Pilgrim's Road

urgency at this stage, and a desire for journey’s end.
    After a good sustaining meal of bean stew and tortilla I walked for a while through Melide’s streets to allow the food to settle before cycling on, and somewhere between the two locked Romanesque churches I caught the unmistakable skirl of bagpipes, a lovely and stirring sound to those who, like me, enjoy it. I tracked it to a house that opened straight onto the pavement, and was listening entranced when the window flew up and the musicians urged me to come inside.
    They settled me in a deep armchair, a glass of wine in my hand, and for ten minutes or so I was treated to an impromptu concert of Galician music. The pipes were not unlike Scottish pipes except that the drones were arranged differently and the sound, I thought, was not quite so resonant — which was just as well — with three pipers playing away with gusto in a small room, together with a drummer. If I could have chosen anything I liked to cheer me up, I probably wouldn’t have thought of a trio of Galician pipers, but it was exactly what was needed, and I remembered to thank St Raphael, as well as the musicians.
    No sooner was I outside than the rain came on again, strongly enough to don full rain gear and to tie plastic bags over my only shoes. Then it was once more, head down, ignore the aching muscles and the trickle of rain down the neck, and cycle on.
    As the hills became less steep so the landscape grew steadily uglier and more industrialised. Even when the rain slackened to a thin drizzle it looked little better. I cycled on, very tired by this time; too tired in fact to think of anything, except perhaps an end to the effort, when suddenly out of nowhere came a warm glow of happiness at the realisation that I was approaching Santiago.
    Up to this moment I had not given much thought to arriving. The journey had absorbed all my interest and I hadn’t needed to look forward. But now in the middle of this last unattractive stretch Santiago assumed a reality. It was no longer just the town at the journey’s end, but the goal to which I had been heading all these weeks, a special and holy place. At the same time I again had the sense of St James at my shoulder pushing me on over the last stages. I passed Labacolla, where the pilgrims had performed their ritual ablutions before coming into sight of the city. But this is now the site of Santiago’s airport and offers little to tempt a pilgrim to stop. Over a shoulder of Monte de Gozo I climbed. Somewhere to my right was the knoll, the Montjoie from which traditionally the towers of the cathedral of Santiago can first be seen, though not on such a day as this I decided, and sped on.
    The evening traffic was thick as I came to the outskirts of Santiago. The high-rise blocks and a bewildering complexity of roads, every one of which seemed to be in the process of being rebuilt, extended for what seemed a very long way. All my attention was needed for survival; the route finding I left to St James. Amid all the depressing ugliness of the approach I caught sight for a moment of one small gem, the medieval chapel of St Lazarus. It gave me a foretaste of wonders to come and the courage to continue through the maelstrom of the traffic. And then, quite suddenly the effort was all over.
    There are no medieval walls or gateways to mark the entry to this superlatively beautiful city. The noisy bustling traffic simply ceases at the point where the medieval city begins, and only very few vehicles venture through its paved and winding roads. Buildings of several different periods line the quiet alleyways, particularly masterpieces of the Baroque and the Renaissance. But it is the genius of the Middle Ages which underpins and illuminates the whole structure of the city of Santiago. All roads here lead naturally to the shrine of St James, the focus and inspiration of the journey.
     

14
     
    Santiago de Compostela
     
    T HE end of a lengthy journey is always an emotional experience. Either the arrival has been so longingly anticipated that it must prove something of a disappointment, or the journey itself has been so idyllic that its ending is unwelcome. Either way, few destinations entirely live up to a traveller’s expectations.
    This particular journey, however, was like no other I had ever undertaken. For, although there had been so many highlights of architecture, landscape and experience and so many rich encounters with people and places along the