Sketches of Spain

She - or he - was thin and fine-boned in the Asian way, hair close-cropped and androgynous. We had only two words in common: "Korea" and "England", and the waggled fingers to signify walking. While the rest of us were lumpen and wrinkled in our assorted waterproof trousers and flapping ponchos, she - or he - was serene in a Burberry mackintosh, long to the shins and carefully belted.

***

Thirty pigeons wheeled from the tower as the bell clanged for Mass. Inside the green-frocked priest read the lesson in Italian, then stepped forward and smiled hesitantly. His address was in English: "This reading is important because it says if two or three are ...." he circled his arms "juntos? ... then Jesus will be there: Well, we are more than three, so Jesus is here listening!"
He sighed in relief and looked towards the front pew. His eyebrows and his mouth asked "Was that alright? Did they understand?" Then he looked back towards us and beamed. Like a proud parent at the Nativity play, I wanted to clap.

***

Eighteen scarecrows to guard a small plot of vines isolated amid the cut corn of the Meseta. Each one the deep blue overall of labourers bulked out with the ever present straw; their heads slanting white plastic bags like the headscarves of Russian peasants. Each marched across the landscape, leaning into the wind.

***

Ahead as the track unfurled downwards from the ridge two far off ovals separated and one came towards us. The stubble gleamed a grey yellow under the slate sky, but not so brightly as the glint form the approaching figure. Closer, the glint became the brass name badge of Alejandro, "Friend of the Pilgrims of Boadilla del Camino". He is short, but with a military style in a belted blue jacket and green cravat, a red bag slung bandolier fashion across his chest. He wears his metal pins on the Camino like medals. He has walked out here every morning for seven years since he retired, to sit on the ridge and greet the passing pilgrims. He took our names and our photo to add to the pile "so high..." - measuring half a meter from the soil - which he already has. And, he mentioned with a wicked smirk, all the lady pilgrims give him a kiss on both cheeks...

***

El Burgo Ranero. A frontier-feeling village where the most exciting thing is watching the straw-and-mud houses slowly dissolve in the rain. Inside the steamy bar, once all have eaten their hot dinners, the afternoon passes with the harsh snaps and dry rumblings of dominos on formica, as the eight old men in flat caps and Arran-style sweaters keep their wits alive.

***

As the carved wooden Virgin on her throne was borne shoulder-height away from the sunken chapel, the women of the village followed behind, singing hymns. The priest called for them to slow down while a tiny woman in a blue two-piece suit was helped up the steep stone steps to the road. And off they went, to the main church up the hill, whose bell clanged them in. It was important for the old woman to follow the Virgin. I expect she had done so on this date all her life. A neighbour came out of her house to lend an arm: But where the hill started, the old lady waved the others off and inched back to her home by the chapel.

***

Leaving Burgos in the aftermath of rain we passed an oddly-assorted couple and predicted archly that they wouldn't last long: one of the random pairings that happen between people walking the Camino alone. She was small and blond, with a rucksack nearly her own height; and she walked quickly with a tall stick in one hand. He was tall, lean and dark. He wore jeans and carried a tiny day sack over one shoulder, a large camera over the other. She stopped periodically to gaze back at where he had stopped for yet another perfect photo-op. Later, we saw that they had exchanged rucksacks. "That'll curb photography's hold on him," she must have thought. Later still we saw the lad being carried back along the track, riding pillion on a trail bike. The girl was nowhere in sight.

***

The hospitalera of San Bol is everything you think a young Dutch woman should be: tall and blond with slender bones and clear grey eyes. Able to speak several languages well, and idealistic, she took over running the 8-bed refugio just three weeks ago. She has walked 4000 kilometres along the different routes to Santiago, but this, she thinks, is the only true route. It follows the Milky Way and draws strength from the millions of people walking the same soil for centuries. So San Bol, she hopes, will be the place she finally feels at home.

She led us to the fresh water spring in the grove of poplars, and while we filled our bottles where the water ran into a large concrete bath, she washed her dishes where it left the tank and created a stream. "Every morning, when the sun rises, I have my bath here. A cold bath feels less cold than a cold shower, I think. And then I do my exercises under the trees." She smiled serenely and I hid a shudder. Perhaps in the height of summer it would feel different, yet she intends to continue here in the winter.

Back at the little building, she persuaded David to lie on the ground between the bunk beds and experience "the strange calm and strength of this special place." I settled for a herb tea and conversation. The girl wore a draping lilac skirt held up by a knot. With no electricity, the dark room was kitchen, dining room, office and store, and hung with crystals and dream-catchers; and clear plastic freezer bags filled with water to confuse flies. No one knows how it works, but as she slipped into Spanish with a Mexican boy and French with four pensioners, everyone agreed it is an old wives' cure that seems to work.

***

There's a tall, austere man stalking this part of the Camino. In military green and with a bald head under his beret I take him for a veteran of the Foreign Legion. He carries a sleeping bag under his arm in a supermarket bag and the rest of his possessions in an old canvas knapsack held together with safety pins. Sometimes we see him sleeping rough, washing in the village fountains: At other times, maybe when rain threatens, he's in the hostels, sitting slightly aloof among the chatter round beers in the bars. But at other times he beams toothily and approaches any new stranger to present them with a religious or uplifting tract scrawled in pencil on a sheet torn from an exercise book. That usually ends his conversations, but we chose to speak, and he wrote us messages in French and English too. I still have them. He is possibly one of the more cultured, intelligent people we have met. Growing up in Blois, his family moved to Madrid where he still lives. He loves the Prado but is looking for somewhere smaller to retire to. His brother, now dead, went to London and our pilgrim sometimes visits his nephews there. But for now, we track his passing by the familiar scrawl on school paper on bar counters and reception desks along the route.

11th September 2008