To be a pilgrim

Lesley Morris writes about walking the Camino

In the summer I walked the Camino Portugués. I walked from Porto, starting along the coastal route, then moving on to the central route, directly north up to Santiago, where, at the end of the journey, I went to the pilgrims’ office and received my ‘Compostela’. This is a sort of ‘certificate of completion’ given by the church to those who have ‘completed’ the Pilgrimage. The distance we covered this time was about 270 kilometres.

This is my third Compostela. My first was the Camino Francés, then Camino Finisterre and now the Camino Portugués.

What takes me back again and again? The world is full of wonderful walks. Why is this different? Why do I get drawn back? What is it that makes this a Pilgrimage?

It is not just a long walk with an interesting history, fascinating encounters, and a wonderful and varied landscape. Having walked different bits of the Camino now, though by no means all of it, I believe deeply in the ‘spirit of place’. I believe that the path has its own influence on the people who walk it.

These paths have been trodden for hundreds of years by people out in the world enjoying an adventure, but also deeply concerned about ‘that which is greater’ than ourselves – which is joined to (and belongs to) an invisible stirring, deep inside us, that longs to mirror and shine with this spirit.

With such long distances walked day after day, step after step, thoughts have time to revolve. There is time to dwell on things, time to extend my thoughts and then come back again, to turn those thoughts round to be inspected and measured, and then to settle.

Simple, not easy

We only have the one job to do: get up and walk – follow the yellow arrows. It is simple, but not easy. There are no other calls on our time – our task is to get up in the morning and head for Santiago. But as we do this, our path also leads us into ourselves. We encounter many others heading in the same direction, and are often surprised at how differently we all do this one thing.

It is important to look after oneself physically. If I am OK, I can help my companions if needed. Twice now I have had to guide my companion and test my Spanish in pursuit of antibiotics. (I will never travel without them again.) Care starts with the feet, of course. The sharing of bandages and footcare on the Camino is wonderful to experience. A common sight is the wrapping of bandages, the passing of foot balm, and careful feet washing and tending…

It is interesting how differently we all do the same tasks; how varied we are, although we all have broadly the same needs. We hang out our washing, pack our rucksacks, bandage our feet. We share meals and sometimes dormitories. I ask myself how much I need the help of others. How much can I help them in return? How much do I need to chat? Or just listen to other people’s stories? How much do I crave silence – to walk and keep my consciousness in my eyes, to look at and wonder at the world? I know I need both interaction with others and periods of quiet, this gives me the chance to explore the balance. We are a gregarious species and there is an excitement in being part of a group travelling to the same place. ‘I feel a bit like a wildebeest,’ I think one day when I reflect on this herd-like aspect of my nature. It makes me smile.

Walking the Camino tests my tolerance – time and again. When we had been walking for a week, we met a new group who had started from a different point. They were excited and ‘hyper’, and brought with them the world we had recently left behind. They filled the air with loud laughs and sat around drinking rather a lot at the Albergue.

I felt a touch of scorn watching this and thought it was rather over the top. I had to remind myself that, of course, I have behaved like that! I have taken on the role of ‘class clown’, or been ‘the life and soul of the party’. I have been over-excited and annoying. I have been loud and unthinking. This is also me.

All this time, whilst being called into myself, I was sustained and upheld by the beauty of simple things. The flowers along ‘the way’ impinged on me more and more – foxgloves, calla lilies, poppies, modest little marguerites and many others I don’t know the name of. The further we went the more beautiful they seemed to be – especially at sunrise when we set off to walk five miles or so before a hearty breakfast. More bocadillos? Yes, and they taste wonderful – especially when you walk out of the dawn and into the day to get them.

My body responded to the walk in its own way – a response that then filtered gently into my understanding of myself. ‘My bones love this,’ I said to my friend. I am aware of my strength – not my fitness, but actual inner body strength. I love to walk the earth. It brings me delight, even sweating up a steep hill at midday. I ‘go into bottom gear’ and trudge, and somewhere in me I recognise that the human animal I am is responding to this effort. I feel my heart beat, my hunger, I feel my aching muscles and am joyful in my ‘aliveness’, knowing it deeply with body and heart together – it is so simple and yet so hard.

Throughout the journey it seems as if the churches point to heaven. There is always a reminder of the Spirit with a thousand names. Some of the churches are, I think, hideously over-decorated and oppressive. Others are clear and clean. Some feel as if they are full of something. Others, I think, seem empty and depressing.

Well, that’s ok, they are made by mankind striving to capture the invisible – an impossible task, knowing that what works for one will never work for all. But this reminds me of what we are all striving toward. Every time I hear my own critical voice I try to enter the discussion with a smile. There is plenty of time and many opportunities to practise!

The Camino teaches me things I know, and have known for many years maybe, but forget. Things fade and need to be newly impressed to keep them alive. For me this walk is full of daily revelations. It is like watching fireworks. It is hard to grasp the sparks but the image lingers, leaving its impression on the night sky.

Happiness and tears

This time, when I arrived in Santiago, full of happiness and exultation after I received my compostela, I headed for the pilgrims’ chapel. I sat in a pew watching pictures flash across a screen set up there – wonderful photographs taken by a pilgrim along the way.

Tears began to rise in me, prompted by the beauty of the physical world, the music playing in the chapel, the fact of the journey ‘ending’ and the transient nature of things. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I was in floods of tears. They felt unstoppable. The last time I was in Santiago, my husband was with me. He is now dead following a tragic accident. I began to glimpse another, even deeper, transition that I had been going through as I walked.

This transition is still revealing itself to me, slowly. It will take a long time yet. Not all the Camino’s work is done whilst you are walking it. The affects on the psyche continue for months, sometimes years after the physical journey is over.

I must be patient and wait for the yellow arrows to appear through the mist and sadness that cloud them in my mind at the moment. But I owe the Camino much – it has taught me how to carry seemingly overwhelming feelings a long way, and also how to put them down, sit and rest with them, then pick them up and find them a little lighter to carry.

I will be going back.

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