Lavacolla to Santiago de Compostela: 10.2 km, about 3 hours

Revelation 7:9-17
v. 9-10 After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried out in a loud voice: “Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.”

Right now I’m looking around the cathedral, and here before us is a great multitude filling every seat, leaning against pillars and crowding the aisles, people from many nations and languages, standing before the golden statue of the apostle Santiago above the great altar. They are wearing tech clothing and hiking boots and holding smart phones in their hands and crying out to one another, “We made it!” And if they know the one God who sits on the throne above it all, they say, “By God’s grace! The only way we made it is by God’s grace!” And they join the angels, unseen but ever present, proclaiming around the throne: “Amen! Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God for ever and ever. Amen!” (v. 11).

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Pickins were slim at the tienda down the street the day before so all I got for our breakfast was yogurt and plums, but the kitchen in Casa Lavacolla contained a box of only slightly stale cornflakes, plus I had one leftover juice box, so that upped the meal from pitiful to sad.

We left at 8 am…in the dark. It hadn’t occurred to me to dig out my headlamp from the depths of my pack but Maurice turned on his phone’s flashlight to sweep the path and try to keep us on course. Soon we saw a light ahead of us and caught up with another couple. With our three lights and four sets of eyes we managed to stay on track until the day lightened enough for us to easily spot the yellow arrows.

We had a quick stop for coffee for Maurice at Camping San Marcos, then we continued to the Mount of Joy, where medieval pilgrims looked for their first glimpse of the towers of Santiago’s cathedral. There’s no sign of the apostle or his church now, though; sprawling suburbs obfuscate much of the old city and tall trees on the hillside block out the rest. But the muddy hill was full of pilgrims as well as a tiny chapel, a souvenir stand, monuments to the visits of St. Francis and Pope John Paul II and a modern statue of two pilgrims on a high pedestal looking west in the direction of the cathedral.

We headed down toward the city, down past one last granary, down a flight of steps, and then we were on Santiago’s city sidewalks, maneuvering around traffic circles, passing the monument to great personnages of history. We crossed a street and bumped into Rod, who shared some muffins with us from his one-euro package from the grocery store. He would be staying at the monastery but they weren’t letting pilgrims in until later. We came upon an albergue just at my point of need and I marched right in to use the facilities. A pasteleria beckoned. How many more chocolate delights would I be eating heedless of the calories? I popped in to get us two.

We walked through narrowing streets, still following yellow arrows. We stopped in a church that was marked on our map “last stamp.” An old woman sat half-asleep at the end of an aisle with her sello. She slowly stamped our pages with the blurriest stamps and most faded ink in our entire credencial. I don’t think many pilgrims made their way here.

On we went. A final turn put us behind the north entrance to the cathedral. Was that music welcoming us to the celestial city? Maurice got out his phone to video our arrival. Down we went through an underpass where a bagpiper and two drummers were playing merrily.

Some more steps, just a bit farther, around the corner–oh, the glorious facade of the cathedral would rise luminous before us in mere seconds, the beloved goal of a millenia of pilgrims, the far destination of our five-hundred-mile walk. I got a little teary-eyed as the ethereal objective of our pilgrimage coalesced into reality. We really did it…. “Oh no!” said Maurice into my reverie. “I wasn’t recording!” My dreamy moment thudded to a stop. Well, let’s go back and do it again! So we walked back up the steps, past the musicians, then turned around and walked down again, the music still resonating joyfully in the tunnel as we reentered the Praza Obradoiro. This time I got a clear view of the cathedral; it was shrouded in morning shadow and veiled with scaffolding (the family travel curse). The Portico of Gloria was under renovation and inaccessible. Ah well–it didn’t dim our delight. We wandered around taking selfies in the bad light from every angle, then for good measure took some more at the north and south sides where the light was more even. Because you know what? We did it. We really did it. Maurice and I walked five hundred miles across Spain.

We found the pilgrim office nearby and got in line to have our credencials inspected and receive our compostelas. About a dozen people were working at the office and our wait was only fifty minutes. We met up with Flash from the meseta, and the California Four, and dear Rod, who had lost his camera between the monastery and the pilgrim office. He was taking it well (much better than I would have). It was just a cheapie, he said, and all the memories were in his head; it’s just that he wanted a few photos to show his mother. I said I would email him some general pictures.

The Hotel Girasol wasn’t far away. It was just down the street from where we stayed when we visited Santiago in 2010. Maria and the staff welcomed us graciously and gave us a key for our room on the fourth floor, which was really the sixth floor. It was seventy steps up. Piece of cake–’cause we just walked five hundred miles. Crossed the Pyrenees and a bunch of other mountains too.

Downstairs in the bar we had a bowl of caldo gallego then wandered around the old town a bit before changing and walking to the cathedral. In the Middle Ages when the filthy pilgrims gathered in the cathedral for mass, the botafumeiro, a giant incense burner, was swung from the ceiling in an effort to combat the smell and any pestilence. It is still lit and swung at certain times, including the Friday evening pilgrim mass. For years–decades, even–I had wanted to see the botafumeiro swing, and tonight was the night.

We got there at 5:15 to get our pick of the seats, right in the front of the north transept where the botafumeiro would swing over our heads. The pews were hard. When does the mass start, Maurice wondered. Later. I hadn’t exactly mentioned we were 2  1/4 hours early. While he wrote emails I walked around inside the cathedral. The line was short to visit the apostle. Behind the altar are staircases on each side leading up to a small room in back of the gold statue of Santiago that peers out from on high in the retable over the congregation. It is traditional for pilgrims to hug the apostle and perhaps tell him something that has been on their minds. (When you’re looking at the altar from the nave of the church, it is amusing to see an arm pop out sporadically from the gold ornamentation and wrap around Santiago’s neck.)

I waited my turn for my few seconds in the little chamber. I wanted to stick my head right next to the apostle’s and get a good view down on the altar and out into the congregation, maybe see if I could get a selfie with Santiago, at least get a side view picture of another pilgrim having his apostolic moment, but there was a sign forbidding photos, and a dark-clothed dour-faced guard sitting in the corner of the tiny room with darting eyes that missed nothing, so I ditched my plan. I had no intention of talking to a statue but I rubbed my hand over the ancient gold as I breathed a prayer of thanks to the Lord for getting us here. Down the stairs on the other side I went, then along the wall, through a little doorway and down some more steps to an antechamber with a window on a crypt with a silver casket containing the relics of St. James. There were kneelers in front of the window and I took an empty spot, not to pray to a saint or worship relics but to have a few quiet moments in the heart of the place we had walked so far to visit. If I closed my eyes I was there alone with my Jesus, who had walked beside us the whole way. I should have knelt there longer….

When I got back to Maurice he was uncomfortable on the hard seat. I joined him and soon I was antsy too. The church was starting to fill up. Later arrivals squeezed here and there into the pews, propped themselves against pillars, or lined up along the walls. Five ecclesiastical assistants in maroon robes loosened the ropes that kept the botafumeiro in place. A clear-voiced nun stood at the lectern and taught the congregation the choral responses to be used during the mass.

It was 7:30 at last. Priests who had just finished their Caminos had been invited to concelebrate; they read lessons or prayed in their own languages. The congregation sang the correct responses with the nun. We all approached the chancel to receive the Bread of Life. An Italian pilgrim sang an anthem he had composed. And then the rope-holding assistants unloosed the botafumeiro. When it descended, an acolyte lit it and gave it a solid push. The assistants yanked it up above head height as it began to swing, back and forth along the arms of the transept, higher and higher. Smoke billowed, sweet incense wafted and the organ played. The maroon assistants pulled rhythmically to keep the botafumeiro swinging. The smoke thickened; every pass seemed to swoosh just inches above our heads. Soon the assistants slowed the botafumeiro and leashed it back into place. The spectacle was over. The pilgrims, awed and properly fumigated, dispersed into the night to find dinner and continue celebrating their accomplishments.

NB:  This is not the end!  There will be several more posts before the journey is really over.  Stay tuned.