Day 33 - Fonfria - Friday, 22 May 2009

Vega de Valcarce -> Fonfria = 25K (Just 140.7K more!)

Entering the Fonfria, a herd of lovely, velvet-eyed, brown cows crowd me to the side of the “Main Street.” A handsome shepherd dog eyes me for a moment, sizing me up, and then passes behind me, managing his bovine charges effectively and efficiently. The shepherd smiles.

Outside the albergue door, a beautiful, large, grey stallion systematically eliminates the tall grass. I hear a rooster crow nearby and I see dogs playing across the dusty street.

“This is where I will spend the night,” I decide and smile to myself.

From inside the charming albergue, loud music pours out and as I enter the door I see the hospitalera dancing behind the bar as she makes a cup of café con leche.

"Oh yes," I think, "I am checking in!" Animals, music, dancing and cafe con leche - who could ask for more?

So here I am relaxing over a café con leche; over the mountain after a remarkable walk which, at intervals, felt like a scene out of a Disney film. Galicia is more like Ireland than what one may think of as Spain. But of course, Galicia is part of Spain. It is very clear that it was influenced by the Celts.

I climbed the mountain in the early hours arriving in Galicia as the sun came over the peaks and kissed the green, green mountainside. It is almost surreal.

Early in the day I walked through La Faba, where I stopped to catch my breath. This village would have been a lovely place to spend a night. (There is a German or possibly Dutch run albergue that feeds pilgrims from their organic garden)

I linger a bit, playing with a pair of delightful stray kittens who wrestle one another, fighting over a grease-soaked loaf of bread and a few pieces of chorizo I share with them. I resume walking.

The enchanting villages I walk through today smell of cattle and are perched on hillsides so steep the cows must have 2 long legs and 2 shorter legs in order to graze on the hillsides. The path is littered with cow manure.

When I arrive in O’Cebreiro at the peak of the mountain, fog engulfs the 9 ancient, round, stone, thatch-roofed structures (pallozas) that comprise (most of) the village. The fog adds to the mystical quality of the place. Words like amazing, haunting come to mind. I can almost believe the local legend; the 14th Century miracle about the wine and bread turning into blood and the flesh of Christ.

Once again, I wish I could stay a day or two and simply soak up the ambience of this special place. But, I am a pilgrim and I cannot tarry…pilgrims are meant to walk. As I walk, I find myself wondering is J.R Tolkien ever visited the region. It could have been the inspiration for his Hobbit-world.

I had been anxiously anticipating the challenging climb, one of the most challenging on the entire Camino. Like many things in life, the climb was somewhat anti-climactic. Many pilgrims elect to taxi or bus their way over the mountain. Others send their backpacks ahead so they can walk more easily. I did neither. I chose to walk with my backpack and found that I was exhilarated by the steep climb. My joy and excitement fuel my energy and I walk on beyond my original destination.

So here I am in the charming albergue in Fonfria. I have had a delicious hot shower (in a private bathroom) and I washed my long hair with borrowed shampoo. I am sitting in a sunny courtyard letting my hair dry in the breeze and sipping sidra (apple cider) with a group of fellow pilgrims. There is lots of laughter and conversation (despite language barriers). The German man with the cowboy hat (I dubbed him “Herr Gummi-schuhe”) is so funny. My Irish friend (S.) and the Danish woman who lives in Spain, my friend from Finland, the delightful woman from New Zealand and many other pilgrims while away the late afternoon together.

It is hard to imagine that my pilgrimage will soon come to an end. I push that thought aside and stay in the happy present.

An Ancient Christmas Eve Miracle

Those who walk the Camino to Santiago are party to many wonderful legends and tales. Some are spiritual or religious, some are folk tales or simply traditional. Whether one accepts these tales as true is of little consequence. What matters, in my opinion, is what these stories tell us about the people who share them, revere them or are guided or transformed by them.

Following is a Camino tale that took place on Christmas Eve centuries ago.

The story begins on a dark and stormy Christmas Eve in medieval times. A poor farmer from the village of Barjamayor struggled up the steep 1,293 meter-high mountain to the O'Cebreiro church. He braved the raging snowstorm to hear midnight Mass and participate in communion.

When he reached the church, he was cold, wet and weary. The door swung open, icy winds swept in behind him. The farmer quickly stepped inside and the large door slammed shut behind him, reverberating throughout the church.

The priest, garbed in his elegant robes, stood at the front of the church with the host elevated for the consecration. Hearing the door and feeling the bitter wind sweeping into the church, the priest, turned and cast a disparaging look at the pious farmer.

Then, the priest angrily berated the man for being so foolish as to venture out on such a stormy night. What kind of fool would climb a mountain at midnight in the midst of a storm to simply sip wine from a cup and to taste a tiny piece of bread?

What a fool, he thought. The priest shook his head and turned back to his duties.

Suddenly a shriek rang out. The priest stood wide-eyed - he witnessed a miracle: the humble loaf of crusty bread and the Spanish wine on the altar were no longer there. In their place he saw on the platter the flesh of Jesus and in the chalice, he found the blood of Christ.

The astonished priest turned his head and witnessed yet another miracle - the image of the Virgin leaned her head forward to observe the amazing events that had taken place, (Today the icon is known as the Virgen del Milagro or the Virgin of the Miracle).

The story continues. After the glorious mass on that stormy night, the humbled priest collected the remaining crumbs and drops of blood. He carefully placed these sacred items in a silver reliquary.

Since then this miracle has been celebrated in songs, poems, paintings and sculptures. In the year 1487 the event was certified by Pope Innocent VIII. The reliquary was presented to Queen Isabella.

Today, however, the reliquary is housed in a niche on the right of the church’s main altar. Many pilgrims enroute to Santago stop at the church to pay their respects and to see the Virgin of the Miracle.

The following poem (loosely translated) about this Christmas Eve miracle was published in the 1400's and is still widely circulated along the Camino.

I want to tell you a miraculous story
about a host that was being consecrated and revealed,
in perfect flesh,
its hidden nature.
An idiot of a priest
who was offering the host at Mass
doubted the truth of the consecration.
The holy vision was demonstrated to him
as it is, today and always,
in O'Cebreiro.

- A.E. Molina, 1400, Spain