Strange are the ways of woodland flowers.
They make their home where nature calls,
In sunny glades or shady bowers
Or even on the stony walls.
And there the humble celandine
Seeks out a place that others shun,
An indentation barely seen,
And grows in the warm Galician sun.
And so she lies, a treasure trove
Of greenery on rugged quartz,
Until one day a simple cove
Seeks out the balm for his ugly warts.
Sorry, I am noticing it everywhere now, this little yellow flower. How it thrives on barren stone! Nor does it have to take root in a hollow where soil has started to form. It comes to life in the tiniest indentation.
As I left the albergue this morning, there was a commotion behind me. A pilgrim was gesticulating in Spanish, and behind him appeared a van driven by the genial host of the albergue, his hand outstretched through the window. In it was my camera.
I pondered on this simple gesture, another one of those "little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness"' and thought, not for the first time, about the natural goodness in us all, and the evil of the doctrine of original sin which had to deny this goodness to create the need for redemption. Jesus must have turned in his grave at this revisionism!
How Wordsworth must have angered the religious establishment with his insistence that we come from heaven, not tainted, but "trailing clouds of glory".
After that little bit of philosophising, I walked on towards town.
One of the scarecrows in the neighbouring field seemed to be wearing a Tilley hat. He wasn't as well outfitted in his other garments, however.
Along the way, I met a fellow who directed me to a cafe, the Esperon. "Tell them Julio sent you," he said. I decided to pay on the good deed, as they say, so I left money for my coffee, and for a beer for Julio. I then learned that Julio was a relative of the patron, so he probably earned two beers, one from me, and the other from the patron for sending a customer.
I was really taken by the flowers this morning on this sunny walk. So many yellows and whites! And profusions of fox gloves.
But what happened to the green flowers, or the black? Did they disappear through natural non-selection?
I was too late for a host of golden daffodils, but Wordsworth was still in my thoughts.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
And on the subject, can you identify this pretty flower from what is perhaps the most common plant in the world? There's a prize if you get it right: a free subscription to this blog.
On arriving at Padron, I had a narrow escape from hell. I checked in at an albergue on the advice of a Russian pilgrim. "Very nice," he said. I was given the last bed in a 48-bed dorm, upper bunk, of course, so to reach the servicios during the night, I would have had to descend, first to ground level, and then down another of couple of flights of stairs.
So I extricated myself, got my money back, and moved over to the Albergue Corredoiras, a bunk hotel, which is a fancier name for the compartmental sleeping arrangements which resemble storage lockers. For an extra ten euros, I'm living in luxury: half a dozen sleeping companions instead of forty-eight, hot water for there would have been none left at the albergue, a proper towel so I don't have to use my chamois, and sheets on the bed so I don't have to unpack my sleeping bag.
Padron is as much a part of the Santiago legend as the cathedral city itself. It takes its name from "pedron", Spanish for "stone", for it was here that disciples brought the decapitated body of James to Spain, tying their boat up at the stone which now lies behind the altar in the church. I rather liked this simple depiction of the event.
And there are other depictions of events in the legend, and the inevitable statue of Santiago Matamoros, the slayer of the moors.
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