Map Making

My last days on the road to Santiago were spent wandering down eucalyptus lined country lanes that wind from hamlet to hamlet. The Galician climate, renowned for its indefatigable display of precipitatory variation, served me the kind of bleak weather in which one often feels a chthonic sense of intimacy with the world. Somehow I became separated from all the pilgrims I had been walking with, often spending entire days alone with the mist, the rain, and the cold. But in the evenings when I found new people, and it was from them I heard in the last of my interviews tales of grief, loss, self-doubt, joy, and purpose. It seemed that it was in the face of the end of their journeys people were able to make sense of it. There was something about the land, the weather, the point in the journey that called for introspection. Where had we come from? Where were we going? Few had answers, or at least definitive ones, but everyone, it seemed, had something. Everyone had a map.

The memory is visceral; fogged windows, warm hearths, scent of wet soil, cold fingering its way between jacket and scarf. Images of warm fires, hearty food, wine, and friends, all cloaked in the blue-grey half light of early winter with the gentle hiss and trickle of Galician drizzle come to mind, even though that wasn’t necessarily the reality. In the tiny bars and restaurants of towns like Ferreiros, Airexe, or Melide, towns that one has no reason to visit otherwise, pilgrims talked to me of their journeys physical and emotional. As I had been throughout the walk I was struck by the lack of traditionally defined religious sentiment. But then for most, Christianity, Buddhism, or indeed any form of institutionalised religion was irrelevant. Rather, what presented as meaningful was the recognised power of sharing stories, the will to push on, the need to examine life. Again and again the title of a book by Jack Kornfield came to mind; A Path With Heart. And that, I believe, is what the Camino was for most I interviewed – an attempt, or more accurately a part of the project of, finding a meaningful path in life, love, and labour.

In October, early in my walk, I commented here about the experiential aspect of the pilgrimage – that one felt as if one were a ‘maintainer’, that in the process of following the path the pilgrim leaves one – but I realise now that for many pilgrims, at a very deep personal level, the process is also cartographic. For most pilgrims on the roads to Santiago that I interviewed the pilgrimage was a part of the process of sketching the terrain for themselves, as well as finding the ways to negotiate it according to their ability. In 1978 Jonathan Z. Smith wrote that religiosity was a manifestation of the human urge for order. He understood religious thought as part of the process of mapping the social and physical universe. Maps are intended as guides only, they do not indicate The Way, but rather are tools for navigation. Thus in the wet and darkening laneways of Galicia, some thirty or so kilometres from Santiago, I began to think about cartography.

The pilgrimage to Santiago is made (by most) without a map. Directions present themselves as they are needed. Occasionally one goes down a wrong path, but it’s not long before the error is realised and corrected. For many this was a beautiful metaphor of how life ought to be lived, even if not always possible. But the real point was that it was what they felt they ought to be doing, and the power of the metaphor was not that they walked without a map, but that they walked the path with heart. They wanted to be there. And so as the spires of the cathedral in Santiago came in to view, many pilgrims felt they now held a map, not of how their life ought to go or what it ought to contain, but of how it ought to be walked, how it ought to feel – heartfelt.

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Towards End

It's an odd feeling, the end. Of course, it's never really 'The End', as such, just the finish of something and the beginnings of countless others. However, that doesn't stop you feeling loss whenever you reach one of those points. We tend to want to avoid such things as ends and goodbyes, despite their inevitability, which makes walking towards an end of something of a unique and liberating experience, especially something so great as this walk. Striding into the the end of what is, for most pilgrims, a life changing or hallmark event, familiar feelings of nostalgia and the urge to put off the inevitable arise. But the very nature of the path drives you on. There is a destination to be made, and after so long watching the waymarks wind down toward the 0km mark the thought of finishing becomes positively exciting. But this is the paradox. For a long time - over two months in my case - you have been walking towards the imaginary city of Santiago. Days filled often with wonder and exhilaration, and countless small moments with strangers who became friends, and would again become strangers, all while moving through beautiful landscape - not a type of experience one wants to willingly give up. And yet part of the tradition of the Camino is that it ends, and that this will generate feelings of sadness. This is the important bit; the emotional journey is conceived of as as fundamental to the Camino experience as the physical. So the feet step on, and the distance markers wind down (in Galicia they go so far as to mark them in 500m increments), and you walk towards the end happily, proudly. It's a lesson in acceptance and, quite unexpectedly for me, that sometimes things have a course they ought to run, and that that is good.

And you reach the end of the road.

And then you walk on.


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In Galicia

The final section of the Camino Frances leaves the long flat plains of the meseta for the forested hills and valleys of Galicia. It is a remarkable change in more ways than one, but it begins in the Montes de Leon in the junta of Castilla y Leon. After leaving Leon the Camino, as if to torment those sick of the meseta and those who abandoned it, follows the highway for 30km (literally - the path is 200m or so to the south of it... truck drivers honk their horns and wave at you as they speed by). But very quickly the land changes and the hills, which for days have been dark silhouettes on the horizon, become solid. As the path moves higher and higher the very character of the experience changes.
When I first entered Spain I had asked some Spanish pilgrims about the issues of Independence that rage there. Their answer was that for the most part it was simple - they were all Spanish. But when it came to Galicia it was unanimous that the region was somehow different. There was Spain and there was Galicia. I found that difficult to picture, despite seeing the clear difference between the Basque and the French and Spanish, but kept it in the back of my mind nonetheless. On foot the Camino, but also Spain, changes radically with the ascent of the Montes de Leon. For me this lingers in three ways - landscape, weather, and food.
I've mentioned the hills. The first of them are gentle, dry, covered at this time of year (early November) with beautiful autumn golds and browns, and quite cold. These, the Montes de Leon are also filled with mysterious little stone-built villages. As I walked through one, with my walking partner Claudio from Sardinia, I got the feeling I was in a dream, or a lost land, reminding me of some scenes from Swift's Gulliver's Travels.

The buildings were small, often looking like they had suffered decades of neglect, yet there was a magic in the air. So it somehow seemed fitting that as Claudio and I stood in the middle of one lamenting the seasonal closure of the two bars (yes two! I think the owners accounted for over half the population), a small woman, clad in rustic black cloth (wool?) approached and asked if she could help. After establishing that the bars were indeed closed she wished us well and set off (though not before Claudio, ever the dashing gentleman, had whipped from his pack a bunch of flowers for her [still have no idea where he got them... I had been walking behind him for two hours and did not see them tucked anywhere]).
Three days later, when the Galician border is finally reached the hills have another character again - this time they are steep, green, and bitterly cold. But again, the little villages through which one walks have a dream like quality. Coming down from the highest of the Camino's mountains, O Cebreiro, I remember walking slowly and with a grin, or simply slack mouthed at the simple rustic charm of the particular hamlet I was passing through - cats lazed in sunny doorways, chooks grazed on the verge, chestnut trees attacked passersby with their spine covered nuts, grey coloured buildings of slate emitted warm glowing light and rich, hearty aromas. Just to make it all the more absurd, as Claudio and I walked through one little cluster of farmhouses an old woman scrambled out of her kitchen, calling us back to her. She had a plate stacked high with pancakes made with unpasteurised milk from her cows and eggs from her chickens. She grinned toothlessly at us as we moaned our delight (lemon and sugar pancakes - yum!) and explained she liked to do this for passing pilgrim. Claudio produced another bunch of flowers from nowhere for her in payment (perhaps it's some sort of Sardinian/Italian genetic ability to do magic).
But the hills are green for a reason. Galicia is renowned for its rain, and as the Camino flowed further eastwards the skies changed from clear blue to boiling grey and wet. Being November in the Northern Hemisphere this also meant another turn of blisteringly cold days, from which the only respite were smokey bars and fire lit restaurants. Like my time early on the meseta the cold turned the walking into a race from bar to bar. And in these bars, hiding from the icy rain I discovered what is possibly the greatest peasant's food of all time (I'm willing to be challenged on this though so long as the challenge includes flying me to wherever the food is ;-).

In the little stone-built bars of Galicia I encountered Caldo Gallego, and my what a life changing experience it was. I knew it was coming, of course, but all I knew was its name and that it contained cabbage. I didn't even know it was a soup. I've tasted some of the other great dishes of the rural world - Boeuf Bourguignon, Lancashire Hotpot, and the classic Irish Stew - but this blows them all away. Imagine cold, wet winter's days with grey skies above and glistening emerald green countryside all around. You scurry into a squat grey stone building with moss covered slate roofing. Inside there's a warm fire, it's smokey (from cigarettes, cigars, and wood on the fire) and homey, and the welcome is warm and strong. You ask for some food. There is only one thing on the menu and it is ladled into a bowl and presented to you steaming, accompanied by thick artisinal bread. When you take your first mouthful you relax - it warms your insides, your heart, and somehow your soul. When you eat Caldo Gallego you eat the earth from which it was made. It sounds fanciful but there's something deeply satisfying about this dish; the hot earthy spiciness of the chorizo, the rejuvenating stodge of the potato and white beans, or the burst of vitamins and minerals from the cabbage and kale. When you finish you couldn't possibly eat another thing, but you know you have eaten healthily, and you now have the energy and courage to face the bleak but beautiful weather outside again. That's Caldo Gallego, and indeed Galicia, as I remember it.
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Messing Around, PhotoShelter, and Post-Howard Australia

Sorry for the delays on getting the last of my Camino posts up. Been pretty busy since returning home. Also, I'm playing with layouts, widgets, colours, etc. If you see a template you don't like then let me know.

On a different note, I'm proud to point all my lovely readers in the direction of my PhotoShelter Collection widget to the right. PhotoShelter are an online stock photography agency with whom I have some pictures for sale. I'm slowly going through my Camino and European photos and uploading the better ones. Go ahead and click on the window (you'll need to allow popups). It will take you to my PhotoShelter Collection mini-site, where you can buy my images. From there you can also check out some of the awesome work by photographers from all around the world that Photoshelter are managing.

In other news: I have returned home to a post-Howard Australia. After so many years of the absurd micro-managing style of government that Howard's government practiced I'm looking forward to seeing a more withdrawn style from Rudd's tenure (fingers crossed), especially in health and higher education. But most importantly Rudd has done two things that, after only four months in government, have cemented his place in history: the Australian government has now signed Kyoto, and just recently made a formal apology in parliament to indigenous Australians for the 'stolen generation' tragedy. About time, too.

You want change? Vote for it!
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Far From Boring

02/11/07
Monasterio Santa Clara
Carrion de los Condes, Spain

I’m now half way through the famed meseta. For me it is a country rich in beauty and inspiration, but for others it is a desolate, barren, boring stretch of earth. Some pilgrims even bypass it altogether, opting rather to catch a bus from Burgos to Leon to avoid the week’s worth of walking in between. I spoke to a few who were taking this option, fearing the area’s reputation for mind games and boredom. “Like a desert”, one German pilgrim I spoke to said, “I like to walk in nature and the meseta is so boring. I don’t like this, not for my holiday.” But others say that when you shy away from walking the meseta you miss out on some of the most exciting and fascinating days of the journey. Needless to say I was quite curious as to what is was exactly that provoked such polarised responses from people.

To my Australian eyes the meseta is a populous area of fertile soil and plenty of agriculture. Even here – ‘in the middle of nowhere’ – you are only ever 10-15km from a town. But I can well understand that for some Europeans it may appear empty, even forbidding. That some sections of the French route from Le Puy (particularly the Causse) are equally empty seems to slip many people’s mind (possibly because it is so heavily forested), yet for me the meseta was arrestingly beautiful.

My second day on the meseta started in the blue-grey half-light of a very cold morning in Hornillos. Despite being under four layers of clothes I was still cold as I set out for Castrojeriz. After half an hour or so, having left all my other companions behind in my attempt to get warm by walking fast(er), I found myself at the top of the plateau below which Hornillos sits. The wind, which the valley had sheltered me from, was icy and bitter. 10km of flat land gives the air a chance to really get up to speed, and its temperature to crash. But visually a tonal feast was laid out before me. The climb up had been an affair in grey – slate sky above, apparently unmoving; to left and right fields of freshly tilled earth sang of the tonal wealth of grey, the Camino itself a ribbon of yellow gravel through it all. Here on the plateau, however, the soil had changed, all-of-a-sudden becoming rich earth-red. As I arrived at the top the sun peaked above the horizon – the cloudy sky glowed apricot to the horizon and the brief direct sun lit the rude dirt.
It was glorious, and with the icy fingers of the wind beginning to grip me tightly, I walked as fast as I could and sang at the top of my lungs, all alone on the beautiful meseta.



The following day was equally stunning, though thankfully somewhat warmer. The climb out from Castrojeriz (which also sits in a valley) gave one a definitive picture of the surrounding country – flat. But again, eyes were drawn all morning to the palate of earthen hues. Had I been a painter I think I may have lingered longer than was healthy, drinking the colours in. The afternoon was no less inspiring. Shortly after leaving Boadilla the Camino runs along side the Canal Castilla to Fromista. This section (some 4km or so) was stunning. Poplars, leaves a late autumn gold, lined the canal, rustling in the fresh breeze. Alone again (companions in front and behind), I found a rhythm and walked, body on automatic. As happened so often I watched the landscape, as if my head were somehow separate from my body, drinking in the colours and little impressionist picture-scapes roll by.


My point is it’s beautiful. But it’s true, it can be a challenging place for the mind. Burgos to Leon took me seven days to walk, during which there was really only one hill and a couple of valleys. Such flat country results in a very steady marching pace, and the apparently unchanging landscape can make even short distances seem endless. The rhythmic motion of the walking body and the relentless earth and sky turn the mind inwards, possibly for days on end, and this is a great challenge for many. All I suppose, at least in some form or another.

In our everyday lives we rarely have the chance for such prolonged periods of introspection. Nor are we taught what to do when such opportunities are given us – “What do I do now?” “What should I think about?” As many meditative traditions tell us, the first thing the conscious mind likes to do when faced with only itself is start looking for distractions. It’s a crisis response, really. “This is so boring,” we tell ourselves. “Why have I spent so much money to come here and look at nothing, walking through a flat land with nothing in it?” Fingernails are cleaned, heads scratched, clothes adjusted - but all this runs out quite quickly and prompting a concert of songs sung in the head (note the rhythmic gait... the mind loves that one and capitalises on it). But with patience we regain control and can start thinking about the big issues in life. Because, after all, isn’t that what this whole enterprise is about?

On top of this is our notion of travel itself. Somewhere along the way we have come to conceive of travel to a place meaning that the place must have ‘things’ in it worth seeing. The idea that we would choose to go somewhere with ‘nothing’ disturbs us. It is material culture personified. But while we externalise the source of that disturbance, blaming it – “There’s nothing here to see… Let’s blow this joint” – the problem is, in fact, us. The lack of external stimuli leaves us with ourselves, and as a rule we don’t like ‘me’ that much. De Botton even argues that this is the eternal disappointment of all travel, the reason why the reality never looks as good as the picture in the book or the brochure. The picture doesn’t have the thing that causes us the most tension in our lives – us – and thus looks idyllic. When we go on holiday, what we are really seeking escape from is ourselves. So it is quite understandable that when faced with a situation like walking through the meseta, with 7-8 days of only ourselves for company, that our minds might embark upon a hardcore campaign of mental distraction and game playing. Anything to stop us thinking about 'me'.

Getting back to those old meditative traditions again, the common consensus is that just letting thoughts come and go is the best solution. But like the empty land the empty mind seems to be a thing feared. We go to great lengths in order to avoid the terrible peace of quiet. This is classic meseta syndrome and has been responsible for many a bus ticket purchase. The secret is to just keep walking. Jack Kornfield, an American Buddhist and writer, wrote that the conscious mind is like a puppy. To train it to be quiet requires patience and repeatedly bringing it back every time it wanders. The beautiful, empty, flat land, the rhythmic gait, and the cascades of uncalled for thoughts make the meseta far from boring. Sure it’s hard work mentally (and emotionally), but then the whole Camino is hard work. If anything it’s full on, life at high speed, your life in an opportunity to experience it in ways that few of us will have again. The meseta can help present it to you, so take it, it’s yours.
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Like a Friend Expected/Sonic Tonic

27/10/07
Grañon, Spain

It's cold now. Starting to move into the 'properly cold' territory. The next few days walk will take me higher and closer to the open, cold meseta - the giant plateau of central northern Spain. While at only around 800m, the lack of nearby ocean and the vast openness of the land means that bitter cold is likely to be my companion for the next two weeks.
The refugio I am in tonight is simply beautiful in a staying-in-the-bell-tower-of-the-church rustic kind of way - everything done with an old school ascetic functionality in mind; mattresses on floors, open fire, long wooden dining table. Gryffindor Tower comes to mind, too, especially because of the immediately close friendship offered. So, it's also beautiful because of the warmth of the welcome I received when I arrived. The French hospitalero couple looking after this place greeted me with smiles and comfort as if I were a friend expected. I find myself reminded of Athos, in Greece - that same Christian welcome and sense of ascetic homeliness. I'm touched by it, by the simple humanity of it.
As I write the husband, who is cooking tonight, is quizzing his wife on what spices he needs to add to the soup. In front of me a small fire crackles quietly in the large fireplace, somehow throwing plenty of heat into the room (along with a fair bit of smoke). In the background a CD of Gregorian chants plays, and its haunting chords and melodies feel right at home here. It is a music that speaks of ascetic life of long cold winters and purpose.
This is very much a journey of simplicity - forced and desired. Needs are simple: bed, food, water, warmth, Way markers. In the context of looking after these immediate needs the plethora of superfluous, vain, or simply bored ones drops away. The experience is both liberating and enlightening. The 'stuff' one tends to imagine one needs for life loses much of its provenance and begins to float untethered in the mind, eventually drifting off into the distance. The demonstrated, experienced simplicity of life gives one hope; "You know, I think I really can be happy. It doesn't actually take that much... And all this time I thought I couldn't... Huh." Freed of the mundane (which I actually suspect is the stuff we often don't need, largely) the mind turns both inward and outward. Important questions, sometimes long neglected, come into undistracted focus, and the small beauties of the physical world are regarded.
Likewise, one's fellow pilgrim becomes of great concern - their health, their happiness (here and at home). It is a care that somehow many of the hospitaleros share. I don't know how they do it, day after day, new face after new face. It is a life of service (although most are volunteers for a few weeks at a time only). Like many who give their time to others, the couple here told me they draw great joy, a deep personal joy, from their time of service here, despite the stress it sometimes brings. But I think it also is a life of purpose, driven by the simple needs of fellow pilgrims, fellow human beings; warmth of house and welcome for weary beings, food and water for hungry bellies, and bedding for tired bodies. But somewhere in the dynamic of care there there arises something that nourishes both fed and feeder. Reduced to such simple needs acts of kindness uncalled for or friendship unearned glow like fire, and it is clear that the unadorned light falls on both.
It seems as though the act of care is as important for the carer as for their often anonymous charge.

29/10/07
Burgos, Spain

Today I took 80,000 steps. At the end there was music, laughter, dancing, and singing. Inhibitions often seem temporarily vanquished as the sun goes down each day, by weariness, by friendship. Now there is silence, like that between songs, as the pilgrims make their daily chores - bathing, washing, tending to feet. Some write in diaries, some in emails, but now the music is over people go about it refreshed. The songs were like tonics, and we drank them, all.

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