I fondly recall an occasion once, where just aimlessly browsing I came across a picture of a this little white dog, a Westie, that in a rare opportune moment had found it’s freedom. It was running down the road like its life depended on it. It had obviously never enjoyed the freedom that many other dogs enjoyed. That little housedog seemed to have had enough of the house, the familiar little garden or pen he had been imprisoned in. Perhaps a new postman, or the negligent or hasty delivery man had presented him with this rare moment where he could stretch his legs, and not knowing or caring where is adventure would head, decided to for it.
Just before leaving the comfortable apartment on the cobbled street that lead us out of Portomarin, we all agreed to go easy.
With various supportive straps, appendages and a rainbow of kinesiology tape applied, we agreed one simple and common aim, to go nice and slowly and make it in one piece to Palais De Rei, our next stop over.
I cannot really explain what drew me to break rank the way I then did.
I may have felt somewhat restricted by the idea of a notable slower pace, or maybe it was the checks and rechecks to ensure we had all we needed for the day ahead?
Perhaps I was spooked by the sizeable gathering of adrenalin charged peregrinos, busying about, cameras at the ready, recording one group selfie after another?
But if this was so, why had I volunteered my services as Mr friendly and helpful to the various individuals and groups posed around me?
l may never know why, but with a firm grip on my new walking poles (purchased the evening before) I headed off just like that little dog in the picture. With the poles providing extra balance and stability my pace quickened. The rhythm they clicked out called me onwards then, onwards again. I checked back once or twice only to see no reciprocation from the rest of the party who had kept to our plan to take things easy.
I was shadowed by two young German women over the long bridge leading out of Portomarin. They more than matched my pace over the narrow bridge and had me doubting my ability to sustain this explosive start to the day. My fears relieved when soon after the crossing and arriving at the foot of the days first climb, one of them stopped to take walking poles from her bag and the other went down on one knee to re-tie her boot laces. This enabled me to adjust to a more appropriate pace. This was a good more considering the steep elevation that lay ahead and the fact that we still awaited daylight.
I generally do not mind the hills, and I welcomed this opportunity to challenge myself. My knee had been getting painful towards the end of the previous day and I was glad of the opportunity to test it’s capabilities.
I attacked that first hill of the day with fervour and enjoyed marching triumphantly past those I could. I noted the rise in my inner anger monitor, as others from time, to time kept me in my place by effortlessly gliding past me.
One of those was a large framed young man, with bushy dark hair. I had heard the thud of his tall stout wooden stick before and was irked by his lound whistling as he moved along in a world of his own.
I recognised him from the previous afternoon the loud, chatty fellow at the centre of a group of young people who effortlessly walked past us as we approached the high steps into Portomarin. I envied their strength and energy and was served a timely reminder that I was in my sixtieth year.
As he disappeared into the early morning mist, the climb eventually ended, albeit temporarily, and I could now only relax in my beautiful surroundings. The familiar, hypnotic crunch of the gravel beneath my boots soothed my pace and I developed an awareness, that I was now journeying inward as well, totally oblivious to those around and with me.
The haptic vibration on my Garmin indicated that I was now three miles from Portomarin, three miles into my own personal way for the day.
My body by now was now seeking sustinence, so I promised it some food and a “Sit down break” around the five mile point as close to the village of Gonzar as I could find. We were entering “Closed season” and I worried that there might be nowhere to stop before the significant hilly terrain leading to Hospital De La Cruz.
I countered this with thoughts of sipping the days fist Cafe Con leche and biting into my customary warm sweet Pair au chocolat.
l was at peace with myself again could have walked on all day, happy in my own company enveloped in such beautiful surroundings.
But if the Camino is ultimately reflective of life’s journey, as many have come to believe it is, then we know all moments (good and bad ) are transcient and changes come, welcome or not.
And so my glorious solo-run soon came to an end, and with it exposure to those little daily challenges life presents us with.
As I drooled over all that would be good about the forthcoming breakfast I was jolted from my dream by that now familiar, but unwelcome sound. Once more I recognised the tinny thud of a thick stout walking stick from behind me. I don’t know how I managed it, but somehow, I had managed to get in front of the large mega-haired youth who had passed me an hour or so earlier. I didn’t have to turn around to check I knew it was him. He was making a habit of it. Unable to outrun him, I moved to the side to allow him right of way and to get this this humiliation over with as quickly as I could. However this much used plan of mine did not work this time, as the youth had actually slowed his pace to fall into line with mine.
As I looked to my right hand I could see him looking straight at me. He greeted me so warmly and with such a positive energy that I automatically but unconsciously returned his greeting
What happened next, I can only describe as a little bit of that old Camino magic. Two previously unknown individuals fell into into deep conversation like they had known each other their whole lives.
It took a while for this fast-moving giant and myself to adjust to a comfortable and common pace where we could easily chat as we walked. He introduced himself as Lorenzo from Como in Italy. This his first Camino had been inspired by his two older brothers, with a little financial help from his dad. A family tradition had developed whereby when they reached eighteen years, dad gave them a certain sum of money and invited them to do the Camino, to go on pilgrimage to Santiago.
Lorenzo had started walking in St. Jean Pied de Port, and now some four and a half weeks later was in his last few days of walking. He teased me that I had cheated by starting in Sarria, but afterwards ensured me that he was only joking, especially when I revealed that this was my fourth Camino. He enthused about his trip and how much he was enjoying it. His highlight was not limited to one place or single experience but he had appreciated all the people he had met and the stories he had heard. I could sense a great wisdom in him, and despite his ability to talk of himself, he also had that rare ability to listen. He talked of the great freedom he was experiencing and how he had enjoyed the physical challenge so much, despite never being into sports. He confessed to frittering away much of time as a gamer and that he had never imagined he would find so much peace, love and joy on this “super long walk”. We walked together for about an hour or so and in truth we had said all we needed to say to each other when we came to a busy, well organised Cafe which we both agreed would be our breakfast stop.
As I look back on the reasons I chose to do this Camino, one that surfaces time and again is the fact that in a few weeks I will turn sixty years of age. The digits six and zero seem to loom over me in some kind of Dickensian fashion, like some Ghost of Christmas to come. I at times project much too far into the future and often fear becoming a helpless immobile old man and losing my independence. Perhaps the ghosts of the past tease and torment me and gnaw at my confidence levels as I drift back to a time when I was (albeit temporarily) immobile, unable to get around or to feed and dress myself. This followcel a serious cycling accident and as I recovered, I found myself running from the wreckage and fallout from that time. I hiked, ran, cycled and swam as far as I could, trying to recover lost time, lost years and experiences that had eluded me. 0nce again that morning, I found myself running, running like someone had left the gate open.
My brother-in-law, along with his wife, had joined my wife and I on this trip. He had been my cycling partner that morning of that accident and had in fact been injured more severely than I had been. During our years of recovery we never spoken much of that horrific experience of eighteen years previously. Was this the reason for my uneasiness in Portomarin that morning? Was there some need to try and outrun my past again? Or did I need to show how well I had recovered, and flaunt my independence?
I wasn’t sure how to take Lorenzo’s last words to me as at that cafe he was reunited with a small group of walkers he had met back in O’ Cebrero.
As we parted, he told me he had noticed me along the trail the day before and had drawn inspiration from me. He confessed a great wish of his was that he too could still walk the Camino when he was my age.
Soon after I was reunited with my own little group and enjoyed a long slow breakfast.
Following breakfort, a much more peaceful and contented version of myself took to the trail again and I pondered Lorenzo’s final words deep within as we travelled on together to Palais De Rei.
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