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Santiago
Pilgrimage by Mike Cruickshank On a recent visit to northern Spain, it rained every day for a fortnight. I have always maintained that anyone who can't amuse themselves on a wet day isn't fit to travel, but two weeks was pushing it more than somewhat. Even the camel on the cigarette posters was wearing oilskins (straight up, that was the current local advertising campaign). In spite of previous visits, It was only this time that I noticed that every bar and cafe has an umbrella stand just inside the door. Fortunately, the downpour wasn't continuous, stopping often enough and for long enough to make life bearable and manageable. First stop was Santiago de Compostela, which I think is a 'must see' city if you ever visit this part of Europe. The city centre has been designated a national monument and looks pretty much as it could have done a couple of centuries ago. OK, electricity and modem drains have arrived, but not Intrusively so. Both the university and the cathedral make their contribution to the atmosphere here. Open air plays performed in the square with the cathedral as a backdrop can be very entertaining and the lighting effects equally impressive. If you hang around for long enough here, something seems to happen eventually. (July is the best month for this, as the feast day of St James falls then). Street musicians abound, ranging from the solitary busker (usually good but sometimes awful - I have painful memories of one particular bagpipe player) to groups of singers in medieval costume. These are uniformly good. My favourite one is fronted by an ugly, club-footed little man with a big voice and a bigger personality. I regretted the fact that my Spanish was too limited to strike up a conversation with him. The one thing that one cannot avoid here is the fact that Santiago, even today, is a destination for pilgrims. It pervades the whole city centre. After a while it can become too much of a good thing, and I was glad to catch the bus to Finisterre. It's a two hour trip to Finisterre over some mountainous terrain. To put them into some sort of contest, they are similar to the Scottish Highlands, only more heavily populated and cultivated. Towards the east of Galicia, the highest peaks are in the region of 6,000 feet, are more sparsely populated and run to the occasional ski slope. These last, I believe, have all the necessary equipment but quite often don't have enough snow. Galicia is noted for its belief in witches, and looking at how isolated most of the villages are, I can understand why. I certainly wouldn't care to be stranded alone here on a dark night. The last few miles of the road to Finisterre have had some money spent on them since I was here last, about six years ago. Unfortunately, the money ran out before it got into Finisterre itself. You have heard the old definition of a fishing net? Holes tied together with string. The roads in the town aren't much different. I got settled into the one hotel the place boasts and went walkabout. Finistene is basically a fishing village perched on a hillside miles away from anywhere. Pretty enough in a way, but could do with a lick of paint. Some money has been spent here, but not always wisely. The town centre has been pedestrianised and generally smartened up, and looks quite good. Where houses have been done individually, the effect isn't always so pleasing. They look rather as though the new image has been chosen from a catalogue or a magazine. The effect, although pleasant enough in individual cases, isn't quite right taken as a whole. I was pleased to see that my favourite watering hole, a bar / fish restaurant at the end of the beach, was still there and still being ran by a disreputable looking version of Lt Columbo, the TV detective. He is a bit fatter in the/ace than I remembered him, and looks every inch the genial ruffian. It was here that I got talking to an Irishman who had just completed the pilgrimage to Santiago and had carried on the extra miles to Finisterre. (In the Middle Ages, this lad bit was sometimes imposed on pilgrims as an extra penance.) He seemed quite shocked to find out that the bus fare between Santiago and Finisterre came to about a fiver, in spite of having taken three days to walk the distance in the pouring rain. How much of this was an Irishism, and how much down to the effects of the pilgrimage I don't know, but there we sat, one of us with mote money than sense and the other with more time. Behind the bar, I noticed several square malt whisky bottles all bearing the Cardhu label. On closer inspection several of these were not only very old, but contained a clear colourless liquid which proved to be aguadiente, the local spirit. Before you ask:- "Yes" and "Like Irish poteen but without the smoothness". The next morning was rather raw, but I still decided to walk up to the lighthouse at the end of the cape, about 11/2 miles along the road, climbing most of the way. Quite a number of people go up there just to be able to say that they have been to the end of the world. I turned one corner to see no less than seven coach loads labouring up the hill ahead of me, the lazy sods (OK, so I'm a smug sod). I went on past the inn, off to the lighthouse and carried on to the radio telephone station at the top of the hill. From behind this one gets a view not only of Finisterre but of the beach on the Atlantic side of the cape. This beach is quarter of a mile of white sand, usually deserted - not the best place to go for a swim. The water isn't so much cold as near freezing. I decided to return to Finisterre by walking down the back of the hill, where there are some foresty tracks. The last stretch narrowed dawn a very narrow, steep and stony pathway. Looking back, I was very lucky that l didn't slip and damage an ankle. If I had done so, I could have been there a long time before anyone found me. The path brought me out into a part of Finisterre I hadn't suspected existed. The whole area is poor, but this pan of the town had the dilapidated air of deep poverty. It was subsistence smallholding at its most basic. I passed one hut doing duty as a bar and just kept going. Some bars in this area are plain to the point of being Spartan, but this was grim. I stayed on in Finisterre for a few days, hoping for a change in the weather. No such luck - Finisterre can be a pleasant enough place to laze away a few days in sunny weather. Bad weather only emphasises the fact that the place needs a make over. It needs a generous lick of paint, and some patches of derelict ground could be done up as parks or gardens. It lacks hotel accommodation (most accommodation is in the form of hostels), and anything to do (the chance to go sailing, sea fishing or hill walking would fit the area nicely and to some extent provide a cash crop for the locals). Some start has been made in the town centre, but there is still much to do. I went back to Santiago through torrential rain. By this time I was getting downright fed up of it and was quite prepared to change my ticket and return to the UK the next day. But the ticket had been bought as a special offer so couldn't be changed; back to the drawing board. Next stop Orense, a hundred or so kilometres to the east. The countryside is rather more prosperous with vineyards and small dairy farms. Orense itself is set in the Mino valley (the river goes on to form the border with Portugal). As far as getting into the town is concerned, the place is not user friendly towards the casual visitor. The road system around the outskirts is a maze for the unsuspecting driver and the coach station is tucked away at the back of beyond. Once into the town over an old Roman bridge, Orense proved to be a pleasant and reasonably prosperous country town, which could have been situated almost anywhere. The guidebooks give it a bum write up. It is difficult to do otherwise on the basis of one night there. Although pleasant, there is an air of bland smugness about it. Having said that, it has a very pleasant pedestrian shopping centre with a number of equally pleasant bars, including an Irish one (no English spoken). Given the size of the beer glasses and the custom of serving tapas, it is possible to get through an incredible amount during an evening's bar hopping. Certainly, I was shaken by the amount of cash I had been parted from quite painlessly. Orense could well improve on closer acquaintance. It would certainly make a good centre for exploring the local countryside. The next day saw a two hour bus ride over rolling open countryside to Lugo, about 60 km north. Again, the road system round the town would double as a good defensive system. The town is best known for its complete Roman walls and for its cathedral. I have a soft spot for its covered food market. These plates sell a wide range of local produce, fresh fruit and vegetables, wines and so on The meat counters are not for those who don't like reminding that their meat was once on the hoof, the rabbits particularly so, as the heads aren't removed. They just lie there naked and disembowelled, staring out balefully at the world (I assume that they are rabbits and not cats - it's difficult to tell). Some of the shop signs appeal to my sense of humour. Despite appearances, a ferreteria sells ironmongery, not little furry animals. The joyeria and the lecheria aren't houses of ill repute - they sell jewellery and milk respectively. Lugo's main square is a pleasant place to watch the world go by on a Sunday evening. For once, the weather had stayed fine. The bars serve a respectable array of tapas with the drinks. Each bar seems to have its own policy on serving these snacks. Some will only serve one with the first drink, others will keep them coming every time you buy a drink. In some places it's a case of taking what you are offered; one or two will offer a choice or even pass round a tray to choose from. The choice ranges from nuts and olives up to whatever the chef can imagine. It's possible to survive for quite some time on a diet of tapas and beer. From Lugo, I went back to Santiago. The countryside en route seemed a bit more prosperous looking than I remembered it from a couple of years ago. The wooded areas looked as though they had been tidied up a bit, with some of the dead wood having been pruned out. There were
even a few dairy herds which I hadn't seen before. The only constant was
the trickle of soggy pilgrims (yes, raining again). One last evening passed
in my favourite bar in Santiago, just down the hill from the cathedral.
I found it years ago. The owner and his family lived in London for several
years and all speak perfect English. Not only that, they have started
recognizing me as an occasional visitor, which makes it that much more
pleasant. The next morning saw me at Santiago airport which, as airports
go, is quite a pleasant place to waste a few hours. It also painlessly
removes any excess pesetas. First published in VISA issue 42 (autumn 2001) |