PILGRIMAGE (I) - SACRED PLACES

This is the church of Santa María, a crumbling, impressive, beguiling 12^th century Romanesque wonder in the small town of Carrión de los Condes, Palencia, Spain, on the Camino de Santiago. It’s where I discovered that a non-believer doesn’t have to dislike churches.

Dale mentioned pilgrimage, reminding me that I’d been meaning for the longest time to write about the Camino de Santiago.

I meant to when Udge was travelling along the Camino and walking parts of it in May this year. On his return home, Udge wrote: "I have much to think about, and much to do, after this trip: certain things have been put into new perspectives, and certain changes must be made”.

I meant to when Tamar wrote movingly of her long walk along Hadrian’s Wall in June. " It was more than just the walk”, Tamar wrote, after describing the long days, the rain and mud and throbbing muscles, the huge physical and emotional achievement of completing such a tough walk. "It actually did not have to do with whether I could make it or not. It had to do with something deeply emotional inside me. A culmination of self-alteration and reflection work these past four or five years or so… All the way there, during the long days of walking, and in the nights as I fell into a deep, fitful, dream-filled sleep, I knew I was preparing to say goodbye…. I am no longer connected. It is not that I need to disconnect. I am, already, dis-connected. Free. Beyond all that. It has taken place. I just don't care any more. The exclusion of me has been so complete that I am now, by choice, dis-connected. No need for major decisions or acts of re-action. It is done. I have, in fact, moved on. No need for big decisions, dramatic actions. It is done ... I came to say goodbye - but that, too, was done. In March. Between January and March. Six months after fifty seven and a half years of learning how I came to be who I am”.

Such are the reflections of thoughtful people who have been on, or even touched, a pilgrimage.

With the big subjects, it’s hard to know where to start. I flicked through some websites and found these photos, was back there in a flash. If you can’t find a beginning, start in the middle.

Early evening, mid October 1996, Carrión de los Condes. It had been a wet day’s walking. Water dripped from the lime trees outside the refugio, the hostel for pilgrims walking to Santiago de Compostela, which adjoined the church. The plaza, which must have been normally dusty and sandy, was churning mud. The refugio’s occupants for that night were in the bar across the road, clustered round a bottle of red wine and a plate of chorizo slices. The old Swedish hippy, the middle-aged Spanish bank-manager, the young Dutch psychiatrist, and me.

The refugio’s fifth occupant, the young French airline executive, the only practising Catholic among us, had gone to early evening Mass and would join us soon for dinner. Here he was, in fact. The old hippy waved him expansively to the empty seat and moved to fill his glass. But the young man hovered in the doorway.

"The priest has sent me to fetch you all for a tour of the church", he said. Oh. We thought we’d made it clear before Mass. No. Really. H, the young Frenchman (of whom more later) gave me a rueful look: "He’ll be over here himself if you don’t come. I don’t think he takes no for an answer. He says all the pilgrims always…". He spoke in a mixture of Spanish and French, with me translating rapidly into English for the Swede and the Dutchman. We looked at one another and sighed. The priest and his sister were our hosts, a bed in the refugio free to anyone walking the Camino. We got to our weary feet, confided the wine and chorizo to the barman, who was smiling and nodding, filed out and across the square.

The priest was waiting, small in his black cassock and beret, dwarfed by the fine, ancient doorway. This, sharing his domain with the passing stream of strangers, was his joy. His quiet learning and love of every stone made it a very special tour. We ended beneath a small painted wooden Madonna in a high niche. He spoke of her age and history, and of polychromatic technique. "I talk to her every day. She told me this morning that you would be coming", he beamed, ever-so slightly self-mocking, but sincere.

We were hooked. I was, certainly. I’d scarcely been inside a church since I left my Church of England primary school, where twice weekly attendance was compulsory. I loved Romanesque architecture for its great age, its warm, enclosing curves, it’s vivid carved men and beasts from a time and mind-set so far off they might be from another planet. This had been one of the Camino’s attractions for me. I admired from outside, though, and never went in.

That day in Carrión gave me back the refuge of churches. Not the religion or the institution, but the spirit, the intimacy, the shades of those who built them and of all who’d prayed there down the ages. For the rest of the walk, I went into the churches and found there the same ineffable strength and mystery I found on the pilgrim path itself.

As for so many, so it was for me. The Camino began as a physical journey, but became a spiritual one; began as a journey of escape from myself and became a journey towards myself; began as a journey with a goal and became one whose purpose was in every moment of the way; began as a journey for a month and became a lifelong path. That is to say, it began as a journey and became a pilgrimage.

Much more to say…

Photos © Instituto Cervantes (Spain), 1999-2007

Comments

[Tom Montag]

Certainly "more than just a walk." I think my own vagabonding is pilgrimage in a similar sense. Thanks for this post!

[marja-leena]

Beautiful writing, beautiful story, Jean! I have the same feelings about these old churches.

[beth]

This is a very beautiful reflection, Jean, and I am waiting anxiously - no, calmly! - for the next installment. My own journeys to England in the 1980s and 1990s were also a pilgrimage of the type you describe, though I didn't recognize it at first, either, nor did I realize how much they would continue.

[maria]

Beautiful account, indeed! It must have been such a magical moment to have a journey urn into a pilgrimage. The closest experience in thsi regard for me has been on the coast of British Columbia, where for long stretches of land not a sign or touch of human presence could be traced....

[Lorianne]

I know we've talked about Rebecca Solnit before, but I can't help but think of Wanderlust in this context, as well as Victor Turner & his notion of pilgrimage as a liminal state in which the individual walker encounters a community of like-minded others.

I wrote about all of this in my now-nearly-forgotten dissertation, the proposal for which is here, if you're interested:
http://www.hoardedordinaries.com/lori/phd/dissprop.pdf

[udge]

Beautiful indeed, and I too look forward to hearing more. You've reminded me that I haven't yet written the promised follow-up posts to my own walk, and also that much of what I felt then has receded behind the dailynesses.

[Lucy]

The Camino is an endlessly rich and fascinating subject. I often feel the most sincere accounts of experiences of it seemed to come from those who aren't fully paid-up believers...
I'm sending the link to this post to my brother; it has been one of the most important elements of his life for many years, and I'm sure he'll recognise much about it.

[dale]

Sometimes people object to calling buddhist practice a "path," because it implies a destination. But I've never thought of it that way. I just think of turning corners, opening prospects, seeing things that other people have found, but I never would have, on my own. The pathless wilderness is mostly just more of the same, I've found :-)

[Natalie]

Jean, this is fascinating, I'm so glad you decided to write it. I didn't know you'd done the Camino. Will be very interested to read the continuation.

[andy]

Beautiful writing, Jean. I delayed starting reading this series until I had time to give your words the attention they deserve. Particularly relevant to me now, as it happens, as I've all but abandoned any such path which I was ever on.

Old churches, notwithstanding any religious significance, always serve to reinforce in me the feeling of awareness of what we loosely call the spiritual dimension of humankind. I visited Durham cathedral recently, travelling back from Scotland - one almost feels the presence, or the echo, of the thousands of souls who through the centuries have gathered there with a purpose beyond the simply physical.