Improbable mercy

We set out from the ancient monastery on rural roads, the shade a grace due to the heat and sun. Later that night German pilgrims would discuss with us the German concept of "redneck."

But the day had far more that contemporary American culture-war references.

Cobble-cobble-conbley stones--we marveled at the stamina of the Romans who had actually laid some of these roads.

A sweet Portuguese pilgrim named Dio, with whom my daughter bonded. A long-distance runner, he courteously kept us company for the morning, then discreetly asked if he could "resume his pace" as he needs to be in Santiago in five days.

A sweet dog who had clearly had puppies recently, who wished to join us and did until she sat in the road looking confused. Perhaps she wished to hit the Strange Road to escape parenthood.

Medieval bridges and weirs,cobbles cobbles everywhere. The Hungarian who walks with me says "It only gets worse."

But the medieval town we stumble into, exhausted, the welcome aubergues, the tale we hear of the pilgrim condemned to death whose judge was shocked by his dinner-chicken jumping up and crowing, while the condemned man was hung but dangled, alive, because Saint James was supporting his legs.

We see the late-medieval cross depicting this as we leave town.

Heat, sun, wildfires into the distance then, that night, so near. We are part of this dry arid landscape, air a dry searing wind in the lungs, each step a conscious command of obedience to sore and heavy muscles.

We round a Romanesque church on a hill. It is locked, but from its door's Windows cool air streams and an enchanted vision of carvings, a distant promise of glory and beauty, can be seen.

I pray to the Saint of the church to help us find shelter from the heat.

Stumping down the last trail, a bicycle hoves in sight. The Most Talkative Man In Portugal engages us, assuring us that shelter is near. He amuses us with his antics yet comforts us with his enthusiastic assurances that deliverance is at hand.

He disappears, and a turn in the Caminho finds us at converted stables run by the efficient Susana. We rest, drink copious amounts of water, arise to be cared for again.

Susana says, with young/old eyes, "The Caminho is first of all an inner journey. We bring ourselves as we are, but we all need to make this journey."

Today, we walk the streets in Ponte de Lima, an historic town with a Roman bridge and the streets thronged with people. It is the fiesta, held since 1826. We walk among them. We are strangers, but with newfound friends among our fellow pilgrims. We have found wisdom we did not know we needed, are content to feel the Road beneath our feet, to not control the outcomes. Tomorrow we walk again. The Strange Road awaits.