St James' Rooster: Prologue The First

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As promised, here is the first part of my new novel St James' Rooster the second of The Camino Chronicles. I shall be serialising this over the next couple of weeks or so so if you like it you might want to order a copy from Amazon or the publishers. If you don't, well at least I have saved you some money.

But you will like it ...trust me, I'm a hypnotist...

ST. JAMES’ ROOSTER    A Novel of the Camino

Prologue: The First

“From this moment you will hear nothing outside of yourself except the sound of my voice.”

I hear him and yet not. There is no more present, only the glow of the past which draws me like a lover’s smile. I am drowning in it, pleasantly. It pulls me down, deeper, and deeper down. .I am at peace as he says. I am at home. I have returned…I am both myself, and not myself

…six…five…four……

“What are you wearing?”

“I’m not sure. It’s soft: cotton perhaps. Linen? No, soft wool. My feet? They’re bare.

I am with my people. The lights flicker and toss, caught up with human movement: they are pressing on me in the dance of shadows and fire; it’s all around me. Yes, my feet are bare on packed earth. I feel raised up to the sky: no. Not the sky. I don’t know… there seem to be arms above me…

“Arms? Human arms?”

“No, no. Although they are there too. Trees! They’re the branches of trees. They’re so close above and yet no, not so close beside me. There are others around me…they are chanting, wait, no, they’re singing. Oh, what a song! What singers! What voices from heaven could sing so sweetly and yet so sadly? The angels must be weeping in envy. Wait a minute. Wait… I know this…I know this!

Wait, wait…yes. Yes! Of course… “I am your door, Lord. Open me and let me come home. ”

Of course I know this! It is the song of Priscillian.

Dear Lord of our longing
Let me remove and let me be removed
Let me save and let me be saved
I want to sing; sing with me
I want to cry; cry with me
Adorn me, I crave you
I am a lamp for you,
You who have eyes to see me
I am a door for you, who brings his spirit home…

We are few now, his followers, where once we were thousands. These singers and dancers around my outstretched arms, they are my brothers, my sisters. The lovers of Priscillian who lies buried in our midst. And I feel the supporting souls of those long gone, their bodies arranged around this hill, this copse, this house of the granite of dear Galicia, this tomb of marble from Alexandria, hidden from unfriendly and uncomprehending eyes.

The ceremony is over now. I cradle the Sacred Book in its leather wrappings. I place it back in its box in the stone from whence I have taken it, this time, and before, following in the ritual of those who have done so since the day our Master was brought to this place by Galla, his daughter and his faithful followers who lie sleeping beside him here too. The night of loving prayer is drawing to a close, the torches extinguished; the songs too are packed away in secret. We would not dare to sing them openly now.

Wait…. What is this disturbance? I know this girl, the daughter of Hilderic. They are bringing her to me. Their faces are drawn with anxiety. They are gesturing outside the wood with frantic hands and eyes. She is speaking too fast.

“She has passed the hut of Pelayo the shepherd, close by to here, not moments ago.”

“Pelayo? The hermit? He will not harm us; he is too afraid of the ghosts. He keeps away.”

“Not Pelayo!” 

The girl is speaking, her breath almost spent for running. “The riders! Bishop’s or King’s men. I know not which. Two of them perhaps three. He brings them. They are coming! Quickly! You must all fly! There is no time to waste. Our secret is a secret no longer...”

“Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One.
Come to!”

St James' Rooster: Prologue The Second...

“I am alone. Cloth. I feel shrouded in it. It covers me from head to foot. No, not coarse, but not soft either. It’s a simple robe of sorts, made of common homespun, but clean. How could I know that? I don’t know. No, not a coffin. I’m on my knees. Wait a minute: coffin? Casket? It is cold to the touch. Yes. No…it is a tomb of some sort, there are walls around me and, I don’t know; walls again, beyond. I am enclosed in some sort of building, a church perhaps? It is not a peasant’s habit. Habit? Yes, that is exactly what it is. It is a monks’ habit, and I am a monk. My feet are encased in felt and leather strips. The air though the wool is cold, my knees are stiff, painful. But I will not move.

I will not move from here. They say he is fearful and terrible. They say he towers to the sky. They say his very breath will petrify, or scorch, like the dragons of old. I cannot say I do not fear him, for I fear for my life as would any mortal man. But I will stay by my Master. It is my sacred duty, not the duty the brothers believe I carry. This is different. A secret known only to me, passed on through the ages from one chosen to another. Now there are very few who even know of its existence.

The walls of the church around this mausoleum are etched in flame, it arches up; it grasps the sky pulling it down so hard that I do not remember if it is day on night. It has no doubt reduced the small settlement of Compostela to nothing. The townspeople and even my own monks expected nothing less from “Almanzor”: Al Mansur, the Conqueror of Córdoba. We knew he would come. We knew he was coming. Those who had possessions to save fled days ago when we first received the news. Those who had none stayed long enough to loot what was left, even chickens, tattered garments from the hedgerow left behind in the flashfire of terror of the Moor and his army. I doubt my monks were any less innocent than the others. They were after all, not the last ones to leave. What was left of their faith? It is not for me to judge them. This fear is that of the devil in whom, in my own way, I do believe.

Now there are two of us left. One is alive so far, though not likely to be for much longer. The other has been dead for six hundred years.

There is flame overhead. The rest of the roof has caught. Within the marble of this sanctuary I am safe, but not from the smoke: that surely will overcome me soon.

He comes. He is riding his horse through the door of the church heedless of the inferno above and around. He stops at the head of the chancel; he moves aside to allow his massive warhorse to drink from the holy water of the baptismal font. O sacrilege! But it matters not for it was blessed in the name of the Apostle James, and his spirit is not here. It is many leagues away in Jerusalem where they took his life so very long ago. He has never been here no matter what has been said in the name of victory and power.

Almanzor comes. It is too late. I am lost. I have one hope only…

Dear Lord of the Truth, please, save me and the earthly remains of your servant, Priscillian.

“Begone!” I say, feinting a courage I do not feel. “These are not the bones of whom you seek.”

“What nonsense is this?” 

He is not as tall as a mountain. But even though he is on horseback I can see he is taller than I by a head or more. His eyes are not those of a man crazed by bloodlust; they are calculating, cold; they are of a man who knows that he has achieved what he set out to do. Almost. Only I stand in his way. And stand I do, rising stiffly from my vigil in front of the sarcophagus, breaking my staggering only with one hand on the pale pink marble. I face him, simply Pedro, Bishop of the Shrine of Santiago de Compostela:

“If thou wilt be observant and vigilant, thou wilt see at every moment

the response to thy action. Be observant if thou wouldst have a pure

heart, for something is born to thee in consequence of every action.”

He stops. He is transfixed. From his towering place atop his horse he says:

“You know the songs of the Blackbird?”

“Abdul Hassan Ali Ibn Naf: Al Ziryab. Of course. My master Priscillian called upon us to read the sacred scriptures of all worlds. Naturally I would teach myself of the great poets of Islam also. Did not the teachings of my master come from the East, and perhaps from the same place as your own ancestors? Certainly, his great words and ideas were not so dissimilar to your own. Nor are they.”

“Who is this master of yours?” 

Almanzor had manoeuvred himself and his horse between where I stood shakily and the sarcophagus. “I will meet him. Bring him to me before this day is over.”

“Ah that I could, great one,” I said. “But your horse is currently leaning upon his body.”

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

No! No…wait! There is more. I must stay… NO!

One

COME TO!

St James´Rooster: Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Felix and Laura

Anyone who thought that Laura was quiet and submissive had never taken a good look at her chin. So thought Felix as he watched his bride of six weeks move her way around the apartment, and stand, as she did now, in front of the window with its view of the old city and a glimpse of the cathedral. The old town of Santiago lay beneath and around and for once, it wasn’t raining.

“Do say yes,” she said.

It wasn’t the first they had seen that day. In Felix’s opinion, not the best either. To his mind it was poorly furnished, dark, pokey, and expensive. But it was slap in the middle of the historic centre, and he knew better than argue too much.

“What about the one close to the new university? It was almost half the price and twice the size.”

Laura’s response told him he might as well forget it.

“Yes, but it lacked atmosphere!”

She had him there. This one had “atmósfera” in plenty despite its dark precincts, and ridiculous price tag. Santiago with its pilgrims passing daily, with its strange accents and ancient, poignant charm lay under the window she was leaning out of.

Felix knew he was beaten. Her smile told him that.

And that smile . . . that angelic, quiet determination, that often hidden intelligence had seduced him in its many quiet ways less than a year ago.

On “The Camino de Santiago”. Felix was so taken aback by its unexpected depth and charm that he had proposed almost as soon as they reached Santiago. He had walked 750 kilometres, well almost—there were a few still excused bus rides to be accounted for. She had walked less than 200 but none of that mattered. Once he had thought that love would pass him by forever, especially after Jessie his fiancée had been killed in a car accident. But now he knew it was time to live again, and Laura had taught him how. By being Laura. By being ultimately lovable.

“OK,” he said.

The real estate agent knew his stuff. He had taken them to this place earlier in the day. Even criticised it in some ways: small, expensive, no parking, but just look at that view!

Felix still thought of himself as a bit of a freeloader. After all, they were there because Laura was pursuing her doctorate at the University of Santiago in Medieval History and Felix, though a psychology grad, had only teaching English to offer. But Laura had somehow (was it those long lashes, those big brown eyes?) secured a very desirable scholarship, and, well, after six weeks of marriage, here they were. Back once more in Santiago de Compostela in the wettest part of Spain.

It wasn’t raining today which was a rare condition in itself. As they left the centuries-old building on the Rua do Vilar, the agent said: “Well?”

“When can we move in?” Felix said, accepting defeat with good grace and receiving his wife’s radiant grin as a reward.

“As soon as you wish,” the agent said. “As I told you, the owners live overseas, and it has been, well, somewhat unoccupied for quite a while.

If you want to come over to my office this afternoon, I will draw up the lease. You will be able to give me a month’s deposit today, yes? We keep that until the time you move out as a security against anything being . . .

um . . . missing?”

As if anyone would want it, thought Felix, but he said nothing.

Laura brushed her long brown hair out of her eyes. She was animated.

Ready for action.

“Right, I’ll go back to the Hostal Alameda and tell Antonio that we will be leaving this weekend. Will that be alright?” It was the agent she spoke to, not Felix.

“Perfect,” he said, “and if there is anything else I can do for you . . . .”

Felix was thinking towels, bedding, pots, pans, plates, but decided to leave that for Laura.

* * *

In fact, Felix wouldn’t have cared where they lived just so long as they were together. He was standing outside the real estate agent’s office. It was just five o’clock and a sudden downpour had just swept through and passed on, as rain always seemed to do in Santiago. Felix liked rain. 

He especially liked the smell of the streets after a storm and he was inhaling deeply and thinking deep delighted thoughts. When Laura appeared with their cases—few enough: the Camino had taught them to travel light—he couldn’t quite suppress a smile of complete besottedness just at the sight of her.

“What?” Laura said, seeing his face.

“Nothing,” said Felix knowing that his giddiness in love gave him away.

The paperwork was easy, the fees were handed over, and Felix suddenly found a key in his hand, a big key, an old-fashioned key. He expressed his concerns.

“Oh don’t worry about that. We are an old city. We have old values. Crime is minimal. You two will be safe inside your four walls.

Had he said “lovenest” Felix wouldn’t have been surprised. Romanticism was imbedded in the fabric of Compostela.

.

The simply beautiful and atmospheric painting is by Paco Quirri. I looked for a web address to ask for permission to use it but couldn´t find any reference, so Paco, I hope you don´t have any objection...

St James´ Rooster Chapter One continues...

In fact, Felix wouldn’t have cared where they lived just so long as they were together. He was standing outside the real estate agent’s office. It was just five o’clock and a sudden downpour had just swept through and passed on, as rain always seemed to do in Santiago. 

Felix liked rain. He especially liked the smell of the streets after a storm and he was inhaling deeply and thinking deep delighted thoughts. When Laura appeared with their cases—few enough: the Camino had taught them to travel light—he couldn’t quite suppress a smile of complete besottedness just at the sight of her.

“What?” Laura said, seeing his face.

“Nothing,” said Felix knowing that his giddiness in love gave him away.The paperwork was easy, the fees were handed over, and Felix suddenly found a key in his hand, a big key, an old-fashioned key. He expressed his concerns.

“Oh don’t worry about that. We are an old city. We have old values. Crime is minimal. You two will be safe inside your four walls.

Had he said “lovenest” Felix wouldn’t have been surprised. Romanticism was imbedded in the fabric of Compostela.

* * *

“So you don’t actually have a CELTA certificate?”

The woman on the other side of the desk loaded with CV’s was looking like she had no intention of offering Felix the teaching job.

“No, as I told you, I have a Degree in Teaching English as a Second Language. It sort of trumps a CELTA.”

“Trumps” was not a word in the señora’s vocabulary. That much was evident. “We are looking for someone with either a CELTA or a DELTA certificate.”

Felix was at a loss to explain that a CELTA certificate took six weeks whereas his own degree was a full year’s enterprise. It was the second time that day. The third time that week. He thought, not for the first time, about private teaching.

“We’ll be . . . in touch,” she ended.

Outside at the restaurant next door, Felix looked into his café sombra.

“Shit!” he said.

Once he had been under qualified. Now he was “Over Qualified”. If I had known when I was qualified I would have quit school, he thought.

* * *

Laura, however had good news.

“Guess what!” she said as he threw his portfolio and rain jacket on the rickety (and unsitable on) chair by the door.

He put his arms around her. He felt her littleness against himself. She was of average height but to his six foot two always seemed small when her head met his chest. 

“Tell me,” he said. 

“Well, and this won’t mean much to you . . .”

Try me . . .

“Peter Callaghan is going to be one of my thesis advisors!”

Um, yes . . . ?

“Felix! He’s a genius. A medieval scholar from Trinity College . . . that’s Dublin!”

Yes, I’ve heard of Trinity College.

“He’s here on Sabbatical, and when he heard I was writing about feudal Galicia he offered to tutor me. Isn’t that great? What’s wrong?”

Felix wondered when exactly after he met Laura his poker face had vanished.

“Of course it is. That’s fantastic,” he said. “The job interview: Don’t mind me. Another ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you.’”

Laura smothered his response with kisses. “Don’t worry. They just don’t appreciate your greatness,” she said.

Yep, Felix the Great, he thought with some regret for the past. But not much.

“We have to celebrate! Come on, the best meal Casa Manolo has to offer is on me.” He said and for a moment he reminded himself that nothing could go wrong with this incredible life he had found, or his relationship with this incredible woman he had married.

* * *

“Do you love me?” Laura asked, after they had finished lovemaking in the narrow bed that night.

If I could ever love anything or anyone again, I love you, he thought.

“Don’t be daft,” he said.

* * *

Dear Mr. Stephenson: (The letter said . . .)

We are pleased to be able to offer you the position of English teacher. Your classes will be predominantly First Certificate and Proficiency although we are hoping you will be able to fill in one period weekly for the children’s English teacher who is on Maternity Leave until September.

Yours Sincerely,

CollegeEnglish.es

“Laura! I’m in!”

* * *

Felix didn’t look forward to the dinner party. It wasn’t that he was shy (far from it). It wasn’t even that he doubted his abilities in Spanish (he did). It was more the fact that all six invited were Laura’s fellow graduate students and professors from the university and here he felt a bit at a loss. A lot at a loss.

“What am I going to talk to them about?” he said.

“Oh Felix,” said Laura as she planted a kiss on his ginger beard (did she see the grey hairs appearing?) “No-one expects you to talk “medieval”. What would Miranda say? ‘Be Yourself!”

Miranda and Kieran had walked with them last year along the Camino.

When they started he had known Kieran for many years and he had seen their love grow (almost eclipsed by his own) in the last 100 or so kilometres. Now Miranda was about to give birth at any time and despite the remission of Kieran’s leukaemia, he knew that they must sometimes think of their time together as somewhat borrowed. He reminded himself of that now.

“You’re right. That old Felix charm. I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.” 

But the look on her face told him that both were really wondering at this point.

“Well, whatever,” Laura said vaguely. “Good food to be had though!”

That at least increased Felix’s spirits considerably.

St James´Rooster crows this morning...

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It is ridiculously late (or early depending on your perspective) and I have finally gotten around to posting the announcement of my new book entitled St James´Rooster. I am a night owl. It's when I write. Who, what, where, when and why? Without Archbishop Diego Gelmirez de Compostela your Camino most likely would have not taken place, neither would you be planning it: Rome, maybe. Jerusalem, perhaps. Or maybe you would be headed out to hike in the foothills of the Himalayas or the Appalacian Way, or the Bruce Trail, or ... well the world is a big one. But this curious, almost "secular" "pilgrimage" we call El Camino de Santiago? No, without Diego Gelmirez, that would have been lost in the mists of antiquity and obscurity for want of "proof". You would never have heard of it. There isn't any, proof that is, you see. Between the time of James´execution in Jerusalem and the so-called "discovery" of "his tomb" (the Spanish word is "inventio") not one single historian or churchman spoke of any possibility of his having been buried in Spain and a few not un-notables said he had never preached here at all! And when you think about it, why would the body of a saint who - if indeed he was ever here (and formerly in the Greek it was thought to be St Paul who might have visited Spain) - made at most nine converts then went back to Jerusalem where he met his ultimate fate. Stone boat etc.? Why bring his body back to a Pagan land? The burials around the tomb are 4th century - the time of Priscillian - not first! Anyway to the 12th century: Diego and his "spin doctors", the authors of the Historia Compostelana gave us that proof. And fascinating reading it is too. But not a word is true. Much has been made of the theft last year of the Codex Calixtinus and its recovery (thank Heaven and the Guardia Civil) this year. What is little known though is that this also was written at the behest of Diego Gelmirez and was (falsely) called after Pope Calixtinus who would never have set eyes on it as he died well before it was begun. Likewise, the Historia Compostelana was written to secure a name in history for St James, Compostela and perhaps not least for Diego himself who brought this little known town into international fame as the "final resting place of the remains of St. James". The rest of it - lacking written evidence - he had made up! It took more than 20 years of persuasion to get the Pope to admit that an apostle of Jesus may have been buried there (to gain what was termed Apostolic Status, something no Pope in more than 200 year had been prepared to do) and even then (in 1122) needed a Pope who was kin to the king's son-in-law who just happened to have been Diego´s benefactor but hey: this was the Middle Ages! And the Matamoros story? Historians doubt that this battle ever too place but if it did it was King Ordoño and not Ramiro who fought it and that several years later. The spin doctors got this one quite wrong, but I am sure it served well enough when the Moors were at the gate, and they were not far off. St James´Rooster is the story of this man: Bishop, then with much persuasion, Archbishop Diego Gelmirez, a monster, a genius, a misunderstood reformer but one who always turned up on the winning side, somehow. And perhaps the self-intended architect of an obvious fraud. We don´t know. Does it matter? Maybe not... But his story has been all but lost in English and it deserves to be retold. I started researching him with the idea that I woud dislike him intensely and I ended up with a sincere respect for the man. What remains a puzzle is what happened to him after he died? What happened to the last two years of the Historia Compostelana? This is MUCH more interesting that the Codex Calixtinus...lost or found! How come, ater 40 years as bishop and even more as the most powerful man in the kingdom, could he have just...disappeared...PPFFFF! Like Kaiser Sjose? (You HAVE seen The Usual Suspects???) Where is he buried? Nobody knows... If you are a fan of Pilgrimage to Heresy (or if you have yet to discover the real person whose remains lie in the cathedral in Compostela) you will welcome the return of Felix and his lady, Laura in this mew book.Laura returns to do her doctorate at the University of Santiago but all is not well. Felix finds himself on the Camino again - this time the Portuguese. Armchair pilgrim or planning, about to walk or walking, or an "alumnus"of the Camino: Believe me... this is not like your Brierly, but it is a story you won´t forget. PS: Just for you...first few chapters will be serialised starting September 1st. .

Mea Culpa...

My most sincere apologies, and most especially to those of you who are followers: I have been neglectful in my blogging duties. Por mi gran culpa...It has been four months since my last confession...er, blogpost! But if you had been around here at The Little Fox House in Carantoña you would surely offer me your full forgiveness. Yesterday was the first day since early May that I have not been sharing my life and home with pilgrims from the Camino de Santiago post Fisterra or Muxia (and occasionally straight from Sangtiago de Compostela itself). My what a lot of fun this has been...and not over yet by any means. I have hosted pilgrims from countries as far apart as Columbia and India, Croatia and Canada and all have enriched my life immeasurably in their own individual ways. We have had yoga sessions at the church, sound healing, many discussions and gardening sessions (we are restoring the church gardens which were even more negected than my blog!), some hypnosis where needed, and some great History and Mystery Tours to castles and castros, churches and lighthouses, and some wonderful trips to the most beautiful beaches imaginable. For myself, I have been working hard to establish my language school in Vimianzo: Headstart Centro de Idiomas. And in the last week I can finally announce the publication of both of my new books: the long awaited St James´Rooster (about more tomorrow) and my long out-of-print autobiographical The Indalo Quest which tells the story of how this writer left the jungles of Costa Rica and set up a new life in Granada, Spain. About this too, much later. September approaches. In the eight and a half months since I left Marbella to move here to Galicia so much has happened: I am meeting new people, all fired with the same enthusiasm for the Camino as I am. I am just beginning to pick up a bit of Gallego and am even thinking about learning to play the gaita (Galician bagpipes) in the fall if I have an evening spare! ("Can you play the flute" said the man in the music shop when I bought my guitar. "Yes", I said, meaning the recorder, as he was. "Then you can play the gaita", he replied.) Such a good life... More very soon... Promise. PS: The photo is taken from one of the highlights of my summer so far: Xose Manuel Budiño and Kepa Junquera ("Jai Galai") concert at the Plaza Quintana beside the cathedral in S de C in July: that's me, the token blonde, front row just a bit to the right. I clapped my hands so hard that I had a bruise beside my ring finger for days! I´ve never before been to a concert where the "star" took a photo of the audience! Genial..! .

The Joy of Blog

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One of things about this Blogging thing I find most gratifying is the extraordinary number of nationalities of my visitors. Not all are drawn because of the Camino de Santiago connections either although my post on The Scallop Shell of Love is probably one of the most popular. Another one is Trasna: The Crossing Place, a beautiful poem by Sister Rafael Considine. I was at a local flea market once and noticed a painting on canvas of a simple wooden bridge and a path leading onwards around trhe corner and into the trees. "That's Trasna!" I said. It put me in mind of the ancient bridge you encounter by the shrine just heading out of Tui on the Camino Portuguese. I bought it of course, and now it is on the stairs just as you enter the pilgrim loft at The Little Fox House. My series of LIVE blogs from the Camino Portuguese also attract a fair number of visitors. I have walked the Frances, the Aragones, and a goodly stretch from Le Puy and I can never repeat my first Camino experience,(although I did relive it writing Miranda's story in Pilgrimage to Heresy) but I still recommend the Portuguese as a good first Camino. The albergues are never crowded, the terrain is gentle, the food is good (and the beer is cheap!) and the people are very helpful. It was on the Camnino Portuguese that I met my friend Fernanda who opens her home and her heart to pilgrims every day of the year just 22 klms from Barcelos. I have been back several times to see her and always am welcomed as one of the family. So very special! In fact, it has been folks like Fernanda, Jacinto and Mariana their dancing daughter, and Rebekah Scott and Paddy at Moratinos on the Camino Frances who inspired me to move to the Camino de Muxia and open my own home to pilgrims despues (after) they have finished their Camino. A Casa do Raposito (The House of the Little Fox) is my attempt to "give back" to what the Camino has taught me. The idea of opening a "Post-Camino Sanctuary" has been in my mind for 13 years now, but I needed to see how to do it - i.e. not as an albergue but as a form of "homestay" before I could make my decision to pull up (very shallow) roots in Marbella and dig a deep hole here in Carantona. I love it! So back to my stats: there are 21 countries represented today. Twenty One! And that doesn't include the "unknowns" or the others who have visited before: Korea, Russia, Japan, other countries in Africa and S.E. Asia and S. America. I’ve had visitors from India and Saudi Arabia and even a few from The Vatican! At times the Canadian number is much higher, and at one time I was getting a full 25% visitors from Australia. It is a seasonal thing. Americans remain the highest with a generally high proportion of visitors from the UK. Believe me, I think about each visitor and picture your surroundings as you enter my world. You are all very much appreciated; all 11,000 plus of you in two and a half years. I hope one day to meet you at The Little Fox House, but please don't all come at once. There are only 14 people in the whole village! I am currently putting the final touches to the manuscripts of two books, St James' Rooster - my novel which concerns first archbishop of Santiago, Diego Gelmirez - and The Indalo Quest. Both of these will be available in English in June and as El Gallo de Santiago, "Rooster" will be published in Spanish in September. I hope you will join me on those journeys too. I shall be continuing to blog about the History and Mystery Tours in the Costa da Morte, something I hope to be offering to those of you who can pass my way. There is so much of natural beauty, culture and history here I just have to share. The next one will be about Castros: those vestiges of a Celtic past which can be found all over Galicia and particularly here on the Costa da Morte. In the meantime, please do keep coming. And remember to leave a comment as feedback is every writer's reward. 

The Madwoman of Carantoña, or how Camelia's Babies Found Homes...

Where to start?

When I left Marbella, I had to find a home for Ruby, my lop-eared rabbit, with whom I had frequently learned humility (rabbits are the most misunderstood animals in the world)and frequently cursed for over four years, especially after the last of my ADSL cables got chewed in half!

But I missed her.

In addition to the donkey next door at A Caso do Raposito in Carantona, there appeared some hens and five rabbits. Then four rabbits, then three ... well you get the idea. Rabbit is a delicacy here in Galicia.

Finally we were down to one white rabbit with skew-wop ears and pink eyes who had become my special friend. I went away to Malaga.I said to my daughter: “If she is still there when I get back I am going to ask Alberto if I can buy her and maybe keep her where she is, with the hens.”

Well, guess what? I approached Alberto: “Don’t laugh,” I said (he did; totally cracked up), “but I would like to buy this rabbit, as a pet.” When he had straightened up, he said: “Ay mujer. Es un regalo!” (She’s a gift.) Camelia – for her pink eyes: the flor de Galicia - became mine.

All well and good until three days later she began to tear out chunks of fur: “She is making a nest,” said Alberto: “I think she is pregnant”.

Sure enough, on St.Paddy’s Day there is not one rabbit there are .... many squirmy little things under the fur and hay nest.

When I approached Alberto with certain concerns, he shrugged his shoulders: “They’re yours now,” he said.

What can I say? Like a proud Grandmommarabbit , I waited for them to look less like foetuses and more like rabbits (mice actually); I couldn’t wait for them to open their eyes! And when “Harris”, my favourite, (a little brown and white guy with great markings and an adventurous spirit – I like that in a rabbit) was the first to put his head out of the nesting box – you can imagine how my heart beat with pride.

In the last week, they have become a bit a nuisance to Camelia who clearly is a Feminist rabbit. They have started to eat “grelos” (Galician cabbages, which is a good thing because here we grow little else) and my nightly carrots and apple are a big hit. So, Mama is no longer necessary and waiting for a reprieve.

“I think it is time for them to have new homes,” I said to Balbina, Alberto’s mom, yesterday.

Now, first I have to explain: as far as Alberto was concerned they were no concern of his. But, Balbina is a Gallego widow. She dresses in Black. And (forgive me but I must) she knows the value of a buck.

I should have seen it coming: “The mother is yours, of course,” she said, “but the babies are mine. Soon we will take them from her and fatten them up with corn.”

“To eat?” I said. It was probably rhetorical. It was certainly pre-hysterical.

“Si!” said Balbina, rubbing her substantial tummy. “Y muy ricos!”They were going to take my babies and ......ay que no puede ser...!“

I want to buy them,” I said trying to keep the tears from my eyes. OK, so it was a bit impulsive.

“Pues...” said Balbina suddenly turning into Shylock: “they are worth 6 euros a kilo when they are grown.”

A kilo ... oh my! Pass me the smelling salts!

“I’ll give you 10 euros each,” I said. “Eighty euros for all of them.” Meanwhile my other self was saying: “Are you MAD!!!?”

“I’ll have to talk to Alberto,” was the reply and sure enough, a half an hour later I had legal ownership of all eight of the rabbits I had formerly worried about finding homes for!

Today, I took the whole rabbit kit and caboodle to Santiago de Compostela. They stayed in the car park while I went to mass, but then I skrewed up my courage and retrieved them. “Where shall we go?” I asked them.

By that time, the cathedral steps were almost empty. I walked for a time realising that people were attracted to the sign but that no-body had` tried to wrest the cat carrier full of conejitos from my grasp. I chose a space where the two main streets divide in the old town. I sat....

For two minutes! I attracted a crowd. “Ayyyy! Que bonitos son...” and she took Harris, my favourite; the only male and the only one I had named.

WELL! If I could only do a book signing with this success. At one time there were two women arguing over which white ones to take. “Ayyyyyy. Que preciosa!,” she looked at her husband/partner. “Podemos...?”“Si te quieres.....”Finally, there was one white one left. The rest had `gone in under 30 minutes complete with my favourite shoes’ boxes (my beautiful and expensive Georges Reichs are now desnudo in the closet). One lovely gay waiter finally gave in: “I had to wait for my break,” he said. “Ayyyyyyy, que preciosa!” He gave me my only donation: Five euros .(I didn’t really press the point).

40 minutes, no mas!!! I had made the reverse of an investment by 5 euros. And I could not have been happier if I tried!!! Eight baby rabbits with homes; eight people really happy with their new pets. If there was money in this I might throw over the writing game and...

People were SO grateful when I wanted to be so grateful to them, for restoring my faith in humanity and reminding me that not EVERYONE licks their lips when they see rabbits. The horror on their faces when I pointed out the part on the sign which said: “No somos para comer” (we are not for eating) reminded me that some creatures – maybe just the cute ones, I don’t know – are just untouchable when it comes to butchering and eating.

What a great way to spend Easter Sunday!

But Camelia’s sex life is OVER!!!

There is now a pig next door... I have given him a name too. It is “Roast”.

Nunca Mais!!! Galego por: Never Again!

Santiago Pilgrims: Are you ready to go home yet?

If you look over to the right, you will see that I have added a new page for A Casa do Raposito (orange link and underlined), a Post-Camino pilgrim retreat near Muxia and as far as I know the only one of its kind. Just click on the link to learn more. It has been my dream for many years to be able to offer a place such as this: a place to rest, to read or write, to walk without having to get up at 5:00 a.m., to relax and to discuss with others your experiences, or to remain silent: we won't bother you. Maybe you might even like to go fishing? That too can be arranged!

I shall be working on a web page shortly and Foxy will also have his own Facebook page very soon...

I am also offering to take guests on "History and Mystery" tours to places you would never find alone, even with a car. All is on a "Donativo" (donation) basis and includes meals.

Wouldn't you like to stay for just a little longer...?

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The ship that never should have been...

If you just did a double take at the odd design of this ship maybe you might like to ask yourself why. Yes, that is a separate deck below and those odd –looking round things are actually gun turrets. The HMS Captain was a ship designed to revolutionize battle at sea. Within months she would lay on the bottom of the ocean off Cape Finisterre. This is her story.  

Unlike the Prestige or even the Serpent, I doubt you will have ever have heard it before. Yet she took almost 500 human souls – including that of her inventor's – to a watery grave off the Costa da Morte.

The HMS Captain should never have been built; but she was, though not without controversy. In fact, she became the result of a highly public dispute between Captain Cowper Coles, her designer who invented her revolving turrets, and the director of naval construction, Edward Reed, who insisted she was unstable and potentially dangerous. Coles had discovered the possibilities of floating rafts with shielded guns on a turntable during the Crimean War, but had remained on half-pay since then, promoting his inventions to Parliament and the press. Coles was ambitious and he was determined. Despite Reed's resistance, and the fact that Coles had already built a rigged ship with similar turrets – the HMS Monarch, which was of a different size and design entirely - Coles had enough clout with the Admiralty and with the public to get the chance to build a masted turret ship to suit his own fancy. With enormous public pressure and the backing of Parliament, the project got the nod in 1867.

From the outset, the construction of the ship was problematic. Coles was ill during much of the construction and supervision was lax at best. Once completed, she was 740tons over her designed weight and so sat much lower in the water than her design allowed for. In fact, the main deck was often awash even in light seas. The Captain had a high centre of gravity due to her towering rig which was attached to the upper deck, thus justifying Reed's concern about her stability.

At first, it appeared that Coles was right in his claims that this was the ship of the future. She made a couple of successful short round trips to Vigo before joining the Channel fleet. But later, the commanding admiral who visited the ship during a voyage of the often treacherous Bay of Biscay remarked that the turret deck appeared to be perpetually awash (which if you look again at the picture is hardly surprising).

On the night of Sept. 6, 1870, while sailing off Cape Finisterre in a freshening gale, the Captain abruptly capsized and sank like a stone. She took with her 473 of her crew, including her captain, and Coles, who was on board as an observer on the voyage. Perhaps we should add, thankfully, as he did not survive to see what his stubbornness had done. There were only 18 survivors of the disaster, all of whom made it to a boat which which had pulled free of the sinking ship. They were rescued late the following day.

The Captain affair became a long-lived naval controversy, and immediate steps were taken to improve the stability of warships built for the Royal Navy. Within decades, sail became a thing of the past though not before several equally strange looking vessels were brought before the Admiralty.

If you go to St. Paul’s Cathedral you will see the Captain remembered in two side-by-side memorial plaques. The list of names seems to go on and on…

Arthur Hawkey, author of HMS Captain remarks on the book's cover:

"On 30 April, 1870, when HMS Captain was commissioned, the ensign was accidentally hoisted upside down. Never has an omen been more tragically of swiftly fulfilled.”

“Eternal Father, strong to save,

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep

Its own appointed limits keep;

Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,

For those in peril on the sea!”

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Next castles and castros…