........However, probably because pilgrims like to believe that they are ‘part of ’ the whole myth of the Camino, (while not always realising that it is they who cultivate and grow the Camino urban legends that become the Camino myth), most guidebooks play along. A good example of this is how every pilgrim seems to know about ‘the last Templar’ who runs the refugio in Manjarín, at the top of the León mountain range, because almost every guidebook has a different story to tell about Tomás, an eccentric,middle-aged bearded man who claims to be the last remaining Knight Templar on the Camino. Apparently he left a ‘normal’ middle-class life,a wife and two daughters in Madrid some twenty or thirty years ago to come and live here in Manjarín to help the pilgrims on the Camino. The typical introduction to Tomás in the guidebooks reads: ‘Tomás devotes his life year round, in an almost medieval manner, to caring for pilgrims in this high, desolate spot where bad weather (fog, rain, wind, snow) is almost the norm… mattresses for 20, basic WC, outdoor kitchen. Gregorian chant provided.’
Consequently many pilgrims stop and stay, in order to meet the man and tell their own stories about him. His refuge is definitely a perfect Kodak moment. Originally a stone building, probably built at the time when the Dark Ages melded into the Middle Ages, and added to over the centuries in timber and more stone and other bits and pieces, it greets you in all its untidy splendour as you walk over a little rise in the road on the last crest of the range. Your first view of it is the display of carved fingerposts, each one painted in a different colour, each one indicating the
distance from this spot to a place of ‘significance’ (– the ‘significance’ not necessarily very obvious):
Roma 2 475km
Machu Pichu 9 453km
Jerusalem 5 000km
Finisterre 295km
Trondheim 5 000km
Gatova 712km
Galiza 70km
The blue fingerpost to Munich was hanging precariously at an angle, only one crooked nail preserving it from total oblivion, so I couldn’t see how far I would have had to walk, should I, for some inexplicable reason, have wished to go to this Bavarian city. On the timber gable of the roof another carved sign announced:
Sellado de Credenciales
When I walked a little further onto the property in search of some sort of front door where I could ring a bell or knock, several cats of various sizes and colours scampered off into what looked like a large carpenter’s workroom, a thick carpet of wood shavings on the floor and the smell of freshly sawn timber filling the air with a sweet aroma. There was a dilapidated old garden chair slouched against a woodpile, a large satellite of rags pushed into gaps among the stones, several television antennae attached to random bits of wood or tree stumps, some of them adorned with scraps of fabric, hessian and rope, an ancient looking black Alsatian sleeping in the corner, not even bothering to open more than one eye as I greeted it, a big flag flapping in the breeze, the red Spanish mark of the Templars, the Templar ‘T’, emblazoned on a white background, wind chimes and an assortment of bells hanging from the trellis overhead.
‘¡Hola!’ I called, but there was no reply other than the cats’ inquisitive looks and the sleeping dog’s soft snore. No one seemed to be home. I was sorry that I’d missed this legendary Camino character. And I was not impressed with the state of the place. ‘Hovel’ was the word that came to mind. I remembered learning at school about the Knights Templar being the medieval order of monastic militants who became the repository for much of Europe’s banking treasure during the early Middle Ages, who
went on to fight the bloody Crusades and who were, most importantly for the pilgrims, the official protectors of the Camino until the 14th century. I would have loved chatting to Tomás about the history of the Templars on the Camino and about his particular claim to fame, but there was no sight or sound of the man. I waited around a little longer, but was uncomfortable in the filth and chaos of the place and then I quickly dismissed a sudden funny suspicion that he might have sensed that I was a sceptic and had therefore disappeared. Yet, later, when a group of us
chatted about experiences we had crossing the mountains that day, and the inevitable subject of Tomás, The Last Templar, came up, everyone who’d passed through Manjarín not long before or not long after me talked about their meeting with the man. When I heard this I had to wonder whether my suspicion had been right after all.
‘What an interesting character!’ David commented. How authentic he is, is debatable, but it was fascinating meeting him.’
‘I wouldn’t have liked to stay there overnight, though,’ Marilyn continued. ‘Apparently you just put your sleeping bag on one of the benches built around the fire in the middle of the floor,’ she went on to explain, ‘but the toilet is outside and very, very basic, and there is no electricity or running water in the place!’
Annie shuddered. ‘The man gave me the creeps,’ she said quietly. ‘You did leave rather quickly!’ David looked across at Annie with a puzzled expression. ‘One moment you were there and the next moment you were gone! We thought you might have gone outside to look at his interesting electrical generator, which he runs to work his computer and internet system. It is quite an engineering feat!’
Annie shuddered again, as if someone had just walked over her grave. ‘No, I just had to get out of there. There was something strange about him. Something very strange and sinister. I couldn’t stand to be in the same space as him. I just had to leave. It wasn’t before I got far away from that place that I started to feel a little better.’........
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