Via Podiensis
In early May 2012, I decided to walk the Camino, the route leading across France to Saint Jacques de Compostelle or Santiago in Spain.
I began to prepare for this while I was in Malta, on the island of Gozo, where Beth and I were attending the foundation course in BioGeometry, given by Kris Attard.
Every morning at sunrise I set out to walk around the island. Gozo is rather small, so the walk was not long but involved hills and rocky paths. In under an hour I built up a sweat and felt good after a shower and breakfast before we were seated in the training room. We were there for a week.
The year 2012 was the third anniversary of Ronalds’ disappearance’ and it was also the year of the long-awaited ‘shift’. The ‘shift’ had been referred to and anticipated ever since I become acquainted with the wisdom teachings and started delving into the intriguing information on the Mayan Calendar among other sources.
It seemed appropriate to undertake my personal Camino during this auspicious time. It was likely to be a transformative experience, coming face to face with myself after the dramatic unfolding over the few years prior to and after Ronald’s death.
I had 17 days from 1 June until when I planned to start my journey from Le Puy en Velais – one of four routes across France culminating in St Jean Pieds du Port at the foot of the Pyrenees, which marked a significant threshold. From there pilgrims climbed the grueling mountain track to Roncesvalles in Spain and continued on the route through to Santiago.
I knew that I did not want to be walking in Spain in August so decided that I would stop wherever I had arrived on 31 July. This gave me approximately six and a half weeks.
Beth had walked the route from Le Puy en Velais with a group of friends a couple of years previously on her retirement from the International Labour Organisation (ILO), immediately after we had shared the ‘Women in the Wild’ vision quest in the Cedarberg mountains in South Africa. So, I was going to follow in her footsteps, with her advice and helpful information.
We travelled down to Le Puy en Velais by train from Geneva and gave ourselves the weekend in this charming town. I planned to set off on Sunday after the farewell blessing to pilgrims in the Cathedral.
I had registered the day before and had my credencialis[1], maps, guidebooks and the mandatory coquille Saint Jaques tied and dangling from my rucksack, which was too heavy already – I could tell from the looks of the more seasoned pilgrims in the train. Later I would post more than 9 kgs back in a box, but for the first leg I was lumbered.
I can remember the ‘departure’ path well. Only about 30 meters up from the street and then it turned at right angles and continued upward with a gentle rise but out of view behind dense undergrowth. Just before it turned, I stopped and turned to wave to my companion Beth at the roadside, so aware of what I was embarking on and the portent of what lay in store.
Although the Camino is a path well-travelled by millions of pilgrims, for each individual who steps onto it, it becomes the ‘path less travelled’. It offers everyone the possibility of personal growth and transformation.
As soon as I took the path and started walking up the slight gradient under a lovely tree cover, I could see figures ahead of me – small with different coloured rucksacks, poles and hats. My body started to get into a rhythm, my breathing more regular and I sensed the oxygen moving through my bloodstream to my muscles, which would be severely tested over the next six weeks.
Arriving at my first stop for the night I was already aware of blisters. So much to learn. My socks seemed to be too thick or my feet had swollen, or both.
I bathed my feet in warm water in one of the bowls obviously provided for that purpose and was aware of the sympathetic and knowing looks from the assembled more experienced camino walkers. Several offered advice in French. Around the table with generous helpings of thick potage they shared their day, in French. I was grateful that I could understand and participate. This was to be the pattern for the next six weeks.
My guidebook gave details of the Via Podiensis GR65 route and what one could expect to find on the way – contours, gradient, forest and steep climbs up or down through mountains. And most importantly, depending on the number of kilometers I decided to attempt based on this information, a range of different types of accommodation at various stops along the way.
These started with basic gites with collective shower and toilet facilities where the main option was sharing rooms with up to 12 beds. Sometimes there were possibilities for 4-person-sharing and occasionally doubles. I could also choose to opt for a private room in an Auberge depending on my need, and then have the luxury of a soaking bath. I gave myself this privilege at least once or twice a week.
I was pleased to be walking with my own company without any pressure to keep up with the group and complete the day’s walk to meet up at a specific place. I felt freedom creeping in to my tired and aching muscles. A whole new series of muscles I had not been aware of before… in my arms, shoulders, neck and my back. Everything was alive… but aching.
My breath came into my awareness very early in my journey. The rhythm established in my breathing became one with the rhythm of my stride and the swinging of my poles as I set out each morning as early as I could at sunrise.
I would hear other pilgrims ready themselves heaving rucksacks over shoulders well before the sun broke over the horizon. And then I settled into my little ritual which involved negotiations with my feet. The blisters which had appeared on day one were to be my constant companions for what turned out to be 770 kilometers across France.
So, every morning I checked the condition of my heels and each toe and did the necessary bandaging of individual digits coaxing my feet into the thin socks which could accommodate the bandaged layers. At some stage, perhaps after only a week or so, I tied up my boots which now dangled from the bottom of my rucksack and began to walk in sandals. For about one third of the journey or more I walked in sandals.
I saw my shadow on the ground with my wide-brimmed hat and poles and hanging boots and was struck by how quickly I had absorbed the essence of the pelerine.
There was one misty morning which is forever engraved in my memory.
I had arrived at a farm the evening before and was generously fed with soup, bread and cheese with wine. After a good night’s sleep (I think I even had my own room), I prepared to take my leave – my feet snug in their sandals, and stepped out into the mist and slightly chilled air.
A beautiful scene as the path curved across the meadow and up into a tree covered section, beckoning. I could feel a quiet and peaceful calm settling in me and an anticipation in my cells as my body stirred in readiness for the 18 or 19 kilometres I’d mapped out for myself for the day. Arriving at the open meadow some distance from the farmhouse, I stopped and looked around.
A figure was approaching from the opposite direction where the mist was still circling, and I waited in the early morning sun in no rush to get ahead of him. A man appeared – with his broad-brimmed hat and staff the image of the timeless typical pelerin who has walked this way for centuries. He stopped and looked kindly at my sandaled feet and at me. I noticed his beautiful shining blue eyes. A beautiful man actually. I felt pleased he had stopped and was only a metre in front of me. ‘Bonjour, je suis Dominic’ he offered.
‘Bonjour, je m’appelle Marni’ I answered.
Then there was a pause, quite a long pause, as the gaze from those beautiful shining blue eyes penetrated mine. I could feel some shivers building up along my spine which then spread across my skin surface, when he said quietly, ‘Bonjour, Marilyn’ and then turned and silently continued up the path and into the woodlands.
Speechless, I took this stranger’s greeting into my being. How on earth? Up till now I had introduced myself when required as Marni.
And now a stranger had called me clearly by my name, Marilyn. And so Marilyn continued on her path and it fitted and felt more and more comfortable as French pilgrims called out to me as I hobbled along: ‘Ça va, Marilyn?’ and ‘Ça va mieux, Marilyn?’
I felt myself allowing ‘Marilyn’ to move in, slip into the driver’s seat and begin to steer this process of Self-discovery, the next phase of ‘getting to know myself’.
[1] The pilgrim’s passport, which needed to be stamped at each stop along the way.