Derwen Rhys
New Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- July 2014
I have questioned my beliefs everyday since St Jean...if not before. I am not a Christian. I have always believed or wanted to believe in something. God for want of a better word. The churches that have been open tell of a land that was once deep rooted in faith. The church bells have a sound that if you close your eyes you could only be here. I have felt a fraud at the few services I have attended.
In Carrion a few days ago the nuns sung in the church. I wanted to attend but got caught up chatting to a sore footed Englishman. I dashed to the church as the service ended. Many people stayed seated. A unassuming looking man was introduced and he took out a guitar. He began to play. To understand a land, the music of the land can take you to the very soul. A man in front of me in late middle age with a sun beaten neck visibly sat straighter; the old women in their groups, with their proper shoes and dresses stopped talking and held hands. I sat at the back mesmerised. I don't know how many pieces he played. The sound carries you out of the carved Romanesque door and out onto the plains.
The music ended and I along with the other caminotti clapped and cheered. The local men and women stood and left.
Leaving I overheard a pilgrim urging an American girl to take his travel towel. His camino was over he said. They hugged. "Finish the camino" he said. Then turned and walked away distraught. I remember that memorial stone as well. I can't remember which day or where and to whom it was dedicated. I have thought of it everyday and the photo of a young handsome guy, dotted all along
The Way by somebody in memory of his lost camino. Staring at you with those dark eyes, he is with me too everyday. The girl will I hope carry that towel all the way. She will carry that lad with her in a way. She won't forget him..not yet. And I will go on visiting the churches along The Way. Like the dust of the plains that is never completely swept from their aisles and stones, I will never completely wash away the residue of these encounters with raw moments of life.
In Carrion a few days ago the nuns sung in the church. I wanted to attend but got caught up chatting to a sore footed Englishman. I dashed to the church as the service ended. Many people stayed seated. A unassuming looking man was introduced and he took out a guitar. He began to play. To understand a land, the music of the land can take you to the very soul. A man in front of me in late middle age with a sun beaten neck visibly sat straighter; the old women in their groups, with their proper shoes and dresses stopped talking and held hands. I sat at the back mesmerised. I don't know how many pieces he played. The sound carries you out of the carved Romanesque door and out onto the plains.
The music ended and I along with the other caminotti clapped and cheered. The local men and women stood and left.
Leaving I overheard a pilgrim urging an American girl to take his travel towel. His camino was over he said. They hugged. "Finish the camino" he said. Then turned and walked away distraught. I remember that memorial stone as well. I can't remember which day or where and to whom it was dedicated. I have thought of it everyday and the photo of a young handsome guy, dotted all along
The Way by somebody in memory of his lost camino. Staring at you with those dark eyes, he is with me too everyday. The girl will I hope carry that towel all the way. She will carry that lad with her in a way. She won't forget him..not yet. And I will go on visiting the churches along The Way. Like the dust of the plains that is never completely swept from their aisles and stones, I will never completely wash away the residue of these encounters with raw moments of life.
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