| IRELAND
I
Sunday 25 July 2010
Reek Sunday in Mayo
St James’s Day in Santiago de Compostela
PETER: We began the ascent at 3.35 am. In the dark. And the mist. And the drizzle, the almost always present Mayo drizzle.
That was the way we wanted it. Do Croagh Patrick in the night and aim to be at the summit for the sunrise.
Reek Sunday, 25 July—St James’s Day. The big day in Santiago de Compostela. A convenient symmetry with the Galician city, destination of all Camino pilgrims; a couple of countries and just two flights away. And because of that symmetry, we—Natasha, my 18-year-old daughter, and I—decided to begin our Camino by scaling the Reek, Ireland’s Holy Mountain overlooking Clew Bay in Co. Mayo.
It seemed like a good idea, one that was challenged at 2.45 am when the alarm went off telling us to get up and out of bed in the pitch dark. My brother Nigel and sister Jane agreed to come with us; so too did a neighbour, Austin O’Malley, a veteran of the Reek and of many other hill walks in and around Louisburgh. Just before we left our house in the dark, word came that our immediate neighbours, Gerard and Margaret O’Malley, were also up for it. In fact, they were up for the entire night: first the Daniel O’Donnell concert in Castlebar which gave way to a wedding in Westport and dancing into the small hours. Sure why bother with bed at all? It’s great to be young.
The Reek looked bleak, inasmuch as we could see the Reek at 3.35 am. But after a while, it’s surprising just how much the human eye can detect in the dark. The rocky, gravelly, slippery and in places very, very steep path was quite passable, even in the half light.
NATASHA: Things are looking great already as I zip up my rain coat to shelter my face from the cold wind and spitting rain. As I do so, I think of my Mum and Aunt Dolly who are curled up in their beds back at the house, along with the majority of the country as normal people would be asleep at this hour.
The bottom of the mountain is quite steep, but manageable. It involves a lot of hopping over large rocks and avoiding small streams. Like always I walked ahead and alone. I’m not very talkative when it comes to walking. I’m happy to walk by myself and to just think. Also, as I looked at the vast mountain, which was disappearing behind darkness and mist, I thought I’ll never make it to the top with these oldies dragging me down. I had to ditch them as a matter of survival.
I followed the light of a torch from the person in front of me. From looking at the other torch lights dotted along the path, there seemed to be only a couple of hundred walking at this time. I had a jumper on and was beginning to get warm. As the gradient steepened, I got a call from Uncle Nigel telling me not to go too far ahead. I perched on a rock in the darkness and waited. Once we had all grouped again, I was off.
The trail doesn’t stay manageable for long; after 20 minutes you find yourself panting and needing small breathers. I was now really warm.
PETER: The key is to pace yourself: don’t rush it. It’s not a race but it is a test of endurance and stamina. In 2009 some 28,000 people scaled the 764-metre high mountain on Reek Sunday, the final and most important of several annual summer pilgrimage days.
When we began our ascent in the early hours, the pilgrims were numbered in dozens. A motley collection that included young people out for a laugh, all talk, cans of beer and mobile phones; early birds of one persuasion or another; and the devout who, despite the hour, nonetheless paused at each of the stations and observed their religious duties.
Austin, who was 70 in March, loves the climb. “I’m addicted to it,” he says. “I’m all the time thinking about the next time I’ll do it. I love it. I love the walk and the people you’ll meet on the way.”
The Camino de Santiago is made for Austin. He has a deep spirituality and a love of the world about him. A tall, handsome man with striking blue eyes, Austin sees flowers, shrubs, trees and aspects of the landscape that pass others by. He loves poetry and has a deep appreciation of Irish culture. Austin can sit on the sand dunes above his local beach in the early morning and marvel at the light of the sky and the tone of the colour it gives the sea. He will describe the sight of a wave breaking on the beach and then washing back into the sea to meet a fresh, incoming wave and for the two to collide, in a knife edge of spray, ripping along the length of the strand. He will describe this with the wonder of a child, as though he has just seen it for the first time, even though he has been watching it all his life.
A year ago I met Austin on the Reek and he invited me to join him a week later for a walk up Mweelrea, Connacht’s highest peak, just a few kilometres away. We scaled it in glorious sunshine. I was thrilled he could come to the Reek with Natasha and me for our special climb.
At Tochar Patrick, the point where the ancient pilgrimage route from Ballintubber Abbey via Aughagower joins the path up from Murrisk on the shoulder of the Reek, Austin peers down at a lake below, an almost perfectly circular pool of water some hundred metres beneath us. He picks up a stone, spreads his feet and stands side on to the lake. And then, in the manner of a handball player, he flings the stone underarm with one strong, graceful sweep into the air. Seconds later, there is the sound of a perfect ‘plop!’ as it lands in the centre of the lake.
“God, how did you do that?” I exclaimed.
“It has to be a good flat one,” he advised as I bend down to copy. “Astride now,” he said, “and underarm.”
I flung the rock and it vanished into the heather well short of the lake.
I’m not going to be beaten by a man with 13 years on me, I thought. And so I picked up another rock, a bigger one and no worries about the shape either, just a lump of Croagh Patrick quartz. I flung it over arm as hard as I could and, sure enough, there is a satisfactory splash.
“Isn’t it great to be daft!” exclaimed Austin as we both laughed and moved on up the Reek.
The higher we go, the amount of airborne water in the mist increases and the wind starts to drive it through almost any covering you have on. It’s getting lighter now and just before the summit, at about 5.30 am, the sun rises—not that you can see it clearly for the swirling, driving mist. The final stretch of the climb, the awful, hideously steep scree slope below the summit, is taken foot by careful foot, the wind getting ever stronger. And then the summit opens up, a high vista lashed by the wind and the driving, dripping mist. Visibility can’t be more than 50 kilometres. So much for witnessing the sunrise! The place seems godforsaken: how St Patrick stayed here for 40 days and 40 nights, and sorted out the demon blackbirds, not to mention those snakes and poisonous reptiles, I’ll never know.
NATASHA: The mist is incredibly thick and low. I could only see about 50 metres in front. The climb was getting very steep, very quickly, and the muddy path soon turned to scree, which is very difficult to walk on. The people passing me on their way down looked tired and wet and had pale faces. Yet they seemed to hold a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.
I was really near the peak now. The gradient was at its most challenging and I found myself using my hands to pull myself up. The jingling of falling stones would cause my head to rise and avoid the person coming down towards me. Everyone around me was groaning and cursing for the top to appear. People on the way down would smile and say: “Only 10 minutes now.” Well, those 10 minutes were taking about half an hour! With frustration I would burst out in sprints and then stop for a minute. Then sprint again.
Finally, as though God himself tapped me on the shoulder, I looked up and saw a tiny little greyish church. From the bottom of the mountain on a clear day it looks like a magnificent white temple fit for Zeus himself. Nonetheless, it was a church, on Croagh Patrick, at 5.20 am, and I was in front of it.
PETER: People are huddled in the lee of the tiny chapel, sipping hot tea sold from tarpaulin-covered stalls. Some suck on cigarettes, others slug beer. A Jack Russell named Oscar busies himself about the place. Everyone shivers; it’s bitterly cold. The faithful walk devoutly around the church the required number of times. Gerard and Margaret are there first, up the Reek like a pair of whippets. Gerard stands me a welcome cup of hot tea. Then comes Nigel; sadly, the climb was too much for Jane. Finally Austin emerges through the mist, smiling, happy, acknowledging friends along the way.
And all of us, 50 people maybe, stand there in the half light in utterly foul weather, mist and rain swirling around, gusts of wind whipping our backs. And then, just for an instant, the mist parts on the eastern horizon and the sun breaks through. For one or two glimpses it is a blurred haze, then shining bright, then blurred again, then swallowed once more in dense mist. But it’s the sun, minutes after the sunrise, on the summit, on Reek Sunday, on St James’s Day—just as planned. Just as requested.
The descent comes easy; the flow of pilgrims going up has grown from dozens to hundreds—a steady stream of men and women and children, many of them country folk from all parts of Ireland. Their numbers will grow to more than 20,000 by the time the sun sets. And none will be deterred by the weather. Friends passing on the path greet each other and pause for a chat.
“See you next year,” many say, the annual ritual observed as it has been for centuries.
And we head home. Home for a feed of bacon and eggs and sausages and boxty and toast and jam and coffee and warmth and chat with wonderful neighbours.
And after all that, Gerard and Margaret finally get to bed.
______
II
PETER: Today’s pilgrims to Croagh Patrick walk in the footsteps of their ancestors. Long before the early Irish Church, through St Patrick, embraced the Reek, our pagan predecessors had no doubt but that the mountain was a special place. Evidence for this abounds in the landscape around the south shore of Clew Bay.
A few kilometres south and east of Croagh Patrick on a patch of scrubland sandwiched between a cottage and some ugly, breeze-block sheds, there is a rocky outcrop. This is the Boheh Stone upon which are inscribed a mass of swirls and so-called keyhole shapes. The Boheh Stone is one of the most important examples of prehistoric rock art in Britain or Ireland and the only one west of the Shannon. It dates from sometime between 4000 BC and 2500 BC. 4000 BC was the infancy of the Neolithic, the New Stone Age; 2500 BC was the Early Bronze Age. Archaeologists who have examined the stone in detail estimate that it dates from between 2000 BC and 3000 BC—that is, four to five thousand years ago. To put those dates in perspective, when our ancestors in Mayo were grinding their thoughts onto the surface of a rock, Homer was composing the Odyssey; in Egypt, the first pyramids were being erected; in England, Stonehenge was taking shape.
When the sheet ice of the last great Ice Age retreated from Ireland over 7,000 years ago, secreting from beneath itself as it melted a string of muddy hillock clay and boulder drumlins across the country, our ancestors were able to move onto the land thus exposed. The drumlins are there still, stretching in a line east–west across Ireland from Cavan to Mayo and out into Clew Bay. Semi-submerged there, they are the islands that give the bay its distinctive character. The people who gradually colonised the ‘new’ land freed of ice were hunter gatherers, people who caught, killed and ate what they could, and picked wild fruits when they couldn’t. Such people are believed to have lived in Mayo between 5500 BC and 3500 BC.
Fossil pollen analysis, indicating changes to plant life prompted by human activity, suggests that the first farming, that is, the systematic cultivation of crops and rearing of animals, began near Croagh Patrick some 3,500 years ago.1 This way of life gradually replaced hunting and gathering, and with it grew an appreciation and awareness of the seasons: the ebb and flow of the year, the weather and the importance of the sun, the giver of life. The Boheh Stone appears to be an acknowledgment of this. Our ancestors could have crawled out of wherever it was they slept and carved their thoughts onto any rock, of which there is an abundance in Mayo. But they didn’t; they chose the Boheh Stone, from where one has a commanding view of the Reek, its cone standing proud into the sky, higher than anything immediately around it.
The possible significance of the stone was noticed first in the modern era by an amateur archaeologist living in Mayo, Gerry Bracken, who was a retired agricultural scientist. He began a prolonged study of the rock in 1987, and on the evening of 24 August 1991—St Bartholomew’s Day—he saw something magical: for a period of about 20 minutes, the setting sun seemed to roll down the north face of the Reek’s almost perfectly formed cone before disappearing out of sight behind the ridge. The Rolling Sun phenomenon, as it has become known, happens twice a year, on 18 April and on 24 August, the day Gerry Bracken first saw it. These two dates plus 21 December, the Winter Solstice, divide the year into three roughly equal parts equating to the sowing, growing and harvesting seasons, April being associated with sowing, August with harvest.
Bracken was dazed and exhilarated by his discovery. As he noted later, to stand at the Boheh Stone, and to observe its relationship with Croagh Patrick, is to be in no doubt but that ancient man regarded this place as somewhere special, somewhere almost certainly sacred in his mind.2
The Boheh Stone’s so-called cup-and-ring markings seem to confirm this. They are strikingly similar to markings more widely associated with the swirling circle carvings in Newgrange. The stone is “the most comprehensively-worked example of its type in Ireland and distinctive in style from similarly marked stones in Britain or on the Atlantic seaboard of the European Continent,” according to Maarten van Hoek, a Dutch geographer and expert in prehistoric rock art, who has made a detailed study of them.3
“What the special meaning of the keyhole-pattern has been is unknown and may always remain a mystery and a matter of subjective speculation,” according to him. “It has often been suggested that cups and cups-and-rings are symbols of celestial bodies. Just possibly the keyhole pattern is a symbol of a tailed phenomenon once visible in prehistoric skies—a comet possibly. The areas where keyholes are found could be parts of the country where the weather conditions allowed prolonged opportunities to observe this phenomenon.” But that, as he acknowledges, is just speculation.
The Tochar Patrick ancient pilgrimage route passes the Boheh Stone. Today the stone is more commonly known as St Patrick’s Chair, an example of early Christianity embracing pre-Christian culture and practices, making them its own. Another is Lughnasa, the pre-Christian Irish festival honouring the Celtic god Lugh and rooted in Celtic mythology. Lughnasa marked the start of the harvest season and was an occasion for funeral feasts and games in honour of Lugh’s mother, Tailtiu, who died of exhaustion after clearing the land for farming. The gathering of the seed to make bread and the ripening of the season’s first fruits, usually wild berries, became a time of community gatherings, market festivals, horse races and reunions with distant family and friends. When Lughnasa was absorbed into Christian ritual among the peoples living on the southern shores of Clew Bay it became known as Domhnach na Cruaiche—or Reek Sunday, then as now a quintessentially rural rite and the most popular pilgrimage day to Ireland’s Holy Mountain.
The Mayo landscape is littered with examples of pre-Christian and Christian practices, blending into a seamless narrative, if one wishes to see it that way. Scattered around the land between Clew Bay and Killary Harbour are megalithic tombs, cairns, standing stones, some of them in rows, others isolated but, viewed from one vantage point, seeming to have a relationship with the Reek and Caher Island, a small island in the Atlantic peppered with early Christian graves.
In 1994 archaeological excavations were carried out on the Reek, at St Patrick’s Oratory, a few metres to the east of the current church on the summit.4 Among the items found were three flints, animal bone, a fragment of iron and one possibly of stone; shards of medieval pottery, two corroded bronze pins, two worked pieces of flint, and fragments of iron. There was some modern glass and iron, modern coins and religious medals. There was charcoal which was carbon dated as originating between 430 AD and 890 AD. Glass beads were found, dating anywhere from the Iron Age to the early medieval period, that is, between the third century BC and the fourth century AD. The Reek is also home to several pre-Christian cairns.
St Patrick came to the Reek in 441 AD. He was on his second visit to Ireland. The first was when he was 16 after he was kidnapped in his native England and made a slave. He escaped after six years, went home and became a priest, returning to Ireland in 432 AD on a mission to bring Christianity to the island. He is said to have travelled west, to Mayo and to Aughagower, near Westport, from where he climbed the Reek, spending 40 days and 40 nights, suffering the attention of those demon birds.
Patrick understood the importance of the sun but he ascribed to it a significance markedly different to the pagans surrounding him. “... For that sun, which we see,” he wrote in his Confession, “by God’s command rises daily for our sakes, but it will never reign, nor will its splendour endure; but all those who worship it shall go in misery to punishment.” And he went on to extol the value of faith in God and to refer to “Christ the true Sun”.
The pagans believed him. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland and the sun worshippers passed, leaving in their wake the likes of the Boheh Stone and other archaeological debris that helps define the landscape. A millennium and a half of Christianity has brought its own heritage. In the 11th and 12th centuries, Irish devotion to St James saw many pilgrims make the arduous journey to Galicia, many of them in wine ships returning empty to Bordeaux. Those that came back to Ireland (many pilgrims died going to, or coming from, Santiago) brought souvenirs. During 1996 excavations at the former Priory of St Mary in Mullingar, for instance, the remains of several monks were exhumed. On each was found a scallop shell, the symbol of St James and a fair indication (though not conclusive evidence) that each had journeyed to Santiago de Compostela to pay homage to James the Great, one of Christ’s inner circle of Apostles. St Mary’s Priory was founded in 1227 and lasted until 1539. An etching in the Dublin Penny Journal of 1836 shows it in poor condition but still standing. However, it fell into greater and greater disrepair and vanished ... until the foundations were rediscovered in 1996. The site is now host to a supermarket.
Another link comes from the early Christian settlement at Illaunloughan Island in Co. Kerry, a tiny place between the mainland coast and Valentia Island. Once again, during recent excavations of graves dating back to the eighth century, fragments of scallop shells were found.
But the most exciting find in recent times was made at Ardfert Cathedral, one of a cluster of churches within a walled burial ground in the village of Ardfert, near Tralee in Co. Kerry. The cathedral may be dated variously from the 11th to the 17th centuries. Between 1989 and 1998 archaeologists excavated parts of it as a restoration programme carried out by the National Monuments Service.
Ardfert comes from Ard ferta in Irish, meaning high burial ground, but may also be derived from Ard Ferta Breanainn, suggesting a link with St Brendan. In an echo of the bird story involving St Patrick on the Reek, Brendan, said to have been born around 484 AD making him a contemporary of the national saint, decided to build a monastery at Killeacle. As he surveyed the area, a bird swooped on him, snatched the plans from his hand and flew off, dropping them at Ardfert and prompting Brendan to build there. In truth, there is no contemporary evidence to support assertions that Brendan founded Ardfert, but the tradition endures.
During the excavations Ardfert yielded up one of the most delightful pieces of evidence of the draw of Santiago de Compostela during the late Middle Ages. In the nave of the cathedral, in a stone-lined grave where two people had been buried, one directly on top of the other, archaeologists found a tiny pendant, a scallop shell of pewter with a gilded figure attached to it. The shell measures approximately four centimetres across and the same from top to bottom. The moulded, gilded figure, who is about three centimetres tall, is soldered onto the front of the shell and looks forward. He is a pilgrim, a man wearing a long cloak and a pilgrim’s hat. In his left hand he is holding a walking staff; his right hand clutches the strap of a satchel which is slung across his shoulder and rests on his hip. His features are clearly visible: nose, eye sockets, hands and fingers. The figure could be St James, who, uniquely, is often portrayed as a pilgrim to his own shrine, or it could simply be a representation of the archetypal pilgrim. But cleaned and polished after conservation, this 500-year-old trinket looks exactly like hundreds of others on sale today in souvenir shops in Santiago.
It’s a fair assumption that one of the people in the grave had made the pilgrimage to Santiago and wore the pendant as a badge of devotion to the saint. Or perhaps this person was given it as a present by someone else who had been to Santiago. Either way, the trinket was treasured sufficiently to be buried with its owner—the scallop shell and pilgrim figure clearly had meaning and was of importance.
At the foot of Croagh Patrick on the shore of Clew Bay there is a place known locally as Murrisknaboll. It is a peninsula surrounded by the sea on three sides; the water is shallow, a good place to land fish from small boats. On a north-facing part of the shore, where the bank joins the beach, there is a shell midden, the remnants of an ancient dump used by fishermen. Archaeologists have estimated that the midden could date from the Mesolithic era, making it among the earliest repositories of evidence of settlement around Croagh Patrick.5 Thousands of years ago, fisherman in dug-out canoes possibly came ashore at this spot and landed their catch, a catch that included shellfish which were eaten and the shells then discarded. When the midden was examined in the 1990s, the archaeologists noted that it contained various shells, mainly oyster and scallop. The sea then was lapping the bank and the archaeologists warned that it was likely to be eaten away, its contents falling back into the sea from whence they came. Since then, a landowner has built up the bank to protect it from further erosion and the midden is now hidden.
A few days before we climbed the Reek at the start of our Camino, I went to the ancient midden. Some scallop shells were visible among the mud and rocks supporting the bank. Could they be from the midden itself, disturbed as the protective earthworks were set in place? It is possible—unlikely, perhaps, but possible nonetheless. The area is littered with oyster shells, debris from a nearby oyster farm. There are scallop shells too, modern ones for sure, further down the shoreline, away from the midden. I took the two scallop shells from among the rocks protecting the midden—two Mesolithic (maybe) scallop shells. They are now attached to our backpacks, proclaiming Natasha and me to be pilgrims on the way to Santiago de Compostela, in the manner of a tradition going back more than a thousand years.
And so we are off. Breakfast eaten; hugs, kisses and goodbyes exchanged, we’re away to Knock airport, and then Gatwick, and Bordeaux for one night before we head into the Pyrénées. A scallop shell on our backpacks and a little silver box in my pocket.
| FRANCE
PETER: The contrast between the TGV and the little train could not be greater. The TGV—smooth, slick and modern, the pride of French railways—glides silently on unbroken tracks, making hardly a sound. We have flown from Knock to Gatwick and from there to Bordeaux where we spent the night. Now we ride the TGV to Bayonne; it is a flawless, technological performance. There is nothing wrong or flawed about the little old diesel train that chugs from Bayonne to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the start of the Camino in the Pyrénées. It is just from another era. It has a comforting, old-world rhythm—clunkedy-clunk, clunkedy-clunk, clunkedy-clunk, clunkedy-clunk; and, when it passes over points, clunkedy-clunkedy-clunkedy-clunkedy, before it settles down again to the more familiar clunkedy-clunk, clunkedyclunk, clunkedy-clunk.
The little engine heaves its way high into the mountains, the land and vegetation changing as we pass. Wide, flat fields with maize give way to a patchwork of smaller fields, each one on a slope and most playing host to dairy cattle. The flat fields that remain are in bends of a river valley and most are used to grow vegetables. It is all very lush, very pastoral and Alpine in appearance.
St-Jean is a medieval citadel town built of old red sandstone. There must be a local authority ordinance that directs everyone to paint the outside walls of their properties white and the woodwork a deep, dull red because they are all like that. The town is pretty and touristy. Geraniums sprout from window boxes; shops cater for the pilgrim market—or, one suspects, those who want pilgrim memorabilia but without actually doing the walking.
The pilgrim office, from where one must obtain one’s pilgrim passport, the credencial del peregrino, is on rue de la Citadelle, a cobbled street inside the old town that runs parallel to the city walls, right down to the river. The office is manned by volunteers from Les Amis du chemin de Saint-Jacques Pyrénées-Atlantiques. Only bona fide pilgrims may enter here; it is not a tourist office. The walls are covered with pictures of the Camino and practical advice to starters: what to wear, where to stay, weather reports, and some statistical information as well. Religious music wafts gently from a CD player. There are four desks, behind which sit les quatre volunteers. The whole place exudes an unhurried but efficient calm.
“Ga’day, mate! How can I help you?”
It’s Peter from Australia, a 77-year-old (as of 29 July) retired civil engineer from Colac, a place about 250 kilometres from Melbourne. Like so many other people, Peter came upon the Camino by chance. And like them, he was seduced and it is now a significant part of his life. It began when he was in Brittany in the late 1990s chasing ancestral family links and, with his civil engineering skills, finding himself helping a local archaeological dig. St James figured prominently and, curious as he learned more of the links between France and the Apostle, Peter walked part of the Camino, from León to Santiago, in 2002. The following year, he did another section, and another in 2004, still another in 2008. Now in 2010, he’s working in the Camino office in St-Jean.
“I haven’t met anybody who hasn’t said after doing the Camino that it changed their life in some way,” he explained. And what impact did it have on him? “I had fallen out with my sister many, many years ago. It was awful: her family didn’t speak to me and mine and we didn’t speak to her or hers. So the first thing I did after my Camino when I went home was go around to her and apologise. ‘Whatever it was’, I said, ‘sorry, it was my fault and we should never have let it get to this.’ And now we’re fine. I also got rid of a lot of garbage in my life after my Camino. I resigned from a whole lot of things and now I do a lot of voluntary work.
“The Camino’s not religious for me, it’s spiritual. The ambiance of the Camino is fantastic. I like nature, I like walking, I like to go walkabout back home. After the Camino, after walking, you realise that in civilisation you are dealing with a lot of bullshit.”
Peter is a self-evidently happy, balanced, cheery man who takes pleasure in helping people and engaging with them and their lives. A survey of pilgrims’ motivations carried out by the office until 2002 used to include a multi-optional question about motivation. But it was dropped when they ran out of options that seemed to match the reasons: at the time, a mere 20 per cent of pilgrims filling in the form gave religion as their motivation for doing the Camino. More and more people simply wanted time to opt out of their everyday life at home for a multiplicity of reasons: it might be needing time to process feelings after the death of someone close; or it might be an inchoate but irresistible desire to escape from technology.
The relatively minor place accorded to formal religion as a motivation for doing the Camino is evident from a glance through the office visitor book to which pilgrims are invited to contribute their thoughts before setting off. “Charming village,” noted a couple from England; “It’s so hot! Happy Canada Day!” wrote Robert Ring; “In memory of [name indecipherable] on her birthday,” wrote Jill and Thomas Payne; “Everything is done. Forget everything and start new,” advised someone who signed themselves St-Jean; “My spiritual vacance [sic],” wrote Anna from Seoul; “For our friends and family. May God send down His grace upon us all,”—JMS; “A journey individually, together, and as a community,” was the hope of Jennifer; “10-year anniversary of our first Camino. Back in 2010!” enthused Jean and Jim.
And for Natasha and me? “May this Camino be as enriching and uplifting as my first,” was my wish.
We present ourselves to another of the assistants and get our pilgrim passports which are essential for staying in the albergues, the hostels that dot the entire Camino all the way to Santiago. These cater especially for pilgrims and charge peppercorn rates for bunk beds, usually between €4 and €8. You cannot book; you just turn up from around mid-day on; preference is given to foot pilgrims; cyclists have to wait their turn. The man who fills out our pilgrim passports misreads my Irish passport. Instead of transcribing my surname, he transcribes my nationality. Camino statistics will show that a ‘M. Éireannach’—Mr Ireland—received his Camino passport on 26 July 2010!
And so to bed in the albergue up the street—a bunk bed in a room with 10 others, in an 18th-century stone house with incredible views ... and all for just €8 each.
