A friend of mine recently completed the Camino pilgrimage of Saint James from Lourdes in France to Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, Northern Spain. He did it in two section a year apart, and walked, rather than cycled, all the way. I have no idea how he got there.

 

Saint James of the Field of Stars

 

I'm a travelling cyclist

(the type with panniers,

sturdy boots, waterproofs)

and I have a thousand miles

to ride to Saint James

of the Field of Stars.

 

The spirit's freed, the demon's grieved,

a nascent Moon rising

over dormitory caravanserais;

'till we move on

as the finger traces the Atlas road,

and acknowledge senoras in the high towns

when they think I am a stranger,

and be humbled by their glances

and by their mountain eyes.

 

I'm out of place here,

but home, like the day-Moon

bedded in sun-blue

on the camino

or in Galician rain;

pump black hills, cursing,

swoop green dapple in cow-valleys,

a gift of grace and air

to fight temporary apostacies.

 

It seems half Europe has come this way;

they stamp my papers without smiling,

but sometimes invite me in

to their bars and vices,

to play the odds at cards

and alcohol,

without the risks of cycling.

 

Then pump the morning Primus,

wrap around the metal cup,

pack fifty miles in my saddle-bags,

see Saint James's journey

and hold to the scallop shell.

 

I met a pilgrim (a rain shadow):

no bike for her,

but cold as Moors on Winter coasts;

she knew how to cure blisters

and was bless'd,

 

but I sailed on and beat her

by half-a-day

to my final resting place -

an embrace at the cathedral

of Santiago de Compostela,

and my reward at the Parador which,

truthfully,

was no reward at all.

 

Chris Hubbard.

2002