Under the gaze of St James

THAT the city of Santiago de Compostela, in a remote corner of north-west Spain, should, in medieval times, have ranked in importance with Rome and Jerusalem now seems extraordinary. Yet, at the height of its fame, in the twelfth century, pilgrims travelled from as far away as Russia.
They were drawn by the miracles associated with the tomb of St James the Great (Santiago), one of the 12 Apostles, who is said to have preached the gospel in Spain. Tradition has it that after his martyrdom in Jerusalem, his disciples brought his body in a miraculous stone boat back to Spain and buried it there. Centuries later, led there by a star, a hermit discovered the forgotten grave so, Compostela ("campus stellae"), the field of the star which pointed the way.
We slipped out of Plymouth Harbour on a grey September morning, following one of the ancient pilgrim routes to Santiago de Compostela, and sailed by moonlight across a tranquil Bay of Biscay, reaching the port of Santander 24 hours later. Sunshine awaited us and a road made holy by prayers the road to Santiago.
First major stop Burgos, the city of El Cid, Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, the national hero who embodies the Spanish ideal of chivalry. We found it dreaming in the late afternoon sunshine, its large cathedral precinct effectively shutting out the modern city. Inside the cathedral where he lies buried, vaulted arches reached high into the darkness and beyond the silence the mystery of faith translated in stone, exhuberantly, flamboyantly Gothic. Side chapels crowded with artistic treasures reflected the glory of God, perhaps even more so the grandeur of Spain almost too rich a mixture to take in.
Full marks to the lively and informative Mr Sanchez, whom years of experience had taught to look out for cathedral fatigue. He turned guiding into a game, tossing the occasional question at us, pressing coins into our hands when we got them right. "Ah, you are not ordinary tourists, I see!" Memorable the Escalera Dorada, a double flight of steps with gilt balustrades, and the curious Flycatcher Clock, high up in the nave just inside the west door the bird opens its mouth as the clock strikes the hour, a device that must have enlivened many a dull sermon.
Blazing, brilliant light pouring through stained glass windows nothing prepared us for the splendour of Leon's cathedral. "If you look at the north", our guide, Camino, explained, "you can see that most of the colours are blues cold colours. If you look at the south, the colours are warmer, telling us that life is always dual dark/light, cold/warm, men/women. People hated this cathedral when it was built. They were used to darkness, not these huge windows. 'It's horrible', they said'". Nothing changes.
From the tenth century, Leon became the capital of Christian Spain for three centuries, spearheading the war against the Moorish invaders. We notice a stone effigy behind a grille. Bits have been chipped off, graffiti scrawled. Camino sighs. "Vandals. Once the King of Leon protected us. Now we have to protect the King of Leon."
I ask her about her name. Doesn't it mean "road". "Yes, I am named after The Virgin of the Road, the patron of Leon, who appeared to a shepherd. Look, this is her statue sixteenth century, chestnut wood — she is holding her dead son. If you think of the Sistine Chapel Michaelangelo's madonna is beautiful. It is the face of a young lady, like Greek art, perfect. But here is a lady who is suffering. She is not beautiful this madonna." I look at the face contorted by grief. Here is the pain of bereavement. It is indeed memorable.
The road we travelled was spectacular, and we took it in manageable stages. It began by cutting a straight line through mile after mile of rolling wheatfields stretching to the horizon, then twisted and turned past towering copper, ochre and yellow rock formations. It climbed to give panoramic views of steep valleys and awesome canyons, zig-zagged its way through mountainsides of heather, past glittering expanses of lake, through verdant countryside to emerge into Galicia, dry stone wall country, reminiscent of the West of Ireland.
Santiago, held safely in the hollow of encircling hills, was atmospheric golden rooftops, granite arcades, noteworthy architecture a city to come back to temptingly, it has its own airport. We lingered in the vast Plaza del Obradoiro, surely one of the most beautiful squares ever created, framed by the cathedral, the College of San Jeronimo, the Town Hall, the Hotel de los Reyes Catolicos, and the Archbishop's Palace, giving beautiful views over idyllic countryside. Greenery has taken root among the carvings, statues and ironwork of the baroque facade that conceals the old romanesque cathedral, giving it the dreamlike appearance of an exotic Burmese temple. High up the figure of St James as pilgrim stood watchfully.
What would he have made of the tricksy spectacle of the socalled Great Censor of St James, the largest censor in the world, six foot high, used in solemn ceremonies, now set swinging from the nave of the church in a vast, glittering arc, filling the church with incense and entertaining the tourists something more easily chanced upon than the guidebooks would have it.
On the monumental high altar, under a colossal canopy, a seated figure of St James was honoured with a kiss by a line of visitors. We joined them to embrace the saint and for a moment of prayer in the crypt which contains his relics.
Immediately behind the west front the artistic highpoint of the tour Master Matthew's masterpiece, the twelfth century Portico de la Gloria showed Christ in majesty and the elders of the apocalypse. Not much is known about Matthew, but we do know what he looks like there he is in glory with the best of them.
At the base of yet another statue of St James, I laid my hands in the grooves created by the pressure of countless fingers that have bid adieu over the centuries, and linked with pilgrims who have gone before me and are yet to come.
It had been a memorable week, and we set out with Tina, our guide in Santiago, to toast the experience in the local fashion with Ribero wine out of white china bowls. The sound of bagpipes, the "gaita", Galicia's national instrument, drifted in from the street the Celtic roots go deep.
There was much to celebrate and it was fun to celebrate it. Food mouthwatering fish (scallops the shell is the symbol of St James and the pilgrimage itself crabs, clams, mussels, squid, monkfish, tuna cooked in a rich tomato and onion sauce) succulent lamb, giant steaks, "Leche frito" (fried milk) a delicious, caramelised custard. Spectacularly sited hotels like the luxurious parador at Cervera de Pisuerga. The country market square at Villafranca del Bierzo. The templar castle at Ponferrada. The submerged medieval town of Portomarin. And in particular, the people of northern Spain, with centuries of experience of passers-by on the Way of St James, who made us welcome at each stage of a journey that was unquestionably a life-enhancing experience.
Anne McNamara travelled with Sharon Tours of 106 Seymour Place, London W1H 5DG (01 724 5533). Amongst their package tours to Santiago de Compostela next year are: July 19-28 to mark the feast of St James £395 by coach; May 27-June 4 £365 by coach; August 15-23 to coincide with the Pope's World Youth Day visit to the city £265 by coach; and September 22-29 £455 by air. Coach packages will be from Dover or Portsmouth, not Plymouth as featured in this article.