On The Camino

Lights dim. For a moment we are in total darkness. Heavenly scents rise from the wide pan we huddle around – lemon and orange citrus flavours fused with coffee beans mingle with the sharper tang of the alcoholic orujo. Then someone strikes a match, and touches it to the liquid.

The four men who preside over the flaming pan have criss-crossed their paths with mine for the last week, as have all the others in this room. We pass each other each day with the same salutation, “buen camino!”

Trudging the country laneways and dusty trails feels like a passage through time. And perhaps it is. The Camino de Santiago pilgrim route from France to the Spanish province Galicia is over a thousand years old, but the ambling hordes of pilgrims are undiminished today.

Tonight the albergue – a traditional way stop of the Camino – is charged with excitement. The four men have scavenged utensils from the sparsely equipped kitchen and funds from fellow pilgrims to create the Galician flame-drink, queimada.

Wavering yellow-blue, the flame engulfs the surface of the wide pan. They ladle the mixture, pouring it back on itself in brilliant gouts of fire. Song breaks out – the language is lilting and melodious, but it isn’t Spanish. Although every Galician speaks Spanish, the songs of their heritage are best expressed in their own regional language. I glean that queimada is usually made outside in clay pots to the tune of bagpipes. This confuses me, until I learn that Galicians still honour their Celtic roots.

Once the flares have subsided from bursts of orange to an eerie blue halo, we are ready for the first taste. My Galician welcome hits my tongue and throat with pungent, biting flavour and a chorus of cheers.

Drawn by the physical challenge, the chance for introspection or the blessing of Saint James, our motives for coming are myriad. But somewhere along the 780 kilometres those differences blur, and we begin to truly feel the pilgrim's adage: “We are all family on the Camino.”