Pilgrim with no Direction CH9

8/6/2019 Pilgrim with no Direction CH9

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Br i a n R. Mu r d o ck

Copyr i gh t 2011



9

The brief stage from Tuy to O Porriño is described as being one of the least attractive of all the legs leading

up to Santiago de Compostela and I have to admit

that, in many ways, it lived up to its billing. That’s

why I was grateful to get it out of the way on the first

day. It also explains why so many walkers carry on totowns further away like Mos or Redondela instead of

stopping there. But being our first day, we decided to

play it safe.

Not all of it was horrendous by any stretch of

the imagination. The first half was actually quitepleasant, with plenty of small villages to weave

through, an occasional lichen-clad chapel to admire,

a local or two to greet, and numerous patches of

woods and grassy fields to cross. Galicia is especially

favorable when it comes to offering the walker a

constant change of scenery. Its landscape well

peppered with small farmhouses, villages, hamlets

and towns, snuggly fit among hills, ravines, rivers

and valleys, makes light hiking just plain



entertaining. Every ten minutes you find yourself

saying, “That is the prettiest place I’ve ever seen.”

Considering its rural reputation, Galicia is

actually one of the most densely populated regions in

Spain, at least in the sense that it is not made up of a

lot of land with just a few compact town centers

interspersed, as you might find in regions like

Castile, but rather has a constant stream of villages

and farmhouses, some located in the least expected

places. At least in that part of the region, rare is the

moment that you are ever entirely out of sight from

civilization.

These first few miles constituted a good

chance to get our blood pumping, our bones and

joints greased and our muscles into to shape, so that

we wouldn’t kill each other by the end of the trip.

Aitor carried on a lively conversation about what a

great week we had ahead of us and how much theCamino meant to him and laced his discourse with

plenty of nicely chewable bits of philosophy, which

we all agreed made a lot of sense. Out on the road,

everything seemed to make sense, because, as Aitor

would remind us time and time again, “that’s the way



the Camino is”. He talked on and on while Andrés

took each kilometer with a degree of circumspection

as he tried to get a feel for what this journey was all

about and just how it was going to affect him

physically. So far, he seemed to be holding up. Then

again, we had only walked a couple of miles.

The historical highlight of this section was a

small medieval bridge, known forebodingly as the

Bridge of Fevers, where San Telmo (Saint Elmo –

yes, the one you might associate with glowing boats

and planes or even Rob Lowe) became seriously ill

during his pilgrimage to Santiago in 1251. The holy

man was subsequently returned to Tuy where he would eventually die. A brief chronicle of the events

is engraved in stone at the site and it is a moving

tribute to his faith, but at the same time, a

discouraging message to the faithful. To me, it said

that “pilgrims die on the Camino and have beendoing it for a long time”.

The story behind this holy man is interesting

because, like many, I too thought this was the guy

whose name was given to that odd electrical

phenomenon that so effected 747s during storms. It



came as no surprise then when I learned that he was

the patron saint of sailors. This man who keeled over

and nearly perished at the banks of slow moving

stream outside Tuy was born in Spain in a former

Roman town called Astorga, in the old Spanish

kingdom of León. His name was Pedro González

Telmo and he entered the Dominican order to

become a man of God. Though he was accustomed toliving amid royalty and nobility, he eventually chose

to devote his time and efforts to the poor, especially

in the fishing communities of Galicia. It was here he

earned his reputation for his saintliness and kindness

to mariners. He passed away, as we know, was beatified five years later. Interestingly enough, even

though he was never officially canonized, he is

considered a saint.

But, he wasn’t the first Elmo. Due to his last

name and affinity for sailors (I know that sounds alittle odd), people confused him with another well-

known Saint Elmo, formally called St. Erasmus of

Fornia, who died in 303. I bet you didn’t know there

were that many people named Elmo in this world, let



alone the fact two of them actually ended up being

saints.

This is the guy we really associate with the fire

and also the one is most commonly identified with

the world of fishing and boating. He too preached to

sailors and even survived nearly being struck by

lightning, whence came the fame.

Erasmus of Fornia lived a life of rectitude and

unparalleled holiness and devoted much of his time

to trying to convert pagans into Christians at a time

when being a Christian was not something you

always wanted on your résumé. But what really

earned him a spot in the Hall of Fame of Saintliness

was how he ended his days on this planet, because

when it comes to martyrdoms, it is hard to beat the

physical punishment Erasmus endured. We now

know how San Telmo from Spain departed from this

world, but compared it way in which Erasmus methis demise and you’d think he got off easy.

Saint Erasmus had it a decidedly less envious

time of it. He lived during the notorious Diocletian

persecutions of the early Christians. The chronicle

of his torture sessions and ensuing death exceeds all



that is credible, but even if we are to believe even a

tenth of it, the man clearly went through some rough

moments. It is said they beat him, spit on him

(probably just as a greeting), and then bludgeoned

his body until his veins burst. He is said to have

accepted the harsh treatment with stoicism, good

nature and open gratefulness towards God. As a rule,

this is not advisable behavior to profess before anangry Roman emperor…or his Chief Torturer.

Enraged by what he saw, Diocletian then had him

tossed him into a pit full of snakes and worms, then

poured hot oil on his body and covered his hands

with sulfur, to which Erasmus responded again by giving thanks to God for all that he had.

A mighty storm suddenly came and a lighting

bolt, fittingly, killed the tormentors, allowing him off

the hook, which I reckon is relative, because who

would really like to live on after such a horridexperience?

Diocletian was undaunted by the setback. He

stuck the man in an even narrower hole with more

snakes and worms hoping they would do him in, but

got nowhere because Erasmus continued to preach,



and preach and preach, and was once again plucked

from certain death. This time he was saved by an

angel.

Erasmus ran into more trouble with another

emperor named Maximinian who was reported to be

even more vicious than Diocletian, if such a thing was

possible, and from a description of his choice of

sadism, that just may have been a fair comparison.

He stuck nails into him, pulled out his teeth, nipped

off his fingers, gauged out his eyes and drew and

quartered him. Once again an angel came to the

rescue, a little late if you ask me, and the religious

man was allowed to continue his mission. Naturally they captured him another time and finally came up

with a more definitive measure. They slit his

stomach open and removed his innards by slowly

wrapping them around a pulley. Now that folks, no

matter how much holiness you have on your side, is atough one to recover from. Erasmus’ body gave up

and gave in.

I don’t know what you think, but I’d take the

fever over that anytime. By the way, in yet another

example of quirky Church thinking, Erasmus (Elmo)







way had I not had been in such a hurry to get to the

car and back to Lalín for the communion. So, I

pressed on and on, crossed over to another

straightaway and trekked down another interminable

stream of asphalt. All this time, I kept thinking we

were but a few hundred yards from the town center,

but nothing came up. Nothing appeared. We

finally had to ask someone how far the albergue wasleft and they said we still had to get to Porriño.

“But wait,” I asked. “I thought this was

supposed to be Porriño already. What the heck?”

Yeah, right. That’s just the nature of the

Camino. You can be there and not there; and then

you can be no where, at the same time. And just

when you think you are there again, you almost never

are. It can take forever and it requires patience,

which was precisely what I lacked at that very

moment.

Out of frustration and fear of running late, I

kicked it into high gear. The final spurt of energy got

me to where I wanted to be but it took a lot out of

Andrés who arrived a few minutes behind us looking



like he had just been slapped in the face a dozen

times by a German Oktoberfest waitress.

Andrés likes to be discreet in his observations

and politely observed amid gasps, “Was it me or did

you guys go a little fast there at the end?”

“You’re right, man,” I agreed. “It’s my fault.

Sorry. I won’t let it happen again.”

We carried on towards the shelter and on the

way passed through this town’s most attractive

features, which was a small but pretty pedestrian-

friendly center. O Porriño was the hometown of

Antonio Palacios, the architect who designed some of

Madrid’s most emblematic buildings, such as the old

general post office and the building of fine arts. His

home, a true curiosity is now the town hall.

Once at the shelter, we went straight for the car

and dumped our things in the trunk. Just then the

French-speaking girls who had taken our picture at

the bridge walked by from a distance and shook their

fingers at us in a disapprovingly.

“What?” I gestured.



Then I realized we made a big mistake. Pilgrims

don’t like cars and the minute they see you with one,

they grimace and make all sorts of assumptions

about your using a support car. Clearly this wasn’t

our case at all, and I hated giving the wrong

impression. I felt like yelling, “It’s not what you

think, eh? So, you can knock off the finger wagging

thing.”

But I don’t know how to say that in French, and

I am sure most people don’t either. Oh, well, who

cared? We knew the truth and it was our Camino not

theirs.

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Pilgrim with no Direction CH9