Pilgrims’ Branch, Ana de Lis

In the middle of the forest and on the side of the Camino de Santiago, next to Huergo Bridge, stands an eremite library, half-hidden by weeds. It is housed in an old rough brick shed where there used to be some kind of pump or electric installation. To enter, you must bend down, as if kowtowing. On the shelves, there are sundry books, partly devoured by insects, dampness, and the passage of time. Psychology and photography manuals. Cheap collections of classic books. Crime novels or stories of love and luxury. A lot of pulp fiction that people used to buy at newsstands and book fairs in small towns and provincial capitals. As a frequent visitor, I can see that there is turnover, but some books are always there. The psychology and photography manuals. Reports on conspiracies and cults with garish yellow covers. I always return home with happy discoveries: a copy from the “Áncora y delfín” collection of Spanish contemporary authors or even that Kierkegaard paperback from Penguin that I’ve always wanted to read (but never will). I congratulate myself for saving them from total extinction. And, I make sure to feed the library with books I can’t house any more or that make no sense for me to keep, but which I’m simply not able to throw in the recycling center bin. Moreover, I feel a great sense of relief and never lose faith that I will make another reader happy. I’m convinced that this is a branch of The Library of Babel, so I’ve tried to find, but to no avail, a trap door or secret entrance leading to the rest of the galleries. Finally, I’ve never yet seen anybody loitering, entering, or exiting the library in Huergo.