At 8.30am it was 22 degrees as we set off down the hillside to join the morning pilgrims on the final walk to their destination, the Catedral de Santiago de Compostela.
Singly and in small groups, the walkers variously chatted and sang their way along the last two miles of the journey. Their pace surprised us, it was steady and fast, accompanied by the tapping of walking poles and wooden staffs.
“Bien hecho, sigue asi” shouted an encouraging old boy, waving a pastry he had just collected from a busy pasteleria. ‘Our’ group walked mainly in the road as the pavement was tiled and uneven in places. Everyone moved in synchronicity as traffic approached from behind, it was as though they had developed a powerful sixth sense to alert them to hazards and danger.
It was easy to follow the well-trodden route through the walls of the Old Town and begin climbing the narrow lanes up to the Cathedral. Then, suddenly the signs of scallops painted onto walls and embedded in the flagstones ended.
We were alongside a fountain in a tiny square with curving stone alleys radiating from it in all directions. Phones were consulted, as was a passing Italian who confidently struck out leading the group in what we quickly found was the wrong way.
Backtracking in understandable frustration, a local chap quickly assessed the situation and waving his straw boater and shouting directions in broken English, accompanied us all into the vast Praza da Quintana on the east side of the cathedral, under its impressively sculptured stone clock tower.
Dozens of tables, chairs and parasols were being laid out rather grumpily by an arguing pair of waiters. We skirted them quickly and the big moment was soon upon us as we all spilled into the gigantic Praza Do Obradorio at the front, west face of the Cathedral.
Joy, elation, shouts, exclamations, hugs, photos, selfies, some tears and finally silence worked its way across the group who now separated to sit quietly in the shade of the cathedral on the cobbles of the square and gaze at the baroque towers and stone sculptured Portico da Gloria, the main entrance and just opening to a busy queue of tour groups.
The gigantic Cathedral was built across two hundred years from the 11th century at the site of an existing 9th century basilica. Its mix of architectural styles and sheer size announces its importance as the most celebrated shrine in European Christendom.
Across the day we would experience its magnetic power as wave after wave of pilgrims, tour groups, church and school groups, travellers, and we, passed through the majestic square and into its spectacular interior. The sun was not yet over the towers at 9.30am and the warm air felt pulsing. I couldn’t shake that feeling, as though this remarkable building transmits an energy that pulls everyone towards and into it.
Delaying our moment, we wandered around to the north side and mistakenly through the door open for local prayers, having been given a smiling welcome by the young guard. The slender columns and arches of the barrel-vaulted Romanesque interior reached skywards, and the red stone and granite blocks seemed austere after the dizzying decoration of outside.
We were walking where centuries of pilgrims had come before and seeing and experiencing the same sense of smallness in a vast and unfolding temple, dim and cool and smelling strongly of incense.
All aisles lead to the gigantic choir of three bays and five radiating chapels. Marbled columns in green, red and black cluster around a sumptuous canopy of golden cherubs supporting an elaborately decorated statue of St James. Rococo in looks it was actually built in the 13th century and its opulence must have stunned the weary walkers arriving to gaze up at it.
In front of the altar, the gigantic botafumerio, or senser, was suspended on heavy ropes that require eight tiraboleiros in red robes to pull it in a swinging motion and reach speeds of 50mph as it dispenses 40kgs of thick clouds of incense.
‘Silencio’ intoned the guard over the Cathedral’s sound system as excitement broke out amongst the people massing behind the altar to touch the silver mantle of the statue of St James.
I chose not to join them having felt unsettled at Padron previously and instead we wandered through the chapels, themselves an overwhelming collection of paintings, sculptures and reliquaries accumulated across time.
It was time for coffee and to people watch from under one of the mushrooming canopies of white parasols above dining tables being laid up for tapas, or a restaurant lunch. Gigantic tanks of live lobsters and crabs were, rather remorsefully, on display at the entrances to tiny and dark bodegas and we were offered tastings of Galician biscuits and cakes.
We used the lunch hours to tour the Cathedral’s Museum and ogled at painted wooden and stone sculptures depicting Mary, the saints and apostles, and biblical scenes. I particularly loved a 14th century nativity showing the visit of the Magi, all proudly proffering their gifts.
Balthazar was starkly black and Caspar and Melchior had terrific beards. It was a privilege to experience the Museum’s collection at eye level and under sensitive lighting meaning that the humour, the sadness, enthusiasm and grace of the timeless characters were fully visible, as most likely they would have been positioned high up above the heads of visiting church worshippers and pilgrims and not clearly seen.
Down below the ground we wandered in the coolness of the vaulted and cavernous crypt, situated under the Cathedral’s main alter, which we had to ourselves. It was the sub-structure of the original basilica and housed the silver reliquary of St James and his two apostles, from the end of the 19th century. During our visit, it was empty.
The Cathedral had a last gift for us. Meeting a small group of Spanish and American visitors we were guided through secret doorways, down dusty passageways, up 105 steep stone steps and emerged breathlessly into the blinding light of the rooftop at the base of the Ratchet Tower.
Our guide gamely trotted up and across the modern concrete tiled roof and gestured us to join her straddling the ridge above the knave.
Simon cheerily headed up on the angled tiles, but it was too much for me, so I sat down with my back against a balustrade and watched the swallows and swifts wheel by. The heat at 1pm was intense and I was nervous as the group disappeared around a pepper pot dome and didn’t return for 20 long minutes.
The roofline used to be formed of eight towers and battlements. Today two towers remain, and the battlements are replaced with balustrades.
When Simon returned it was to show me stunning photographs of the terracotta rooves of the historical centre, with people as little pin pricks far below. The group had decided as a collective not to do the full tour of the balconies as the heat and light was so punishing, bouncing off the white stone.
Still higher we climbed, inside the Torre de la Carraca which houses the ratchet that is used to rattle out the hours on Good Friday and Holy Saturday instead of a peal of bells.
From the dainty viewing platform we had spectacular 360 degree views across the twisting mass of the medieval centre, the surrounding modern city and encircling green hills.
Our guide told us we were lucky to see the city on such a bright and clear day, the weather is more typically overcast and is often misty.
I told her she was as skilled as a mountain goat scampering up the heights and vertiginous angles of the rooftops. She laughed and let us make our way back down the dark and steep winding stone stairwell.
Unlike some of the other towers we have climbed, this was well-organised and timed to ensure one-way traffic. We later recalled the incident of a lady tumbling down a similar stairwell at St Olaf’s tower in Tallinn.
At ground level we had just enough energy to find a late afternoon tapa of dainty scallops and prawns, and a baton of deep-fried cheese covered with a fresh blueberry jam. Still, people streamed into the centre and still, pilgrims headed in weary confusion in the wrong direction.
At 4pm as we left to find a bus back to the camp, I felt as if I was walking against a persistent tide which despite the temperature of 33 degrees, was still determinedly answering the call of the Cathedral and the conclusion of an epic journey for so many.
Our own eight miles seemed a paltry total, but what an amazing visit we had had. Gracias Santiago!
