Therapy

Bymuseum, its half-dozen cabinets containing a few homely objects, books and pictures, and the modest monument in the Assistens Kirkegård. I wondered whether, if Kierkegaard had been a Catholic, they would have made him a saint by now, and built a basilica over his grave. He would make a good patron saint of neurotics.
    “Now we really ought to see about finding somewhere to stay,” I said.
    “Don’t worry about it,” Maureen said. “First I must get my compostela .” We were directed to a little office off a square at the back of the Cathedral. Outside, a group of bronzed, elated-looking young Germans in Lederhosen and boots were photographing each other, triumphantly waving their pieces of paper at the camera. Maureen lined up inside and submitted her creased, stained passport to a young priest in a black suit seated behind a desk. He admired the number of stamps she had collected, and shook her hand as he passed over her certificate.
    “Now can we see about a hotel?” I said, as we came out of the office.
    “Well, actually,” Maureen said, with a slightly embarrassed laugh, “I’ve reserved a room at the Reyes Catolicos. I did it before I left England.”
    The Hostal de los Reyes Catolicos is a magnificent Renaissance building which flanks the Plaza del Obradoiro on the left-hand side as you face the Cathedral. Originally the refugio to end all refugios, founded by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella for the reception and care of pilgrims, it’s now a five-star parador, one of the grandest hotels in Spain or indeed anywhere else.
    “Fantastic! Why didn’t you tell me?” I exclaimed.
    “Well, there’s a little problem. It’s just the one room, and I booked it in the name of Mr and Mrs Harrington. I thought Bede might fly over and join me. But he was so mean about the pilgrimage that I never told him.”
    “Well then,” I said, “I’ll just have to impersonate Bede. It won’t be the first time.”
    “You don’t mind sharing then?”
    “Not a bit.”
    “I asked for twin beds, anyway,” said Maureen. “Bede prefers them.”
    “Pity,” I said, and enjoyed her blushes.
    As we approached the hotel a gleaming limousine pattered over the cobbles to pick up a smartly dressed elderly couple standing outside the entrance. The liveried, white-gloved doorman pocketed a tip, shut the car door and waved the driver on. He eyed us disapprovingly.
    “My compostela entities me to a free meal here,” Maureen murmured. “But I’m told they give you rather nasty food and make you eat it in a grotty little room off the kitchens.”
    The doorkeeper evidently thought that this must be our reason for approaching the hotel, for he said something rather dismissive in Spanish and gestured us towards the back of the building. It was an understandable presumption, I suppose, given our somewhat scruffy appearance, but we took some satisfaction in putting him in his place. “We have a reservation,” said Maureen, sweeping regally past the man, and pushing through the swing doors. A porter ran after us into the lobby. I gave him the rucksack to hold, while I went up to the reception desk. “Mr and Mrs Harrington,” I said boldly. The clerk was suavely courteous. Funnily enough, he looked rather like Bede, tall, stooped and scholarly, with white hair and thick glasses. He checked his computer, and gave me a registration card to fill in. Maureen had booked for three nights, and paid a substantial deposit.
    “How could you be sure you would get here, at exactly the right time?” I marvelled, as we followed the porter, who was trying with some difficulty to carry our rucksack as if it were a suitcase, to the room.
    “I had faith,” she said simply.
    The Hostal is laid out in four exquisite quadrangles, with cloisters, flowerbeds and fountains, each dedicated to one of the evangelists. Our room was off Matthew. It was large and luxurious, the single beds the size of small doubles. Samantha would have loved it. There were sixteen fluffy white towels of different sizes in the marble-lined bathroom, and no nonsense about getting a red card if you wanted them changed. Maureen cooed with delight at the array of taps, nozzles, adjustable mirrors and built-in hair dryer, and announced her intention of taking a bath and washing her hair immediately. At the bottom of her rucksack, folded flat as a parachute inside a plastic bag, was a clean cotton dress which she had been saving for this moment. She gave it to the