the pilgrimage

Santiago de Compostela is made more beautiful by rain. The Christmas lights strung between arcaded buildings catch the mist, disperse, glow. The narrow streets in the old town glisten. Green moss grows in the details of the Cathedral façade.

My journey was not along the Camino de Santiago, the route through France and Northern Spain taken by pilgrims since the Middle Ages. An 11-hour bus ride took me from Mérida in Extremadura, north through Castilla-Leon, and west into Galícia, where I wound overnight through Verin, Ourense, Vigo and Pontevedra before arriving in Santiago on Thursday morning. I did not share the pilgrims' path, but I did share their destination: the Cathedral of Saint James the Apostle.

There is something so stunning about the jumble of styles, the immensity of the building, its crown of five (five!) bell towers. I lost myself happily in the wiggles on the gate, the dissymmetry of the façade, the tiers and tiers of columns. Just inside is the Pórtico de Gloria, the original west front, which now stands inside the main doors of the cathedral. In the center stands a sculpted column where pilgrims offer a prayer of thanks with their hand pressed into the roots of the tree under the saint. The five deep finger prints, worn into the solid marble, are a testament to the millions who have ended their pilgrimage this way.

Beyond the Cathedral, Santiago is a charming city, small, but designed for good living. R and I happened upon a neat photography exhibition by chance, and on Saturday, when we turned up for tickets at Teatro Principal, all 4oo seats were sold -- it warms my heart to think of full theatres and any city that has them wins my admiration. This region is famous for its silversmiths and I am taking away a beautiful ring set with a the black stone azabache (a gift to myself) and red-coral earrings (a gift from F and R). The old city is entirely pedestrianized and is crammed with hot-chocolate cafés, basement bars and tiny restaurants, which are turned crammed with gallegos and on this holiday weekend, tourists.

Galician cuisine is somewhat legendary itself, comprising a mind-boggling array of sea critters and things in shells. The dish I had heard the most stories about was the pulpo, or octopus, served in olive oil and sprinkled with grainy salt and paprika. It's hard to pick a favourite between the fried calamari, grilled prawns, tuna empanada, the shrimp and mushroom revuelto -- but at gunpoint I'd pick the vieira a horno, that yummy thing sitting so prettily in the scallop shell, the symbol of St James. And I'd have to spare a word for the dense bread -- sigh -- a far cry from the fluffy, white, easily dried out thing that abounds in Don Benito.
I heartily recommend a visit to this corner of the Iberian Peninsula (although you are unlikely to have hosts as generous and hospitable as mine... :) ). It is so different from the image Spain uses to sell itself to tourists -- bulls, flamenco and ole ole -- and for that reason so much more worth visiting. The home of the Iberian celts is a magic land of rolling hills, legends, bagpipes, witches and omens....
...and I return to Extremadura completely under its spell.

In the tiny bars that fill Santiago's old city, coins glint from the walls. I make a wish and jam my own penny into a crevice at Casa das Cruchas...

More photos here.