Tagua is one of those effervescent, infectious individuals who bursts into your world with a stream of passionate tales, sound knowledge and salacious chat. His Camino trips began in 1992 when, as an established equestrian, he was called upon to set up a VIP horseback pilgrimage. In doing so he fell for Galicia’s charms. Now he combines his love of horses with his religious beliefs in a way that suits his charismatic and extroverted nature. To date, he has travelled more than 170 Caminos, with clients flocking to experience “The Aurelio Way”. At the end of the first day, Tagua asks how we are enjoying our Camino. Effusive praise ensues, at which he laughs and jovially delivers the prophetic words we’ll hear again and again: “Mañana mejor!” which means “Tomorrow will be better.”
The next morning, we meet our horses by the roadside, tacked up and ready to rumble, with a horse and cart for the non-riders. My mount is a handsome chestnut fellow named Angelito, Little Angel, with a coat shining fiery bright in the sunshine, topped by a pair of velvet golden ears, and who promises a lively ride. Soon we’re heading out in single file, following granite posts carved with the scallop shell symbol of the Camino, a yellow arrow and a kilometre distance marker for Santiago.
The paths are lined with flouncing hydrangeas, blue thistles and pink foxgloves; tall grasses nod as we move through them. Riding over the Os Ancares mountain range, hazy views stretch lazily to the horizon. The air is cool up here, warming as we descend into the valleys. Soft murmuring conversation floats on the breeze as steel-clad hooves crunch on dry gravel earth. As the days roll on, we move through landscapes frozen in time. Ancient tractors idle by flourishing corn fields and village fountains provide water for our horses. While this rural idyll might feed the pen of a poet, it seems the young locals have left for brighter prospects in the city. Hollow homes haunt these places, and once the last residents are gone, I wonder what will become of the ancient villages built of stone and wood, of these beautiful landscapes threaded with peaceful, sacred ways. We ride through oak and chestnut woodlands on tracks riven deep into the earth, bearing witness to centuries of reverent footfall. In the forest quietude, I can almost sense the presence of pilgrims past, walking alongside us. Overhead, great branches weave together, forming roofs reminiscent of cathedral arches, shutting out all but an elegant dappled light.
“Mañana mejor.” With each passing day, we become more confident in the saddle and at ease with each other. One of our clan says, “Isn’t this great? A bunch of strangers ride out and come back friends for life.” With bonds growing stronger, there’s movement in the pack, more trotting up and back to talk to each other and then, like impish cohorts, we urge our horses forward into swift bouts of cantering, grinning at the exhilaration of moving faster through magical lands.
