Pilgrim's Road

is not built on level ground, and the Plaza del Obradoiro is about twenty feet below the level of the cathedral floor, so there is already the sense of great elevation. A heavy double stone staircase ascends from the square to the west door, and above that a rich profusion of statuary and decoration mounts upwards, tier upon tier, to culminate in two immensely tall elaborate bell towers flanking an intricate gable, at the apex of which a statue of Santiago Peregrino is enshrined in an arch. It is Spanish Baroque at its most exuberant, and it works because the sheer extravagance of ornamentation has been balanced with architectural integrity. The result is a triumph, especially as the granite is warmed by red and yellow lichens that flourish in the warm wet climate. Very little of this wealth of detail was apparent to me on this first visit, however. There was an order to be observed in arriving at Santiago, and the time for leisurely sight-seeing would come later.
    The ritual that the modern pilgrim observes has been followed for as long as the cathedral has stood here. Having mounted the flights of stairs from the square and passed through the Obradoiro façade, I was face to face with the Portico de la Gloria and the actual world of the medieval pilgrim. The lively and exuberant had been replaced by the sublime. A Master Mateo carved and signed this ‘Gate of Glory’, the original western façade of the Romanesque cathedral, in 1188, and what strikes one about it at first glance is the expression of exalted serenity on the faces of the vast array of figures — Christ, St James, the twenty-four elders, apostles and prophets. The whole company of the Heavenly Host are assembled here, as though the pilgrims have arrived at the actual Gate of Glory where St Peter stands, key in hand, to let them in. The tragedy of the Obradoiro façade, lovely as it is, is that you cannot step back and see this Portico de la Gloria in its entirety as could the medieval pilgrim.
    The central pillar of the immense carving is a Tree of Jesse tracing the ancestry of Christ from Adam, and near the base the alabaster has been worn into deep grooves into which the fingers and thumb of the right hand slip naturally as each pilgrim in turn bows the head and recites the prayers of thankfulness for safe arrival. As the head bends so Master Mateo comes into view crouched at the base of his work.
    Once past the threshold the perfect proportions of the twelfth-century building are revealed, just as Aimery Picaud saw them:
     
‘In this church there is no defect; it is admirably built, large and spacious, clear, of fitting size, harmoniously proportioned in breadth, length, and height; and it is of two storeys, like a royal palace. If a man is sorrowful and he goes up into the galleries, he will be happy and comforted after contemplating its perfect beauty.’
     
    At the head of the long uninterrupted view up through the austerely simple nave and beyond the transept is a blaze of gold where the high altar stands. Beneath lie the relics of St James, and above is a thirteenth-century statue of him encased in metal, with a gem-encrusted metal cloak. The huge canopy over the altar is supported by bizarre outsized angels of doubtful lineage. But what the newly arrived pilgrims see, exalted as they are at the end of their long trek and by all the magnificence and beauty they have already seen in the approach to their goal, is the pool of warm golden light drawing them on.
    As I set off up the nave I did not think it strange to feel myself one of a large band, a veritable army in fact. They were all around me as they had been throughout the journey, but it was in these moments that I was most aware of them. Narrow steps lead up behind the altar, and each pilgrim in turn embraces the statue of St James from behind. Awkward though it seemed, there was nothing unnatural about it; I felt I knew something of St James after this long journey.
    Down the steps on the other side, turn left and left again down more narrow steps. Here in the small space beneath the altar is an embossed silver casket holding whatever remains of the bones which for eleven hundred years and more have been revered as those of St James. This was the spot where all those who had asked me to pray for them would wish me to do so, and as there was a bench I sat and read the names from my notebook. It took a long while because often I thought about the person as I read the name, and