For Bruce. And anyone else who might be interested. A coupla decades ago Deep Purple published a song called pictures from home. This is, in an unconventional kind of way - a similar effort. Warning - this is long and an excerpt from a letter: there are some small variations to actuals - Im writing on the second full day of my stay in the monastery of the Benedictine monks in Rabanal, Spain. Im in the small but superb Library sitting in an old velvet couch with most of the velvet worn away. The building renovated stone but like the church attached to it (and which Ive been asked not to photograph inside) was first built sometime around the 10th century. Stone is such a beautiful product - it is from the earth and the earth blows into it and then the seeds settle and grass grows. Of course this is an obvious thing to say - but with that patina comes weather protection and insulation and its free. Durable. Warm. Transcends lifetimes. Shelters ghosts. Outside the thick walled window of the library I can see the mountains of Igaro and they are an early morning Lavender colour with the sky blue cyan smudged in the shadows. 3 or 4 wind turbines are on the lower slopes and the highest hill - the one that stretches up and rolls against the yellow blue sky has patches of snow still in some giant drifts, left over or perhaps discarded from the winter. As if a painter had missed applying paint and the white of the paper became part of the overall work. The snow can be seen from more than 3 days walk from here to the east - I know this because I walked it and we are walking west towards it. There are about 230km yet to walk to Compostela - where I will walk into the cathedral and put my arms around the statue of St James, as millions have done before me - and about 10 days to roll these kilometres over. We are about 1200 or so meters above sea level and it has been quite cold - and although the walk doesnt proceed through the summit of the mountains I imagine it to be another thousand or so meters above my current position. I only brought shorts and tees and boots I wouldnt give to my worst enemy. Whilst I remember it - and for my son Madison - one of the monks today at breakfast joked Latin is as vast as the desert you see, first it killed the Romans and now its killing me! They speak Latin a lot of the time. Probably when they are trying to talk about me. (!) Yesterday was a reasonably monumental day - and it began early in the church - and then after a while at 10:30 - 3 monks (one from Tanzania, 1 from Wales and one local, the head of the monastery) - jumped into the car and hooted off towards one of the 7 parishes supported by the monastery. They (monks) are a reasonably outrageous lot - and from time to time drove as if they would run over the pilgrims. Much yelling and fun. On one occasion the Father who was driving (father driver from now on) drove at a gardener who was raking leaves and that man upended his near full rickety old barrow onto the car. It is a side of monastic life I didnt imagine and they are a funny lot. Jokes get worn out quickly. The father from Tanzania is allergic to onions so he is called Father Onion or Father of the 7 winds. Every meal served to me is announced as your fish, dear Pilgrim and they have assured me that if I should suffer anaphylaxis and die I will be quickly buried in their vegetable garden as I would probably make very good tomatoes there. Youve come to the right place to die they joke every meal. There is an old Bavarian monk here and we sat for an hour or so last evening talking about the crisis in the Australian church with the child abuse and the mess there (they are informed on global issues and yesterday in the car spoke with great knowledge on Abbott Morrison and the refugee issues) and other matters. One area I found really exciting was the development of knowledge and how thought moved from a monastic process of understanding mystery by reading, contemplation and reflection to scholastic process where the reader felt an entitlement to chAllenge and compare this against that. He kept referring to Thomas Acquinas (spelling might be wrong) volumes (about 3 feet wide) and has spent the last 40 years studying them. These are wise men having multiple phd in language, philosophy and theology. Language experts and many with degrees in history. There are few cars. No noises but footsteps on worn and polished stones. Birds. A sky that goes forever. The old monk says he came from Africa and has been posted to what he calls now an outpost in Spain where he says the faith is old and tired and slowly dying out. His point of comparison is that in Africa he used to have mass that went for 3-4 hours to congregations of up to 2000 people and if it went to short there would be a deputation from the people whod tap Father on the shoulder and tell him to get his act together. In this part of Spain any service longer than 40 minutes once a week is almost too much. Still - Ive been to a few and compared to the shallowness of depth and the reliance on process I think Ive seen in Australia there is an ancient and rather beautiful quality about this strange phenomenon that is faith and that is the catholic religion. I have time for it. I dont for a minute see any elitism in the Catholics here and the monks frequently and gratefully refer to the Muslim and the Protestants for preserving much of the catholic knowledge over time. Weve repaired here because Ive had some deep heel blisters and as a result of walking in a way that favoured my right heel a most shocking case of right posterior shin splints. The last 3 days walking - although a lower 75km was pretty well murder. At Astorga - a town with magnificent cathedral and in the 14th century 23 or more albergue (hostels for pilgrims, there is 2 now) the local university provides post grad students in foot and physio science and so I got a free tune up. Both heels syringed and lanced and some cute little Spanish honey with titanium thumbs went to work on my shin. The pain was nauseating and I must have lost a couple of litres of sweat in shock. Numb below the knee I walked the next day to see a large bruise appear and my ankle to swell considerably. I was rather pissed off. However Ive iced it a bit yesterday and today almost all of the splint and pain is gone. I think her therapy was probably correct but extreme in application. Now its a bruise and a dull numb kind of padding/sponge under the skin of the shin. Today Ive just finished helping old Father prune a giant holly tree and unblock a second storey roof gutter. At one stage I thought he was asking me to go up the ladder - he is in his 80s - but he is Bavarian and knows best, and I dont have to test my faith and fear of heights at this point. So that you may know - I am not returning home in a few weeks with some new found religious fervour. I am however profoundly moved by the depth of faith and the way that faith has been expressed in both human and built form. It seems to me that in Australia our faith is in many ways sport both human and animal (horses) and that in the new country we celebrate our togetherness or our perceived notion of what that is - in the construction and use of sporting stadia and maybe Casino. Even our art galleries - perhaps a place for the expression of some kind of faith or belief dont appear to be held in that same priority. Show me Australia in a thousand - years (as I can see Spain today) or is that simply too frightening a concept. So anyway this letter is its own wandering. back to yesterday. We hooted to one village (El Ganzo)where mass was said. The villages are between a kilometre and perhaps 6km apart. On the way father driver (I cant say his name) described how there were many deer in the woods and how last year he hit one - and got it into the car and drove to a village where it was butchered. Damage to car was 1500 euro. He said it must have looked strange with him driving into village with a deer in the passenger seat, head out the window and the body in the back. The most expensive venison hes had. From el Ganzo we motored rather frenetically across to La Manuela - a wealthy village of around 150 people where the streets have been concreted due to royalties from the wind turbines built on village land. That, an a new public address system in the ancient and hand painted church. Once again imagery from Dalis paintings can be seen everywhere in chapels and on the church alters. I personally love the chapels and churches more than the grand cathedrals - the latter places to be amazed and astonished but not lived in. The little places, made by rough improvised tools and techniques have for me a far more connected and relevant sense of humanity. The felt experience seems to be more palpable and it appeals to me more. In this region there is a cross painted in bright colours with a stylised heart at the intersection of vertical and horizontal struts. The heart is of course red and the rest of the cross white with brightly coloured ends. Below the heart on the vertical - about a half distance is a goblet. Its magnificent. The mass was important at La Manuela because someone has their first communion and there was an ancient procession through the streets. I was allowed to photograph this however feel the images dont show the felt experience. Tough job to do well. Children carrying St Anton, women carrying Mary and the men carrying Gabriel. Incense. Drums. Castanets and a recorder like instrument. Lots of noise. Then a feast. Then. Back into the car and zoom again across to Rabanal del Bierto a poor place with about 5 old people occupying a tiny village with a grand fountain - and theyre pouring most of their savings into the church. They close the church in winter because its just too cold for the old ones to keep opening for the priest. However father driver is not able to go to one village, especially the wealthy one without visiting the others. The old ladies give him a Spanish dressing down. Nor with they attend mass in other villages. Mass is to be said in their own. And that is that. Last night the old father asked me to deliver a reading. He said you have a sharp mind and I like that so at 9pm I was at the alter. As much as I tried to do a Boozer Costello (Launceston grammar victims will recall) impersonation I took it seriously and tried to imagine the world in darkness and there being only one light, and available only to those who were in the know. Its nothing if not complex. The walk isnt fun. Its not at times scenic. It isnt entertainment. It isnt sacrifice and it isnt about pain. It is something however that is touching, that if one allows - confirms a sense of humility and acceptance. I have been surprised at my own capacity to Walk and to find power on the sometimes steep hills. But it has also been a useful exercise in knowing that those reserves might be there, but that they are not to be drawn upon. It is about feeling the way not conquering it. As a competitor of one sort or another - I realised that I could avoid the whole experience by turning it into some kind of personal battle. Not walking seems out of place. The day seems deficient. And when you find you clear everything that gets in the way - walking 20km isnt much. 30 is something and 40 is a whos your daddy experience. When I do get back Im going to seriously consider a pitch either to a local Melbourne production house or direct to SBS a 5 or 6 part, half hour or perhaps full hour programme on the walk, pilgrims experiences and the various churches and people on the way. I reckon Spanish tourism would sponsor or buy the rights. It wouldnt be a big budget either. Something like that work by John Seraffian. The Martin Sheen movie The Way is widely criticised on the walk as a great deal of the filming was allegedly done around Madrid and lacks what some say is authenticity and accuracy. It seems to have stimulated US pilgrim participation none the less. Im rambling. So will finish. The sun has swung around and there are different colours on the hills. Ive offered to pick cherries for old father and my guess is he will direct me from the ground, one at a time. Detail is everything.
Posted on: Tue, 05 Aug 2014 13:09:34 +0000
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