More Than Eyes Can See

It’s well known among hikers in Spain that the last 100 km of the Camino de Santiago is crowded, touristy, and has a spring break-like atmosphere that contrasts the normal reflective and communal Camino experience. In October I left my hike across Spain with just this last 100 km to go. Today I returned to finish what I started.

When I set out from Santiago via bus this morning to pick up where I left off my hike in October, my goal was to ride the bus to my last-year stopping point, start hiking midday, avoid crowds and get to know the people along the way. Since I am the only peregrina (pilgrim) in the one-horse and three-dog town where I stopped for the night, I’d say my mission was accomplished.

Ventas de Naron is, I’m guessing, a place you’ve never heard of. Unless you’ve taken a Spanish history class, that is. This town, consisting of four houses, two albergues, a couple farms, the afore-mentioned three dogs, and a church, was the site of a major battlefield in 820 AD when Muslim armies were invading Spain with the goal of pushing Catholics out. King Alfonso II The Chaste had other ideas, pretty much liked the Catholics having the land, and pushed the Muslims back. While King Al and his army pals were fighting, lots of other cool Christian stuff was going on just about 85 miles away. That was the same year St James (think Peter, James and John, Jesus’s Inner circle)’s bones were recovered, taken to Santiago, buried, and the Camino de Santiago pilgrimages really began.

So, you see, 820 was a big year for both faith and politics in Spain. The saint’s bones were recovered, moved, and enshrined in a church, and the Christian crusaders managed to win a few key battles against Moorish invasion.

So, that battlefield is where I’m staying tonight, the only peregrina in a very old stone building in a room above a it’s-still-winter empty barn-turned-bar.

I went to that bar to read and type a few hours ago, looking for a warm spot in this place built before insulation. And I did those things. While I sat there near the space heater the inn-keeper/ bar tender / hostess provided, the centuries-old back door opened and a man entered. In his late 60’s, I’d guess, wearing a black mask and tapping a long white cane back and forth, he found his way to the bar, hesitating slightly when he stepped between me and the heater and I said “hello” both as a greeting and to let him know I was there.

Illadio, I learned, has lived in this hamlet since birth. Nearly two decades ago he lost his eyesight, and since that time he and his white cane have come to know every inch and every cranny of his hometown by tap, tap, touch.

Tapping his way down the two short streets, Illadio walks from his home to the church just around the corner. For more than a dozen years, he’s been the church’s caretaker, unlocking the door with one of his two dozen key rings (of which he knows each one by feel and has a story for each) and offering stamps to pilgrims on their way to Santiago por donativo, for donation.

After a bit of small talk, including telling him I am from Los Eastados Unidos (“Missouri,” I told them. ”It’s in the center.”) Ana the inn keeper and Illado invited me to go to the tiny church for a stamp in my pilgrims passport, the document certifying my journey. With a lovely combination of pride, humility, hospitality and reverence, Illadio took me to the church and, after he said a very thorough prayer, welcomed me into its tiny chapel and to the altar.

He told me a story I did not fully understand because my Spanish gets more limited the further west I go in Spain, but his passion for his faith and this place transcended the language barrier. Asking me to guide his hand, he stamped my pilgrim passport, informed me it was marked for the next day, and blessed me with two small photo postcards of the inside of the church. When thanked him and I shared I would give the photos “a mi novio” he smiled, uttered a few kind words of blessing for relationship, and gave me two more.

I put a small donativo (donation) in the offering box and asked this lovely old man if I could purchase him a café con leche (coffee with milk) or cerveza back at the tiny, cold stone bar. We walked back letting him lead the way, describing his town for me beyond the here-and-now outsider’s vantage point.

The innkeeper Ana joined us for café con leche and stories. He told us about the Catholic crusades in 820 and how that little town was important for pushing back the Muslim armies. He shared of living in rural Spain since birth, his devotion to the church, and how he’d volunteered since losing his eye sight. He told us much, much more than I could understand, and I enjoyed the moment of sitting in his and Ana’s presence.

I shared, too, how my Novio is Catholica just like him. I told him, like him, Mis Padres (my parents) volunteer at their church in Tejas and give food to people “que no tienen comida.” We bonded over volunteering, studying in university, and Illadio’s knowledge of the USA from people he’s met and stories he’s heard here in his four-home and one-church town.

When the old man’s friends called he told them he was drinking coffee with a beautiful lady from California. —My mom is from California so I let it be.

Oh, and yes, remember Illadio hasn’t had vision like you and me in more than a dozen years. Some things are more than the eye can see.