Pilgrims book excerpt 3

I am approaching the village of Mañeru which, like many villages in this region or north-central Spain, is cluster of ochre houses with an ornate church spire rising from the centre. On the wide, dusty trail, an old man is walking toward me. He has a dark beret above his wrinkled, moon face, a wooden walking stick in hand. He stops as I draw near. “Beunos dias,” he says and I reply in kind. He asks where I’m coming from, then turns to walk beside me. He tells me his name is Ricardo and that he is originally from Pamplona. He says he’ll accompany me through the village. His pace is surprisingly strong and quick.

Ricardo walks me through the village, past a group of youth who have not finished their party from the night before and are still drinking and carousing in the streets. They drunkenly cheer me on, like the last marathoner to cross the line.

It is touching to find someone who seems not to have tired of the pilgrims. I wonder if he often joins pilgrims in the morning while out for a stroll. Ricardo walks with me to a place where fields of grain become vineyards and the path starts to climb. He gestures that here he will turn back. I warmly thank him and am about to ask if I may take his photo when he steps forward to give me a kiss on my cheek. I extend him my cheek, but to my astonishment he presses his dry lips directly on mine. Purposefully, cheekily. I am struck speechless while he squeezes my shoulder, grins and disappears.

More amused than offended; I laugh as I walk away. I laugh even more when I meet Pascale in the next town and find out that he did the same thing to her. After he left me, he must have sped back to Mañeru where he met up with Pascale and Marie. He offered to walk with them for awhile; when they got to the point where the path starts to climb, he said good-bye and stole a kiss. We wondered how many other pilgrims through Mañeru received such a mischievous escort.