Lessons Learned on the Camino

The entrance to Albergue Verde

In the town of Hospital de Óbrigo, slightly beyond the halfway mark of my 500-mile pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, I stayed at the Albergue Verde, a hostel for pilgrims. The owner of the inn, Benjamin “Mincho” Fuertes, is perhaps the person who most impacted my journey.

Shortly after meeting him, I knew I was in the presence of someone who strives to exist on a spiritual plane. That was easy to see in the selfless manner in which Mincho treats his guests, his dislike for handling money, and his disregard for material possessions. The top priority at the Albergue Verde is the pilgrim’s well-being.

Late every afternoon, Mincho leads a yoga session. It’s included as part of the stay. I had never practiced yoga before. What little I knew led me to believe that yoga involved a long, boring, and painful series of stretching exercises. As a result of this belief, I was not in the mood to be exposed to further discomfort after a full day of walking. A handful of acquaintances I made that day, however, shamed me into giving it a try.

What I experienced surprised me. Leading the exercises in a soothing voice, Mincho helped us unite mind, heart, and body. On that afternoon, at least for me, yoga became a mystical experience.

Afterward, at the communal dinner, I sat next to Mincho, wanting to learn more about the person who had opened my eyes to a new way of being.

The bridge of El Paso Honroso entering Hospital de Órbigo

“I'm from Hospital de Órbigo,” Mincho said in answer to my first question. “I was born in this town. In fact, this house belongs to my family.”

When I mentioned that he appears to live on a spiritual, rather than physical plane, he smiled and said, “Ever since I was an adolescent, I knew that I wanted to develop my spiritual self. When I graduated from high school, I asked my father if I could go to India for a year, to study yoga and Hinduism. To my surprise, he agreed.

“I went to Rishikesh and was lucky to find a guru I believed in. After a year under his guidance, I returned to work on my father’s farm. That was long time ago. Since then, I’ve returned to India every winter to continue my studies. My guru passed away last year, which has left a great void in my life, but I will continue to go. I still have much to learn.

Mincho entertaining his guests.

“Fifteen years ago, my guru told me that before I could advance to the next stage, I needed to go on a pilgrimage. He said that walking for an extended period is the best form of meditation, as the rhythm of our steps and the solitude helps to unite the body with the spirit. He also suggested that I walk the Camino de Santiago because this route, being so close to my home, would reveal much to me.

“I had never thought about walking the Camino, even though I’ve been living alongside it all of my life. One morning, after breakfast, I left my house with a small backpack and started walking to Santiago de Compostela, just like the pilgrims of old. I walked there, and then back. It was the most remarkable journey of my life. The Camino’s spiritual energy astounded me. The irony is that although it had been right next to me the entire time, I had to travel all the way to India to appreciate its significance.

The Albergue Verde

“After I returned, I knew that I had to devote the next stage of my life to being of service to pilgrims. My family supported the idea and gave me this space to open the Albergue Verde.”

Mincho’s story illustrates much of what walking the Camino means to me—it’s an opportunity to unite the body, the mind, and the spirit.

When I chose to write a series of articles about my pilgrimage, I didn’t want to duplicate other accounts. A quick search on Amazon reveals more than sixty published biographies and memoirs. And there are countless blogs devoted to describing the experience. What’s more, these writings are often quite good. In view of this, I decided to tackle whatever caught my interest along the way: chance encounters with locals, stories of medieval publicity stunts, a visionary who foresaw what the Camino would become today, a Vatican Prince who died as he lived— by the sword, and the literary inspiration that writers such as Hemingway, Coelho, Pardo Bazán, Quevedo, and Feijoó found along the way.

From the day I made up my mind to become a pilgrim, I knew I wanted to walk alone. For many pilgrims, the Camino is a social experience. Indeed, I witnessed quite a few who developed bonds that will last forever. But I needed my pilgrimage to be a time of reflection and contemplation. And while at times I did walk alongside others, I mostly journeyed on my own.

And walking in silence, as Mincho says, will become a prolonged meditation. During the forty-seven days it took me to arrive in Santiago de Compostela, there was ample time to think about every topic of importance: family, friends past and present, work, life, death, love, fear, and so forth. And what I basically learned are two things: one, that my life has been a blessed one and for this I need to remember to be grateful; and two, and it’s a lesson the Camino teaches many—that I need to learn to face whatever challenges life places before me with serenity.

I was called upon to apply the second lesson much sooner than I had hoped. My mother died two months to the day I completed the pilgrimage. She lived in Fresno, California, with one of my sisters. Every New Year’s, my wife and I, who live in Panama, would travel to spend it with them.

This time, when we arrived, due to an unexpected and sudden illness, my mother was on her deathbed and she only had a few hours of clear consciousness left. She was ready to die, in her body, mind, and spirit. Between us, in a silent conspiracy, we plotted to pass on this acceptance to the rest of the family. This allowed her to say farewell to her children and grandchildren, as well as to offer each of us a last bendición.

When my mother passed away a few days later, although our hearts were heavy, our sorrow was bearable because we were able to experience her love and witness the wondrous way in which she embraced her death. She departed with dignity and grace, and I am sure that the reason I could help her do this was thanks to the lessons I learned during my pilgrimage along the Camino de Santiago.

A Neverending Quest

A monument to pilgrims  looking toward Santiago de Compostela from Monte de Gozo.

From the heights of Monte de Gozo (Mount of Joy), pilgrims are able to first glimpse their final destination: Santiago de Compostela. Since early in the XII century, when the cathedral was completed, the church towers could be seen below in the valley. Because of this, starting nearly a thousand years ago, the moment pilgrims reach the top of Monte de Gozo they experience a rush of mixed emotions—it’s the realization that the end of a long, difficult, and often magical voyage is at hand.

According to Camino historians, close to a million pilgrims undertook the journey during medieval times. These quests started in the year 813, when a Christian hermit named Pelayo saw a light shining down on Mount Libredon. The illumination led him straight to the grave of Saint James. And last year, 2015, the year of my pilgrimage, over a quarter million pilgrims walked the Camino to pay their respects to the patron saint of Spain.

The cathedral, currently under restoration.

Is the apostle really buried in Compostela, or the “Field of Stars,” as the location was originally called? The truth is that we lack historical evidence to back this claim. The story of how Santiago’s remains ended up in Galicia, in a remote area of northwestern Spain, is a tale that has been passed down orally through generations and has now gone on to reside in the realm of myths and legends.

And, yet, in our times, in this age of skepticism, the number of pilgrims who walk long distances to visit the apostle’s tomb is at its highest point ever.

The tomb of Santiago, apóstol.

I, for one, do not care if the remains entombed in the cathedral are actually those of Saint James. What I love is the idea of the shrine being his tomb. This notion alone filled my journey with meaning.

I suspect that many other pilgrims feel the same way. What is ultimately important is that the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela invited us to take a dual journey: an outward, physical one of enduring a five-hundred mile walk, and an inward one of reflection and self-exploration that leads to becoming more compassionate.

In the quest to test physical limits and spiritual potentials, today’s pilgrims walk a path that millions have treaded before them. And the spirits of previous pilgrims, many who completed their journey millennia ago, still inhabit the churches, villages, trails, and inns along the Camino. It’s virtually impossible for today’s pilgrims to ignore their strong presence, a presence that urges us to keep moving forward during the most difficult passages.

Statue of a windswept pilgrim on Alto de Roque, Galicia

It becomes an odd sensation, then, that upon arrival at our final destination we too become spirits. At the conclusion of the journey, the Camino requires those who have completed the pilgrimage to leave a part of our spiritual selves behind in gratitude for the countless blessings we have received throughout our lives. 

What's more, once we reach Santiago de Compostela, our quest becomes another: for the remainder of our lives we need to apply the lessons we have learned during our walks. Otherwise, our effort would become meaningless.

And to live a life of reflection and compassion, as we did during our travels along the Camino, is a far greater challenge than just walking five-hundred miles.

Shadows that Once Dwelled Along the Camino

The final stretch of the Camino de Santiago runs through the countryside of Galicia. The paths are idyllic: luscious green landscapes of gently rolling hills drifting over well-tended farms. For the pilgrims passing through, life in rural Galicia is a portrait of pure bliss. Yet astoundingly, less than a hundred years ago superstition and brute force reigned in these parts under the guise of preserving long-held customs.

Shortly after exiting the town of Palas de Rei, pilgrims can take a brief detour to the south and walk through the village of Ulloa. In this area, not all that long ago, women were considered the property of men, and any woman who rebelled faced grave consequences, including corporal punishment. These injustices inspired Emilia Pardo Bazán (1851-1922), one of Spain’s most renown authors of the nineteenth century, to write Los pazos de Ulloa (1886), a novel in which she portrays the grim reality of her home province in a way that, still today, chills the heart of the reader.

Emilia Pardo Bazán

Born in the coastal Galician city of La Coruña, Emilia Pardo Bazán was the only child of aristocrats. Her father, José Pardo Bazán, was a count (and she inherited the title upon his death) who welcomed his daughter’s boundless intellectual curiosity. He provided Emilia with the best education available and allowed her free reign of the family’s extensive library.

Because of her love of books, Emilia Pardo Bazán decided at an early age to become a writer. Her father’s support was essential in this quest. The Count believed that women should have the same opportunities as men. Unfortunately, at the time Spain’s literary community did not agree. Throughout her long career most male writers never fully accepted Emilia as an equal. In spite of this, she wrote and published prolifically, and in virtually every genre.

Pardo Bazán had begun to gain national attention when she was in her early twenties. This earned her the animosity of many Spanish writers, all men, who attacked her ideas and called her efforts—largely inspired by her close friend Emile Zola—pornographic and atheistic. These charges, in addition to being false, revealed the fear these writers had of women occupying their sacred space.

A typical Pazo in Galicia

Los pazos de Ulloa remains, to this day, Pardo Bazán’s best known work. The main theme is the deterioration of aristocratic values, especially the value of education, and the dominance of violence over reason in rural Galicia. Pazos are countryside estates belonging to wealthy families. At the time Pardo Bazán wrote this indictment of brutal machismo, the Ulloas’ estate had become a shadow of its former self. In the novel, the Ulloa heir, the Marqués Don Pedro Moscoso, had long lost the refined and noble ways of his ancestors. He now lived the life of an uneducated campesino, without culture or ambition. In his world, deceit, desires, and violence determined who reigned.

The Marqués and the priest in Santiago de Compostela in search of a bride for the nobleman.

(From the television series Los pazos de Ulloa available through RTVE.es)

A recently ordained priest, Julián Alvarez, is assigned to minister to those who live on the estate. His first reaction is of despair in the face of the primitive conditions he encounters. Soon, however, he convinces Don Pedro to go with him to Santiago de Compostela to find a bride from an aristocratic family. The Santiago de Compostela that Pardo Bazán describes is a grungy city, mired in darkness. The glorious days when thousands of pilgrims arrived each month, many bringing new ways of viewing the world, were long gone.

An hórreo: a Galician shed for storing grain. The novel's final scene takes place in one.

Don Pedro marries a distant relative and they return to live on the estate. Inspired by his new bride, he works hard to lift the pazo back to its once splendorous state. Before long, however, he becomes bored and the primitive ways of rural life take hold of him again. Once this happens, his civilized bride is doomed to die young and their daughter to be raised as a savage.

This scenario is far from the placid rural Galicia that pilgrims encounter today. And Emilia Pardo Bazán deserves some of the credit for the change as her words struck a chord with Spanish readers who were ready to move toward gender equality.

Pardo Bazán willingly undertook a struggle that lasted a lifetime. The victories she obtained must have seemed absurdly small. For instance, in spite of becoming one of the most widely read authors in her nation, as well as proving her absolute mastery over Spanish, she was denied a seat in the Royal Academy of the Language because the rules of the organization prohibited the membership of women.

 The Countess Emilia Pardo Bazán

To ease this injustice, the Universidad Central de Madrid awarded Pardo Bazán a professorship in Romance Languages. In this manner, she became the first woman to hold a full-time faculty position in the history of Spain.

What becomes interesting for today’s pilgrims to know, then, is that Emilia Pardo Bazán, one of the persons most responsible for beginning to lift the shadows of gender inequality from Spain, rose to fame telling stories about a reality along the Camino de Santiago that she condemned not that long ago.

A Light Born on the Camino

The Abby of San Xulián de Samos

Along the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, in between the towns of Triacastela and Sarria, pilgrims can take a lesser used path to visit the Benedictine abbey of San Xulián de Samos. Samos, as the abbey is commonly known, was founded in the 6^th century. Since its beginnings, the institution was devoted to education. Here, monks studied and conducted research in a wide range of subjects, among them agriculture, metallurgy, alchemy, medicine, philosophy, and theology. Samos’s prestige was such that throughout the Middle Ages Spain’s monarchs placed more than 200 towns, 100 churches, and 300 monasteries under its supervision. And today, although the number of monks has dwindled to seven, in halls where once hundreds led lives of learning and contemplation, San Xulián de Samos still inspires awe, and veteran pilgrims strongly advise new ones to opt for the detour.

The reason I chose to visit Samos was because within its halls Benito Jerónimo Feijoo, the writer who introduced the essay as an art formed into Hispanic letters, took his first literary steps. Born in 1676, Feijoo joined the Benedictine order at the age of 14, entering Samos and soon becoming the most stellar student in the monastery’s history. While living here, he fell in love with the works of Francis Bacon, René Descartes, and John Locke—the writers who ignited the Age of Enlightment.

Benito Jerónimo Feijoo

It was while studying in Samos that Feijoo discovered his life’s mission: to help rid Spain of its medieval frame of mind. In this mindset, superstition and ignorance reigned throughout the country, in large part with the complicity of Catholic clerics. The task Feijoo gave himself, then, would be both dangerous and monumental. It meant that, as a priest, Feijoo had to carefully tread the wide gap between Church doctrine and Enlightment ideals. He did this admirably. As his writings became increasingly popular, however, the more conservative members of the Spanish clergy as well as outmoded university scholars attacked him viciously and called upon the Inquisition to put a stop to his work. Fortunately for Feijoo, King Fernando VI, a fervent admirer, issued an edict that declared that anyone attacking the writer would be subject to prosecution.

The monarch’s protection paved the way for Feijoo to become the most widely read author in Spain. The Benedictine’s ideas about education led to broad reforms, especially at the university level, where he had labored as a professor for most of his adult life. In his essays, Feijoo wrote about topics as diverse as mathematics, astronomy, physics, medicine, the social sciences, literature, religion, and theology. And in spite of the complexity of the subjects, Feijoo employed a folksy style, making his ideas accessible to his target audience—those who might embrace his quest to help bring Spain out of the Dark Ages. He wrote prolifically and his two most influential books were the collection of essays called Teatro crítico universal, and a collection of correspondence titled Cartas eruditas y curiosas.

The impact that Feijoo’s teachings had on 18^th century Spain is immeasurable. Yet today, few read his work. That’s because Feijoo, the writer, showed little interest in leaving a literary legacy. Instead, he sacrificed a lofty place in posterity for the sake of changing Spain’s present. Feijoo fervently wanted his beloved country to start taking steps toward modernity. As a result, his goal required a discourse that was engagingly didactic; in that way he could touch the hearts of his contemporaries.

Sadly, however, Feijoo’s emphasis on transforming medieval mindsets makes his work seem trite in the 21^st century. For instance, in the essay “En defensa de la mujer” (In defense of women), he asks his compatriots to allow women greater freedom, particularly with regard to their right to seek an education. In the light of today’s sensibilities, the language and the manner in which Feijoo presents his ideas is condescending. The Benedictine repeatedly refers to women as the gentler, weaker sex. What’s more, antiquated viewpoints abound in most of his other writings. Although Feijoo’s prose is clear and graceful, the foundational manner in which he introduced his teachings made his work become, only a century after his death, out of date.

 Statue honoring Feijoo in the main courtyard of the abbey.

But in sacrificing a high ranking position in the history of Hispanic letters, Benito Jerónimo Feijoo demonstrated his selfless spirit. In Feijoo’s mind, his work was never about achieving a lofty place in Spain’s literary pantheon. Instead, his endeavors were about helping to uproot superstitions and outmoded social beliefs from the minds of his fellow Spaniards, as well to awaken their interest in scientific methods. As such, Benito Jerónimo Feijoo, a youth who found his mission in life in an abbey along the Camino de Santiago, can be justly regarded as the initiator of three centuries worth of efforts that eventually led Spain out of the darkness and into the light.

The Priestly Vision that Revived the Camino

The yellow arrows that guide pilgrims along the various routes to Santiago de Compostela offer great psychological comfort. I can attest to their soothing helpfulness as they repeatedly assured me that I was on the correct path. The arrows, and their counterpart the scallop shell, are the two most recognized symbols of the pilgrimage. But while the scallop shell has been around since medieval times, the yellow arrow is a recent invention. And yet, in spite of its newness, the arrow is often credited for the Camino’s renaissance.

 A "Palloza," one of the ancient homes of Celtic origins in O Cebreiro.

To employ the arrow as a guide for pilgrims was the brainchild of Don Elías Valiñas Sampedro. As parish priest of O Cebreiro, he devoted his life to resurrecting interest in the Camino. Don Elías was born in 1929, in the town of Sarria—a two-day walk from O Cebreiro. Immediately after his ordination, at the age of 30, he was assigned to the mountain-top village. At the time, O Cebreiro, once an integral part of the Camino, had virtually become a ghost town. The few families that still lived there faced harsh conditions. Don Elías’s first act was to lobby the Spanish government to bring running water and electricity to all the homes. After succeeding in this, he raised funds to renovate abandoned buildings, including the church of Santa María la Real.

 Santa María la Real in O Cebreiro

During his efforts to improve the lives of his parishioners, the priest became a keen student of the history of the Camino and the pivotal role O Cebreiro had played from the onset. The more he learned, the more fascinated he became with the subject. His passion led him to earn a doctorate from the Universidad Pontificia de Salamanca. The topic of his dissertation was the legal history of the ancient pilgrimage route.

It’s not surprising, then, that Don Elías thought that it was possible, as well as vital, to revive interest in the Camino. He firmly believed that people who made the pilgrimage in this day and age would reconnect with their spiritual selves, and as a result experience a conversion of the heart.

To revive interest in the Camino became Don Elías’s personal crusade. He spent countless days retracing the Camino, starting near the French border in Roncesvalles. It took him years to identify and clear the paths that had been lost to the centuries. He wrote the first modern guidebook for pilgrims. He visited every town along the way to try to persuade the leaders to join his cause. Because his dedication and passion were so intense, he often was called “El Cura Loco” behind his back—the crazy priest. Eventually, though, as the ranks of converts grew, his nickname became “El Cura de O Cebreiro”—a moniker he treasured.

Yellow arrows near Pamplona, Navarra. 

In 1984, Don Elías came up with the idea of painting yellow arrows along the entire route, starting on the French border and ending in Santiago de Compostela. Witnesses attest that it was a common sight to see him in his Citroën GS, accompanied by students armed with paint brushes and buckets of yellow paint. The rest, as the cliché says, is history.

In 1972, the year Don Elías began to dream about long lines of pilgrims walking the Camino, only 6 persons completed the journey. In 1985, the year after he and his helpers had marked the entire trail with yellow arrows, 690 walked to Santiago de Compostela.  This year, 2015, more than 250,000 pilgrims will receive a Compostela, the certificate that proves that the bearer has completed the pilgrimage.

There is an anecdote about Don Elías Valiñas Sampedro, who died in 1989, that those who knew him like to tell. Although it’s not certain the incident really happened, it fits perfectly with the mystic of “El Cura de O Cebreiro.” The tale goes that when he started painting yellow arrows in Navarra, close to the French border, Spanish police approached him, suspecting he may be involved in a Basque separatist plot. When they asked Father Valiñas what he was doing, he smiled and answered, “I am organizing a huge invasion.”

Monument to Don Elías Valiñas Sampedro in O Cebreiro, Galicia. 

We should all be blessed with such accurate visions and yellow arrows to guide us throughout life.

The Camino’s Most Enthusiastic Ambassador

Paulo Coelho has shared in many interviews that until he became a writer his life had been aimless. As an adolescent, his parents committed him three times to mental institutions, hoping to squelch what they considered his pointless rebelliousness. After he told his mother that his dream was to become a writer, she forbade him from following this path, telling him that it would be impossible to earn a living in their native Brazil. To please his parents, Coelho enrolled in law school, but he soon dropped out to live a hippie life devoted to “sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll.” After travelling throughout South America, he returned to Brazil and became a lyricist for musicians who were protesting the country’s military dictatorship. Because of this, Coelho was jailed three times and treated harshly, including being subjected to torture.

At the age of 39, already established as a successful lyricist, but still feeling unfulfilled, Paulo Coelho decided to walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. To this day, he claims the experience was the turning point of his life.

“The Camino,” Coelho says in the 2006 Norwegian documentary Paulo Coelho on the Road to Santiago de Compostela, “helped shaped the way I see myself, the way I see others, and the way I see the world.”

The bridge of Puente la Reina

Coelho started his pilgrimage in Puente la Reina, Navarra. By the time he reached O’Cebreiro in Galicia, he had decided it was essential for him to follow his long held dream of being a writer. “I knew then that although I was nearly 40 years old, I had to either take the first step, or forget my dream entirely,” he stated in a 2014 NPR interview.

As soon as Coelho returned home, inspired by his experiences along the Camino, he wrote O Diário de um Mago, his first novel, which has been translated into English as The Pilgrimage. He then wrote The Alchemist and has since gone on to become one of the most successful authors of recent times. Coelho has sold over 100 million books and in the process he has become the world’s most widely translated living author.

Refugio Acacio y Orietta proudly advertises its relationship with Coelho

Throughout the years, Paulo Coelho has never forgotten his debt to the Camino de Santiago. At present, he helps sponsor the Albergue Acacio y Orietta, in Viloria de Rioja, in the province of Burgos, and he maintains supportive relationships with other establishments that provide low cost housing for pilgrims.

But the most important role Coelho has assumed is that of unofficial ambassador of the Camino. Media from all over the world call on him to discuss the significance of undertaking the pilgrimage. Coelho has appeared in countless interviews and documentaries describing the rewards he received from walking the Camino.

The medieval village of O Cebreiro, a place of much significance to Coelho

Ironically, a recent admission of Coelho’s sent a small shock wave among Camino fans. Two years ago, he admitted to La Estrella de Galicia that he did not complete the journey to Santiago de Compostela. In his pilgrimage, he stopped walking in O Cebreiro.

“That’s where the Camino gave me what I needed. From there I hopped on a bus to Santiago de Compostela and visited the cathedral to give my thanks to Saint James.”

In Coelho’s defense, he made the pilgrimage before it became popular. In 1986, only 1,800 pilgrims completed the journey. In comparison, by the conclusion of this year, more than 250,000 pilgrims will have walked all the way to Santiago de Compostela.  

But Paulo Coelho’s devotion to the Camino de Santiago can never be questioned. In his will, he has given instructions for his ashes to be interred in O Cebreiro, the village along the Camino de Santiago where he found the courage to follow his lifelong dream of becoming a writer.

A Legendary and Literary Publicity Stunt

The bridge of El Paso Honroso entering Hospital de Órbigo

Nearly 600 years ago, in the community of Hospital de Órbigo along the Camino de Santiago, one of the greatest publicity stunts of medieval Europe took place.  Don Suero de Quiñones, a knight from the city of León, challenged knights everywhere to attempt to cross the bridge that enters the town. Challengers would be mounted on a horse and use a lance as their only weapon. Don Suero and nine of his friends would defend the passage, also mounted and with a lance. The defenders vowed to hold the bridge until they broke 300 rival lances. At that point, they would be declared victors of the tournament.

Don Suero’s stated motive for undertaking the bridge’s defense was that only in victory would he become free of his obsession over Doña Leonor de Tovar. Every Thursday he wore an iron collar around his neck to represent the prison in which she held his heart, and he claimed to be in unbearable pain over this unrequited love.

On the bridge of El Paso Honroso.

Organizing the tournament took months, and it counted with the full support and sponsorship of King Juan II of Castile. Sixty-eight knights from throughout Europe responded to the challenge, which became known as the defense of El Paso Honroso, The Path of Honor. From July 10 through August 9 of 1434, Don Suero and his nine companions defended the bridge. On the final date, with every defender including Don Suero suffering from serious injuries, but without a single challenger having crossed the bridge, the judges declared him victorious and free of the burden of wearing the iron collar.

 

Juan de Pineda's account of the events.

King Juan II had appointed a scribe, the notary Pero Rodríguez de Lena, to record the details of the month-long tournament. One hundred years later, a Franciscan priest, Juan de Pineda, transcribed the proceedings into an engaging narrative, El Libro del Passo Honroso, which helped extend Don Suero de Quiñones’s legend throughout all of Spain. According to Father Pineda’s account, after the defenders recovered from their wounds, Don Suero and his friends made the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela to give thanks to the apostle for their victory. Don Suero left behind the iron collar attached to a gold chain that today can be seen in the Cathedral’s museum.

Upon Don Suero’s return to León, Doña Leonor de Tovar, the object of his knightly love, agreed to marry him. They appear to have lived happily. Twenty-four years after the tournament, however, Don Gutierre de Quijada, a knight who had participated and had long remained bitter over his defeat at El Paso Honroso, challenged and killed Don Suero in a joust near the town of Castroverde.

Don Suero de Quiñones's tomb in the church of San Francisco, León, Spain.

In spite of Don Suero’s life ending on this tragic note, the challenge of the bridge of Hospital de Órbigo remained the most famous tournament in Medieval Europe. Hidden behind the literary pretext of unrequited love, the true purpose of the contest was for Castile to outdo several tournaments that other Spanish kingdoms had organized. 

Ultimately, in creating this fabled event, Don Suero de Quiñones earned a place in history. There are streets named after him in León, his hometown, as well as in Madrid. And every year to this day, over one weekend and with thousands in attendance, the challenge El Paso Honroso is reenacted next to the bridge of Hospital de Órbigo.

Don Quijote and Sancho Panza as rendered by Picasso.

But more impressively, in my mind at least, Don Suero’s deed earned him eternal literary fame. His seemingly insane enterprise, as well as his obsession over unrequited love, helped Miguel de Cervantes shape the character of Don Quijote de la Mancha. In Cervantes’s novel, the fictional knight, who came to life 160 years after the defense of El Paso Honroso, mentions Don Suero as one of his historical role models in his quest to resurrect the age of chivalry. 

There can be no higher praise for Don Suero de Quiñones, a flesh and blood knight who became legend while defending a bridge that’s part of the Camino de Santiago.

The author and Miguel de Cervantes in Madrid.