Tracks Untraceable

It is a strange undertaking this walk. One moves through country with great closeness and intimacy, yet often it is more felt than seen - the eyes drawn down to the ground searching for suitable footing. The villages through which one passes often seem deserted, and typically no one is seen: a church is looked in, the prettiness of the village admired, and one moves on. Yet unlike the natural landscape – vast and slow to change, at least at this pace – in which such intimacy can be sensed and experienced, the impression, the memory of the towns is, like they are, empty. They appear quite suddenly and are gone – a photo, a drink of water, maybe a pee and then off again. Typically no lingering memory is kept unless something happens there – a conversation, a meal, a petit café, a small moment. The path continues, and we are on it.

We move through a variety of topographies – spiritual, social, culinary… - as thousands, millions have done before us such that our path is now a part of those topographies. Indeed, it is even a part of the physical landscape now. Those millions wove a lace-work of criss-crossing paths across the hills and valleys. Where once barren plateaus and thick forested valleys held only the marks of local life, they now bear a path. Untouched earth and rock has, with the myriad feet setting upon it, become marked as ‘The Chemin’. The climb out of Conques, for example, takes one over great rocks that have smooth-sided footholds worn deep into them, clearly the work of ages.

Physically, spiritually, socially this path has changed, marked, etched the cultural topography and memory. But inevitable change is in both nature and culture, and without the continued passage of thousands along these paths they would yield again to their forces. So it is that we find ourselves, as walkers, as pilgrims, participating not simply in the cultural renewal and maintenance of these paths, but of the physical too. We walk, we move through country and we leave tracks, yet they are nameless. Our individual footprints are washed away by the rain, the memory of our passing is quickly lost amid the deluge, fade through lifetimes. Though individually we are important, crucial even to the continued success of this Way, no trees sigh our names in the wind. Yet what we do leave is the continued cultural momentum of the Chemin and the physical renewal of its beaten path.

It is an anonymous contribution. What we leave is the Path, the Way. We leave tracks, yet they are tracks untraceable.

Written after a long day walking in the timlessly beautiful Causse region.
Thanks to Colin Meloy and friends for the title of this post and its sentiment, and for the best marching song ever – Sons and Daughters.

P.S. Check out the link on the right to a Google-Map showing my daily progress.