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.
.
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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