Still in Spain

Home: a remote village on the Meseta – I never expected that. Mind you, I never expected to walk five hundred miles across the north of Spain either.

From at least the Middle Ages, pilgrims have trekked the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrim route that runs from the Pyrenees to the city of Santiago de Compostela in northwest Spain where, according to tradition, the remains of Saint James are buried. Before the pandemic, over a quarter of a million were hiking the trail each year, collecting stamps along the way in the pilgrim's passport called a Credencial to prove they've made the journey. On arriving in Santiago, this earns them the Compostela, or certificate of completion.

Almost on a whim, I walked this route in 2015, setting out with a rucksack full of swagger and bluster. A month later I limped across the finish line with a new reverence for the beauty of wildflowers and the reviving effect of hot showers. Be still, said my soul, life is here and life is now.

The experience made a profound impression on me, and so it was that a couple of years later, I found myself volunteering at a pilgrim hostel in the picturesque village of Castrojeriz. Cobbled streets and stone cottages wrap themselves around the shoulders of a hill like a scarf round the neck of an old man. His battered top hat, pointing into the sky, is a ruined castle.

Strategically located in the province of Castille Y Leon, the village has been awakened from centuries of slumber by the resurgence of the Camino. All along the route, simple hostels have been established to provide beds for the pilgrims, and with that, other businesses have sprung up – restaurants, massage services, taxis, guides and so on.

After volunteering for three weeks, I returned the following summer as a paid member of staff. During the busy months, my days were stretched thin: scrubbing toilets, folding laundry, showing new arrivals to their dorms, manning the bar throughout the afternoon and then preparing dinners at night. Exhausting but rewarding. Serving the weary walkers just as others had served me when I had hiked the trail.

I learned to make a decent cappuccino, change a beer keg, speak Spanish.

And I savoured each moment.

The Camino is often seen as a metaphor for life: it unfolds one day at a time, people pass into and out of our lives, we eat, we sleep, we walk. The journey focuses attention on the essentials: aching knees, the blessed relief of a warm shower at the end of the day, how good cold water tastes when you’re thirsty.

Chatting to the pilgrims, I’d hear their stories, each unique. Zheng Liang from Beijing was walking to lose weight; Casey, newly retired, travelled from Australia to try and make sense of his wife's faith; Anna from Bulgaria had just graduated and was looking for direction for her life.

In quiet moments, I’d sit in the garden, gazing up at the ruined castle, stroking the hostel cat and sipping a cool San Miguel. The skies were incredible. So much more expansive than the low ceilings of English clouds. Here they soared majestically to heaven itself.

On my days off, I’d climb the hills, explore semi-abandoned hamlets, photograph fields of poppies, marvel at how storks build their nests atop bell towers. In the village itself, I discovered the House of Silence: flickering candles and home-made art installations formed from twisting branches remind visitors to contemplate the quietness. With gentle music playing in the background, I used to sit and meditate, allowing the stillness to settle in my soul.

With each passing month, I grew to appreciate the locals who tolerated the throngs of tourists tramping through their narrow streets. I shopped at the weekly market, joined in the garlic festival and watched the folk dances outside the church. I cycled over to the next-door village to watch the baby-jumping festival, where mothers laid their infants down in the street for cavorting caricatures of devils to leap over them as a gesture of blessing.

Festivals such as these serve to accentuate the tranquillity of village life.

The quietness makes the changing of the seasons more remarkable. Meadows of wildflowers in spring are followed by the baking heat of summer; the faces of crowds of sunflowers announce the harvests; then the torrent of pilgrim tourists freezes up, turning the village into an eery ghost town.

Sadly, Covid-19 has devastated the Camino. With no pilgrims, there is no work, and I’m back in lockdown Britain, flicking through my photos and memories of my home in Castrojeriz.

I wish I were still in Spain.