Music and the food- such love in Lucca

This little boy was in front of us at a concert, conducting and dancing for all he was worth!

Here in Lucca, it is music on every noticeboard, concerts on every corner - it is the celebration of 150 years since Puccini’s birth. Puccini spent most of his life here, in a house just around the corner, and is being truly feted this year. There are concerts every day of the week from November to April- imagine, in a city of 82000.Glorious arias, amusing comic songs, even full scale performances of Manon Lescaut and Madame Butterfly.

Sunday morning saw a recital of Mozart which we had to miss to go to church with a huge choir , and we missed a Boccherini concert in a cafe in order to hear popular Tuscany songs sung by a young and energetic local group, Il Balhuardo, who included a tribute to Miriam Makeba, the African gospel singer who died recently. Conducted by baritone Elio Antichi with jazz pianist TizianoMangani, it was exciting stuff.
All this music to feed our souls, right alongside the feast of food also on offer, and all mostly free.
The weekends of November and December are brightened in Lucca with a colourful exhibition of local produce and craft-Il Desco- sapori e sapere Lucchesi in mostra . The weekend was called L’Olio e I Tesori di Lucca: iniziative enogasronomiche ed eventi culturai nella provincia diLucca. see http://www.luccaturismo.it/ How could we resist?
Free giveaways of grilled bruschetta drizzled with extra virgin oil, sea salt and pepper, slices of proschiutto, lard which Rosemary pronounced gorgeous, chocolate covered candied peel, chestnut paste prepared as it has been for centuries in Tuscany, between flat pottery plates-we lapped it all up!
The setting is an old convent behind the famous S. Frediano Church with its pure gold mosaic. The convent has interior courtyards, and cloisters which are perfect for displays. I stood for ages watching a Hungarian playing recorders, ocarina and whistles.The beautiful wood on the treble recorder tempted me sorely. Sweeping marble stairs lead to the upper floor, primo piano, where lace making, weaving, jewellery, exquisite furniture were attracting wealthy looking buyer types. We took our tourist looking types along to another free concert, this time of Hungarian songs and dances, Spettacolo Folkloristico con Musiche ungheresi. There was much slapping of leather boots (theirs) , heaving bodices and full skirts (again theirs not ours) and tapping feet and smiles of pleasure , this time on our part. The conductor was Kerko Neptanc.
The following night we returned for Opera Buffa - comic operatic sings.
We love the sheer serendipity of coming out of a café, like Antica Drogheria on Via Elisa, into pouring cold rain and wishing aloud for an umbrella. What immediately appears but a very black man with an armful of umbrellas to sell. He smiled when I called him an angel , Angelo. Later we peeped under our purple(Danielle) and rainbow (Ceri) umbrellas and saw him again.
‘Ciao, Angelo!’ I called across the sodden square. He raised an umbrella and a smile in reply.

Serendipity too, of coming across an exhibition of photos of projects in Africa where Italians and French are working together in former colonies to help women and children.
Right next to the Museum shop where we gazed at length at illuminated manuscripts from 14th century. I resolve to learn more about lluminations, and maybe even try to paint one.
Right next to the Museum, at the Romanesque Duomo of St Martino , I was delighted to find a labyrinth carved into the stone column by the door. We stood in the rain and walked our fingers around the marble, as so many thousands must have done for centuries.
Then, with our fresh bread from an artisan baker, new season’s Chianti, local tomatoes, leeks, garlic, broccoli, fat juicy olives, and two fat and meaty sausages, from the markets, we left the icy rainy streets and returned home to our warm apartment. We closed the green shutters, put on piano music by Franz Moser whom we met in Florence and ate another of Rosemary‘s marvellous meals. What culture! What a delicious time in Tuscany!

Lucca in Tuscany- hard to get into, easy to get around

Lucca- why is it hard to get into? Is it fully booked? Is there a massive drawbridge which collapsed in the last storm?
No, but close.
Lucca has a perfectly preserved city wall, as wide as a road, with only six small rounded gateways for entrance. The only cars in sight belong to people who live within the walls, and most of them seem to have bikes instead. Any other cars are charged $2.50 an hour to park.
The result is an almost car free, peaceful town where you can walk anywhere around the winding streets and frequent open piazzas, moving out of the way at the tinkle of a bike bell. Locals are so relaxed they even say ‘Buon Giorno!’ Lucca became a self governing city in 12th century, and had few political troubles- hence the preservation of the walls.

Easy to get around. Sunday we walked around the broad Renaissance walls, circumvallazione, along with every grandma and grandpa, either on their stately bikes, or walking in their winter coats, just unwrapped from the mothballs. There were bikes with dad riding, baby strapped on his chest, and Mum side saddle on the back! Young couples walked their dogs, just released from their tiny apartments, young men in jeans and black jackets sauntered and slouched, and small children whooped and played, all in golden sunshine.
It was the day of the Lucca Wall International Bike Race, too. Hundreds of competitors raced a portion of the wall, then down onto the green park below, up slopes so steep some had to carry their bikes, around hairpin bends and back along the wall. The commentary was a continuous torrent of Italian- all I know is that Marco Aurelio Fontana did very well, as his name was repeated many times!
Lucca is in Northern Tuscany. It has the ochre, yellow, umbers and creams you see in Tuscan paintings, along with mellow orange and brown roof tiles, big wooden doors, stone streets and archways. Picture book stuff. Our apartment is in a typical four storey tenement, windows with shutters, parquet floor with Persian rugs spacious and lovely.

Hard to get up. Its only drawback, and it is a big steep and difficult one, are the two flights of stone stairs, so steep that it is better to descend backwards. It was so hard to pull the suitcases up the stairs- I was afraid of falling backwards. Extraordinary how any could manage those stairs on a daily basis.
However we do, and we go forth and explore with great delight.

Our apartment on Via Del Fosso overlooks a running stream. When Napoleon’s sister , Elisa, was appointed governor of Lucca she was so appalled by the stench coming form the then open sewers she ordered them covered over. By the time she left, the water was clean enough to drink. Today we will walk along Via Elisa and through one of the city gates named after her, Porta Elisa, and remember this woman of the early 1800s who made such a difference in this lovely town, there is now a statue to her in Piazza Napoleone . In fact a coffee and croissant there could be a fitting tribute to her.

Pools of Gold- early morning iin Florence

Our first morning in Florence, I woke up before the others and left the house quietly. I shut the giant wooden street door behind me. A solitary cyclist passed me on Borgo Pinti, an old man flung water on the footpath outside his building, no-one much else was around. The brown tiled dome of the Duomo was still in darkness, but the sun was just touching the top of Giotto’s Campanile or bell tower.
Crossing the Piazza del Duomo, I walked towards Piazza della Signoria. The Fountain of Neptune was spouting forth, surrounded by cool gray marble sculptures. I looked for the plaque marking the spot where Dominican monk Savonarola was hanged after his disastrous attempt at purifying politics in church and state, but could only see an old man and his bike sitting as still as Perseus holding up the head of Medusa.
On the Ponte Vecchio, the sun created a pool of gold in a scallop shell, and washed it across the ancient jewellery shops with a promise of the gold they would sell for real later in the day.
Walking up the other side of the Arno river, I tried to capture the calm, warm colours and timeless reflections, which have enchanted painters and lovers for centuries.
By the time I crossed back over to the city side, attraversiamo, tour groups were assembling, traffic was building up, and the sun was illuminating the pink, white and green marble of the 13th century cathedral. My first full day in Florence was beginning.

Just roaming in Rome- empire, friends and gelato

Can you go to Rome and not visit the Vatican Museums, the Sistine Chapel, the Forum, Palatine, Colosseum and St Peter’s tomb?
No, definitely not.
Rome for the first time has to include those essentials.
Rome for the next time, for us, meant catching up with friends against the backdrop of history and imperial magnificence.
Staying in Trastavere at La Foresteria Orsa Maggiore, Via Francesco de Sales, 1a, www.casainternationaledelladonne.org , gave us an immersion into narrow lanes opening into unexpected piazzzas, with cafes enticing us to linger and drink espresso and lattes in the warm sun. Lonely Planet describes its ‘traditionally proletarian nature changing as crumbling old palazzzos are gentrified and wealthy foreigners move in to the picturesque and labyrinthine lanes’ Right on.
Sunday morning, we found the oldest church in Rome, Santa Maria in Trastavere, with standing room only. A real parish community, with a big group of deaf children and adults and a beautiful sister signing the whole liturgy. So much better to participate in the liturgy, than just popping in to see the art. However, the building was pretty amazing- foundations from 337AD, building from 12th century, 21 ancient Roman columns, mosaics from 1140, and Byzantine painting of the Madonna. After that external and spiritual beauty, we needed coffee in the lovely Piazza Santa Maria, with our friends Hannah and Jennifer from Oxford.
We met Fi and Marion at the Spanish Steps and climbed up to Villa Borghese Gardens, north east of the Piazza de Popolo, full of families, biking, roller blading, pushing the pram with nana and grandpa, going on the merry go round, eating gelato- all in this glorious symmetrical paths and formal plantings once the garden of Cardinal Scipione Borghese.
We enjoyed the open spaces and fresh air after the intensity of Roman traffic and people.
The Galleria Borghese , so popular you have to book ahead, in the middle of the park, houses 6 Caravaggio works, which interested art historian Fi, as well as works by Bernini, Titian, Raphael, Botticelli and Rubens.
We watched the fading light over Rome silhouetting the flocks of birds, coming back in huge swirling patterns to roost in trees of the Medici villa- the legendary umbrella pines of Rome were full of the chirping sounds of birds at the end of the day.
Across the city is a surprise- an Anglican church, part of the American Episicopal Diocese in Europe. St Pauls within the Walls , on Via Nationale, is an Art Nouveau delight, with candy pink and white striped walls, rich green tiles by William Morris, frescoes and mosaics by pre Raphaelite Edward Burne Jones, and gentle rounded arches with a Moorish flavour. Built in 1873, it is one of the newest churches in Rome, and boasts great big bronze doors commemorating a significant meeting between the Pope John xx111, and Anglican Archbishop Geoffrey Fisher.
Our visit was not for history however but to hear Mozart’s Requiem- choir of 50, soloists, orchestra, rich reverberation, passionate music- bliss!
Sunday night in Rome sees many restaurants closed for family time, so we were very pleased to look down a side street and see the neon lights of Est Est Est . This restaurant is a Roman institution- again an art deo interior, dark wood panels, shiny brass taps on the wine cupboard, coat hooks and racks behind each table, with original 1920s chairs and tables.
In that environment, how could the food fail to please? It didn’t! Fresh bread and olives to nibble, salads, interesting vegetables, meats, seafood, Chianti to wash it down.

We had coffee in Campo de Fiore ,watching the locals shop at the market, and Danielle ate Rome style tripe ( served with tomatoes and cheese, it was delicious, she said) in Piazza Navonna at Cul de Sac. This restaurant was a guide book recommendation. The queues around the corner testify to its excellent menu and vast wine list. We got there early!
The Pantheon dating back to 120 AD, looms large, round and stately, its extraordinary dome the most important achievement of Roman architecture. Originally a temple to the planetary gods, the Pantheon has housed many Christian altars - I think they sit awkwardly in the curved spaces - better to have left the soaring columns of that monument alone.
We ended our four days of friendship, laughter and birthdays with a roller coaster ride through history. The Time Elevator , in SS Apostoli, off Via de Corso, is a multi screen presentation . Safety bars stop yourself falling out of the seat as you twist and rocket through a time machine- a fantastic, entertaining way to get an historical overview , showing how many of the buildings appeared in their prime, and how people have lived, worked, created and designed in Rome over its many centuries of decline, fall and rise again.
We wandered home through Rome by night, over the Tiber, getting our adrenaline levels down by eating gelato - liquorice, rock melon, lemon, and chocolate.

Come to my birthday in Rome

It all began with a throw away comment- we should celebrate Danielle's 70th birthday in Rome- and this is how it happened.

We flew in from Madrid, flung ourselves out of the taxi in crazy Roman traffic, and right into the arms of English friends who had already arrived. We all stayed at the atmospheric Foresteria Orsa Maggiore, a converted 16th century convent., in the Trastavere area, over the Tiber.

Pasta and vino rosso for dinner.

Saturday mornng we got a text ,‘Meet us in the middle of St Peters Square,'and there are two more friends, from Cardiff. We stood in the middle of the massive piazza, with the line for the tour of the Sistine Chapel curling behind us. Nuns and priests walked past in pairs, tour groups followed little flags and umbrellas, and we stood beaming at each other, and getting our photo taken. Danielle was already overcome with her birthday treat and it was only 11am. The tall columns of antiquity stood around us, the cobblestones which have felt so many feet for so many centuries.

We decided to skip the queue and enter St Peters as if we were normal church goers. No such luck- a very abrupt guard gesticulated firmly to the queue at the south side. Even Danielle’s rusty Italian and charming smile did not change his mind. Across the square again, the queue moved us quickly enough up to a security check and Xray of luggage and we are in.
Nothing can prepare you for the immense spaciousness of St Peters. The sweeping expanses of tiled floors, the slender columns reaching to the curved nave ceilings.

We paid special attention to the tenderness of the Pieta, created out of pale marble by a 23 year old MichelAngelo.

We walked to the statue of St Peter-tradition has it that you kiss his foot before a pilgrimage or important event.
Danielle is allowed to touch the statue, burnished to a high patina by many before her, but I am not allowed to photograph the action. The guard does not explain why.

We wander back down Borgo Santo Spiritu, and past Regina Coeli Prison, where the man who shot John Paul 11 is incarcerated.

At last we have learned the value of an afternoon rest if you want to eat at anything like the local time.

For predinner drinks, Maria leads us to ‘the hippest place in Rome’ according to Time Out. We think the price of a glass of Prosecco, a dry champagne type drink, is very steep until she reveals that there is a buffet of free food included. We stand out on the cobbled square by the Tiber, sipping Prosecco, sniffing in the scent of dope, watching the full moon and doing our best to feel hip.

Finally the birthday dinner at Luna e l’Altra, more glasses of Prosecco, and red wine, antipasti of

zucchini in light batter, cheeses, salad, bread, followed by grilled meats, fish, grilled aubergines, roasted peppers, and Danielle's favourite dessert, tiramisu. We began to eat at 8.30 and finished at 11.30.

'It was a wonderful occasion, with friends from UK, in a lovely Roman restaurant. It was full of fun and celebration!' said Danielle.

Not rain in Spain, but snow on the last day.

We left Santiago reluctantly, captivated by its charm, but realising we needed to move on. A quick stop at Ourense for breakfast and for the promised hot pools, but nothing opened before 11.00am, so we hit the toll road for a very easy trip south east towards Madrid. The road travelled through hills and valleys, the fabled rocky sierras, then smoothed out into high cold plains as we neared the capital.
Just off the motorway was Avila, where Teresa became famous in the 13th century for reforming the Carmelites and writing her books on mystic spirituality. She collaborated with John of the Cross whose best known work is The Dark Night of the Soul. I was very intrigued to read that one of her fingers was on display, along with a fragment of her cloak, her walking stick, and some of Johns bones, so had to go in search of it. They were all faithfully displayed in a glass case and I had a strange jolt of reality- these two were real people, real bones and flesh, and here was some evidence (I guess). The guide book says that Franco had the finger of Teresa, complete with large ring, beside his bed during his years as dictator of Spain- not sure of the significance of that!
The museum and reliquery are on the site of one of her many extensive and busy convents, all within the walls of beautiful Avila, so well preserved it is another UNESCO world Heritage Site.
We would loved to have lingered, but the wind was coming off the snow on the surrounding hills, proving the claim that Avila is the coldest place in Spain.
We drove off to our airport hotel, in readiness to leave this fascinating country, with a promise to return, and fly east to Rome.

Beautiful and Preposterous- a few days in Santiago de Compostela

There can be few cities in the world as beautiful as Santiago founded on so preposterous a story, so says the Lonely Planet.

The legend of St James was the impetus for the growth of this city since 12th century. Nowadays it has all the bustle and charm of a modern European city, with the characteristic historic centre, pedestrianised, throbbing woth people all day and most of the night, and full of such a range of architectural styles that every turning is charming.

We stayed at the Mapoula Hostel http://www.mapoula.com/, on the 3rd floor of an old building. It has a lift, free wi-fi, very comfortable ensuite rooms, and is in a brilliant location, 5 minutes from the cathedral and all the historic sights, and only 2 minutes from underground parking for the car. Each morning we crossed the narrow cobbled streets and walked into a cafe for breakfast- each evening we chose a different cafe or restaurant for a meal.

Spain is not expensive for Kiwis, wth most main meals costing us about $20 each, with wine.

The Catedral del Apostol was my first stop in Santiago- still with my pack on, I sat in the quietness and breathed my relief that the walking was over. There was a faint smell of incense in the air, and I could see the huge botafumeiro , or thurible, for dispensing incense, tied to the wall. The biggest in the world, it is now only used 20 times a year, and I assume had been used for All Saints. We returned for the Pilgrims Mass the next day at 12 noon, when the Cathedral was full in all three areas. At the beginning the priest read out a list of all the places Pilgrims had come from. We strained to hear Nova Zelanda, and smiled at each other when it came!

The sanctuary is probably the most ornately golden and sculpted I have ever seen but the bare simplicity of the rest of the church is a foil for the extravagance, and it is simply exquisite. I was happy to sit and let the Spanish liturgy flow over me and soak up the beauty of the surroundings.

In front of the Cathedral is Obradoiro Square, flanked by a Renaissance Hotel of the Catholic Kings- that means Ferdinand and Isabel, who 'brought Spain back to Christianity'- the Reconquista. They had it built for the poor, but it is now one of the luxurious state owned hotels or Paradors.

We saw some university students all dressed in flowing black robes, selling their CDs of traditional music, and promising to perform later in the evening if it stopped raining- it didn't!

Just off the square is Cafe Casino,with big Tiffany style windows looking on to the street, large armchairs while you drink your wine, or even your tea- one of the few places we found that knows what tea is!.

Another favourite is Derby at the end of our lane, Entremurallas. I arrived there at 5.55 pm after taking off my pack and wanted coffee and some tapas, while the others wanted wine and beer.The waiter was most unhappy because it was not yet 6pm, and tapas don't start till then, but he gave that gallic shrug and served us as though we were royalty, white table cloth and all.

The Art of Rain- Santiago de Compostela

It has rained nearly all the time we have been in Santiago. I picked up a guide about What to do in the city when it is raining: a brief guide to arcades and other shelters, privileged places to watch the rain and give your umbrella a rest.'

It proudly claims that Santiago is the capital of rainfall,with 142 days of rain. Under this drizzle, a patina of moss embellishes the granite and provides a constant greenness to city parks.

The art of rain is reflected in shimmering patterns on the stone streets, which you can enjoy from the plentiful rounded arcades , your choice of Gothic, renaissance, baroque and neo-classical. The guide book assures me that the network of covered passageways enables me to walk a good distance safe from the rain , or to stop and watch it, smell it and listen to it without endangering my clothes. My preference is a warm cafe, with a cup of chocolate and warm crunch churros, a bit like tiny doughnuts.

However we did use the wet days to explore fascinating museums like Pligrimage Museum in Rua de San Miguel, see http://www.mdperegrinaciones.com/ and the Galician Ethnographic Museum, in Convento de San Domingos de Bonaval ,where we learnt heaps about traditional local culture, music, trades and religion. Excellent see http://www.museopobo.es/.

The Museum at the cathedral was full of visigoth coins and artifacts, as well as Roman, Moorish, Christian information and excavations. I love the layers of history that can be revealed by the turn of a spade. It is so exciting to imagine the past, from the perspective and comfort of the present!

By the time we had done museums and cafes for a few days, the sky lifted and , just as the book promised, we were rewarded by a luminous city bathed in warm clean sunshine.

Literature should have, like life itself, meteorology. Fog, wind, rain always tell us something.' so said Anxel Fole. Whoever he is, I agree.

Strangely moved- the last day to Santiago

It should have been a short and relatively easy day, but my leg was swollen and painful, so I walked slowly with a strange flat footed gait. Rosemary had lent me her walking stick which had been useful for threatening dogs and crossing muddy streams, but now came into its own as a support.

The quiet woods and shady lanes of the past few days gave way to new towns and building sites, with road works and new tarseal obscuring the Way. After going up a steep hill on a new road, beyond MillaDoiro, I could see no Way marked, so chose 'down and north'. Not a good choice as I ended up by the river I wanted to cross into Santiago, but no bridge. So up the hill again, asked for help from two people who gave me contradictory advice, decided to head for the nearest bridge, and limped off. Later I learned that this spot was the scene of three separate assaults on women travelling alone, only a few weeks ago. Each had hesitated, trying to find the way, and a man had offered to show them - leading to complaints to the police and an arrest.

The guide book had been promising the uplifting sight of the Cathedral spires in the distance, but all I could see in the rain was chimney pots aand cranes. The bridge was for the highway but I was determined to get across, so I faced the traffic and forged ahead, finally crossing a huge roundabout and heading up the hill along Avenida de Xoan carlos 1,to the old part of Santiago.

Through a forest of umbrellas I found the old city gate of Porto Faxiera, and clomped up Rua da Franco.You can imagine the late Saturday shoppers all dressed up and going about their business, and here am I, yet another pilgim, uncertain of the exact way, desperate to get to the cathedral, the end of the long walk. A smiling shop assistant stood at the door of her gleaming cafe and offered me some 'tarte de santiago'. I took a piece gratefully, and said what I had said so often this week, 'Soy peregrina, gracias' (I am a pilgrim, thank you)

'Bon Camino' she replied automatically.

My camino was almost over, this part of it anyway. I followed the winding street to the vast south facade of the Cathedral. Up the steps, in the door and sat on the simple wooden seats. I was there.

It was quiet, dark, cool, but full of atmosphere. My eyes pricked with tears, as I saw other pilgrims come in, take off their packs,and jackets, and sit, just sit. It is over, we have arrived.

Other well dressed people come and go, a tour group bustles past, the lights are low, the gold of the sanctuary gleams, we are here. I am strangely moved, yet strangely detached. It feels as if all around me are the others who have been here before, here on earth. I am aware of my grandmothers, my sister and friends who have died and of many others I do not know, other pilgrims- the great crowd of witnesses surrounding me on many sides. I would like to stay in this great quiet place for a while.

Tomorrow I will come and join in the midday Pilgrims' mass. Today it is enough to just be here.
I walk outside to find the Pilgrims' Office, to have my credencial verified and be issued with my Citation or Compostella issued by the Canonicus Deputatis pro Peregrinis. That is the photo above.

George Sand said, 'What is more beautiful than a road?"

Expect to see yellow spotted lizards- day 5 on the camino to Santiago de Compostella

The bright yellow spotted lizard lay on the path, looking like a child's toy. But it was real, and unexpected. later I saw another one, its gold colour matching exactly the chestnut leaves which fell around me in the woods.

Each time I stopped for a rest there would be a blue butterfly, or the first autumn crocus, or a long tailed magpie to watch. Lovely surprises, and some not so lovely.

I did not like the spider as big as our old 50c piece, which looked at me out of the toilet bowl- I know the pilgrimage is a spiritual journey but it was hard to stay calm about this event. I mimed it to the bar keeper, and got the gallic shrug- very zen.

However, another bar owner served me a huge piece of apple cake with my cafe solo, no charge, which set me up for a peaceful walk thrugh damp pine woods , past water mills, over streams and into collections of farm builngs, all with dogs on duty who like to bark till I was out of sight.

As I neared Padron, the guide book promised me the the hamlets of Pedreira, Cadelo and Condide, and the unfortunately named Infesta. Often the villages have no names on the pilgrim path, only on proper roads, so I would come to some buildings and have to work out what they could be. Often I just kept going, with no real idea of my whereabouts. Around Padron, villages were named, which made up for the lack of the yellow arrows I had been relying on.

It is such a horrible feeling to stand where several roads meetand wonder where to go- usually I chose down hill and north. This was to bring me a bit of trouble soon enough , but today I arrived into a very french looking boulevard in Padron, with a double row of plane trees along a majestic river front, great place for fish, frites and a beer.

Padron is named after the Pedron, a treasured pilgrim symbol, a stone altar dedicated to Neptune. Tradition says that this is where the boat was moored which carried the body of St James (Santiago) and his two apostles from Jerusalem where they had been executed in 44AD.

A walk of 3 more kilometres took me through no less than 7 tiny hamlets in the Sar valley, before I could see the twin towers of a huge church at Escravitude. The Marian sanctuary of Escravitude was the site of a miracle in 1732, which saw such a generous flow of donations that there is this massive baroque fantasia of a church, 'playing with masses and volumes in a decorative frenzy', says the guide book. The bells were ringing in a frenzy too, wildly and unmelodically, but for once the church was open with a priest to welcome me, stamp my credencial, and give me a holy card. It is so good to sit in the cool and quiet, like so many thousands have done before me, all on a journey, whether it is in baroque times or in the 21st century, and be grateful for the largely unseen women who prepare the flowers, and keep the church open.

Down the flight of steps and over the main road there was a restaurant over the road where I enjoyed a sweet rice pudding and a glass of wine, with my two lovely friends. Only one day to go.

Half way to Santiago- who cares? day 4

Hot water flowed from the spring by the old Roman bridge in Caldas de Reis- a place where kings used to stop and where Thomas a Becket gave his name to a church. I stopped to feel the waters, and lost my bearings. no signs visible, no-one around, as it was siesta. An old man came up over the bridge, called out to me, and pointed his walking stick towards a tiny lane. Again the unasked for kindness, and from a man who must have seen so much sad history in Spain.
We have been reading a book called Winter in Madrid, by CJ Sanson, about the siege of Madrid, before Franco took total control in 1940. What passionate politics from left and right, what a grim life for people in the cities and towns, what a history to carry and what a transformation into such a lively country these days. Although as I walked through the country villages, it seemed as if the rhythm of the agricultural year and the church's year had not changed much for centuries.
November is the time for chestnuts, acorns, and pumpkins, for burning the stalks of corn, and planting the new brassica plants. It is also for remembering the dead, the month of the Holy Souls, the faithful departed. Every graveyard was a a magnificent display of floral arrangements, every grave cleaned, polished and decorated. Some graves are stacked 4 high, like minature apartments, with family names on the tops, and spaces for people yet to die. Such a strong sense of continuity, sustained by the apparently ageless women I saw, coming out of cottages, wearing the country uniform of long cardigan, woolen skirt, stockings rolled to the knees, woollen socks and big shoes, all topped wth a pinny or overall. Servicable I guess, if not as stylish as the city women, with their high heeled boots and tight jackets and immaculate hair.
Back to the Camino, which took me on day 4 beyond Caldas to Carracedo, where the locked church and typical Galician granary looked out over the ruined rectory and proud wayside cross.

I waited to meet the others in a bar filled with men, having lunch (at 4pm) , playing cards and chatting. They took no notice at all of this hot, wet foreigner rippping off her jacket, scarf, back pack, hat and shoulder bag, spreading out her map, and writing up her journal, the glow of achievement and weariness apparent to her but no-one else. I guess that pilgrims come, pilgrims go. I experienced a detached and benign acceptance- a very easy way for me to walk this path.
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Don't panic too soon - the Camino to Santiago de Compostela day 3

Ponte Sampaio to San Antonini023 kms.

Today Danielle joined me for a pretty walk through the tiny steep streets and old Roman roads of the villages, through vineyards and small holdings, to the beautiful city of Pontevedra. We called in at our Lady of the Camino sanctuary,the Shrine of the Virgin Peregrina, again full of beautiful flowers. When the churches are open, they look as though as wedding is about to happen.

My afternoon was solo again, and was meant to be an easy walk.

It was only a little panic- the sun was setting behind the hill, the village I was heading for was nowhere to be seen, and there was no-one around to try out my Spanish on. around the corner, I saw some builders still at work on a house. The conversation went like this.

Donde San Antonino?

You want an alberge for pilgrim?

No,I want the cafe Praza in san Antonino ( because I am meeting my amiga there, but I can't say that in Spanish or even Galician)

You want the pilgrim hostel. It is a long way, there..

No! Donde el Cafe Praza?

Finally the foreman came to the rescue, pointed out the lights over the valley and I dragged my sore leg and tired body down a winding road, up a steep lane, past the locked chapel, then up the N550 to the cafe where Rosemary waited.It was still not qhite dark, but I was glad she realised the panicky phone call was just to give my GPS position if I did not turn up!

We sat by a huge fire in a tiny stone bar, drinking vinho tinto de Rioja, local red wine, and I confessed to wondering aloud today why on earth I was doing this walk at all.

It sounded so intriguing, even romantic, a stroll in the park, back in NZ. I expected to get tired and foot sore, but had not anticipated the moments of anxiety, cold, and irritation with myself. I even experienced some competitiveness when the only other two pilgrims passed me just before Santiago, and I wanted to get there before them!. I quickened my steps,before remembering that it is not a race, but a journey, one that does not really end in Santiago. I read a nice quote from a pilgrim...

The Way to Santiago is as life itself. it is a marvellous experience. it has no end , because when you arrive, you realise that you have to keep on walking to St James, towards the others, towards your inner self, towards God. This will only be finished when the life that we enjoy day by day comes to an end.

I love the idea that Queen Isabella did this pilgrimage at least once, in 13th century, and that Thomas a Becket came over from England, where he was Archbishop, and made the pilgrimage this Portuguese way, not long before he was murdered in 1170. For me to place my footsteps where they and thousands of others have trod, and to join my humanness to theirs, my hope to theirs, is enough for now.

see some photos

http://picasaweb.google.com/ceridwynparr/CaminoToSantiagoDeCompostela#http://picasaweb.google.com/ceridwynparr/CaminoToSantiagoDeCompostela#

Signs come when you need them- Camino to Santiago de Compostella 2

Each day, I started where I left off, usually by a wayside marker, , with a bright yellow scallop shell pointing its rays in the direction i needed to go. The number of km is also on the marker. It was so great to see it drop from 115km t0 99 to 83 and down to 49- over half way. The markers havebeen erected by the Spanish government and are such a welcome sight. I would take a stone from the pile and feel the companionship of others who had walked before me. Sometimes I came to two paths and would not know which to follow- no way marker, no sign post. then I would see a yellow arrow painted on the lamp post, or on the tar seal. in Pontevedra, they were painted on the rubbish bins, so I just followed the signs. Occasionally I tried to see ahead and got a bit nervous as there was no indication, but once I got a bit closer, there would be a little yellow arrow- I said over and over, 'just trust there will be a sign when you need it!' a hard thing for a person who likes to have the whole road map, and be in charge- nothing like that on the Camino. Accepting the kindness of others and trusting there will be a sign are two big challenges for me.

If there is no yellow sign, there are these big way side crosses, often decorated with flowers, marking this ancient path. And always if there is a church spire, the path will head in that drection. Around churches are stone seats , tables, often a spring, and a shady tree for pilgrims.

The second day I walked 23 km, from Porrino, through Cabaleiros, Redondela and met the others at the old Roman bridge called Ponte Sampaio, where the sun reflected on the perfect arches over 1500 years old.

Fantastic to get into a hot bath with a glass of local port at the end of the day.

It has no end - the Way to Santiago

My 115km walk began in Tui- yeah right! Just over the border from Portugal, in Spain, is Tui- I caught a train up from Porto and watched the green damp countryside pass me, as I wondered how I would manage , on my own, walking through unknown places, using the 8 words of Spanish I know.
The train stopped at Tui station, and it was miles from my starting point of the Cathedral - the ticket inspector got off at the same time and offered me a lift up the hill, and a cheerful 'Bon Camino' - have a good walk. My first experience of the kindness of strangers.
My official credential was stamped by a cathedral official ( at one fo the few churches open- more of that later) , and I set off towards the north, after asking a surprised policemen to take this photo.
Although I did not know it, this first day set a pattern- a short wander through town and city streets, always the old pathways or Roman road, winding past small holdings, hens, dogs, women in overalls and sturdy shoes carrying long loaves of bread, then a stop at a church or council offices to get the stamp, a search for a cafe or bar, then out into the country lanes again.
The kindness of strangers- an old woman held my arm in Porrino, and blessed me; an elderly Spanish farmer and his French speaking neighbour gave me a very fast and animated alternative route when the yellow arrows has been covered over by r0ad works. there was much hand waving - to the left, to the right, straight ahead, todo direto, and we parted happily, except when I got to the top of the hill, the French man shouted at me and pointed me in the right direction, Au revoir!Bon camino!
Bst of all, in a cafe, in Cabaleiros, where two old men smoked, played cards and listened to the TV, and the female owner shouted over the din, I had a cafe solo-espressocoffee. One of the old men came over to me, talked, gestured, and finally stumped over to the bar. He brought the grumpy boss over, with her stamp pad and stamp, and with a great flourish, asked for my credencial, and stamped it.
This was a very useful piece of drama, as I realised that I could collect these stamps from any establishment, not just churches and council offices- much easier to find a cafe, bar,or restaurant, and besides so many churches are not open because of theft and damage.
So my essential evidence of my progress , on a spiritual journey, looks much more like a journey through the bars of Galicia- which it is! But the staff at the pilgrim's office in Santiago accepted it happily- more of that later too.
The first day I sarted in Tui at 11am, and walked 17 km, through Ribadelouro and A Rocha, to O Porrino. Part were romantic country lanes, but the last 7 km were a long straight stretch through the industrail outskirts of Porrino, with heavy trucks swishing water up at me. I did not like being a pilgrim at all, and was very pleased to find the Praza San Sebastian, complete wth a spring where the locals came to fill drinking bottles, and a bar for me to have a cafe solo.