A Long, Slow Journey 8: Further In

On our last day’s walk up to Santiago it rains. As pilgrims we’ve learned one camino mantra well: it is what it is. As Tasmanians we’ve also learned to embrace “atmospheric” weather, recognising that rain begets rainbows. And sure enough, as the sun tentatively lifts above the horizon, a beautiful bow arcs its promise across the sky.

[A promising start to our final day] 

Santiago is a city, and like all such it sprawls untidily. If we feared that would mean an anticlimactic last day slogging through suburbia, we are pleasantly surprised. Using some clever rerouting and a less-than-straightline approach, the way manages to get us close to the centre via relatively quiet and greenish paths.

[Approaching Santiago de Compostela] 

When we eventually reach the inner city, where concrete, stone and cars dominate, we’re within sight of the cathedral spires. Still, that last kilometre is slow, and the grand Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela proves surprisingly coy for such a huge edifice. We trudge up the narrow lanes of the old city, craning our necks to see our end point. Each of us is simultaneously bone-weary and elated. Lynne is limping, but the rest of her is buoyant. So too are Tim and Merran.

There’s a false “summit”, of course, when we walk into the side courtyard of the cathedral. But a minute later it’s clear that we’re coming into the main cathedral square. Multi-coloured marquis tents and stalls crowd the central area. Everywhere else there are people, laughing, embracing, wandering, crying. A woman in a wheelchair pumps her fists in emphatic jubilation. From one corner of the square comes the sound of Galician pipes. And the tune? Thrillingly, it’s Aires de Pontevedra.

[Pilgrims embracing in the Cathedral Square, Santiago]  

The four of us embrace, hardly believing that our camino is over. For some time we just stand there, smiling, laughing, searching for words that won’t come. Instead we walk around in front of the cathedral just trying to take it all in. I’d read a few accounts of pilgrims feeling a sense of anti-climax here; of their arrival at the cathedral being a let down. It’s far from how we’re feeling right now. (Perhaps in the next hour and a half, while we stand in a long line waiting for our official compostela, we’ll come a little closer to that.)

* * *

And now that we’ve completed our pilgrimage, what was it all about? What have we taken home from the journey? And did it serve any spiritual purpose, or somehow bring us closer to God?

[Happy Pilgrims: Lynne and me outside the Cathedral: (photo Tim Dyer)] 

Before this journey began, I would certainly have said that you don’t need to go on a pilgrimage, or enter a church, or climb a sacred mountain in order to draw near to God. Nonetheless I was stunned by the beauty of some of the magnificent church buildings we visited along the way. And the quiet inside them certainly allowed for a sense of the holy. I was humbled along the whole journey to experience landscapes and cultures that have been profoundly shaped by long exposure to the Christian faith. And on our final day I was both thrilled and gobsmacked to witness the 53kg incense-filled botofumeiro whooshing through the aisles of the Cathedral in Santiago during our Pilgrim Mass.

[Inside Igreja Matiz, Ponte de Lima, Portugal] 

But for me it wasn’t in those settings, not even in that concluding Mass, that I felt closest to God. Rather the still small voice of God seemed clearest on the journey itself. More than anything the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other helped me sense that God was as close as my next step, my next breath.

Walking everywhere, every day, became a discipline; an act of obedience. We submitted to the way, moment by moment, regardless of the difficulties. And there were some. At times I was brought low by rain, by heat, by blisters, by muscle strains. I felt befuddled by language barriers, and sometimes by my own mental state. Just because it’s a pilgrimage doesn’t mean the pain is accompanied by a compensatory choir of angels!

These hardships, according to Quaker writer Parker Palmer, are not accidental but in fact integral to pilgrimage.

Challenges of that sort, largely beyond our control, can strip the ego of the illusion that it is in charge and make space for the true self to emerge.

Control is always illusory, but that illusion shreds more readily when you’re far from your everyday props and routines. And, as 16^th century Spanish mystic John of the Cross put it, God may be the closest when we feel we have lost control. Reaching the end of my resources did nudge me towards a greater dependence on God, even if through gritted teeth, and after the kinds of “frank” exchanges that sometimes pass for my prayers.

Getting beyond that grumpiness was important. Australian pilgrim and researcher, Lucy Ridsdale, pondered

whether walking pilgrimage might be transformative, by way of enabling a deep shift from an attitude of entitlement towards the world, to one of gratitude, as one’s fundamental orientation. 

When things didn’t go to plan, it was tempting to grouch, and reach into the bottomless bag of entitlement that comes with being well-off westerners. But we found that the graciousness of locals, the flow of the walking, and the pilgrim mantra “it is what it is”, all helped us to become more real, more present to the moment.

If God could tone it down to a still, small voice, we might do the same with our demands. We could instead take pleasure in the simple things, like water, food, conversation, a soft bed under a solid roof, and coffee (of course). We could smile at the wag of a dog’s tail, admire the skill of long-gone builders, enjoy the symmetry of a ploughed field, savour the fragrance of ripe fruit, or rejoice in the colour of tiles. And just once or twice we could laugh at Merran breaking into an exuberant twirl mid-walk.

[Merran does a twirl between Lynne and Tim] 

In all of this we began to identify with early 20^th century pilgrim and writer, Hilaire Belloc, whose robust conclusion was that

the volume and depth and intensity of the world is something that only those on foot will ever experience.

For me as a Christian, that intensity was magnified by the fact that Jesus himself was a pedestrian and a wandering teacher. Walking past vines, sheep, shepherds, and widows in black; watching fields ploughed or harvested; smelling crops of corn or mustard, was like inhabiting Jesus’ parables.

[Ripening fields in Galicia] 

And now it’s over, except … There’s that question, the one that almost every pilgrim asks you. “Will you be going on another pilgrimage?” While I wouldn’t rule that possibility in or out, for me there’s another thought that lurks behind it. And that is the notion that life itself might become an ongoing pilgrimage.

[A mysterious doorway into an abandoned building] 

I can’t help thinking of a mysterious doorway we passed on our last day. A narrow leafy path leads up to the doorway of an old abandoned building. Beyond the entry I can see a winding staircase that leads further up. I half expect to hear the voice of Aslan saying

Come further up, come further in!

A Long, Slow Journey 5: Some Rain in Spain

If we know anything about the rain in Spain, it’s that it stays mainly in the plain. Except that it doesn’t. We know that before we cross over from Portugal into Galicia. The ancient kingdom of Galicia is NOT in a plain. In fact it’s hilly and green, and one of the better-watered parts of Spain.

[A green, well-watered wood in Galicia] 

We will soon experience all that first-hand. But first we have to endure one of the (thankfully rare) sections of main road walking on the camino. Cobbles might be hard on your feet, but busy roads are hard on your mind as well, adding the fear of whizzing traffic. We put our heads down, and walk as quickly as we can to our next off-road section.

[Walking a main road in rural Spain]

We’re now noticing more pilgrims, partly because they’re easier to see on a road, but partly because quite a few pilgrims only do the shorter sections leading into Santiago. Strung out along the road we look like a modern take on Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, with groups of pilgrims knotted together conversing, laughing, stopping to do repairs, sharing food, and greeting other pilgrims.

Unless you’re a recluse or a curmudgeon, a camino has a strong social element. Our short-comings in Spanish limit some of our interactions, but we’re still finding it more social the further we progress. Whether we’re walking and talking on the way, sitting and chatting over drinks; or sharing accommodation or meals together, we’re forming bonds. And inevitably we’re comparing notes, whether on blisters, food, accommodation or the reasons behind our pilgrimage.

[Getting to know some other pilgrims]

Bill and Karl are two American pilgrims we meet often. They’re are a source of great fun and amusement. Like a classic odd couple, the one short, loud and loquacious; the other tall, quiet and laconic, they bicker and bounce off each other constantly. Walking or socialising with them is like being part of a sit-com. Or sometimes like being the audience, as when quiet Karl gently unloads on the ebullient Bill after one too many nags.

Karl has been limping almost the whole time, having become badly blistered early in his camino. But he’s quietly determined to get to the end regardless of his pain or his pace. “It is what it is” he says, encapsulating something that we all end up applying to the journey. Whether it’s the weather, the distance left to walk or the pain of blisters, “it is what it is“ becomes our way of surrendering to the road; of dealing with both joys and disappointments.

[Pressing the grapes as it's been done since Roman times] 

A simple example of the former comes as we’re walking through a rural lane. We pass a friendly farmer with an equally friendly dog. He’s busy using an ancient hand-driven winepress to make wine with his own grapes. He pauses to call a greeting, and laughs when we ask if it’s okay to take a photo. His eyes crinkle as he points to the messy wine stains on his singlet, as if to say “What a picture I must be!”

One of the latter comes as we approach the coast for the first time since Porto. We’ve heard that the town of Arcade, on the Ria de Vigo, has some good swimming spots. Most of the way through Portugal it’s been warm and dry, and the thought of swimming has had a big appeal.

We lunch in the pleasantly busy old town of Redondela. It’s cool and cloudy, and we still have a long uphill road section before Arcade, where we’ll stay the night. By the time we’re into the worst of the hilly climb, the rain comes. A heavy drizzle wets the road, wets every car or truck that speeds by, making sure that we are soaked through too. There won’t be any swimming today.

[Misty and moisty in Arcade] 

We plod on through the rain, hoping our accommodation comes sooner rather than later. Tim and Merran are ahead by maybe a hundred metres. We’re following doggedly, as Tim remains our navigator. Before too long he turns and waves, and we see a small hotel that fits the description. Feeling and looking like drowned rats, we start to climb the steps past another group of pilgrims who are sitting at an outside table. Without warning they break into “Happy Birthday”, and it’s aimed at Lynne!

 

Tim and Merran have been telling tales. Today might not be Lynne’s actual 60^th birthday, but they’ve heard that the big birthday is part of the reason for our camino. It turns out Kerrie, a New Zealander living in Italy, has had the same idea – for the same number birthday – and has invited “a few girlfriends” on a camino.

[Lynne and some new friends celebrate her un-birthday] 

They’re soon buying us drinks, and we’re chattering away like old friends. The pain of the rough and rainy road, and the disappointment of our non-swim recede into the mist. “It is what it is”; accepting what we’re given. How sweet that sometimes is!  

A Long, Slow Journey 1: A Preparation of Sorts

[Walking through rural Portugal] 

I am walking. Just walking. I did it yesterday; I hope to do it every day that God sends. Under a clear blue sky, dressed in regular walking clothes, wearing regular walking shoes, carrying a regular day-pack, I am simply putting one foot in front of the other.

But every now and then I hear a small clinking sound, almost a ringing. A scallop shell strapped to the back of my pack intermittently knocks against a buckle. And it reminds me that I’m on a pilgrimage. I am walking in the footsteps of thousands who have trodden this same path over many centuries.

[The pilgrim shell on my daypack]

I know there’s more to pilgrimage than a symbolic shell and a well-trodden path. The Macquarie Dictionary, for instance, calls it

a journey, esp. a long one, made to some sacred place as an act of devotion.

While that’s partly true for Lynne and me, we have also chosen a pilgrimage as a way of marking a significant birthday. And we’re hoping that a long, slow journey on foot might prove an antidote to what writer Marilynne Robinson calls the ‘joyless urgency’ of our times. There are other reasons too, some we know about, some we’ll discover.

Of the many pilgrimages available, we’ve chosen to walk the Caminho Portugues. It is one of a dozen different caminos* (“ways”) that converge on Santiago de Compostela, a city that’s sacred to some because the relics of St James the Apostle (Santiago in Spanish) are said to rest in its cathedral. The best known camino, the Camino Frances, leaves from France and travels across the Pyrenees into northern Spain. Our lesser-known pilgrimage travels north from Lisbon in Portugal to Santiago in north-western Spain.

[Typical waymarks on the pilgrimage: photo by Lynne Grant]

Given the time we have available, we’ve chosen to shorten our caminho by leaving from Porto. It is a journey of around two weeks, divided roughly 50/50 between Portugal and Spain. Our friends Tim and Merran, who have previously done an Italian pilgrimage, are excited to be joining us on this journey.

We’ve each tried to prepare physically and mentally for the walk. But as is so often the case, life has intervened. In Lynne’s case, a dose of the ‘flu before our departure has cut short her physical preparations. And Tim and Merran have had to squeeze too much work into too little time just to be here for the pilgrimage. 

[Pilgrims outside Porto Cathedral] 

[Preparing for a pilgrimage?] 

The day before we leave, we spend a few hours walking around Porto, noticing pilgrim waymarks, visiting the cathedral, practising our walking ... and eating. As preparations go, it’s not ideal. But as we’ll come to hear from many-a-pilgrim over the coming weeks, it is what it is.

[Porto on a busy Sunday]

So, ready or not, on a blue-skied morning in early October, the four of us are transported to the village of Mosteiro on the outskirts of Porto. It’s a nondescript starting point for our 250km journey. The cobbled village square doubles as a car-park. It gives onto a few private buildings, a public laundry (open) and a public toilet block (closed). A few cars are parked there, and some elderly men chat together around one of them, while two women outside the laundry carry on a loud conversation. It sounds like they’re having a serious disagreement, ‘though we will soon learn this is how many Portuguese conversations are carried on.

[Leaving, ready or not.] 

If our farewell party is a little preoccupied, at least we have each other. With smiles to counter our apprehensions, we tighten our laces, shrug on our daypacks, exchange blessings, and start walking.

* In Portuguese, the word is spelled caminho.

From City to Summit 1: Planning a Pilgrimage

It’s raining at home. Where the mountain should be there’s a ragged cloud, a dishevelled doona pulled up around a chilly summit. Perversely, it has me thinking about walking. Mountains always do that, even when they’re trying to sleep.

[Sunset over the Mountain] 

But today I’m also thinking about history, and Hobart’s history in particular, because kunanyi/Mt Wellington plays a big part in that. After a short-lived and fraught experiment on the eastern shore of the Derwent River, Hobart was founded in 1804 on the opposite shore, near its current town centre. Water reliability was the principal reason for that early move. And that in turn was encouraged by the regularity of the rain – and sometimes snow – that fall on the flanks of the mountain.

[Wild and well-watered: the top of kunanyi/Mt Wellington] 

A good proportion of what falls there ends up in the Hobart Rivulet. At less than 10km it is too short to be called a river. Still it proved a reliable and constant source of fresh water for the port of Hobartown. In my 28 years living alongside it I have never known it to stop flowing.

[Hobart Rivulet in its untamed state]

‘Though its lower reaches are now piped and tunnelled, and outflows from stormwater drains, factories and the city’s tip mingle with mountain-fresh water, the Rivulet’s upper waters are still used in Hobart’s renowned Cascade beverages. “Out of the wilderness” its beer advertisements once spruiked. We locals smiled at the exaggeration, yet were still proud of our city’s proximity to relatively wild places. How many other capital cities have ready access to such wildness?

Most work days I walk down that valley, close by the rivulet, “out of the wilderness” and into the city. Truth be told, I often yearn to be going the other way, towards the wild. So one day I decide to do just that. I will start from the comforts of a favourite Hobart café, and walk upstream to kunanyi’s windswept 1271m summit.

[Sunrise and moonset over kunanyi/Mt Wellington] 

While it’s hardly an expedition – there are tracks all the way, and it’ll be done in a day – it does require that I gain more than 1200m in altitude. So there will be sweat and effort required. But the more I plan, the more I come to see how much of that effort will be mental. Because the walk will involve transecting a slice of Hobart’s natural and social story, I will need to be alert not only to what IS, but also to what WAS. That makes it a symbolic journey: a kind of local pilgrimage to places with significant stories, human and non-human, past and present.

I want this to be a series not because it is a long walk, but more because it promises to be an involved walk. It won't be just an A to B bushwalk. Perhaps no bushwalk ever should be.