Camino Diary 4: The Embers of Thought (The Narrator)

I had planned to tell you everything I could about this journey. But the Camino is a small lifetime of it's own where plans, like the ones we make here in the "real" world, can flicker out long before they're realised.

I was finding the littlest of splendours igniting thoughts in me as I walked. The thoughts would take hold, raging throughout the day. The splendours seemed to invoke some inner Narrator within me that toyed with them as I walked. He would expand them, change them, reword them, restructure them all for you. The sun would be searing my skin but my thoughts would be charring my mind!

I knew I would never find a dozen different descriptions for the marvellous scenery each day, so instead, I thought I'd regale you with "tales of the trail." I made the decision there and then to tell you less of the daily hike and more of what was interesting me and holding my attention.

I wanted to tell you every thought that entered my head. But, I found that because of all the things happening here, I didn't have the time or energy to tell you of them.

For every one thing I've published here so far, I could have told you ten more.

I wanted you to know of the early days and the nerves of day one that drove me up the mountain with adrenaline. The Narrator in me would have liked to have told you more about the optimism of the adventure to come and how it was doused by the eventual pessimism and negativity that rain, sun and blisters bring. He wanted to give you the words that would have put you firmly in my well-worn shoes.

I could have told you about the mornings I couldn't walk. About how I slowly emerged from the Albergue taking tiny, painful baby steps, with impossible rubble strewn hills in front of me. I wanted to tell you about the tears I never shed then, though I felt they deserved a little time on my cheeks. I could tell you how I thought of quitting in those moments. About how there was so much more of the journey in front of me than there was behind, and how I couldn't live with the pain following me throughout. The Narrator within wanted to speak of defeating the doubts and soldiering on, but I decided I couldn't without sounding like I was pandering to my ego and making myself out to be some sort of heroic individual. Plus, doubts don't like staying defeated, so I won't say much more than that.

I could have told you about the bright orange Butterfly that seemed to visit me at those low times. How she would fly on ahead of me flitting side-to-side and up-and-down, as Butterflies are apt to do. I came to think of her as my guide and that somewhere in her eccentric flight I learned that the path of a journey, much like the plans we make, do not always run straight, and that just being able to move forward was a blessing in life. I took this lesson and drove forward despite the suffering I was feeling. Yes, I knew that each day I was probably being visited by a new, different butterfly. But, as is human nature, my inner Narrator dressed coincidence in magic and made more of it than it was for the comfort it brought. My Butterfly was here solely for me. I promised to write a story about her one day, at which point she'll be entirely yours.

I wanted to tell you about the crosses and headstones that appear along the route. I neither knew whether they were in memory of someone who loved the Camino or if they marked the place where that person fell down forever. I wanted you to know that on some, fresh flowers had been placed. Sometimes in the middle of nowhere. Stones are often seen placed by compassionate pilgrims around and on those memorials as a mark of respect. They got me thinking of the love of the people who came back to place these memorials. I realised sadly, that I myself may fall down forever just steps away from these memorials and I wondered if I was so loved that someone may come back here to remember me. It saddened me, as I thought it wasn't so.

I could have told you more. The Narrator in me wanted to. I could have expanded on all of this if I'd had the time. If the opportunity had been there whilst these thoughts burned through my mind, you'd be reading more than you are now.

But those flames in my mind died down over time. They were replaced by new thoughts and experiences which themselves died away. I just offer you now the embers of these thoughts to give you more than I have done so far. I wanted you to know I was thinking of you and of how to share this unique experience with you.

I now know that this is an experience that could only really be shared if you had been walking by my side.

Maybe one day.

Camino Diary 3: My Rod and My Staff.

There it was! Right before my very eyes!

The last time I had seen my walking stick was 24 hours and 21 miles ago in Ventosa, Spain. Yet here it was now four towns away, nestled amongst an array of colourful metal walking poles in the foyer of an Albergue (hostel) in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. It lay there much as I had lain it in Ventosa. Placed there trustingly by it's new master, still and quiet, awaiting the long road of tomorrow. The lanyard at the top of the staff dangled limply, still sporting the camping knot I'd replaced the original with. The hand painted inscription which used to say "Roncevalles" had worn down over time to "Ronceva" due to the knot I tied raising my hand position further up and over the writing.

Back climbing the mountain on day one, I was assisted by nothing more than stubborn doggedness and the adrenalin that comes with nerves. But I had seen many, if not most people using twin walking poles or wooden sticks or staffs to help them with the ascent. I had tried using twin aluminium poles in the past along Hadrian's Wall, but they never agreed with me. Rather than argue, I binned them coldly. But on the side of that mountain, I wondered if I was missing a trick.

On the morning of the second day, I went to leave the Albergue in Roncevalles and noticed a display case in the foyer with a wooden walking staff in it. I snapped it up  immediately for a bargain price. It cost me nothing to buy, but soon became completely priceless to me.

I wasn't ready for how I'd feel about my staff. I found it drove me up hills, controlled my descent of them and brushed aside shrubbery on the route. But it became much, much more than that. I came to rely on my staff the way a baby relies on a pacifier. I began to see it as comfort blanket for a man. There was a positivity in it's heft. It held me up when the sun wanted to beat me down. It filled my hand when I wanted it held. I found reassurance in having it. "It was the right tool for the right job" my dad would have said. I ended up unexpectedly recounting a small quote from the bible (that I'll no doubt misquote) that said of Jesus (or God) that "You are my Rod and my Staff!" I came to know what this meant on the Camino. I realised the devout merely had to hold on to their God for the strength they needed to go on. The strength of the staff and that reassurance of ownership was to them, embodied in God. They did not then need to hold something physical like me, what they had could never be taken away. I came to envy them, but reassured myself that when a bear came to attack me, a handful of staff was better than a mouthful of prayer. I loved my staff. More so, because it had come from the bosom of Mother Nature herself. It had been hand sanded and polished by the hand of a man (or woman) just for me. People en route told me it had probably been done by a machine, that it most likely never seen much of human hands until I bought it. But it did not help me to think of it in such impersonal terms. I would look at the way the knots in the wood would rise up ever so slightly and I would tell myself that a machine would have sanded them flat. I could not think of it as anything less than a "one off" made for my hand by the hands of a local craftsman who's price was paltry compared to it's value to me. I just knew that I could never throw this stick away like I did the aluminium poles. It was my companion. I drew strength from it in this difficult time. I formed a bond with it. I had agreed with myself to only part ways with it at Santiago, when I would give it away willingly to someone who was maybe going further to the coast, to the "End of The World" at Finesterra. That was, until it was stolen.

If the first Albergue in Santo Domingo had had a bed for me, I wouldn't have been here at the second Albergue looking at my staff.  It would have gone on to Santiago without me, likely reaching it before I did. I considered being charitable and leaving it for the thief. But I'm a weak assed human who takes umbridge at people taking liberties. For a second I thought that the thief may be somewhere watching me, but over my shoulder I saw no-one.

I reached out for my staff and like the man of religion reaching out for his saviour, took back the one thing I knew would drive me onwards.

Camino Diary 2: Una Pausa

Outside, the day saw fit to close as it had opened, with rainfall. I stepped, soaked to the bone, in to the porch way and called out pathetically "Hola?" After a pause, in which I considered a second, less pathetic call out, a woman rounded the corner from what I soon knew to be the dining room. She was early forties at a guess, short and curvy, but by her skin, eyes and hair, unmistakably a lady of Spain. She gifted me a wide smile and threw open her arms to welcome me. I was wet through, but Erica disregarded it in favour of the hug. And honestly, enveloped in that comforting cuddle, the last 35km of rain and rocks faded to a distant memory in my mind too. There in Erica's unexpected embrace I felt more like a lost relative than the sodden atheist who'd come calling on the church in a time of need.

Erica introduced herself and ushered me straight into the dining room. At the back of the room was a kitchenette and a man too young to be sporting the silver hair he had. He stopped chopping red peppers and turned to me. Erica said, "This is Miguel."

Miguel smiled from ear to ear, "I hope you like meat Peter!"

"Meat? I don't eat anything else Miguel!" But I knew deep down that I'd eat whatever these lovely people put in front of me. I was their gracious guest, and before long their honoured guest.

I was to be their last guest that night. I'd arrived late. I had been one of few, if not the only one who had decided to brave eleven and a half hours of walking that day. But I was in too much pain to consider taking pride in that achievement then. Now looking back, there was no pride to be had at all. It was stupid. The second day was no time to be pushing boundaries when the tools hadn't hardened to the task and my feet reminded me of that stupidity with every pain-filled step I took.

I've long known that generosity and gratitude are the currency of karma, but I never had the words until now. With that in mind, I made sure to offer help with dinner whilst most of the other pilgrims sat down in expectation of being waited on. We enjoyed a hearty meal of Bolognaise style pasta, breads, salad and even wine. The conversation centred mostly around a old man there called Josef, who had walked all the way from Austria.

After dinner we were invited into the main chamber of the church. We were guided up a narrow stone spiral staircase to a mezzanine level at the rear of the hall looking down into the pues. The floor was unusually carpeted and there was a small congregation already there waiting for us. I was asked to remove my shoes to enter and join the group. Seeking even the briefest respite from the newly formed blisters on my feet, I obliged and took up a seat with the group.

There was an old but distinguished lady there. She had a friendly authority that did not need proclaiming in any way. It was just there. And everyone respected it. She was coordinating the meeting in three different languages and I'm ashamed to say that despite making great efforts to introduce myself to new people on this trip and to remember everyone I've met, I did not get this lady's name. She was lovely.

She spoke of God and his infinite power and I listened. I spoke of the Camino and my infinite confusion as to why I was really doing it, and she translated it for the Spanish and French amongst the congregation. Two women there played guitar. The first was to a psalm and the second was an impromptu song by one of the group. I didn't even try to understand the Spanish lyrics, but I had a fair idea it was something about God.

Afterwards, I alone was invited up to the Belfry to ring the church bell. I'm not sure exactly why the invitation didn't extend to the others, but I felt honoured. Maybe they had been invited. Maybe I just missed them declining to ring a bell that was cast in 1377ad. Whatever the case, the experience was mine alone, and that made it special.

Though I was the last guest to arrive that night, I was the first occupant of my particular dorm. When I returned to it and realised I was to be alone, I had expectations of a peaceful night, undisturbed by snoring or the noisy, early rising of those wanting to finish their walking before the Sun hits it's mid-day peak.

It wasn't to be.

Camino Diary 1: An Uphill Struggle

I'm stood at the peak of Collado Lepoeder in the Pyrenees, looking back down at the climb behind me. Somewhere 3 or 4km back there, I officially crossed from France to Spain, though I never saw anything to indicate that. I'm above the mountain mists now and in the valleys below, it bridges one side of the lucious green valley to the next. There is still clouds up high blocking the sun and I'm thankful to both these layers for keeping the heat at bay. There is cattle on a distant hillside and a solitary fence running almost vertically up to it's peak. The sound of far off cowbells, the well worn trail beneath my feet and a sign reading "Collado Lepoeder 1429m" in front of me are the only indication that man has been up here. I think of the photos I've taken en route. I think they'll never do justice to what I'm seeing. They'll never tell you just how high this is. You'll never really see what I see, unless you come yourself one day. I dismiss the thought. I've learnt from my visit to Queenstown, New Zealand that photos do little to capture grandeur and serve only to show others (who have no interest in holiday snaps) "you went somewhere!"

It's silent here. It's beautiful. Yes, the cowbells break it, but after the bells, nothing. No birdsong, no cars and no chatter of people. No thrum. This is so unlike the city. I can't say exactly why, but it makes me want to pay closer attention to London in the wee small hours, when even at it's quietest, I'm sure there is still noise.

I had set off from St Jean Pied-de-Port at 0800hrs. The weather was perfect. I had no cause to wear anything but a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I had wisely stocked up on provisions (meat mostly. You might say that was unwise) and had filled my Rucksack water bladder with 2 litres of water.

I found myself almost immediately rising up out of the town. I had expected a gentler ascent from my memory of the map. But I praised my poor memory anyway for saving me the pre-climb anxiety of knowing how quickly it became steep, and more importantly, for how long. I have long known that physical ability can sometimes be surpassed by a mixture of blind faith, naivety and a severe lack of choice that forces you to, as my dad would say "Hoy on!"

I found myself reaching and passing other walkers as I strode up the country road. Easily, it felt. One such gentleman was a Frenchman of elderly age who wanted to chat but my nerves were driving me at pace and I thought it would be good to stay as I meant to go on. So, I made my excuses and left him behind. I was quite happy with my performance, smiling inside at my own ability. That is, until it became what we in the industry like to call "fucking difficult." Yes, it soon seemed to go vertical on me and though I was managing a sturdy pace and still overtaking people, it was talking a toll.

"But I can see the peak! It's right there!" I thought, allowing naivety to once again take the reins. So I charged on to find it was just one peak that led to another, then another, then another...mile after mile. Through clouds and forest, both at the same time sometimes. The only real constant was that I was always heading "up."

I made a mental note then, that when it came to writing this, I'd mention Edel and how she warned me about day one. So here I am, mentioning her. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her telling me of this odyssey. She told me day one would be tough. She wasn't wrong. In fact, if anything, she underplayed it by a large margin!

But I'm thankful. Knowing beforehand how hard it would be would have raised my trepidation and brought about that pre-climb anxiety I mentioned earlier. Thank you Edel.

Now, coming down the other side of this mountain was a steeper more treacherous affair. This was partly due to me accidentally taking the old "practically vertical and bloody dangerous" route instead of the new "Easypeasy" route. Thing is, the new route isn't sign posted. The old one still is, but it wasn't until I looked at the piece of paper given to me in the Camino Passport office back at St Jean that I noticed a small picture advising  right hand turn instead of a left. I went left. To some people at work, this shouldn't really come as a surprise.

Well, I'm now in Roncesvalles staying in a beautiful Albergue (hostel/converted monastery) I'm showered, changed, chafed (but not blistered!) and tired. The dorms here are nice, but with their rows and rows of bunk beds, I can't help thinking of the inside of an orphanage.

Tonight, I'm just a little boy nobody wants. Sob.

I could go on writing much longer, but I'm going to eat then sleep.

Farewell for now,

Pete.