There are a myriad of paths that lead through Europe all winding towards Santiago De Compestella, and twice in my life now I have found myself on two of them. Both times were after the untimely deaths of first my father in 1999 and then my mother in 2010. First at 25 I set out as a girl over the Pyrenees across Spain and now at 35 as a woman, walking alone through the fields of France on the route from Le Puy En Velay - my way to remember, to grieve, to celebrate.
I set off on the 6th of May this year to walk 800km from Le Puy En Velay in France down to St Jean Pied Du Port where I started my father's pilgrimage eleven years ago. It was a journey to honour my mother and to complete the path I began all those years ago. Trying to capture the experience in words is a daunting task as the overwhelmingly sensory experience that is the Le Puy Route seems to elude adequate description. The narrow country paths, ancient crumbling villages, rambling rose bushes, acres of Chestnut and Oak forests, rolling hills and fields raked like zen gardens and an eternity of wild flowers dancing in the sun. Long solitary days in the wild with only the call of a cuckoo to keep me company as I walked through dappled forests, along winding rivers and across stretching fields. I felt like my heart and soul would burst wide open in the adundance of bustling life along the path. Shiny scurrying beetles, forests dripping ferns and moss, herds of gentle grazing cows and everywhere poppies staining the fields red.
I found myself lost in time and culture. My fellow pilgrims were mainly French and the biggest gift of this journey was being able to hold a decent conversation in French within three weeks of walking. I was immersed in the country, its people and its food. Long communal dinners shared with families - flagons of wine, rough broken baguettes, fresh green salads, local cheeses and deserts all accompanied by french folk songs and laughter. Alone yet completely part of the tapestry that makes up a pilgrim path - welcomed with open arms, sign language and wholesome food. I got used to breakfasts of baguettes and home made jams with steaming coffee drunk out of soup bowls; picnic lunches in the fields soaking up the beauty around me and dinners each night at a new table with new faces yet a sense of timeless belonging.
My pilgrimage took me through ancient France – gothic towns, soaring cathedrals, simple stone churches, roman bridges and quaint villages. I walked for weeks without seeing a freeway or an internet cafe and only in retrospect did I fully appreciate the rare break from this busy world. I found myself surrounded by pilgrims much older than myself and as a result I feel like I have been giving a blueprint for what growing older should look like. Vital, happy and fit people – out there exploring the world - still growing, still learning, still laughing. I thought often of my parents and how they would have loved these paths that wind through Europe and I felt like they were gently guiding me through the wonderful friends I made along the way. Friendships forged in broken French yet embedded in our shared humanity. I walked with women in their mid sixties – striding through the countryside sharing with me their experiences as women, wives and mothers. I walked with couples giving me inspiration of what a true meeting of destinies looks like. I walked with grandfathers bursting with pride for their families and most importantly, I walked with myself – reconnecting to all that makes me who I am and remembering what I want to make of my time on this gorgeous complex planet.
Reaching St Jean Pied Du Port was a huge milestone for me, to be once again in a small town at the foot of the Pyrenees because this time I was grieving my mother. Two journeys I would most likely never had taken if life hadn't twisted the way it had. Two pilgrimages that have changed me to my core, but only as a result of pain pushing me to find meaning in it all. To cross the Pyrenees again, eleven years to the day of my first journey was momentous. I remembered the frightened girl who had walked into a storm and was proud of the woman who this time walked with confidence and strength into a sublimely perfect day.
It was a powerful full circle to have come, and the additional three weeks that I walked into Spain were in honour of the girl I've been and the woman I'm continuing to become. There is something extremely powerful about walking back through a memory and acknowledging the growth and change that has occurred in the time between. I walked with such joy and freedom – soaking up every inch of the experience, and most powerfully of all I got to end my pilgrimage by joining my beautiful sister as she walked the Camino for her first time. Catching a bus to where I thought she was and then having to walk back up the path looking for her, I found myself reflecting on my solo adventure and antcipating a shared one ahead. In the early morning dawn I saw her sillouhette coming towards me and we had a surreal reunion in the middle of the Spanish Mesata and strode out together towards Santiago.
Those ten days were filled with laughter, stories, frequent bar stops for sangria and tortilla and photoshoots of our shadows falling across the path. Most significantly we got to walk together to the Cruz De Ferro (the highest point of the Camino where pilgrims traditionally place a stone) and in our own time put down the little pebbles we had carried from Silvermine where our parents ashes are scattered. It was profound for me, as I remembered the tear filled morning eleven years ago when I placed my fathers stone down and now there I was again with a stone for my mother. We both allowed the vast landscape of rolling hills to fill our beings in our time of letting go and when we were ready we walked together towards Santiago.
Four days later it was time for my journey to come to an end and my sister and her camino buddy waved me tearfully goodbye as they set off to continue their walk. I found arriving in Santiago by bus a strange experience, but was content that this journey had been about walking from Le Puy to St Jean, and these extra three weeks in Spain had been an unexpected gift.
There is no easy way to end a pilgrimage, and the truth be told I am still grappling with being back in the 'real world'. The priviledge of having 51 days to walk nearly 1200km across France and Spain in memory of the woman who gave me life, is extraordinary. I came away from the journey having reconnected with my sense of self and the knowledge that I am far more capable physically and emotionally than I sometimes give myself credit for. I came away with a respect for the reverence that that French have for food and life and with the desire to bring the community I experienced on the route into my own life. To remember to sit and enjoy a meal with loved ones, to remember to stretch this body of mine daily, to remember that nothing in life is guaranteed except our ability to choose how we deal with what we're dealt.
The road that stretches from Le Puy En Velay is a breathtaking one. It will reach into your heart and soul and become one with you. The endless days of walking through a landscape that feels like a painting still drying on the canvas, will stain behind your eyes and colour your memories with vibrant greens, yellows, reds and blues. The people you connect with will be across language and culture, and you will arrive at the Pyrenneas with countless heartfelt farewells from friends you have shared the miles with. Most importantly, if you find yourself on the road from Le Puy one day you will know that you are embarking on a journey for your soul and soles!
