Saturday 4th July: I got up early despite my late night pretending to be half my age. I bought my usual white rose for Priscillian from the market and on the way to the cathedral I found myself following a solo pilgrim with an enormous mocilla.
I quickened my pace as I wanted to see his reaction when he first saw the towers. I wasn't disappointed. The moment was broken however, when a woman touting accommodation approached him. He saw me loking at him and smiled. I smiled back. He asked me in English where the Tourist Office was. I told him, and where to get his Compostela. His name was Steve and he was rather badly sunburned. He had travelled a very long way.
I left my rose and was just having a quick word with Santa Susana (such a beautiful face: she is such a "feminist statue" with her sword and her look of strength) when a voice said: "Good morning". It was Rachel. She smiled. I smiled. She passed by. Santiago is a small place.
I went to mass. The sermon seemed to be something about making an internal quest, that the destination wasn't important. I thought about what I had said to the press and wondered what was being said in the diocese.
Later in a bookshop I came across Steve sitting on the floor and looking very intensely at a topographical map. We exchanged smiles....A small place....
A time for rest...
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