The St. James Way tradition began in Padron. In Camino folklore, King Herod Agrippa beheaded and martyred St. James in Jerusalem. Before his martyrdom, St. James had preached in Galicia. His disciples saw fit to take his remains by boat back to Padron, then to Compostela. There are many legends about how St. James’s body reached Compostela — an ox-cart provided by the Celtic queen of Padron transported his body to Santiago; his disciples brought his body by boat to Finis Terre and buried his bones in a hill (now Santiago); a monk traveling the area saw a field of light (campo Stella) and found a coffin in the bushes that contained the bones of an individual, with its skull on its arm. They built a chapel on the site. Later, it grew to become the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.
The St. James symbolism in Spanish culture evolved through the ages, including St. James’ association as a matamoro—moor slayer, during the Spanish Reconquista. His warrior image became associated with the defeat of the Muslim rule over Spain. The conquistadores in South America claimed him as their patron saint. Contemporary Spanish intellectuals are grappling with these contradictions, considering recent anti-Muslim sentiments and indigenous rights.
I don’t know how many people traverse the Camino with these in mind. Is the Camino just a walk? A physical challenge? A spiritual fulfillment of a promise, or simply a pilgrimage that follows the footsteps of millions before? How much do grand narratives of history matter compared to the personal stories of the travelers themselves? That many repeat the same Camino not twice, but three times, or more, says much about devotion. Devotion to what? The journey, the pilgrimage, and not to profess affirmation to a national ideology or cultural politics?
None of these concerns are obvious at breakfast the next day, as a motley group of both vacationers and pilgrims shuffled between the buffet tables. The dining room was grand, bigger than any we had dined in so far with two buffet tables and who servers poured coffee on demand. The pilgrims are more obvious in their hiking gear-hat and boots. In the breakfast line, a Black father-daughter stood out, just like us non-White Europeans. Pat chats a bit with them as they line up for pastries; Americans, Pat said afterward. Breakfast was OK as with the better hotels we’ve dined in, but not exceptional. The hotel was touristy for us. We were glad to be back on the trail.
We left Caldas de Reis crossing the medieval Roman bridge. This was an ancient Roman town. Passing through the bridge gave a weird sense of time travel. We have been, in fact, time-traveling. Trekking towards Padron, its roots deep in pre-historic Celt culture and biblical lore, was food for later thought. Our route takes us by high sandstone walls, dirt paths, quiet woods, and pilgrim testaments to the Camino written on offered at roadside shrines.
As we near Padron, a troop of school kids, upper grades maybe, in their casual gear stroll past with their noisy chatter. They carried very little. We guess they were on a school hike to Padron, the nearest town. It’s rather heart-warming to see school kids on a long hike like this. It tells much about their comfort with non-vehicular travel. Tell that to an American high schooler. What? Walk 5 km? No way! I could hear my nephew already. When our daughter was just five years old, we took her on a camping hike to Point Reyes. She never forgave us for that.
The route was idyllic, with many rest spots. At a trail side fountain, pilgrims sat around, seeking relief from the heat, splashing their faces with fountain water. No one dared drink from it, though. Pat and I sat on a bus stop bench to stretch our legs. Out of the blue, a German lady came up and asked if she could take our picture. We oblige, acknowledging her kindness. She took a couple of shots with my iPhone, checked it, and said,” You look like a nice couple.” It was a very nice gesture indeed. Our faces reflected her kindness.
At the church of Santa Mariña de Carracedo, we rested briefly and got our passport sello. There was a crowd of pilgrims in the church compound, among them a large group of Chinese pilgrims. It’s the first time we’ve seen Asian groups along this Camino. They file out of the church after getting their sello and, with much chatter, got back on the trail. Beside of the churchyard was a wide meadow with a couple of grazing goats. A farmer was herding one of them with a rope, yanking at the goat, but it refused to budge, its legs planted firmly on the ground. I watched with amusement. In my distraction, as I rushed to join who had started off, I did not notice my that REI cap had dropped to the ground. I ran to the churchyard to retrieve it but was nowhere to be found. Unbelievable! Not even ten minutes had lapsed since I dropped it I but couldn’t find any trace of it. With a grain of salt and a sigh, I took it as my contribution to the Camino.
It’s uphill to Padron first, before we reach the lower bank of the river that borders the town. About 15 km from Caldas Reis, we arrive at a cafe. Courtyard trees gave shade to the tables. Great. The day was hot, a cold bottle of Sidra would be welcome. But the shaded tables were full. The Black father-daughter we met at Caldas de Reis had already seated themselves, as were the group of Chinese we saw a few kilometers back. The line for the restroom was as long as the line at the coffee bar. Not surprising. The sun-induced frequent water intake taxed the bladder more than usual. The Black father got into line behind me and we exchanged small talk. He was from Fremont, California, our neighbor east of Palo Alto, some five miles across the Dumbarton bridge. To have another Californian on the Camino was a comforting thought, even though we may not see each other again. We found a table, and I ordered my espresso and juice for Pat. Our feet were aching for a rest and we had another 4 km to Padron. To make matters worse, my lips were painfully parched. Because I neglected to pack plain lip balm, I had to resort to a mentholated lip balm, which made it worse. Each time I place food in my mouth, my lips would smart. My fault. I didn’t pack one. I paid more attention to my photo gear that by now I have realized was overkill and became extra weight. A smartphone does the job.
More pilgrims kept trickling into the courtyard. But many more were taking their time, chatting, drinking Stella beer, and making acquaintances. A couple of German women needed a seat. Not wanting to linger, we offered our table, hoping to get to Padron by lunchtime.
To get to our hotel, Pazo de Lestrove, we have to cross two rivers, the Ulla and the Sar. Ulla is the larger river and where St. James’ body was brought to land. Sar is the smaller river that splits half of Padron along the coast. We pass through a tree-lined park to reach the bridge to cross the River Ulla. As we approach, the roadside sign seemed to have read our minds.
Hunger pangs for lunch and the promise of respite from the sun pointed us toward the riverfront cafes. Their wavy patio umbrellas beckoned relief. The server from the first cafe ignored us, saying that their kitchen was closed. It was 2 pm. The customary Spanish lunch was over. We tried the cafe next door. The server there was more accommodating. From our distraught look, our plight must have been so apparent. Sure, he said. I can fix you up with an egg potato torta. But it’s all he had, apologizing. Pat and I were in no condition to be picky. And some Sidra, por favor, we added. He went into the kitchen, spoke to someone, and brought our drinks. The cook has left for the day. Somehow; he convinced his wife to make the dish. We’ve never been so grateful.
We paid our bill and asked if they could call for a taxi. Rather than spend our energy looking for the hotel, given that our batting average of finding it quickly was poor, a taxi would save us the trouble. The server, now obvious to us, was the husband. He asked his wife to see if she could call for a taxi. They were so accommodating. The wife called a couple of numbers but came out blank. There’s a fiesta in town she said (we heard some fireworks). It’s hard to get a taxi now. The husband, sensing our desperation, offered to drive us in his car (How nice of him!). But we could not accept his offer. It’s over and above our expectations. We gave a heartfelt thank you, donned our backpacks, and trudged onward.
With Apple Map to guide us (even as I have become distrustful of it), we followed the river bank to reach the town’s interior. After two misdirections, we reached a roundabout. To be sure, Pat went across the street to an open shop and asked where the hotel was. The lady who answered said she was not sure; she knew of one only further up the road. Following that tip, we reached the hotel gates after 10 minutes of walking along the roadway. In the driveway was a welcoming fountain with its bubbling spring. With a big sigh of relief, we checked in.
