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Published: August 27th 2007
Church Hall
Another church, another town, and another pilgrimShortly after nine in the morning on August 9th, 2007 I took my first steps on Le Chemin de Saint Jacques de Compostelle. I was on The Way, and up and out of Le-Puy-en-Velay the hills climbed. They took me onto a plateau and instantly I was in the French countryside. Here, clouds came closer to the earth and fields rolled along with their grains of harvest. Cylindrical bails of hay were stacked in open country and tractors groaned through the quiet of the day. Slowly, I came upon my fellow pilgrims who attended the morning’s mass, as well as others who had not. We exchanged French pleasantries, spoke briefly in our first day’s excitement and proceeded walking our separate paces. One man I met was German. He started his pilgrimage some years back from Nuremburg and each summer he took three weeks of his holidays to etch towards Santiago de Compostella.
“Where are you heading this year?” I inquired.
“Figeac. And then, I must return to work.” He paused and took a breath. With a large pack, a camera strapped to his chest, a shoulder bag carrying his heavy water bottle, and a walking
pole in each palm, he appeared to have his hands full. “Maybe,” he continued, “I will reach Compostella in a few more years. Maybe.”
Throughout the day, my walking was endless. I took few breaks and discovered the water fountains en route. There, I satiated my bladder with what was left in my bottle, filled up, stretched my arms above the head feeling my spine crack beneath the backpack’s compression, and then continued. Towards the end of the day, I reached Saint Privet and rested along a stone embankment. With a small wheel of fresh goat cheese, I was content and decided this would be a fine location to carry out the day.
Along Le Chemin, I carry no book or map. I have no idea where I’m going, except west, and have no idea where I’ll end up. I don’t have a clock or a watch, and so I move until I come to an end point—my body fatigued, my feet swollen within their soles.
Just out of Saint Privet, I found a small hill, alone without fields or livestock. There, I set up my tent and began to stretch my bones, muscles and
joints back into alignment. Afterwards, I was shocked at my rejuvenation, and so sat down to write and read. This was day one, and as I began to learn: such is The Way.
Coming Into Routine Days fall into the next. I reach a routine and a constant pace. In the morning I rise with the sun. I pack my tent and gear, brush my teeth and take my leave from whatever field or forest I find myself in. Without a map or a guidebook, things feel simpler. I follow the signs, bright white and red horizontal stripes that mark the GR 65. In topographical terms this is The Way, and upon trees, fence posts, electrical poles and signs these markings can be found as long as I keep my head up and my awareness keen.
To me, the white and red colors become a lifeline. If I stray, I’m lost and must backtrack. But if I keep my eyes scanning the terrain ahead of me and to the side, I’ll be safe. Yes, I’ll be on my way: a full 1600 kilometers from Le-Puy-en-Velay in the Massif Central region of France to Santiago de Compostella in
northwestern Spain.
In the first week, the land is mountainous. Surrounding me are lush woods and verdant fields. They climb up and down endlessly, bending me at the waist where I tuck my thumbs into my pack’s shoulder straps. It is up and down, through the landscape and into small country villages where fountains (or
eau potable) permit the passerby to quench his or her thirst. And then onward.
Slowly, I begin to feel the weight on my shoulders, and each day is different. Suddenly, from the first steps it becomes my back. Like a sack of potatoes, the terrain keeps adding more and more harvest upon my back, and slowly, as though with paternal persistence, each one begins to sprout into me. The roots pierce my skin and wrap around my spine. They twist and grab hold, cracking new vertebrae and restructuring the body’s support. I come to feel like an old temple of Angkor Wat: In the Cambodian jungle, hot and sticky beneath the weight, I become contorted from the growth of the flora’s roots as they shift and rearrange the bones within me. But there’s nothing to do except move on and not forget to
Thought
A Pilgrim among the boulders. It's a time of walking with the space of nothing but thought and reflection. Such is The Way breathe. It is then I find my first mantra to break this physical realm:
Temporary pain is good for the Soul. Temporary pain is good for the Soul. Nature’s Findings Being alone and dependent upon myself, I learn how to nurture and care for my mind and body. Food is abundant along the trails. Overhead, apples in the hot sun hang before me. Their boughs stretch beyond locals’ fences and find their way into my hands. I eat when I come upon a full tree, plucking them off their nodes and discovering the sweetest to be lying on the ground, camouflaged within the grasses. Soon, my shoulder bag is full with ripe apples, crisp and sweet, warm on the outside but cool within the inner flesh. I’m careful to spare the worms and stick to a vegetarian lifestyle.
Yes, there are apples and pears, as well as tangy blackberries and a variety of trees depositing the most succulent
prunes—so called in French. To my common vernacular, they are plums, but much smaller and less robust. I am on The Way in prime summer season. The fruits are abundant, especially these prunes. Wherever I walk, through whatever
Waterways
Crossing the bridge and into the fields terrain or degree of weather, prune trees scatter their savory morsels upon the land. The fruits are squashed beneath the pilgrim’s progress and their open pits and rotting flesh carpet black asphalt. Bees and wasps hover over their sweet odors and instantly I take to their liking.
While walking and being alone for the hours of day and night, I find small ideals within my environment to keep me occupied: from searching for the next sign along the trail to collecting fruit and discovering the sweetest prune. I come to like what the honeybees prefer—this fallen prune. Upon the ground it lays, absorbing the summer’s heat from the earth. In a way, these prunes taste like the prunes I am familiar with—a silky sweet, dried plum with a flesh rich in a syrup consistency. More than once during the days do I fall to the ground as well, joining these lost prunes of the loom. With my handkerchief as a basket, I collect the nestling sweets, inspecting them for their wholeness and finding the warmest ones to be the most fermented, the richest in texture and flavor.
These are the bags of fruit, the amenities supplied
by Nature along The Way. Only on rare days is there a need to walk into a market, or stroll into a
boulangerie for the baguette. But these moments are as equally enjoyable as my wild foraging and gathering. One cannot go wrong with French country bread and fresh tomatoes and cheese for a little solidity within the diet.
Arduous Measures Day after day—they meshed into one. The days are beautiful: rain for the first three, but a deep blue sky and the brilliance of sunlight immediately afterwards. Though the rains do fall intermittently, and so I throw over a poncho to protect my gear and carry onwards. As the days pass on and my gear absorbs the beatings of the elements, necessities soon wear thin.
First, it is my shoes. They degrade to a fine mist, both rubber soles and fabric. I begin to feel the sharp rocks pierce into my feet, as well as mere pebbles and sticks. Next, the heels detach themselves from the fabric and I half-heartedly limp onward as if I am wearing strapped sandals a few sizes too large. In each town I request for the shoe store.
“
Ici?” is the common response. “
Mais non! C’est une village. Il y a rien ici. Pas un magasin de chaussure.”
Each town is more a village, simple and basic, most without a complete market of supplies. But they all mentioned one word. “
Espalion! Espalion!”
Yes, it is Espalion, and I soon learn that it will be not the next village, but the next town—an epicenter of commerce. So, like lightning, my feet quicken and in a few days’ time I am in Espalion in the Lot region of France. Alas, my feet are satisfied with a proper pair of sandals.
With new shoes and socks, with enough food and a widening tear in my shorts, as well as a continuous pain in my back and shoulders from the backpack’s improper support, these issues seem like a walk in the park in comparison to my nightly experiences. There is no denying that it is cold at night. And there is no denying that my expectations did not reach this understanding prior to my departure. Yes, it would be summer, with the ideal summer days and the comfort of the summer nights. But no… not even
close. It is freezing when the moon rises, and equipped with a mere blanket, the evenings are the most dreaded moments. If only they were not necessary, skipped over like a puddle on dry ground.
After the day’s arduous efforts of walking, I fall to sleeping with the onslaught of dusk. Here the temperatures drop sharply and continue to do so until the sun is well risen the following day. I learn to sleep with all my clothing, topped with my blanket and then poncho. My body does heat up with these layers; however, both the waterproof poncho and rain-fly covering the tent act as a biodome, trapping the moisture inside. Thence, warmed by my body heat, but moistened by the humidity within the tent, I soon become chilled as breezes sweep underneath the rain-fly and through the mesh into the tent.
In the hours of dark, I awake. I am sweating from the heat trapped onto me from the poncho, but at the same time I am freezing from the outside elements that find their way into my shelter. Add the rough ground of a tilled field or wild forest… my body twists and turns, spinning
Under a Shadow of Conques
Conques, France and the steep climb out of the village for a view. throughout the night in exhaustion. Each morning, I am up with dawn, weary and swollen in the face from an hour or two of actual, real time sleep. This, by all means, is not sufficient.
In the continued chill and upon the wet dew of morning, I pack quickly to warm myself, and then I am off—another day, another mile to clock.
The Sky Cracks & I’m Struck In all, I quickly feel my body tiring. I am walking an estimated 40-45 kilometers a day. That comes to about 25 miles. I walk in pace, a meditation of continuation where I stop every few hours to either fill my water bottle or pick the fruit surrounding me. Quickly, I feel myself hardening. My mind, body and spirit are losing their finesse, so to speak. They are toughening into the hid of the bear, becoming firmer in order to handle and cope with the conditions I am creating—the diet of fruit, the hours of constant walking, the restless nights in the cold, and the lack of grounding from my day-to-day movements over the past three months and counting. I am on the go, and it is beginning
Saint Jacques
Saint James and the inspiration of a pilgrim to take a toll. But I push and I resist, for I am on The Way, and such is The Way, or so I think.
Suddenly, it strikes me. My pack is digging into my body; my equipment in which I carry for photography and writing appears more and more absurd. Pile on the fatigue, the push and the pull in which I force my body to move and my mind to succumb to, and this constant movement over the past three months. I have no home, except a plot of rough land a day ahead of me, and soon I find myself wishing I have no body—this burden of weight I haul.
Yes, it strikes—my second mantra as I walk onward and down into Cahors:
Less is more. Less is more.
Suddenly as I find a shelter, the sky opens up, and for the next two days it continues, saturating The Way alongside Saint James. I take up a bit of luxury and check myself into a youth hostel for two nights. I have a bed for the first time in months, and best of all, I take my first shower in over two weeks, yet things continue to fall apart. I realize… in ten days I have walked an approximated 500 kilometers.
Why? is my question.
to be continued...
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Katie Kruger
non-member comment
Your Pilgrimage
Here's to follow-through! I distinctly remember you telling me ten months ago (TEN MONTHS AGO ALREADY!) about your dream of following Coelho's Pilgrimage. Safe travels and happy walking!