IT’S 7:00 A.M. and sixty-nine kilometers to Santiago! What would Andy McNab do?
The thought of staying in yet another boring hostel full of farting, snoring, door-loitering, bathroom-hogging, energy-sapping Hieronymus Bosch–faced pilgrims is too much for my head to take. I just want to get it all over and done with now, get my sins forgiven, and get on with my life. Excitement spurs me on through the pines and fresh-smelling eucalyptus. After twenty or so kilometers I stop for a well-needed break at a roadside café and read a final story from my pilgrim guide.
This is what my old friend Aymeric Picaud says about this final stretch:
There is a river called “Lauamentula,” because in a leafy spot along its course and two miles from Santiago, French pilgrims on their way to Santiago take off their clothes and, for the love of the Apostle, wash not only their private parts, but the dirt from their whole bodies.
Nowadays it’s called Río Lavacolla, which means in Latin, arsewash!
I wonder what Scunthorpe means in Latin?
Two locals sit in the window seats opposite, muttering and staring as I sit down and await service. An equally grumpy little waitress appears, bringing them coffees, toast, and six minutes of babbling conversation—while I cough, hum, fidget, and sigh loudly but to no avail. She then collects their plates and disappears off the face of the earth as I wonder to myself if I have somehow attained the power of complete invisibility! She finally reappears and starts chatting again.
“Excuse,” I say loudly. All three stop and stare. You could hear a pin drop, and the waitress casts me the evil eye.
“Un coffee con leche y amón y queso bocadillo, por favor,” I ask politely. I feel hatred burning inside them, but I’ve done nothing wrong. What’s with these people? The sour local asks me in English if I’m a German. Then his bitter woman asks me with a hiss if I’m a tourist.
“No, I’m a pilgrim and I’ve come from Roncesvalles!” I tell them.
They both sit back in their chairs, pulling faces and casting sideways glances. Eventually my teeth-shattering bocadillo arrives, no doubt containing an array of pubic hair, bogies, dingleberries, and phlegm.
I can all but guess that this place has been the scene of some serious pilgrim ill behavior. Maybe the farting Germans have literally followed through here? As I leave, an Aryan-looking couple on a tandem arrives.
“Hola, hola, buen camino,” they say to me, momentarily happily.
I hope for their sakes they are not German. I have a little laugh to myself and continue on into a large forest, and as the day grows long, the kilometer markers are fewer and fewer. By late afternoon I’ve reached the village of Santa Irene and spot pilgrims of all shapes and sizes gathered around the hostel. The sight and sound of them alone spurs me ever onward.
I can’t wait to see the bright lights of Santiago and feel the magic. Maybe Cocker will be there with Swiss John, doing a turn as a resident DJ in a top nightspot and gunslinging Crint Eastrood
I wonder about the nightlife, the clubs, the discos, and the sexy Galician ladies, but by 6:00 p.m. the cathedral of Santiago is still nowhere to be seen. I pass the airport and the radio station. On my left now is the Monte de Gozo pilgrims’ hospital, with eight hundred free beds, looking like some kind of zombie launderette, full of dejected beings pottering around in their underpants with buckets of washing.
Their negative aura spurs me on into the city, but I still can’t see the cathedral! I need to see it, touch it, and feel it.
Even my toenails are beginning to ache, and I daren’t stop, even for a few minutes, as I fear my whole body will turn to stone.
Finally, the modern buildings make way for authentic medieval, and I lose the arrows for the last time. It’s a quarter to ten at night, but where in the name of Saint James has this place got to?
I check into a small guesthouse and immediately head straight back out to find this cathedral, if it’s the last thing I do.