Le chemin de Saint Jacques de Compostelle

By this stage I had been walking for 5 weeks, and I was amazed how quickly I got used to the pilgrim's routine: arrive in a town, find out where to get my credential stamped, a quick glance around the church, so often deserted. A break with coffee and a pain au raisin if I was lucky, and then off again, needing to get to the next gîte (hostel) before night fall. Tarbes would be different.

A rainy November day in the Haut-Pyrenees, South Western France, I was glad to have an excuse to sit down as the monk told us that we would have to wait for our stamp. "Yippee!" said my feet, fatigued by the 6-8 hours a day of walking. It was the camino de Santiago de compostella in Spanish, the chemin de St Jacques in French or simply the way in English.

I had a look around the church, sorry, cathedral; Cathedral Notre-Dame-de-la-Sède actually. As usual lots of gold, paintings, statues. This had a grander scale than others: an ornate altar with massive red marble columns reaching high to a gold encrusted canopy, and beautiful black and white marble floors. But, to be honest, it was just another church.

Monks in brown and nuns in white had passed through from time to time, although I hadn't taken much notice. A monk walked to the altar. He made the sign of the cross and chose a space in the pews. A nun arrived and did the same. Then another and another. It seemed as if something was happening. One by one they arrived and filled up the pews. In silence. "I better sit down," I think, conscious not to be the tourist getting in the way.

And then they start to sing.

The deep bass vibrations, the angelic bells of the soprano, the harmonies interweaving. The voices mesmerise me, the echoes through the church; a tradition which could have been happening for 1000 years. I reflect on the lives of these people, whose belief is so strong that they chose to devote their lives to a religion; my mind is drawn to the role that religion plays in the world, how it can rip so many people and peoples apart.

And yet, the music and the beauty of it makes me feel connected, like the notes go to my very centre. I wipe a tear, honoured to be in the presence of a faith expressed so strongly but so gently. After a time, it appears they have finished and they quietly go about their business. I get my stamp and I go on my way.

Like good travel, it makes me think. I had a glimpse into what attracts people to religious practice; beauty and connectedness. Is it possible I've misunderstood?