to burden anyone’s imagination and will not propagandize the foul work of any demon. I learned their source as I wrestled with these phantasms of imagination.
Peregrinus: What visions, so foul, so impure; from where do they come in the middle of the campo?
Πορνεία: They are my handiwork, and they surely are not foul for they please the senses. I am the desire of many men.
Pregrinus: That may be so, but it is not fitting for a pilgrim to Santiago. Reveal yourself!
Πορνεία: I am everywhere, everyplace. I am no respecter of persons.
Peregrinus: Reveal your name!
Πορνεία.: I am Πορνεία. Don’t you know me?
Peregrinus: You! Exploiter of our fallen nature! Wicked hauntress of mankind! Pagan daemon of Priapus and Venus! You are Dante’s she-wolf. Bosch painted you in his Garden of Delights. Picasso and Dali were in your thrall. You are foul and very wicked and very, very wily! You are queen of the air and of the media, and many make money off your charms and the weakness of men.
Πορνεία.: What a silly uproar! These are misconceptions of your fevered mind. Who has slandered my name so to you?
Peregrinus: Slander? Does God slander? St. Paul spoke of you in his letters to the Galatians. It is you who slanders nature.
Πορνεία.: Now, that’s a lie. Man’s nature yearns for me; how, then, can I be unnatural?
Peregrinus: You dare speak of lies, daughter of the Father of Lies? You know our nature, though good, is fallen and disposed to disorder, especially in the regions of the appetite. Modern men seem to have given into you and your siren call to impurity, but in days of old, St. Thomas chased you way with a red hot poker when you appeared in the soul of a prostitute. St. Francis bested you by rolling in the brambles and the snow. St. Augustine disposed of you when he dismissed his concubine. You appeared before the great Jerome in the deserts of Palestine dressed up as a courtesan. You spare no man and reverence nothing, for St. Alphonsus Liguori saw you once in a soutane. Tell me have you any Saints in your employ?
Πορνεία: Oh most certainly not. They are such droll and frigid fellows.
Pregrinus: Indeed, your friends are demons and the damned.
Πορνεία: Ah, but I have put a vision in you, my claws are in you, and you are mine.
Pregrinus: Oh, but your teaching is not true. I know the vision is your doing and my weakness is not my sin. Indeed, to fight you is a virtue.
Πορνεία: Have you not lost battles with me in the past?
(This question I answered in the words of St. John’s epistle)
Peregrinus: Si dixerimus quonia peccatum non habemus, ipsi nos seducimus, et veritas in nobis non est. Si confiteamur peccata nostra, fidelis est et iustus, ut remittat nobis peccata nostra et emundet nos ab omni iniquitate. Si dixeriums quoniam non pecavimus, mendacem facimus eum, et verbum eius non est in nobis.
Πορνεία: Ahh, then, you admit you have lost. You cannot fight me. You will not win, even though you quote the Scriptures, for I am the epitome of seduction and persistence.
Peregrinus: Alone I cannot fight you. But I am a pilgrim of St. James!
Πορνεία: I promise pleasure.
Peregrinus: Away! Meretricious bitch! You have a vagina dentata that bites the soul that falls for you. You are a Circe that changes us into swine. At what price the pleasure? And for how long? With what bitterness follows the pleasure? And how do you dull the sense of the holy? I may be weak, but I’m no fool. I’ve seen the portals and tympana on the way, and they always show those in your thrall on the left of Christus Iudex. That is not the place to be. My soul with the Saints!
Πορνεία: Oh spare me! How medieval!
Peregrinus: Away! In nomine Iesu!
I raised my staff and shook it threateningly, wielding it as if it were my sword. I prayed to Mary an Ave. “Santiago y Cierra mi alma!” I shouted my battle cry. Πορνεία retreated in great haste. Although I did not see it with my eyes, it is more than just a whim that makes me think Πορνεία saw behind me Santiago atop a pure white steed, wielding not his pilgrim staff, but his sword. So it was that in the hot wheat fields between Villamayor del Rio and Belorado, I had bested the demon in my little battle of Clavijo.
I I I
After this confrontation, I headed toward Belorado, a town that at one time, for a time marked the variable border between the Kingdom of Navarre and the Kingdom of Castille, for the boundary was determined for centuries by the vicissitudes of battle.
My feet hurt brutally as I walked towards Belorado—the Dolorosa of the pilgrim Hermann Künig von Vach—and to entertain myself and distract my attention from the pain, I whistled the first tune to come into my head. It happened to be Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto in D Minor, but I could not remember much of it, so the little I remembered I fashioned into an infinite loop. So whistling in the key of D minor, I entertained myself for a long time, for it does not take much to entertain a pilgrim.
I I I
When I got to the refugio, the pilgrims were all lined up by its walls waiting for it to open. Many offered words and signs of encouragement, for most knew that I was suffering. I greeted all those I knew, then went to the Church of Santa María, which sat by the arroyo Verdancho.
I prayed before the Blessed Sacrament, or rather, should I say, I tried to pray—in the ordinary way with words and with the mind—but I could not muster it. The pain in my feet was all-consuming and it distracted me to such a degree I could not focus my thoughts. I could not even offer words: for all I could do was sigh and moan. So I prayed in a fashion that I had not prayed before—offering no words, only pain. I offered my awful pain to God; at the moment that was all I seemed to have to give Him. Then I hobbled to the chapel of Santiago Matamorros to the right of the tabernacle, and asked the militant Santiago’s help to get me to his relics. I harbored great doubt about my ability to finish.
After a brief rest, Richard and I walked to a hotel (it was obvious from the line of pilgrims that the refugio was booked up). We crossed the bridge over the Tirón river. It is of stone, and it is said to have been built by Saint John of the Nettles, the saint whose remains we would see at a town that bears his name and is situated in the heart of the Montes de Oca just ahead.
I I I
After we settled in at the hotel, I had a beer or two at the bar, and spoke to a man named Jaime. He was a traveling salesman, and was selling something to the bartender. Jaime told me that he had been the hospitaller at a Burgos albergue for pilgrims and had taken a year off from his onerous duties. When he learned that I was on pilgrimage orandi causa, he knew I could be trusted with tales of Providence. He thus told me of the time St. James had saved the day.
“The year was 1993,” he started with a far-away look in his eye as he recalled the event. “It was an Año Santo, and we were expecting a lot of pilgrims. In fact, we expected the albergue to be at capacity. I had made arrangements to accommodate the pilgrims who were cyclists at the Sports Center closeby the albergue. The deal was that after the Sports Center shut its doors to the public, which was 9:00 p.m., the pilgrims could access the facilities. At 9:00 sharp, I sought out the manager. He was aware of the arrangement, but as he had not received the written authorization from the Ayuntamiento, he felt he could not admit the pilgrims. No amount of persuasion could make that stubborn man yield.”
I took a sip of my beer; he took a sip of his; and he continued. “It was Saturday, and none of the officials of the Ayuntamiento was available. I called the municipal police to help me, to see if they could track down the Alcalde. The police tried the Alcalde’s house, but told me he was not home and had left for the evening.”
“So,” he paused, “I prayed to the Apostle Santiago to lend me a hand. And what do you think happened?”
“I have no idea,” I said, “tell me.”
“No more than two minutes later, the Alcalde showed up at the back door of my refugio. The Alcalde told me he had been out with his wife and some friends. When they were on their way back he exclaimed spontaneously, ‘Let’s see what the pilgrims are up to!’ and he took the car to the albergue.”
“What’s remarkable,” Jaime pointed out, “was that the Alcalde’s spontaneous decision coincided with my prayer to Santiago.”
“That is a wonderful story,” I admitted.
He told me he had to go and wished me as he left the bar, “Buen Camino!”
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[i] Charles Péguy, The Mystery of the Holy Innocents (translated by Pansy Pakenham)
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