Thursday, July 7, 2011

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, do you remember an inn?


As I lay in the bunk at Ribadiso do Baixo last month, I remembered a poem from my youth.  Tarantella by Hilair Belloc.  "Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, do you remember an inn?"

I especially chose the albergue at Ribadiso as the only 'traditional' albergue for our group to experience on their three week walk of the Camino Frances.  I chose Ribadiso for two reasons.  It is large enough to accommodate a group of 14 people and it is old - very old!  The albergue is in the renovated 13th c pilgrim hospice of San Anton which won an architectural award when the dilapidated stone buildings were resurrected about 12 years ago aso that they could once more welcome pilgrims on the road to Compostela.

I remember staying in Ribadiso in 2002.  We thought we would walk to Arzua from Palas de Rei - some 30km - but when we saw pilgrims sitting on the green lawns in front of the albergue, dangling their feet in the river which flowed under the Roman bridge we decided to stop.  There was nothing else around, only a few farm houses on the distant hills and lots of cows.  As we walked through the large wooden doors into the cobbled courtyard one could almost hear the echo of horse hooves of pilgrims past.  All albergues in Galicia were 'donativo' (donation) and although we dropped a few euro into the box we saw a few young people bypass the donation box. 
We showered in the cabins at the back of the albergue and did our washing before joining the other pilgrims on the lawn by the river. Sitting in a field, chatting to other pilgrims, sharing bread and blister plasters is almost gospel-like and I felt the soul of the Camino, finding shelter after a long day's walk and sharing with fellow pilgrims.
By evening it was getting cold so we moved into the diningroom and gathered around the large wooden table.  The walls are almost a meter thick and the doorway is low so we had to duck to get into the room.  A huge fireplace, blackened by a few hundred years of fire, dominated one end of the room. 
There was nowhere to buy food and we were starving.  I had a box of instant tagliatelli in my pack and a quick search of the kitchen revealed a half packet of pasta, a quarter bottle of oil, salt, some onions and a few other odds and ends.  An elderly woman in her eighties and her middle-aged daughter came into the kitchen also food hunting.  They had two tomatoes and another pilgrim had bread. Soon there were more hungry pilgrims so we pooled resources and started cooking on the rather temperamental stove.  We carried the plates of food through to the diningroom and lit a few candles.  Nobody had wine but we had water and soon we were chatting and laughing and breaking bread and telling stories in a Camino-lingua around the table, one couple demonstrating how they had danced with a procession in a fiesta.
It was a wonderful evening of camaraderie and sharing and I wanted my group to exeprience that - to experience the soul of the Camino. 
But, it didn't turn out that way.  Since 2002 a new cafe-bar restaurant has opened right next door to the pilgrim shelter with plastic chairs and tables and umbrellas, a wellstocked bar and an extensive menu.  50m further up the road is a brand new albergue with laminate flooring, washing machines, television, wifi and internet.
Only 6 of our group checked into the albergue (the others carried on to Arzua where they booked into a hotel) paying the required €6 each.  A few other pilgrims arrived but only one of the stone rooms was full.  I walked down to the river and even though it was a beautiful day there were no pilgrims sitting on the grass, I could hear them all next door in the courtyard of the cafe bar.  I watched a blue dragonfly flutter about in the reeds and then went to have a look at the diningroom.  As I ducked under the stone doorway, I found the diningroom empty, the cavernous fireplace black and cold.  There was no laughter there, no singing, no impromptu dancing - no soul. 

Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom




1 comment:

Annie said...

Poignant post - beautiful.