Literary Reconnaissance

The Footprint Guide to Northern Spain by Andy Symington which is oddly imbalanced and the maps poor, and though it makes reference to the Camino, some important places are missed entirely from the text.

For history I have read TD Kendrick’s (1960) Saint James in Spain, tortuously set out but sets out how lists the story of St James grew in northern Spain and spread across the country with the expulsion of the Moors.   Clavijo, the alleged site of a battle between Christians and Moors when the apparition of St James riding on a white charge changed to course of battle, and indeed the tide of Moorish conquest, is on my list of places of visit, though, having read Kendrick, it seems less important.

I suppose I should count Bengtsson’s Röde Orm (aka The Longships) in my readings, because doesn’t his hero visit Santiago during the course of his service as a Moorish warrior?

Oh, yes, and a book on Wellington’s campaigns in northern Spain and the Battle of the Pyrenees two hundred years ago.

Then there were three personal accounts, To the Field of Stars – a Pilgrim’s Journey to Santiago de Compostela by Kevin A Codd, an American catholic priest working in Belgium, spiced with his own religious observations which left me feeling they had been written for his bishop as some kind of promotion exam, and Robert Mullen’s Call of the Camino – Myths, Legends and Pilgrim Stories on the Way to Santiago de Compostela spiced with home-spun tales culled from history and from philosophy.    The best of these three however is Tom Moore’s Spanish Steps, his account of walking across Spain to Santiago with a donkey, which is more light-hearted and amusing than the others.

There was also a film, Martin Sheen’s The Way directed by Emilio Estevez, about a man who loses his son and carries his ashes on pilgrimage, and a television series, 

Brian Sewell’s Naked Pilgrim.   Sewell repeats a journey which he made 40 years before, this time by car, boat and horse and almost despite himself is moved by mass in the cathedral of St James and mourns for his loss of faith.   He ends by burning his clothes on the beach and bathing naked in the Atlantic.   I may not do this part of the pilgrimage, but no one explains whether there is – or not – some pre-Christian origin to this walk which ends symbolically at the end of the earth, and a ceremony for fire and water.

All told, however, considerably less literary reconnaissance than I is used to when approaching a new subject.

The two guidebooks I have brought with me are A Pilgrim’s Guides to the Camino de Santiago by John Brierly (a little sanctimonious in places) and the Confraternity of ST James’s own, economic, practical guide No 1.

As for reading material then I have decided to bring with me The Glass Room by Simon Mawer, whose dark them about the clash of civilisations in the mid-20th century somehow seems to mirror the clash of civilisations which brought St James to his prominence all those centuries ago.  I hope to finish it tonight and maybe leave it at Liz’s

For the journey I have Isabel Allendes’ La Suma de los Días:  I have always liked her writing and it may help improve my Spanish.

Reading, Berks

In a sense the journey has already because on Thursday last (5 April) I was in Reading for the Falklands Commanders’ dinner at Pangbourne to commemorate the 30th anniversary of the start of the 1982 Falklands War.    There were many old faces from those days, much medalry and bright uniforms, and each group standing at the end of dinner when their regimental marches were played - and recognised. 

I sat between Sir Robert Armstrong, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher’s Cabinet Secretary in 1982, and JW, captain of one of our ships.   Armstrong was gracious and informative in recalling his memories of those events, including Admiral Leach’s gate-crashing of a meeting of officials and ministers in the House of Commons and swinging the meeting in favour of sending a Task Force.   JW managed to be dull and pompous.    Opposite was Mike Layard, whose face fell when he realised he was sitting next to an Air Marshal (Peter Squire), but they talked amiably after I introduced the information that Squire had been a Harrier pilot ‘down south.’   Next to Squire was Group Captain Jeremy Price who was CRAF on Ascension Island for a few weeks during the war:  quizzed, he had no memory of Don Coffey bringing him BDA after Operation Black Buck, but, tellingly, no time for Don Coffey either – who I thought was vital to our operations on the island.    Nor did he (Price) get promoted.   On the other side of Armstrong was a Squadron Leader who talked non-stop to senior crab on his left and so gave me more than a fair share of Armstrong’s attention.

Others I spoke to were John Shirley of the Guardian (reporter for The Times in 1982), Geoff Till, Robin Brodhurst, Al West, Jonathon Band, Jeremy Black, Ralfe Wyke-Sneyd, Chris Wreford-Brown, Chris Parry, Robin Gainsford and a very amusing soldier whose family have bought the former Admiralty House at Rosyth.

The Royal Marines band were at their very, very best, though I was disappointed not to hear one tune:    I remember in 1982 he then band, in khaki uniform on the clay cricket field at St George’s, playing a Lloyd-Webber song from the musical Evita “Don’t cry for me, Argentina” as a slow match – then, 30 years ago, I wasn’t the only man with a lump in his throat.

But back to Reading, where we all stayed in a central hotel.   Here in the 12th century the Empress Matilda gave the hand of St James to Reading Abbey:  it was brought from Italy in the 11^th century to Hamburg by Adalbert, Archbishop of Bremen where it became part of the imperial regalia.  This hand is now in a glass case at St Peter's Church, Marlow, Bucks:  it was found in an iron chest at the abbey in 1786. After its re-rediscovery it was displayed in a museum, and in a private chapel until the grave of St James was found in Spain – with a hand missing whereupon Pope Leo XII declared the bones to be genuine, and in 1896 the hand was given to St Peter's Church.  

Anyway, the abbey contained many relics, and pilgrims from Britain started from Reading for the ports of Bristol, Weymouth and Southampton, choosing a short sea route and a crossing of France, or a longer sea route and a lesser distance from the ports of northern Spain to walk to Santiago.  

Helpfully the modern Confraternity of St James, based in Southwark, now provides a walking route from Reading via Winchester to Portsmouth and the ferry for France.

My own journey from Reading is by train to Liphook, car via Milland to Gatwick and Easyjet to Bordeaux, and train to Orthez and car to Liz’s.   

Geoff has rung and we have the longest conversation for long time, about his studies at Oxford, but I think his main aim is to quiz me about my readiness for the walk:  I assure that I have done some long training walks, my aim worries are whether my old knees will bear the strain, and about fellow-travellers wanting to get too close.

Isabel rings while driving north from Devon via Oxford (!) where they have had supper in Geoff’s favourite Chinese restaurant.  We have a lovely chat and she wishes me well, then Tams in rings back to speak too with her good wishes, and I hear a chorus of sleepy kids in the background.     

Wednesday 11^th April

Today’s itinerary is Easyjet EZY5013 from Gatwick at 1115 to Bordeaux, and then the train from Bordeaux St Jean at 1635 via Dax to Orthez arriving at 1829.    I am sorry to miss Eleanor at Gatwick who is arriving by an early morning flight form the Philippines, but she is going direct to work and cannot stop for breakfast, while my flight leaves at lunchtime and I have a long queue to check-in.    Instead, have lovely telephone conversation with Ells who sounds happy, and delighted with her holiday, and promise to go up to town when I’m back and help her finish moving in to her new flat.

Penny gets me to the airport in plenty of time, more than 1 ½ hours before take-off but Easyjet’s check-in is hopeless:  this is an economy airline and the first thing they have economised on is staff.   There are more people bossing the queue and panickily calling ‘last call’ for this place and that than there are check-in staff at the counters, and I barely make my flight.   

            At the airport I spot a few people who might be also be walkers.

The travel in France is very easy – the bus for the station is waiting outside the station, and the trains are smart and run to the minute.  A smiling Liz, full of enthusiasm and chatter, greets me at Orthez, with only a gentle reminder that Puyoo would have been a better station to meet at.