The last weeks of blisters, pain and long distances were no small effort, but the journey itself unfolded without any planning effort. It just became what it was.
I am carried along, from day to day, on waves of expansion, contraction, stasis — finding what is right for me in the moment. One day, 30km feels like a stroll in the park, and the next day, 15km feels like a marathon. It all depends on mood, pain levels, breakfast quality and company.
It is blissful to have a blister competently treated, and forget all about it the next day of walking. And very rewarding to competently treat someone else’s blisters, and be reminded they are not in pain the next day either.
My body adapts quickly, and is also quick to complain when its limits are exceeded. A walking stick can be used like a kayak paddle to help climb uphill. Walking on sand is more gentle on the feet than walking on tarmac. Walking on pebbles can seem like a gentle foot massage in the morning, and exquisite torture by evening.
Other pilgrims’ rustling of plastic bags are as good an alarm as any for waking up between 7am and 7.30am in albergues. Silver foil blankets can be mistaken by one’s subconscious mind as the abovementioned alarm, and it’s no fun to wake up at 2am, 2.20am, 4am and 5.35am when the person under the silver foil tosses and turns.
I really don’t need many things. Boots, some quick drying layers of clothing, a sleeping bag, toothbrush, soap, water and a chorizo sausage could get me through most days. It is possible to get extremely sunburnt on one’s nose in February in northern Spain.
There are way more heart-shaped pebbles in the world than I could ever have imagined.
Smiling at local people and greeting them in their language almost always gets a greeting in return. When it does not, it’s equally interesting. Reading people’s funny comments on walls and signs makes me feel connected to humanity.
Everything seems so interconnected, creating wider and wider circles of change, ideas, inspiration.
