Echo of a Song ~ Part 1

Having chosen this title for this post, I decided it sounded familiar and certainly not original.  I was therefore, after a computer search, somewhat surprised to find that the only references to this title were:  a short (10 minute) 1913 black and white silent film from American and a 1932 song by Peter Mendoza, recorded by past luminaries such as The Lew Stone Band and The Roy Fox Band with singer Al Bowlly.  (As an aside, if you don’t know and haven’t heard Al Bowlly sing you’ve missed a real treat, think Dennis Potter teledramas – he had a deep, expressive, resonant voice, and is credited with inventing crooning, that due possibly to the standard of microphones in his day echoes in much the same way as someone singing into an empty glass beer tankard – I know I’ve tried it, which is a clue to what might be to follow!)  More recently, Echo of a Song was the title track (that of Peter Mendoza above) of a jazz album released in 1997 by Ian Shaw, Welsh jazz singer, record producer, actor and stand up comic!!.

Not much really for a short phrase that I find both evocative and suggestive of things past, returning musical memories or seminal musical moments, which was to be original title of this blog post. 

The media is full of articles chronicling the lives of famous people – “A day on my plate!” “My perfect weekend” “My hols” “Fantasy dinner party” and many many more, that I’m busy working through, well to be honest thinking about for my next “epic” with the working title of “Non-celebrity file” with the logic that “Joe and Josie public” may be interested in what I ate today, or where I went on holiday, my best weekend or who would sit around my table for the fantasy dinner party!  (As a sneak preview, invites would go – this week, and liable to change without prior notice!! – to Nelson Mandela, Michael Palin, The Dalai Lama and Keith Floyd and for purposes of equality to the new Tesco’s checkout girl with the lovely smile for a start!, but for those of you who understand the last invitee definitely not Paul McCartney, as I might not be able to trust ‘er indoors!!). But, I digress as for this post it’s a case of “Music that shaped my life” “My life in five (or so!!!) songs” “Desert Island Discs” or “Magical Musical Moments.”

Music can be a powerful experience, it can move you emotionally, spiritually and even physically and can even be a time machine, transporting you back in time.  If I even hear High Adventure by Charles Williams or Sing Something Simple by Cliff Adams, I’m transported back to many a Friday night in the back of my Mum and Dad’s car going away for the weekend, always it seems after all these years, and we’re talking half a century, to be in the middle of the night!  But, also after all these years I still remember the tag lines: "I hope that once again we have proved that Friday Night is Music Night" and "We invite you to Sing Something Simple, a collection of favourite songs, old and new, sung by The Adams Singers, accompanied by Jack Emblow."  And, I bet that haunting melody: “By a Sleepy Lagoon” by Eric Coates (with added seagulls!) and Dvorak’s “New World” transport those of you of a certain age to a desert island somewhere or Gold Hill in Shaftesbury and an old-fashioned bread delivery bike being pushed up the hill by a small boy respectively!

Here then, are my selections for tonight, and there could be very many others, with just a short “soundtrack” or taste of why, for me at least, they are very special: 

Streets of London (Ralph McTell) – Sandwich, Kent:  I hadn’t heard this for ages until one day recently in the car when Ralph McTell was being interviewed and then sung Streets of London, as the hairs rose on the back of my neck and I had to go straight out the next day and track it down and once more those hairs are rising as it’s playing as I write this!  I can’t do this for all my choices and anyway it would take ages to find the relevant CD’s and to keep changing them and selecting the correct track, so will have to do with Hesitation Blues and all the rest of the tracks on this “Best of ......” album.  There are a further 20 McTell songs of the album, but as he pointed out in the interview, not one of them has made the impact of Streets of London on anyone, not just me!  Streets of London and the Yiddish Song, Donna Donna, about a calf being taken to market, take me back to a converted garage at the rectory in Sandwich, Kent in about 1973.  As I said in an earlier post (September 2012) about my first introduction to folk music:  “The Headmaster could barely object if we wanted to go out in the evening to “prayer meetings” at the vicarage, even if we didn’t have any of our 3 late passes left for the term!! These evening meetings took place in the converted garage of the Vicarage, included girls (a rarity as I was at an all boys school!), coffee, discussions on a variety of issues which were certainly not exclusively religious and more importantly introduced me to Folk Song and life on the streets, as in down and outs rather than prostitution!”  All of which had a profound effect on me (although I don’t recall much in the way of prayers!) and for many of the following years – I’ve just copied the words of Donna Donna and will find the lyric to Streets of London to add to my songbook and then can relive the past whenever I wish!!  Who knows perhaps a Christmas Album entitled “Roger’s Musical Snapshots” or “Higgs’ Seminal Harmonies.” ~ I’ll keep you posted!!!!

Monster Mash – Sandwich, Kent:  Remember Monster Mash, sung by Bobby and the Crypt-Kickers in 1973, well now think Chris and the Falsetto Three, Chris being a good guitar playing school friend and if you’re keeping up you will probably know who was one of the Falsetto Three suitably dressed in black – yes, yours truly making his first appearance at a folk club that led on from the converted garage above!! And the less said about this “debut” probably the better!!  The vicar at the time had come down to sleepy Sandwich from the bright lights and the dingy alleys, indeed Streets of London, where he had set up the famous Crypt Folk Club in the crypt of St Martin’s in the Field on the corner of Trafalgar Square.  So, with a redundant church going spare and using his contacts from “the big smoke” he started Sandwich Folk Club, featuring an amazing first couple of months of artists including the amazing Cheltenham based folk rock group Decameron, whose lead singer was no other that Gloucestershire’s Johnny Coppin (but more of them later), Mike Moran, Keith Pearson, the legendary blues guitarist Davy (later Davey) Graham (he’s playing in my ear as I write!!) and his amazing wife Holly Gwinn-Graham both singing together and booked separately as she is a great performer in her own right.  Indeed, I think I’ll leave the last word, about St Mary’s Church and the Sandwich Folk Club, to her in this section.  But first I must point out a couple of other things, first as the club was in church and run by the local vicar, made it respectable from the point of view of the Headmaster, who incidentally also drunk in the pub next door, which was a bit of a shock one night when I was in for a drink, which we were allowed to take into the club, and came face to face with him across the bar in the other room.  The shock made me feel rather generous and acknowledging him I got the barman to ask if he would like a drink!  He graciously declined, but had the good grace to thank me for the offer next time he saw me in school, and didn’t even mention I was underage and he was also a local JP!!  Also, it was through this club I made good friends with a wonderful couple who I have recently re-contacted after a gap of a lifetime, and you may have read about them in an earlier post – Memories December 2011. Their subsequent friendship also had a profound effect on me, and should they read this I still make the delicious flauties (cheesy potato cakes with added bacon if it could be afforded!) that they served up on numerous occasions!  

But back to Holly, who once invited me and a friend (Chris the guitarist above) into her tiny house, a converted stable suitably called Wee Cottage and served us mint tea sweetened with honey, oh how sophisticated we felt!!  And, like music, taste has time travel properties and I can’t now drink mint tea without being back in Wee Cottage all those years (40ish) ago!!  But of The Sandwich Folk Club, this is what she said on a website I only recently discovered:   “Davey and I moved to Sandwich on New Year's Eve of 1972-73. We had tried to get him a visa to come to the US but couldn't, so I went back to England from the states, and he had found us a home on Bowling Street in Sandwich, a converted stable called "Wee Cottage". Ron commissioned a painting of that little place once, but I don't know who has it. We lived there a year, and it was a pleasant, peaceful time. We had great neighbors and friends, and Davey toured from there while I worked in the community theatre and then helped the local vicar run a folk club in a redundant medieval church called St. Mary's. It had no power, so we lit the place with big vats filled with sand into which we placed many candles. It was always a full house, and very romantic to experience, with the soft lighting and great reverberating sound.” eronrecords.co.uk     

Five o’clock on a Sunday Nite – Redcar, Cleveland:  With many a magical night at The Sandwich Folk Club the seed was sown and I became an avid home listener to folk music, at this time on vinyl on a rather primitive turntable, with integral mono speaker housed in a not too well made wooden box, painted pale blue and I think a “hand me down” from my brother as he progressed in his quest for the ultimate hi-fi system!  Then, later on cassette tapes, how quickly technology moves on!  I also made a point of finding where the nearest folk clubs were to wherever I happened to be.  Having left school by now, in the summer of 1974, I was looking forward to a leisurely time whilst spending little time thinking about what I would seriously do in the future, now that I’d dismissed architecture, veterinary science or ringing the bell on the fire engine as my brother drove, when my father came home one day and said “What are you going to do for the rest of your working life?” to which I casually replied, “I think I might like to be a teacher!”, but remained quite happy to put off the evil moment for the foreseeable future!  He, however, had other ideas and the very next day came back with a large pile of positions, courtesy of an agent with the wonderful name of Gabbitas Thring, working as a supernumerary (which translates as surplus to requirements!) in prep schools the length and breadth of the country, as a great opportunity to try it first and see if indeed that was what I wanted to do!  Before I knew it the summer was over and I had a position in a small prep school in the then somewhat decaying Victorian resort of Saltburn on the north eastern coast of England, and having put my motorbike on the train to York, was flying across the top of the world, well the North York Moors to my new life and the start of the next 35 years as a teacher, with a brief sojourn at University in Leeds and College in York learning how to be a proper teacher, part of the requirement!

Here,  being anything but surplus to requirements and being left not only to teach classes both on my own and also to plan the work, whilst being a live-in junior house master!, my radio proved a godsend, the local stations not only providing a number of folk programmes, but also giving diary dates for the local clubs.  So, it was that I set out one Tuesday, if my memory serves me right, to the local club in Marske-by –the-Sea, held upstairs in The Top House pub, so the radio reliably informed me.  I rode my motorbike the short distance to Marske and down the relatively short high street, passing The Zetland Hotel and the next two pubs, whose names have disappeared in the mists of time, but neither of which were called The Top House and whose names didn’t change despite driving up and down the road a few times and venturing unsuccessfully of the main drag.  Disappointingly, not only was The Top House nowhere to be seen, the place also appeared to be totally deserted, not a sole to enquire about said folk club.  Eventually, I spied a figure in black skulking alone the road, well wrapped up against the cold and now rather drizzly dark night, hurrying home with what appeared to be his fish and chip supper, which he had mysterious purchased for somewhere, no glowing emporium of fine British cuisine either in sight or within olfactory recognition distance (smell!).  I pulled over and in those days it wasn’t necessary to remove your helmet before talking to someone and although at first he might of thought he was about to be mugged for his supper, he quickly warmed to my predicament and pointed to the first pub at the bottom of the street, and with a chuckle said The Bottom House, then The Middle House and finally The Zetland Hotel, known to all locally as The Top House!!

In need by now of a drink, I made my way into the bar of the rather grandly named hotel, purchased a pint and enquired about the folk club and was shown the door, no not thrown out, but pointed in the direction of a plain smoke stained door, which I discovered led up a narrow staircase to a small landing on which two doors were situated one clearly marked PRIVATE, the other not marked at all, but from behind which came the welcome sound of folk singing.  Tentatively opening the door, I was confronted with what I later came to know as a traditional sing-a-round, a large room in the middle of which was a large circle of chair, if they hadn’t been facing inwards they would have looked like a giant game of musical chairs.  Then, as the singing finished I was publicly welcomed by Dave the organiser and invited to join the circle, on one of the few empty chairs, as it was now a little late having had difficulties finding the place.

But the singing, largely unaccompanied with only a few instruments apparent, was great and I felt comfortable and in the company of new friends all with a vested interest, until rather uncomfortably I realised that the songs were coming around the circle, and as one person’s applause died down, it was the turn of the next person along to sing, and everyone seemed to be taking their turn!!  As the “baton” got closer and closer, I wondered about a hasty exit saying sorry I’ve made a big mistake or could I muster more than just the Falsetto Three chorus of the Monster Mash, although quickly dismissing this as perhaps being a little modern in such a traditional setting!  Fortunately, I was saved in the nick of time by a person a couple of chairs from me who politely, when it was their turn, said “Not tonight thanks” and passed the baton on to the next performer!  Phew, barely before the applause had died for the person next to me I blurted out the saviour phrase “Not tonight thanks” breathing a sigh of relief and able once more to enjoy myself, secure in the knowledge even if the “baton” came around again I had excused myself for the evening.

 So far so good, but returning week after week, I realised that perhaps my first public utterance should possibly have been “Actually, I don’t sing I’m just here to listen to the wonderful rich talent around me!”  A bit of flannel in those early days wouldn’t have gone amiss, but in hindsight would have meant my singing career would have finished with the dying chords of Monster Mash, way down south the previous year and then maybe none of this would have been written!

So, as the weeks went past I became more and more self conscious that my excuse, presupposed that actually one night I might actually take my turn and increasingly Dave started to say things like “OK maybe next week” or more pointedly “I’m sure it will be worth waiting for!”  I eventually resolved that I would have to at least give it a go and then either come clean that actually I didn’t sing, or it be so apparent that I wasn’t asked again!!  I scoured my meagre collection for something that was neither too long, too wordy or too complicated a melody and hit on a rather sad little song about a watercress seller who would each Sunday night visit a mining community to sell his wares to help feed his family, only for the miners to go out on strike and therefore not have enough money for the watercress, despite him returning hopefully each week.  The night arrived and I had it clear in my head – melody, words and perhaps the Dutch courage that a pint or two brings, despite the courage waning rapidly as the songs crept around the circle nearer and nearer to me.  Perhaps, worried I would bottle out again at the last moment, Dave had collared me at the beginning of the evening and ascertained that indeed tonight was the night.  Well, my time came and went and I certainly didn’t feel I had conquered, despite the rousing applause and Dave’s kind words, largely in both cases being I felt polite as I had finally done it.  Dave also said, I thought at the time as a cunning ploy to get me to sing again, “I’ve not heard that one before; perhaps you’ll do it again next week.”  I haven’t thought it before tonight but maybe Dave was a teacher and well versed in encouraging reluctant and nervous students, but still rather reluctantly I agreed to sing it again the following week, as well as promising to learn it properly, as I was still sure that he had obviously heard it before, but just didn’t recognise my rendition of the song “Five o’clock on a Sunday nite.”

I practised long and hard that week, both determined to “do better next time” but also because I found I was enjoying it!  I arrived at The Top House, good and early now I knew where it was and sat in the circle as confident as I could be that I would make a better job of the song this week.  That was until just before I took a deep breath and was about to strike the first note, somewhat crucial with unaccompanied singing, and I noticed in the gloom of the room and through the smoke, as this was well before any smoking ban, Dave turn to the piano in the corner behind him, press something on a small box and none to successfully try to conceal a microphone sticking out from under his arm.  Thrown, by what I had seen I soldiered on through the song, possibly better that last time, and when later I asked Dave about the illicit recording, he said as it was a song he didn’t know he wanted the words and thought it best not to worry me and put me off!!!  I wonder where that recording is now, maybe if I hit the big time this time around and “This is Your Life” returns to our screens, some diligent researcher just might ....!

I did however, meet Dave several years later, on a return to the folk club in Redcar, just down the road and long after I had left the area for pastures new.  I hadn’t had a chance to speak to Dave before my “floor spot” came up before the main act for the evening, who I have just recalled from some distant memory vault, was no other than the well known singer, banjo player, writer, broadcaster, VW Campervan enthusiast and rambler Mike Harding, before he sung Rochdale Cowboy on Top of the Pops sitting on a small toy horse, which he likened in later acts to a stuffed Alsatian dog!!  I sung “Five o’clock on a Sunday nite”, which I dedicated, without giving the title, to Dave who knew what I was going to sing before the first note.  On the happy reunion afterwards he had to agree I had come on somewhat since those early days, upstairs in The Top House.  Dave, I suppose, has a lot to answer for as it was really him who encouraged me to have a go, and the rest is

To be continued ......!

                           

 

 

Have I found my calling?

(dedicated to Richard and Jeni, who both tried but ... ... ...!!)

 

It seems some time since I have written anything creative, vaguely intellectual or indeed irreverent; it’s got something to do with her indoors and a cracked record that keeps repeating things like “Why aren’t you on the roof!” “Oh, there you are, I thought you were on the roof!” “Once the roof is finished you can do what you like!” ... ... ... ad infinitum!! In fact, I’m thinking of walking to Santiago along the route of St Jacques or Camino de Santiago de Compostela, it’s only about 1500 km, and as well as a clue as to what might come later it might give me a month or three’s peace!!

So, be warned what follows is certainly irreverent, possibly creative but may fail intellectually!

In the distant past, it might surprise some of you to know, that I thought about becoming a vicar, yes you did read that right – taking the cloth, become a priest!  I was only about six at the time and became a choir boy at St Mark’s Church, Biggin Hill, a church with a remarkable history that, quite literally, started in Peckham, SE London, with an equally remarkable vicar, the Rev Vivian Symonds. He moved to Biggin Hill as a curate, in 1951, found there was no proper consecrated church there and therefore he couldn’t be ordained.  So with limited funds he quite simply set to and almost singlehandedly, moved a redundant church “All Saints, Peckham,” brick by brick and created the current St Mark’s Church in Biggin Hill, also not surprisingly known as “The Moving Church,” whilst carrying out the job of parish priest and chaplain for the nearby famous RAF Station.  For the full story, visit www.bigginhill-history.co.uk/movingmain.htm.  Now whether it was the amazing story behind the church and particularly the herculean task carried out by the vicar, or simply the fact that he would fairly regularly give me and the other choir boys half a crown for services rendered, and I know many of you will have jumped to the wrong conclusion here – the press have a lot to answer for!! -  it was for singing at weddings!, but he made a great impression on me and for a time, I wanted to be like him.  But, at six, I also wanted to ring the bell on a fire engine, with my brother as the driver!

Then many years later, having moved on through being an architect, a vet, a chef and various other diverse and varied careers, I was influenced by a young teacher at my secondary school, who made a similar impression, although being only small when he tried to tackle me on the rugby field, it was me who made the impression and left him rubbing a sore head and asking how much I weighed!!  But, as I guess the expression is, that was it and the rest is history, as I headed for the blackboards in various parts of the country.  Interestingly, throughout my career, said blackboards, for politically correct reasons, became chalk boards, which in turn due to technological advances became whiteboards – I certainly taught through interesting times!!  (Why I ask myself can we h have whiteboards but not blackboards?)  Although, briefly during this time there was another vicar who had a profound effect on me, but again it might have been for ulterior motives, quite simply that he got me legitimately out of the rather Victorian boarding school in which I was incarcerated!  The Headmaster could barely object if we wanted to go out in the evening to “prayer meetings” at the vicarage, even if we didn’t have any of our 3 late passes left for the term!!  These evening meetings took place in the converted garage of the Vicarage, included girls (a rarity as I was at an all boys school!), coffee, discussions on a variety of issues which were certainly not exclusively religious and more importantly introduced me to Folk Song and life on the streets, as in down and outs rather than prostitution!  Now, I should explain here that these seemingly rather revolutionary evenings didn’t get me thrown out of school and into the gutter, but the vicar in question had come to our sleepy little south coast town from the bright lights of London, the church of St Martin’s in the Field off Trafalgar Square to be precise, where he had been instrumental in setting up the Crypt Folk Club, as well as being very active in the Soup Kitchen for “down and outs” or homeless people, also in the Crypt, and Centrepoint, a hostel for young homeless people set up by the church and housed in a next door building.  Through his contacts we were to visit both the Folk Club and Soup Kitchen and, with the latter in particular, to broaden my experience and outlook on life.  He went on to open a Folk Club in a redundant church in the town, where again due to links with the church we were able to go.  It was here I saw such amazing acts such as Decameron, Davey Graham, Holly Gwinn Graham, Mike Moran, Keith Pearson (now part of Coup de Grass) and many more who started my enduring love of Folk Music.  All exciting stuff, and set up by a vicar, so as an impressionable young lad ... ... ..., just perhaps ... ... ... the cloth ......... nah, not really!!  A recent blog post you may have read, chronicled my return to the stage! after an absence of many years, and watch this space for a future post – Musical Moments in Time – Remember Monster Mash, sung by Bobby and the Crypt-Kickers in 1973, well ......... but, that’s another story for another time!!!

And, it was fairly recently, whilst still “teaching,” although this involved increasingly filling in forms, maintaining buildings, fighting with budgets, percentages, jobsworths and supposed educational experts, as well as the odd unruly pupil, that two very different vicars; one who found religion whilst in prison and another who wore Doc Martin boots and swigged pints of bitter with the best of them, when she wasn’t feeding the chickens or polishing the old VW campervan, that both the aforementioned tried to convert me, or maybe that should be save me!!!  One simply saw me as something of a light-hearted challenge, although like the young teacher above found me to be something of an immovable object, the other tried more subtle means!!

Both might now be rather surprised to find I am regularly in the habit of rescuing lost souls and returning them to the correct path to enlightenment!  Maybe I’ve been saved as well as those I rescue, and here I continue with an article I recently wrote, in a series entitled “View across La Manche.”  La manche meaning sleeve in French and what the French call The English Channel, to go in the Magazine of the Association of Countryside Volunteers, of which I am the Magazine Editor and current Vice Chair

View across La Manche

 

I’m sure that many of you will recall Marian Shepley’s moving account “Easter 2011 ~ A walk along a Camino (......and Alan came too!)?”  You may also recall the extract I included of a letter I had written to Marian after receiving her account.  In this I mentioned that one of the official Ways of St James passes through St Laurent de la Salle, very close to our new house, and how the gîte opposite has regular pilgrims staying overnight on their journey along the route.  They often have interesting stories to tell and I thought it would be interesting to tell you a little more about “Walking to Santiago,” although rather irreverently when stopped by one of these pilgrims asking  “Is this is the way to Santiago” I do have to stop myself bursting into song and singing “Show me the way to Santiago!”.  Yes, I know it should really be “Is this the way to Amarillo” but it scans just as well and there is something rather bizarre about being stopped by a complete stranger in the heart of rural Vendée, France, and being asked the way to a small city of some 95,000 population in the north western tip of Spain about 1200 km (750 miles) away by foot or 750 km (460 miles) if you happen to be a crow!!

The Way of St James or St James’ Way has many different names: Chemins de Saint-Jacques-de-Compostelle (French), El Camino de Santiago (Spanish), O Camiño de Santiago (Galician), Jakobsweg (German), Done Jakue bidea (Basque),as well as simply The Pilgrim Route, to name a few and is not just a single pilgrimage route to the  Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain, where tradition has it that the remains of the apostle St James are buried.  And, although there are four main routes identified across France and all converging on the main route across northern Spain, there are many other official routes spreading widely across Europe, including several starting across La Manche in England, as shown on this Wikipedia map below.  Indeed, for a very full history of The Way of St James and associated references go to:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Way_of_St._James.  The whole route was designated a UNESCO cultural World Heritage Site in 1993.

But, all the routes have in common, the scallop shell route markers, the shell ridges orientated in such a way as to show the direction of the route and designated stopping points (such as the gîte opposite our house and churches or public buildings) where pilgrims are able to get their “St James Passports” or credencial stamped with official stamps and a recent pilgrim staying in the gîte told us that this passport is vital to be allowed to stay in one of the hostels or refugios along the route in Spain.  “Ours” and I believe the other routes, also have guide books with the Way shown in them, but those I have seen to date, when rescuing pilgrims who have strayed, are very simple and quite difficult to follow, however experience also tells me that the route is extremely well marked, except perhaps when there is warm wet summer weather, and the undergrowth takes a spurt!!  I am not sure if I would want to rely on these simple guides, but I suppose there is the consideration of not carrying too much weight when walking for two or three months, and as pilgrims I guess they have a powerful friend on their side, or at least kindly natives who will rescue them when they are in need!!   I have fairly often found a lost soul walking around in circles completely off the map and with no idea where they are, often it is a case of bundling them in the car and returning them to a part of the route I know is nearby and wishing them God’s speed, or at least “Good-bye enjoy the rest of your walk.”  The pilgrims also often carry a scallop shell like a badge attached to their rucksacks, but this was also a useful item in the past, being suitable as both a drinking vessel and a makeshift bowl.

In pre-Christian times the route was a Roman trade route christened “The Milky Way” as it followed the Milky Way to the Atlantic Ocean.  Then, in Medieval times a common Spanish legend about El Camino de Santiago, a popular name for the Milky Way, tells of how the stars of the Milky Way are actually formed by the dust created by the feet of all the pilgrims and indeed Compostela itself means “field of stars!” 

In pre-Christian times the route was a Roman trade route christened “The Milky Way” as it followed the Milky Way to the Atlantic Ocean.  Then, in Medieval times a common Spanish legend about El Camino de Santiago, a popular name for the Milky Way, tells of how the stars of the Milky Way are actually formed by the dust created by the feet of all the pilgrims and indeed Compostela itself means “field of stars!” 

Well in excess of 100,000 pilgrims have “completed” the route in recent years and in 2010, a Holy Year, over 279,000 pilgrims received a Compostela, or certificate of completion.  However, to qualify for this you must have walked a minimum of 100 km or cycled a minimum of 200 km and your passport is carefully checked to verify this before you are asked if the purpose of your camino or walk was “religious”, “religious and other” or simply “other”!  For the first two you will receive a Compostela in Latin, but for other your Compostela will be in Spanish and will ask for this heathen to be blessed!

Each day at noon a pilgrim’s mass is held in the cathedral and those pilgrims who received their Compostelas the previous day are announced, with their country of origin and starting point of their pilgrimage. 

“Pilgrims” walk, or indeed cycle or ride on horses or donkeys for many reasons, be they religious or simply as sport and a challenge.  For many it is a spiritual journey to remove themselves from the rigours of modern day life, or others use it as a religious retreat.  In “autrefois” (olden days) such pilgrimages might have been made as a penance to “atone for temporal punishment” and to this day there is a tradition in Flanders, to free one prisoner each year, on the condition they walk the route to Santiago, accompanied by a guard – I wonder if the guards are volunteers or perhaps it’s part of a disciplinary procedure, for misconduct!! 

Well, some of you may recall that whilst still a Headteacher, if there had been a particularly trying day I would joke with my staff and say “If I’m not here in the morning I’ll be on my olive grove in the south of France!”  Well, I ended up not in the south of France and certainly not in an olive grove, however, should I go missing, it might just now be worth a look along the route to Santiago!!

A final thought, and not wishing to be irreverent, you must have to be fairly well off to be a pilgrim these days (so maybe I won’t get far!!); one last year was walking as far as he could in two months starting in northern Brittany, having flown over from Canada, to where he was flying back after two months and he had allowed a generous fifty Euros a day for the duration.  If you do the maths it certainly isn’t a cheap package holiday, although some of the refugios on the popular stretches are very cheap some even free, and you have to get up most days and walk anything up to 25 to 30 km at least (15 to 18 miles), day after day after day!!  But, the walk provides lots of time to admire the scenery, to think, take stock and for many to find peace or spirituality, as well as a hell of a sense of achievement.  And, the pilgrims come regularly, often alone or in pairs, in all shapes and sizes as well as ages from 20 ish to 86 being the oldest I’ve heard about and he was walking from London to Santiago de Compostela, following the death of his wife.

P.S.  The roof is indeed now finished so, as they say hereabouts à bientot.