Standing in the shade of an apricot tree in the garden of a house in Caldas de Reis as Mass ended one hot July evening, the words of Bunyan’s hymn ringing in my ears, I began thinking of what it means to be a pilgrim and wondering if it is truly possible to be one. The tune, Monk’s Gate, probably helped, and the view across the river and high up to the church of the martyred St Thomas of Canterbury certainly focused the mind. Bunyan thought that following Our Lord, the Master of his hymn, was of the essence of pilgrimage. For him it began with a vowed intent; it involved persistent discouragement; and it required constant labour. It was in fact our entire life and apparently little to do with what are now generally journeys to places that once were holy and, perhaps, still are.
Mass celebrated under an apricot tree is unusual and so too was the congregation. We were from Meath and Kilkenny, from Kent and Shropshire, from Durham and Lincolnshire, from Rhode Island and Texas, and from Lancashire and places nearer to God even than these. All but two were Catholics, all were pilgrims walking, or in one case running, one of the many ways to the tomb of St James at Compostela. Those who walk these ways quickly understand that they are the peregrino because that is what everyone calls them. The word really, and originally, meant resident alien, which for a nomad tramping the roads is odd unless, as it does, it points to our position as Christians resident on earth seeking to find our way to heaven. There were 15 of us gathered around Our Lord in that garden and another hundred gathered around the swimming pool under the shade of half an acre of Russian vine. They too were pilgrims but most stayed resolutely away from us in the heat of the evening. As we sang the Mass some of them came closer and held their children in their arms so that they could be blessed by Our Lord; some left their be-towelled recliners and went away to their rooms; most stayed, apparently indifferent. We took beer, crossed the river and went to supper. Who, I wondered, were the pilgrims?
Walking as a priest with others requires a certain reorientation. Pilgrims talk, a lot. There is no downtime and somehow there are the offices to say at times when others are preparing to walk at an already early hour or recovering after a long day. Sermons need to be tighter and relevant. Spiritual direction and ghostly counsel are bespoke, and draining. The most holy sacrifice of the Mass must be reverent precisely because it is offered in stairwell, bedroom and garden. Alb, amice, cincture and stole uncreased and spotless because this truly is Our Lord. Altar linen washed every night and the sacred vessels kept safe and the very best wine bought every day “the use whereof if any be left unconsecrated, is to be had for the use of the curate”: hurrah. One learns in a very profound way that there are no joyful mysteries when carrying a heavy pack up a hill in the heat of the day. All rapidly turns to sorrow. Calling a halt after the fourth decade of the rosary might have been the bravest thing I ever do but I now know that you can indeed have too much of a good thing. The risk, it seemed to me, was a contraction of time so that Our Lady would indeed be simultaneously praying for us then and at the hour of our death, as we expired in the heat stumbling over some thoroughly over-rated Roman cart ruts on the Via XIX.
Walking holidays are not what walking the Camino, or indeed any holy path, is about, but the reordering of time is what they have in common. What really separates them is that single simple letter ‘I’. Somehow when walking a pilgrimage as a Christian the ego subsides, and it ceases to be a holiday and begins to be a holy day. The effort, and the focus, transform an enjoyable walk into a place where we begin to hit the saints in all their uncompromising difference. What the spiritual guide can help to do is see that the stranger is accepted, hospitality dispensed, fears addressed, laughter and sympathy freely traded. This is not to say that there are no discouragements. Bunyan was right, there are. He was right, too, about the constant labour. What I think he missed was the effect of having the sacraments at one’s side and of a guide to help focus on that first avowed intent. In the end perhaps it is two parts Bunyan, four parts Chaucer and all for God. St James, pray for us.
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