Today was another beautiful walk filled with forests and quaint little towns.  By early afternoon we rolled into Padrón, cradle of one of the oldest James legends and, allegedly, the most happening pepper party in Spain.

History first: tucked under the high altar of the parish church sits an ancient Roman altar-stone (the pedrón) where, according to tradition, the boat bearing Saint James’s relics first bumped Iberian soil. The town has memorialized that moment with frescoes, icons, and a spectacular statue of Santiago Matamoros (St. James the Moore Slayer) that shows St. James hacking at the Muslims below.  Padrón is proud of its claim of first location of St. James's remains in Spain; some might say protective. Case in point: alongside the familiar Compostela certificate, they issue their own diploma, the Pedronía, for pilgrims who walk from Santiago to Padrón. A little sibling-rivalry flex, centuries in the making.

Roman Altar where they found St. James

I was counting on that same hometown pride to fuel the annual Fiesta del Pimiento de Padrón.  It's supposed to be an all-day tribute to the local green peppers sautéed in olive oil and sea salt. Visions of street stalls, brass bands, and free-wheeling pepper-tastings danced in my head during the last ten kilometers.

Reality: crickets. Even the albergue owner laughed when she saw my eager face. “Maybe some fireworks,” she shrugged, “most things happen at the convent on the hill.” Off we trudged scaling the large hill, only to find the convent locked, silent, and entirely festival-free.

Carmelite Convent and the beginings of the fire

Just as collective disappointment threatened mutiny, black smoke curled above the neighboring hillside. Within minutes flames were leaping high enough to see from the town square. A helicopter swooped in, latched onto a bucket, and began the first of dozens of water-drops. The Josie and Bernadette in our group counted at least ten planes shuttling sea-water to smother the blaze. By evening Mass the inferno was mostly tucked away behind a curtain of steam and ash.

Mass, however, offered its own plot twist. Before Mass, Father beckoned Josie forward to read the Gospel.  When the time came he opened the Gospel, she read, then he followed in Spanish. I’m still not sure it was all on the up and up, but Josie followed along in obedience and did a great job.  I was a very proud papa.

Josie making it happen

Festival hopes officially dashed, we consoled ourselves with nachos and burgers from a surprisingly excellent Mexican place nestled among the plane trees leading to the church. 

Our night wrapped with one final meet-up with the Barcelona Bros, those joyful twenty-something soccer teammates that we see at Mass in the front row every night. Tomorrow they push straight to Santiago, while we’ll take one more leisurely stage.  I thank God for our many encounters along the way with them and their example of faithful youth.

One last picture with the Barcelona Bros

So Padrón didn’t give us the pepper fiesta I’d been dreaming of. Instead, it offered history, an aerial fire-fighting show, and a Gospel cameo that no one saw coming. On the Camino, surprises tend to taste better than expectations anyway, let’s see what tomorrow’s skillet serves up.