A quiet but memorable day resting in Santiago, getting ready for the last stretch of this journey down into the heart of Castile. I spent the day looking around town, sending postcards and generally enjoying the sights of this lovely city. The weather improved as well. It was nice to see blue skies again. I went to the Pilgrims mass in the Cathedral by way of officially signing off on the Camino. After mass I visited the crypt that holds the relics of St. james situated beneath the main altar. I saw a few faces I recognised from the journey including a French guy I'd bumped into in the refugio in Sarria last Friday, but not the Irish couple I'd met in Arzua. I did see the lad who'd invited me to share a room with him (but I stayed away from...discretion the betther part of valour!!). Afterwards I spent a while just wandering around thinking about the last four weeks since leaving Chartres. All-in-all the Camino is a fantastic experience, there is something special in following it route.
I slept through the afternoon before spending a while working on the bike. It desperately needed a new front tyre which hadn't survived the wear and tear of the journey very well. The brakes needed some attention as well. I suppose its kind of handy to be able to stop the bike and slow it down sometimes. While I worked on the bike the Italian cyclist came down with a Spanish lad who'd just cycled into Santiago this afternoon. They spent a while surveting the bike, commenting on its features and overall, seemed impressed by it. I felt like the proud father of a winner of a bonny baby contest. In the conversation that followed between us we were like a small cycling enclave in the sea of walkers who complete the Camino. For cyclists on the route it can sometimes be a bit of a solitary existence. Many consider doing the camino by bike as unworthy of the great route, that the only authentic participation should be on foot. On the camino the walker is king. However, in our small clique we could indulge ourselves in 'biker talk' without fear of condescension, things walkers wouldn't understand! We were like a group of harassed motorists giving out about other road users... 'those bloody so and so's, they think they own the Camino!!'.
The Spanish lad was staying in the same dorm and later when we compared our camino passports they showed uncanny similarities. I had started out from St Jean the day before he began. He arrived in Santiago the day after me. Remarkably, we both had stopped for 2 rest days and we each used the same refugios in the same towns along the route. Our passport stamps were identical for each stop except for the dates on them. Over a distance of 800kms we had covered identical distances each day, on successive days. Uncanny!
Also in the dorm tonight was a real character, a pilgrim from the Lebanon called...Ramon. He was a retired businessman from Beiruit, a fascinating character, larger than life and fluent in English French, Spanish as well as his native arabic. He appeared a very well informed individual, widely read and knowledgeable about the history of the Camino. He held in high regard the traditions and ethos of the Camino unlike such as myself who had bundled along basically ignorant of many of the deeper symbolic elements of the journey. Ramon's a Maronite, a member of an ancient Christian sect and one that I had not heard of before. This was his third time to walk the Camino. On this occasion he opted to walk the last 100kms rather than the full extent of the trek from St Jean. Even so, he was doing so against medical advice. He completed the route limping heavily with his right knee heavily strapped in a brace.
Ramon first arrived in the room during the early afternoon while I slept bringing an abrupt end to my siesta. He half swirled, half bundled in to the room unhapy at having to climb 2 flights of stairs to find himself in a 6-bed dorm. He had been conducted upt to the room by a member of staff, a Moroccan, who had carried his rucksack for him and pointed out where the showers and toilet facilities were located. Ramon was unimpressed at having to descend to a lower floor in order to shower and use the toilet and made his grievances very audible to the hapless Moroccan accompanying each point with dramatic gesticulations. I watched the scene quietly from my pillow in a far corner of the room, half amused, half bemused by the scene before me. As Ramon continued to complain he turned to me and asked me what I thought of the hostel. Half startled as all eyes turned on me I reassured Ramon that I thought the place was fine, that it was in a good location and that it was quiet. After that I decided it would be safer outside and before he lost his temper I had scarpered downstairs to the street below.
Later in the evening fortified by a large plate plate of pasta and after I'd had my fill of wandering around the streets I found Ramon in less rumbunctious spirits though still inclined to talk. He told me about himself, his life and the way Beruit used to be, the Paris of the east. He explained the background to his Maronite christianity and showed me a portrait of a revered saint that he had brought with him on this pilgrimmage. There was something compelling, almost endearing about him in his mix of sincerity and middle eastern garrulousness. His criticisms of the hostel and his demands for better accomodation on his arrival had perhaps, created the wrong impression of his character but I was glad I had met him, he was a very memorable individual. It was good talking or, rather, listening to Ramon. At one stage, after a long ten minute sequence of tales about his experiences Ramon suddenly stopped in mid-sentance and exclaimed 'But I'm doing all the talking, you haven't said anything of yourself!' 'Ramon', I said, 'I'm more of a listener than a talker'. And with that he continued where he had left off....
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