adventure Archives - Nadine Walks

A Race to the End; Day 5 on Hadrian’s Wall, Carlisle to Bowness-on-Solway (15-miles, 23km)

May 18, 2017

I wouldn’t recommend anyone do what Heather and I did for Day 5 of our Hadrian’s Wall walk.

The actual mileage of the day’s walk wasn’t that bad- a solid 15 miles- and the terrain was fairly (mostly? completely?) flat, with a mix of pavement and soft grass walking.

But if you read my last post, you’ll remember that I ended it with a bit of a conundrum. Due to time restraints, we only had five days to complete the 84-mile route, but the worst part about this plan was that we’d need to do the final 15-miles AND return to London all in the same day.

I knew it was going to be exhausting. We’d have to walk really fast, and then we’d have to take a bus, then a train, then the Underground, then a shuttle in order to get to our hotel by the airport.

Would it have made more sense to sleep in and enjoy a leisurely breakfast and explore the city of Carlisle before catching our train back to London?

Probably.

But I bet you can guess what Heather and I did… we walked. We walked really fast.

I can’t say that I enjoyed our last day of walking in the same way that I enjoyed the other days of our Hadrian’s Wall journey; there just wasn’t time to think, or slow down, or hesitate or pause. I took some photos, but I never lingered. And there was a lot to linger over.

The walk weaved through the same park that led us into Carlisle the day before, but due to a diversion we were rerouted out of the park and through the city. I actually enjoyed this diversion quite a bit (aside from the stress of wondering whether it was adding more mileage and time to our day’s walk); we got to pass by Carlisle’s castle, and in general got a much better sense of the city. There was a lot of countryside walking on this route, and that is wonderful, but something I’ve grown to love about these treks is that they’re not wilderness trails. We get to see it all: open countryside and wild moorland and busy towns and cities too.

We had good weather for the entire day: a mostly sunny morning, followed by a cloudy early afternoon. After Carlisle the path returns to the countryside, and passes through several small villages.

We took only one real break, 15 or 20 minutes sitting on a concrete slab in the Solway Estuary (tide was low, thankfully. You’ve got to check tide-times before walking this section, otherwise you may get stuck waiting until the tide recedes- the road is virtually impassable when the tide is high). We scarfed down food and just when I could begin to feel myself relaxing and enjoying the strange beauty of our resting spot, we needed to pack up and continue on.

The path here is all on tarmac, totally straight and it’s like that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail (have I referenced this before? When I walk I feel like I think about it all the time…): Sir Lancelot is running through a field, ready to attack, but he keeps running and running and never gets any closer. Well, in any case, this is what the walk along the marsh felt like: walking and walking and nothing in the distance seems to be getting any closer and you think you might be walking down this road forever (maybe a bit like the Meseta on the Camino?).

This part was a little tough on the feet, as well, and even after we moved away from the marsh, the path seemed to continue on the road for a long time. So long that eventually Heather and I wondered if we’d done something wrong.

And this was the first time that both of us missed a turn and went off route. It ended up okay- we just followed the road rather than a dirt path, so we didn’t really veer off course- but I think we may have added a little distance. Plus, I’m sure our detour wasn’t nearly as beautiful and was certainly tougher on the feet.

But we powered on and I think we were both anxious to arrive in Bowness-on-Solway. As we got down to our last couple of miles, we knew we’d make it with plenty of time to spare (we had a 1:39 bus to catch out of the village), but we still kept up our fast pace because at that point we just wanted to arrive at the end with enough time to sit down, take off our shoes, and have a bite to eat.

About a mile before Bowness-on-Solway the route passes through Port of Carlisle and it was here that we ran into Roger. At first we only noticed an old man in a floppy hat, propped up on a bicycle. Then we saw a large signpost behind him, with an arrow pointing towards Bowness-on-Solway, but also one pointing back to Wallsend.

The man introduced himself to us, and we soon learned that Roger stations himself in this spot nearly every day of the Hadrian’s Wall walking season. He learns where walkers hail from, and adjusts the signpost accordingly. He changes the cities and mileage with every walker who passes by, and offers to take a photo (he also points out a small donation box, and we were happy to put in a few coins).

I thought Roger and his sign was an excellent way to mark the end of a long walk: what a souvenir, to have a photo of us at the end, with a sign of how far we’d walk and how far we’d traveled to get there!

Another mile to Bowness-on-Solway and then we were done! We found the official ‘end’ of the route, took a few photos, and then settled into a table at King’s Arm, the main pub in town.

We may not have had time to stop and smell the roses for this day’s walk, but I do have to say that there’s something satisfying and even exciting at attempting a physical challenge. At this point I know that I can walk long distances, but walking that fast for that long was something a bit new. When we set off we weren’t totally convinced that we could do it (which was a little nerve-wracking but worst case scenario was that we could have taken a taxi back to Carlisle if we missed the bus). But when we finished, it felt like a real victory.

We didn’t stroll up to the end- we marched there, we sailed there (some might even say that we were carried by the wind).

So that’s another walk in the books; time to set my sights on the next one!

(Did you miss the other daily recaps? Here they are: Day One, Day Two, Day Three, Day Four)

Hold Onto Your Hat!; Day 3 on Hadrian’s Wall, Grindon to Gilsland (15 miles/24km)

May 9, 2017

My favorite part of Day 3 on Hadrian’s Wall was the wind.

That might seem a little strange, considering the wind was wild and since we were walking east to west, it was blowing strongly against us and made the walking 10 times more difficult than it should have been. All of this and yet- the wind was powerful, and dramatic. And considering that the bulk of our walk was on vast and open moorland, isolated and remote, our only company an ancient and crumbling wall… well, the wind felt like it was supposed to be part of the scene.

There were a couple times that I just laughed. I was standing up on a hilltop, my arms outstretched, leaning forward but propped up by that powerful wind, and laughing was about the only thing that I could do. I laughed out loud- thrilled and a little crazed- my voice grabbed up by that wind and carried swiftly away. Could Heather- just 10 paces ahead- hear me? Could the newborn lamb hear me? I could barely hear myself.

The wind knocked us around, sometimes throwing me several steps off the course of the path. It pushed my stick around, my hair flew in all directions.

It was great.

Excuse the expression on my face; I must have been reacting to the wind!

When we set off in the morning, I assumed that we’d have a somewhat easy day- only 15 miles, from Grindon into Gilsland. It was 8 miles less than the day before and yet, we didn’t arrive at our destination until nearly 7pm. Our start was slow and we lingered over ruins and forts and milecastles and turrets, but still, I blame the wind. I didn’t account for that wind.

There was no sun, either, but there was also no rain, and that was key. And like the wind, I thought the gray and cloudy skies added to the drama of the day. Because for nearly the entire stretch of our walk, we were just alongside the Wall. It stretched and curved, up and down a series of endless dips and crests.

We were in some wild country, indeed. Shortly after setting off we passed through Sewingshields Crags, the land of King Arthur and his knights. Next came Housesteads, the most preserved and intact fort on the Wall (there is a visitor’s center and a fee to enter the “grounds” of Housesteads; Heather and I lingered in the shop and read a few plaques but decided not to spend the money or take more time from our day. If you’re walking a short day I think the fort is well worth the visit, and there’s a nice selection of postcards and ice cream, as well as a small museum, inside the shop).

Further along, after we passed a couple of very newborn baby lambs (what a fun part of walking in the springtime!), we came upon Sycamore Gap. This is a rather famous spot, as there’s a large and imposing tree that appeared in the film Robin Hood. I’d read this in my guidebook before setting off that morning (and I just have to quote what the book has to say about the tree and Kevin Costner: “where, despite the distinct disadvantage of being a tree, it still managed to appear less wooden than its co-star”).

We made it to the hill just above Sycamore Gap, and as we’re descending, Heather said- “Here’s your tree!”

Confession time. Here’s something that happens to me when I walk: I get really into the actual walking part- the journey, the movement- and I just sort of glide through wherever I am and sometimes miss out on the details. And I wasn’t even gliding at this part of the day (there were too many hills for that), but I think that as I walk a long trek, I sort of begin to simplify things around me. I see things, but I don’t always fully process what I’m seeing. I just sort of take everything in, and the ground is the ground, a tree is a tree, a flower is a flower.

This happened a lot on the Camino; at the end of the day, people would say to me, “Did you see the plaque that marked the crossing between Spain and France? Did you see that castle over there? Did you see the ‘Santiago’ sign, just before entering the city? Did you see the first glimpses of the Atlantic Ocean?” These were big things that I just sort of missed, and I’m sure that I did, in fact, see them all, but they didn’t really register.

This happened at Sycamore Gap. We were clearly at the Robin Hood tree; it was this huge and solitary tree, and there were dozens of people all around this part of the route (because it’s the most scenic part of Hadrian’s Wall, many tourists and locals come here for a day-trip). When we got to the bottom of the hill we stood around awhile at the base of the tree, so Heather could take a photo. I started ahead of her, having had enough of the tree and the crowds, and it wasn’t until later in the day that I sort of said, “Oh, I must have missed the Robin Hood tree.” (not realizing that the tree at Sycamore Gap WAS the Robin Hood tree).

Heather, quite understandably, looked at me as though I was a little mad. (Maybe I am. Does this sort of thing happen to anyone else??). She’d even said- “That’s your tree!” and it all just went over my head.

Oh well. I actually sort of like that when I walk or hike, I can get into a zone where I can block things out and just focus on the essential. In any case, we had a good laugh about it over a late lunch, where we’d stopped at a pub called Twice Brewed Inn in the little hamlet of Once Brewed.

The rest of the day’s walk was full of more up and down, more wall, more sheep and lambs.

Our destination- Slack House Organic Farm- took a bit longer to get to than we expected, and we were a little unsure what the dinner situation would be like when we arrived (I realized, too late, that I was supposed to have called ahead to reserve dinner). But when we arrived, everything worked out: we were the only people staying there that night, so Diane- one of the owners- set us up in the large 3-bed ‘family room’. She whipped us up a hearty vegetable stew with pasta (there must have been a dozen different vegetables in the stew, and it was warm and so delicious). I’d definitely advise reserving dinner ahead (Heather and I were prepared to eat whatever scraps we had in our packs), but Diane was gracious and kind, and took care to make sure that we were well fed.

That night I got my best sleep of the entire journey. Between the hills, the wind, the miles and the satisfying stew, I slept deeply. Good thing, too, because we had another 20 mile day ahead!

A Walking Stick and a Loaf of Bread; Day One of walking Hadrian’s Wall (Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Heddon-on-the-Wall, 15 miles)

April 22, 2017

We’d arrived in Newcastle-upon-Tyne the day before, on a train from London. Newcastle wouldn’t be the start of our walk- not exactly- as the official beginning (or ending) of Hadrian’s Wall path is in Wallsend, a 15-minute metro ride east of the city. But it’s a great place to begin a long walk, with plenty of amenities, entertainment and transportation options.

I was exhausted when our train pulled into the station. I’d managed only 30-minutes of sleep on my overnight flight, along with just a bit of shut-eye on the train journey. But despite this fatigue, I managed to rebound after we dropped our packs in our hostel and set off to explore the city. I’d originally thought that maybe Heather and I could knock off the first 5-miles of our trek that Saturday afternoon; from Wallsend, the route passes directly back through Newcastle, and I thought this could be a nice introduction to the walk.

But I quickly realized that there was no way I could do a walk on so little sleep, so we meandered through the city instead, moving slowly and soaking up unexpected warm air and sunshine (Northern England was experiencing a bit of a heat wave at the beginning of our trip!). We wandered up to The Great North Museum: Hancock, a free museum with a large room dedicated to Hadrian’s Wall. There was an interactive model of the wall that snaked through the room, as well as lots of wall artifacts on display.

This would have been a great introduction to the walk IF the museum hadn’t decided to close an hour early that day. We only had about 10-minutes to look at the displays but maybe it was just as well: there’s something I like about a journey where I’m heading into the unknown. I didn’t want to see too much of the wall before I actually saw the wall itself.

We walked along the Quayside and ate an excellent dinner at a place called Red House. The only thing on the menu were their homemade butcher pies, mash and peas, and thank goodness for that. It was one of the best meals of the trip!

Sunday morning rolled around and we both agreed that staying in a hostel might not have been the best way to start a trek. The hostel itself was fine, but we were there on a Saturday night and most of the others staying in our room and down the hall weren’t trying to get a full night’s sleep before a long walk. So it was a long night of people coming and going, drunk bunk mates arriving back to the room at 4am, and generally just a lot of noise.

But, that’s nothing that a good cup of coffee can’t fix! We left the hostel early and grabbed drinks and pastries from the only open shop in sight, then jumped on the metro for the quick ride out to Wallsend.

Now, a note about the direction of this walk. Heather and I were walking east to west, starting in Wallsend and ending in Bowness-on-Solway. People do walk in this direction, but the more I learned about the path (and the more we heard as we encountered people on our journey), the preferred direction seems to be west to east. Supposedly, views of the wall are better in this direction, plus the wind will be at your back, pushing you forward as you walk. (Oh, just wait until I write about Day 3 of our journey… the wind was mighty. Really mighty).

And I’d read all of this while I was planning the trip, but something made me choose to go east to west. Honestly, I think some of this has to do with the Camino. Or my long-held dreams about my east-to-west road trip across the United States. “Go west, young man.” Somehow, walking east just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

So beginning in the east it was. Despite studying two different guide books, we had some trouble finding the start of the walk, but eventually we found ourselves on a path, snapped a photo of the first Hadrian’s Wall sign we saw, and began walking.

The day was glorious. Soon, our layers were peeled off and we were walking in t-shirts. Within an hour I found a suitable walking stick, and before long the path wound down to Walker Riverside Park, where we were able to walk along the Tyne for several miles as it lead us back into Newcastle.

And once we were in Newcastle- still walking along the Tyne- we passed through a large, bustling outdoor market. It was like a slice of heaven for a walker! The sun was shining, families were out and about, and there were what seemed like hundreds of stalls filled with crafts and mementos and food and treats. There was ice cream and crepes and baked goods and tacos and pulled-pork sandwiches and coffee. We saw several little carts or trucks that were converted into moveable cafes, an espresso machine fitted into the trunk space.

Heather and I lamented the fact that we were passing through around 10am, too early for lunch. But we lingered there anyway, and I bought a little package of coffee beans to bring home, as well as a large loaf of artisan bread. (It was a really, really large loaf of bread. I struggled a bit to fit it into my pack, and once I started walking I began to wonder why I would buy such a large thing… but it turns out that the bread came in handy over the course of my walk. Lesson #1: Never pass up the opportunity to buy a loaf of fresh bread).

The walk carried us out of Newcastle, continuing along the River Tyne but eventually meandering off. It continues for a stretch through the Tyne Riverside Country Park, which was crowded on such a warm and sunny day. I could only find two drawbacks to this first day of walking. For starters, there’s very little evidence of Hadrian’s Wall along this stretch (aside from a bit of wall at the very beginning of the route in Wallsend, but Heather and I didn’t exactly know what we were looking for so it’s anyone’s guess as to whether we actually saw the Wall here or not). And the second is that the entire day- all 15 miles- was on pavement. This is a tough way to begin a walk, and my feet were aching by the end of the day.

But overall, what a beautiful start! Riverside paths and parks, sunshine and outdoor markets, coffee and bread, a classic Sunday roast for lunch, and a wonderful spot to rest our heads at the end of the day. We stayed at Houghton North Farm in Heddon-on-the-Wall; some of the farm’s buildings were made with stone from Hadrian’s Wall! (This is typical in the villages and towns close to the route of the wall; once the Romans left, much of the wall was dismantled and the stone was used for other purposes by local landowners). I suppose that our lodging at Houghton North Farm could be considered a hostel or a bunkhouse, but with a twin room and only a few other people staying there, it felt both spacious and cozy.

Overall, it was a very satisfying and great start to the journey. By the end of the day, I could feel that I was back in the walking groove, and it was a good thing, too. Because the next day, we’d be tackling a 23-mile/35km stage!

5-days, 84-miles, Millions of Stones: A Walk along Hadrian’s Wall

April 18, 2017

A few days ago I returned from a week in Northern England, where I walked coast to coast: from Wallsend in the east to Bowness-on-Solway in the west. My route followed the length of Hadrian’s Wall, an 84-mile path that stretches across the most northern regions of England; at some parts of the trail and on clear days, you can see over to Scotland.

There was wind, there was rain, there was abundant sunshine and there were sheep. So many sheep.

All in all, the walk was a resounding success.

I thought, and hoped, to blog while I was there, but managing a blog post after a full day of walking on a solo-trip is hard enough, but it proved to be next-to impossible while traveling with a friend. I suppose I could have crept off to a quiet corner and dashed off some words, but given that the biggest draw of doing a walking adventure with a friend was to have some companionship in the evenings, I decided that the blogging would have to wait until I returned.

I’ll write in more detail about each day of the walk, but for now, I want to start with more general thoughts.

I can’t remember the first time I heard about this route, but I’m fairly certain it was from someone in my Philadelphia Camino group. That group is full of avid walkers (did I even need to say that?), and their jaunts aren’t confined to just Camino routes. Lately, members have been talking about the Via Francigena (pilgrimage trail from Canterbury to Rome), and Hadrian’s Wall Path, raving about each route. Then, when I was in Scotland last year for the West Highland Way, I heard more about Hadrian’s Wall. “It was stunning,” said a girl in my Glasgow hostel. “The wall was incredible.”

What is the Wall, exactly? Built by Emperor Hadrian in the 2nd century, it’s northern Europe’s largest surviving Roman monument, a fortification that stretches for 84-miles in the border country between England and Scotland. It is punctuated by the remains of milecastles and turrets and forts, and while only about 10 miles of the actual wall remain (and what is left doesn’t rise to even half of its original height), the remains are stunning and the path of this trail was so well designed that walkers rarely stray from the course of the wall.

The trail opened in 2003 and the waymarking is good (look for acorns), with plenty of lodging options along the route. The scenery is diverse; the walk passes through the cities of Newcastle and Carlisle, through moorland and dale, and over undulating countryside. While one of the stages has a lot of ups and downs, overall the path isn’t considered too difficult (and, in fact, is the easiest of the UK National Trails).

My spring break is just a week long, but I knew I wanted to squeeze in some sort of trip. I have ample time to travel in the summer and I haven’t stopped appreciating that for a second, but the 10-months in-between my travels can be long ones, especially those cold winter days. I needed something to look forward to, I needed a new adventure.

With just a week, would I be able to complete a walk across England? Would early April be too cold, too wet, too muddy? A friend contacted me after she heard that I was planning this trip, and asked if she could come along. I agreed, excited to spend time with a friend that I don’t get to see enough, but also just a bit worried. What would it be like to walk and plan with someone else? Would I miss my solo adventuring?

I found a few itineraries for 5-days along Hadrian’s Wall, and I began to research hostels and bunkhouses and B&B’s. Despite being early in the season (the “real” Hadrian’s Wall season runs from the 1st of May until October), I decided to book lodging in advance. I worried that because we were early, some places might not be open, and with little flexibility in our tight time-frame, I didn’t want to have to scramble or skip sections of the route because we couldn’t find a place to stay.

I began tracking the weather a month before we left, and was heartened to see that the weeks preceding our walk weren’t getting much rain. Maybe this means there won’t be much mud! I wrote to my travel companion, Heather.

Walking in the cooler spring temperatures meant a couple of new additions to my “Camino” pack: a pair of rain pants, Crocs, a long-sleeved Merino wool shirt, a base-layer for my legs. I swapped my sleeping bag for a sleeping bag liner, since we’d be staying in bunkhouses and B&B’s that provided bedding.

With two weeks to go, I began to hike in earnest, managing all the miles that I could. My longest training hike was 12-miles but without a full pack, and I worried that I was a bit out of shape.

Do you think I’ll ever head into a trip without a head full of worries? Probably not. I’ve done this walking thing several times now, and while I am more confident, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake the nerves that come before one of these journeys. And maybe that’s best, because if these trips ever become too normal, too second-nature, then I’m afraid they’ll have lost some of their appeal. No, I hope that I always hold onto a bit of those pre-trip nerves: the questions about my gear and my pack, the panic about whether I’ve trained enough, the uneasy dreams (nightmares?) about blisters and rain. It adds to the adventure of it all.

And this was, indeed, another adventure, even if it might have felt a little different because it wasn’t a solo trek. I could feel my excitement mounting as I boarded my flight, as I touched down in London, as I dug an old Oyster card from my bag, as I traveled the length of the Piccadilly line, as I met my friend at Kings Cross (by Platform 9 3/4, because where else would you meet a friend before a journey?).

I chugged a coffee and we boarded our train, and as we left London to head north, I stared out the window and thought, “It’s good to be on the road again.”

Called Back to the Camino: Why I Keep Returning to Spain, and Why I Keep Returning to the Camino de Santiago

March 13, 2017

“I was called to the Camino.”

This is something you hear a lot, when talking to people about the Camino.

Something else I’ve heard is this: “Once you’re called to the Camino, you can never un-hear it. That call will sit with you- maybe for years- and not go away until you answer it.”

Was I called to do the Camino? Maybe. I’m not sure. I suppose I was, because the Camino wasn’t some random trip that I happened to show up on; it was purposeful and planned and I was really, really excited for it. But my purpose for walking the first Camino wasn’t necessarily about the Camino, not exactly. It was more about doing something big to move myself forward and out of the sad place I’d been in.

But when it comes to feeling called, I can say with certainty that I felt called back to the Camino. And not just once, but twice. Well, three times now, if you count my upcoming plans to spend a few weeks on a Camino route in France this summer.

What’s this all about, the call to return again, and again? Why do I love the Camino so much?

Longtime readers of the blog will have already caught onto the answer- maybe never explicitly stated- but the one that has come through all of my writings and ramblings and notes from the road. And that answer is… I love to walk.

And more than that: I love the people on the Camino. I love the community. I love the coffee and the wine. I love spending all day outside, moving.

This stuff all seems fairly simple and straightforward but there’s something important in here. The combination of all of this- the walking and the community and the coffee and the wine and the wind and the sunshine and the movement- it all comes together and when I’m on the Camino I feel like I’m the best version of myself.

I didn’t realize this would happen when I took my first steps out of St Jean Pied de Port, and it wasn’t the goal of my walk. My goal was simply (or, maybe, not so simply) to get to Santiago, and- more loosely- to begin to rewrite the future I had envisioned for myself at that time. To do this, I thought it would be good to have a direction to move in, and the Camino provided over 800 kilometers of just that: a clear direction.

But as I walked, I discovered something, and it happened quickly. Within only a few days I became so comfortable on the Camino that I felt almost at home there. I was sleeping in a different village or town every night so it surprised me how strong this feeling of belonging was, but it was undeniable. I felt like I belonged there, walking straight through Spain under a hot and heavy sun. I felt like I belonged.

Who knew I would love to walk so much? There have been hints throughout my life: hours spent riding my bike as a kid, all alone, pedaling in loops through my neighborhood, daydreaming and staring up at the trees. Later, long walks through my neighborhood, long walks on the beach, a curiosity about hiking.

But still, I’m not exactly an outdoorsy sort of person, and I’m absolutely not a risk-taker. Now, there’s a small amount of risk associated with the idea of walking 500-miles across a country, but the Camino isn’t exactly for thrill-seekers. We’re on a pilgrimage and it’s amazing and soul-searching and spiritual and inspiring and energizing and sometimes very difficult but, at the end of the day, we’re walking.

We’re walking. All day, every day. Sometimes a section of the path or a day’s route could be described as hiking, and when I’m of mind to try to impress someone I might call it ‘trekking’ but honestly, what we’re doing is walking.

And I’m good at it. I laugh because I’ve discovered that one of my strongest skills is something I mastered shortly after turning 1. Sometimes I wish what I were doing was a little more exciting, like: I run marathons! I go rock-climbing! White water rafting! I surf! I sing in front of rooms full of people! I do stand-up comedy!

But no, I walk. And it’s exactly, perfectly, the thing that I want to be doing. I learned on my first Camino that I didn’t tire easily, that I could just keep going and going. I’ve had bad days, days that were a struggle, but on the majority of my days on the Camino, I was in love with the simple act of walking.

So I return to the Camino because I feel alive being outside all day, moving my body. But it’s not just the movement and the walking, because I can do that easily enough at home, can’t I?

It’s the community of the Camino.

This is important for me, because in order to be the best version of myself, I need to be around people. And not just any people, but people who light me up and inspire me, people I connect with. I have a lot of these people in my life but they’re not in my day-to-day life, and I crave that. So maybe that’s another reason I keep returning to the Camino- to meet these people, day in and day out. To find that connection of the soul. To find my people, my community. It’s an ever shifting and changing community but it’s there: I’m walking alone one minute and then the next I find myself sharing ideas and hopes and dreams over a glass of wine with a fellow pilgrim. It’s kind of neat how that works.

And the thing is, in my real life, I’m kind of shy and very much an introvert. I’m this way on the Camino, too, but I get my introvert time by walking mostly alone, and the shyness? It gets snuffed out after several days of meeting new people and having conversations and being out of my comfort zone. At my core, I’m a really friendly person who loves knowing people- it’s just that the trick is, I have to go through the process of getting to know someone. The befriending. And right now, in my life, that feels like such a long and daunting process for a shy introvert. But on the Camino, it all happens so fast and maybe it’s because of the nature of the walk, or maybe because I’m feeling like I’m one of the best versions of ‘Nadine’ I can be but whatever it is, it all comes together. I make friends, I meet people whose souls connect with my own. (To this point, I sometimes wonder if the best shot I have at meeting a man I might think to marry would be to find him on a Camino. But that’s another post for another time).

So this combination- the walking and the connection (not to mention being able to sleep on a bed at the end of the day, all of the great coffee and wine and fresh fruit, the experience of another culture and a different place, plus the spiritual aspect of the walk)- this combination keeps me coming back for more. It calls to me, again and again. It tells me that I belong out there, I belong there in ways that I haven’t fully belonged in many of the other places of my life. Something keeps pulling me back- it’s happiness and discovery and love and life and feeling so fully alive.

I know that a lot of pilgrims have felt this after their Camino, and I know a lot struggle with this upon coming back home. How to keep these feelings alive? How to continue to live your Camino even after the Camino ends? But that, too, is another post for another time. Right now, I just want to think about the reasons I love that dusty path through Spain, all of those paths that lead to Santiago, all of those people walking those paths, everyone moving in the same direction and me, right in the fold of it all. Maybe I still have a lifetime to keep returning to the Camino. Maybe I’ll just never stop walking.

Walking through the Pyrenees, Camino de Santiago

First day on the Camino, walking through the Pyrenees.

My Travel Plans for 2017

January 2, 2017

2017 is already shaping up to be a good year, and it’s only just begun. Somehow, incredibly, I’ve already got my summer plans figured out.

This is unprecedented.

Last year, in particular, I had such a hard time figuring out what I wanted to do, and I became frustrated by my indecision. I have this somewhat unique opportunity to spend two months of my year doing whatever I like, and I was letting myself become stressed over the decision. I felt ridiculous. And yet, I went back and forth a dozen times, wanting to do it all: wanting to return to my favorite places and experiences, and wanting to try something brand new. I wondered if I should travel to some place other than Europe, I wondered if I should stick closer to home.

You already know what I decided (England, France, Spain, Scotland), and it ended up being the perfect balance of all the things I was craving out of my summertime adventure.

This time around? A few weeks ago I decided to see what flight prices to Paris might be like for June/July. And what I discovered nearly took my breath away: the cheapest prices I’ve ever seen on round-trip, direct flights from Philly to Paris in the summertime. (Well, that’s not entirely true, I got an even cheaper flight back in 2003 but that was a long time ago).

So I did something a bit out of character- I ran into my bedroom, grabbed my wallet from my purse, and before I knew it I had purchased the flight.

Then, I shot off an email to the owners of La Muse (the writer’s and artist’s retreat I visited last summer), and asked about availability. There’s been talk of a few of us from last year reuniting again in July, plus there was an attractive holiday discount being dangled around. The next day I got an email back- “We’d love to have you return!!” and before I knew it, I had myself booked in a room for three weeks.

And then, after a week of browsing through Airbnb apartments in Paris (which was way more fun than I ever expected!), I found a tiny little space on the 7th floor of an old building in St Germain, that has a balcony with views to the Eiffel Tower.

This year, there was very little of the indecision that I’ve had in the past. There are still so many things I want to do and so many places I want to travel to, but for whatever reason, this year’s choice felt easy. I’m going back to France, and I’m going to spend the entire summer there.

I love France, you already know that. Each of my trips to Europe these past four summers have included some time in France (and a mandatory jaunt through Paris, even if only for a day, like this past year). I can speak French- not well, but I improve the more I have the chance to speak. I studied abroad in Toulouse back in 2000-2001, and at the end of that year I said to myself: “This could be a problem. Whenever I have the opportunity to travel, I have a feeling that instead of going to new places, I’m always going to want to come back to France.”

And it could almost drive me mad, the thought that I was existing in the world and Paris was existing too but that I was not there.

Some people, when they travel, will always want to go somewhere new, and I can understand that. “Why return to the same place when you’ve already been there? There are so many places in the world to explore!” they say. I think I will continue to travel to new places throughout my life, but I’m finally coming to terms with the fact that I’m a creature of habit. When I find something I love, I don’t often get tired of it. I can go back- again and again- to the same things and places and learn to love them more fully. And I experience so much happiness when I return to a place that I love.

And so, I’m going back to France.

The trip is going to have three parts- La Muse and Paris, but what would a summer trip be without some walking? You knew this was coming. But instead of squeezing in a trip to Spain, I’m going to stay settled in France, and try a couple weeks on one of the Camino trails through this country. My plan, for now, is to walk the Le Puy route, which cuts a sloping line, east to west, sort of through the southern half of France. I’ll begin at the start- in Le Puy-en-Velay- and walk as far as I can in two weeks. I’ve heard that this is the most beautiful and popular Camino route in France, and that some parts may be challenging but I suspect that it’s nothing I can’t handle.

A walk in France isn’t a walk in Spain; there will be some big differences. France is more expensive, I’ll need to make reservations each night, there won’t be nearly as many people on the trails (though I sure had a large dose of isolation on the San Salvador!), and most of the people walking will be French.

The walking will kick off my trip, then I’ll take a train to La Muse and continue work on my writing and my memoir. The summer journey ends with a week in Paris, and this feels just right. It’s my favorite city in the world, and I certainly have more exploring that I need to do there. But settling into an apartment in the heart of a city that I’m already familiar with gives me the chance to just… be. To drink coffee on the little balcony and stare at the magical views. To make my way to a different café every day and scribble away in a notebook. To keep writing in a city where so many greats have gone to write. To wander, to roam.

It’s going to be a very French summer, and I have to tell you, I’m so excited for it. 2017 already feels like it’s going to be a big, incredible year, and having this trip half-planned sure helps. So as they say in France: Bonne Année! Let’s all make it a good one.

The End of a Long Walk; Day Five on the West Highland Way, Kinlochleven to Glen Nevis, 24km

December 17, 2016

August 17th was my last day of walking on the West Highland Way, which was exactly 4 months ago. 4 months! This is absolutely the most delayed post I’ve ever written.

I was just looking through my photos from those last days in Scotland, and in some ways I feel like I was just there, but in other ways… it feels like those memories are from another life. This tends to happen, especially in these cold, winter months (I’m currently sitting on my couch under a heavy comforter listening to the ping of freezing rain against my window). In the Scotland photos I’m tan, my hair is lighter, the world is green and the sun is shining brightly. Everything is warm and light and free and fun- very much the opposite of the time of life I’m in now.

There are moments of fun in these months- indeed- so maybe it’s just this transition to winter that always gets me a bit down. These are short, dark days- we are in the very shortest days of the year right now, and I can feel it. The cold has blown in too, and I can feel myself resisting all of this. I still want to be outside in a t-shirt, hiking loops on the trails in my park, driving with my windows down, making smoothies and planning camping trips.

I’ve resisted settling into these dark, cold winter days, because this time of the year, for me, is synonymous with work and discipline and routine. The end of my summer travels was so much fun, and I found that for months afterwards I wanted to hold onto that feeling. I still want to hold on to that feeling, but just as equally, I want to begin again with my writing.

So here’s what happening, over here: I’m missing summertime. I’m dreaming of travel plans for 2017. But more than either of those, I’m finally beginning to accept that winter is here. And that it’s time to write- to really write again.

And what better place to begin than at the end? My last day on the West Highland Way was, by all accounts, the ‘easy’ one. It was the shortest distance of the trip, clocking in at only 24 kilometers (which, following days of 30, 32, 31, 35km, felt like a breeze).

But maybe I was a bit too confident heading into the day: I felt so relaxed that I didn’t prepare as I normally would, by meticulously examining my guidebook and planning stops and lunch breaks. So, an hour into my walk, when I stopped for a moment and paged through the guidebook to see where I was, I realized that I wouldn’t be passing through any villages, the path wouldn’t take me by an Inn, there would be absolutely no places to buy food.

Whoops. I’d eaten another hearty breakfast that morning- a huge bowl of porridge, two slices of toast, a container of yogurt and a lot of coffee- so I didn’t need to worry about my food situation right away. I was totally stocked up on water and I had some leftover snacks tucked away in my pack so I just kept walking, because, well, it was the only thing I could do.

It was another stunning day: bright sunlight and a clear blue sky. The walk started with a steady climb out of Kinlochleven, but soon the path leveled out and the walking was mostly even, with only short ascents and descents for the rest of the way.

I walked steadily for hours, stopping a few times for short breaks, or to examine old stone ruins, or to take off my socks and air out my feet. After about 20km (and a mere 4km from the end of the day), I was too hungry to continue so I hopped up on a large rock and dug through my bag, searching for any bit of food that I could find. I had one apple, three Oreo cookies, a small and rather stale packaged croissant, and half a bag of dried cherries that I’d bought in Santiago. I ate it all, and then continued walking.

Even though the walking that day wasn’t too difficult, I felt ready to be done. I walked swiftly through the last kilometers, ready to find my hostel, ready to take a shower, ready to sit down for a large meal. 100 miles (many of them difficult) in 5 days wasn’t easy. I don’t wish that I’d done it any other way: I loved the challenge, I loved those really long days of walking, I loved how strong I felt.

But I was also tired. And I was at the very end of my trip- not just the Scotland part, but the whole thing: Bath, London, Paris, Labastide, Madrid, Leon, the San Salvador, the Norte, Santiago, Glasgow, the West Highland Way. It was almost time to go home, and I was ready for the comforts of my apartment, the ease of daily life, the familiar faces of my family and friends.

My hostel wasn’t technically at the very end of the West Highland Way- it was in Glen Nevis, a small hamlet in open countryside, about a 45-minute walk from Fort William. The official end of the West Highland Way used to be in Glen Nevis- just off the side of the road by a round-about (and there is still a sign to mark this), but in recent years the “end” was moved into Fort William, so walkers would have to pass directly through the bustling commerce and tourist shops of the main street in town.

In any case, when I arrived at my hostel, I felt as though I had arrived at the end. The next day I would walk into Fort William but for now I was happy to find my bunk, wash my clothes, and eat a good meal. I was happy that I’d decided to stay in the Glen Nevis Youth Hostel- it sits directly across from the entrance to the path that leads up Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest mountain. The hostel building was old and quirky but the rooms were clean, the bunks seemed new, and I found a private bathroom down one of the hallways that had a lock on the door and a pristine shower.

This was the first time that I had to share sleeping quarters with other people on the West Highland Way, but I found the people staying in the hostel to be an interesting mix. After eating dinner at restaurant down the road, I came back to the hostel and settled into the lounge area, to try to do some writing. I only got a few sentences in when Tony, a wiry Londoner in his 50’s, began talking to me. He was in Glen Nevis with a few of his buddies- his friends were taking on the challenge of climbing three mountains in 24-hours and Tony explained that they were currently climbing to the top of Ben Nevis. “I’m their driver,” he explained. “See this radio here? They’ll signal me when they get to the top, and then I’ve got to be ready with the car as soon as they descend. Then we drive off to the next one.”

While he waited, he made me a cup of tea, saying that I had to have it prepared in the proper, British way (with cream and lots of sugar). Sitting with us in the lounge was a Norwegian man who was trying to convince me to climb Ben Nevis the next day (a lot of people staying at the hostel were there to climb the mountain), and an American woman who was tired of driving on the “crazy Scottish roads”.

This felt like the most I’d spoken to anyone in days, and it was nice to be surrounded by friendly people. But, strangely, I was the only one there who had walked the West Highland Way. This cinched it- most people on the West Highland Way were campers. If I were to do it again (and be guaranteed to have stunning weather), I would love to try camping. But as it is, having a roof over my head and a mattress to sleep on is still a very nice luxury at the end of the day.

My original plan had been to walk the West Highland Way in six days. I’d needed to change that because of availability of places to stay along the way, so I cut the walk down to 5 days. This left me an extra day in Glen Nevis/Fort William, and before beginning the walk I thought that I might like to climb Ben Nevis. But sitting in my hostel that night, sipping my sweet tea and listening to tales from the other travelers, I knew that I was done. My body was tired. I could summit that mountain another time- and besides, I hadn’t come to Scotland to climb a mountain. I’d come to walk the West Highland Way, and I’d done a good job of it.

Tony’s radio buzzed and he leaped into action. Before running out the door he raced over and gave me a big hug. The Norwegian man asked if he could have my walking stick. An American girl from Arizona asked what the West Highland Way had been like. I smiled at her. “It was an adventure,” I said.

Wild and Remote; Day 4 on the West Highland Way, Bridge of Orchy to Kinlochleven, 35km

November 7, 2016

Day 4 on the West Highland Way had me walking out of the tiny hamlet of Bridge of Orchy with nearly all my clothing hanging in rather wet clumps from the back of my pack. Two pairs of underwear, a sports bra, two pairs of socks, two tshirts, and a towel. In fact, I’m sure I hadn’t managed to strap all of this to the outside of my pack so some of it was rolled up into a plastic bag inside my pack, something I’ve never had to do before.

I was wearing dirty hiking shorts but this was fine, because my shorts were often dirty. But both of my hiking shirts were wet so I had to wear the only other shirt I had- a black tank top that I’d been using to sleep in.

I knew I was going to run into this trouble two days before, when I’d walked all day and didn’t feel like washing my clothes at 8:30pm. And the day before, despite getting to my train station hostel around 5, I still didn’t have enough time to sufficiently dry my clothing. The evening was cool, my room at the station was chilly, and my clothing was still almost dripping wet in the morning when I set off.

This has not been an uncommon experience for me on these long walks, but usually I only need to pin a pair of socks from the back of my pack, maybe a pair of underwear. At first I felt strange doing it, but I quickly got used to it. After a few hours of walking in the sunshine, the clothes dry nicely.

And this fourth day was no exception- after a few hours of hiking the sun was brightly shining and my clothes were drying and I was feeling good.

I was feeling really good. It was another beautiful day on the West Highland Way- a long, challenging day, where I would walk over 20 miles, some of them very difficult miles (the miles at the end, of course). At first I was daunted by the elevation profiles in my guidebook, but after an initial sharp ascent and descent out of Bridge of Orchy, the next 8 miles were a very gradual ascent. It was the kind of climbing that I barely noticed, and by this point in the summer, my legs were strong.

I may not have noticed the climbing, but I did notice what was surrounding me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the landscape, and every five minutes I realized that I was turning in a full circle, and sometimes even walking backwards for a few steps because the landscape- every bit of it- was stunning.

I’m going to post a bunch of photos but it was really difficult for my camera to capture what I was seeing with my eyes. I couldn’t capture it, and maybe that’s a good thing, because my memory of that morning’s walk is one of my favorites from the entire summer.

I was walking through open moorland, in the wildest and most remote section of the West Highland Way. Every once in awhile I would pass another hiker or two, but mostly I was totally alone. These miles are desolate and isolated- there are no roads, no buildings, no shelter, no way out. If the weather is bad this could be a very difficult section of the walk, but since I had clear skies and sunshine, the walk was just… incredible. Land and sky, land and sky, stretching out as far as I could see.

From what I can remember, there are no fun stories from this day, no unique interactions, no good anecdotes. Just beautiful walking. I stopped for lunch at a climber’s bar in the back of an Inn- the only place to stop for miles and miles- and then I kept walking.

I have found my future home.

The last part of the day’s hike included the dreaded Devil’s Staircase. My guidebook promised that it wasn’t as bad as the name would suggest, and locals I’d encountered in the past few days said the same thing.

And certainly, from where I stood at the bottom, the “staircase” (or long and winding path) didn’t look impossible. But then I started climbing. And my legs burned. And I was tired. I had been walking great distances day after day and a difficult climb to cap off what would be 35 kilometers was simply not appreciated. But I remembered what the woman in the bar the night before had told me- “It’s only walking”, and so I just put one foot in front of the other and kept going.

Climbing the Devil's Staircase, West Highland Way, Scotland

Looking back on the Devil’s Staircase (it was harder than it looks!)

At the top was a large pile of rocks and lots of day-hikers posing for photos and selfies. I paused for a moment but after spending the entire day pretty much alone, this little summit felt crowded.

So I kept walking, and walking, and walking. I thought Kinlochleven would never arrive, the descent was longer and harder than I thought and I got a bit confused when I finally arrived in town and was unable to find my campsite. But eventually I did find it after asking for directions, and I was once again directed to a cabin which I had all to myself. And it was beautiful- a line of small wooden cabins and a lawn filled with tents, all set against a backdrop of rugged green mountains.

Campsite at MacDonald's Hotel and Cabins, Kinlochleven, Scotland

Can you spot my walking stick in this photo?

Dinner was in the pub next to the Inn, and I feasted on a large bowl of cullen skink (which is basically a delicious Scottish fish chowder), a hunk of bread, and a big glass of red wine. Hearty and warm and satisfying.

My cabin had a toasty little heater and a door that wouldn’t stay latched, and it banged open and shut throughout the night but I barely noticed. I slept soundly and comfortably. Day 4 on the West Highland Way was in the books, and now only one more day of walking remained.

“You’re looking awfully casual for a walk like this” (it’s only walking); Day 3 on the West Highland Way, Inverarnan to Bridge of Orchy, 31km

October 27, 2016

There is pumpkin bread in the oven, outside it’s pouring rain. Red, wet leaves are everywhere now, they’re blanketing the ground and coating my kitchen window. It’s autumn, maybe the most autumn-est day of the entire season so far. Horror movies run in marathons on TV, tomorrow night is Game 3 of the World Series. The end of October is a great time of year.

And speaking of time, I think it’s about time that I wrote more about Scotland. I can’t believe I’m still writing about this trek- or, more precisely, that it is taking me so long to write about these days. I’m not sure why, but it seems as though the further we move away from the summer, the more difficult it is to remember my long days of walking on the West Highland Way.

I’ve been afraid that I would just stop writing about it altogether, and never finish telling you about my adventure, but that doesn’t feel right. So I’m back at it, and maybe if I’m lucky I can finish telling you about Scotland before we ring in a new year.

We’re on Day 3. And it was a magnificent day. 31 kilometers and I think the walking wasn’t too difficult (See? I can’t remember! Was I tired? Exhausted from the days before? Did the small hills feel like mountains? Or was I gliding along?). All I really remember is that this is the day when I finally felt like I was in the Highlands, or at least the Highlands of my imagination. I’d finally moved away from that lake of epic proportions and was now among rolling hills and green earth. There were cows and sheep, a sky that looked like a painting, crumbling stone walls and an old cemetery.

Aside from the stunning scenery, the highlight of this day might have been my lunch stop. I walked off the trail and went just a bit out of my way to find a little family-run coffee shop that was housed in an old church. One end of the room had a small gift shop full of handmade crafts and the other side had wooden dining tables with tiny vases of fresh flowers. I sat at a corner table and ordered a cafe mocha, a grilled cheese sandwich and a small salad. The service was slow but I didn’t mind; I had nowhere to be and all day to walk and this little café/church was the perfect place for a good, long break.

When I finished I went up to the cash register to pay, and noticed a counter filled with trays of pastries. A hand-written sign said that the pastries were all fresh and homemade, so I picked out a thick slice of lemon drizzle cake, that I asked to have wrapped up.

“That’ll be the perfect snack when you need to get out of your car and stretch your legs,” the woman behind the counter said, handing me my cake.

“Oh I’m not driving,” I replied. “I’m walking the West Highland Way.”

The woman gave me a long look and tilted her head to the side. “Really? You’re looking awfully casual to be on that walk.”

I looked down at myself. What could she have meant? I was wearing my hiking shoes and long green hiking pants and a long-sleeved black t-shirt. I was dressed like a hiker, at least I thought I was. Maybe West Highland Way hikers didn’t often find their way to this café? Maybe when they did, they looked different?

The woman chatted with me for a few minutes and then I was on my way again, back out into the sunshine and the warm air, up into the hills and past fields of cows. I was energized by my espresso drink, full from my meal, satisfied to have all day to walk in a beautiful place.

I rolled into Bridge of Orchy, my destination, sometime in the late afternoon. Bridge of Orchy is described in my guidebook as a tranquil hamlet nestled in the foothills of two mountains. The village is nothing more than a train station, a hotel, a few houses and I walked all the way through and was headed straight out of town when I realized that I must have passed my lodgings for the night.

I’d reserved a bed in a bunkhouse at the train station. I knew I’d be sleeping at the train station, and yet, when I crossed under the tracks, I walked right by because I couldn’t figure out where, exactly, the hostel was located. But I made my way back, walking up onto the platform and peering through the windows of the long, narrow building that sat between the tracks. I tried a few doorknobs; they were locked. Then I saw an opened door and went inside, to find a crowded and messy room. There were old couches and newspapers and books scattered about, shelves of packaged food and a basket to collect money.

I called out ‘hello’, thinking someone might be in the back room, but the place was deserted. I went back outside, circled the building once more, and then- because I had already walked through the village and hadn’t seen a soul- I sat down on a bench to wait.

As I sat on the bench at the empty train station, eating my lemon drizzle cake, I had the thought that I was waiting for a train that would never come. But after only 5 minutes I heard voices, and then I had one of the stranger encounters of my trip.

Three old men walked up, they each had a bag dangling from a hand- one had a small canvas bag but the other two had large and tattered plastic bags. There were all wearing t-shirts, old jeans, beat up sneakers.

I looked up at them eagerly as they walked by. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know how to check in here?”

They slowly turned to me as if they hadn’t realized I’d been there all along. One of the men spoke. “We’re walkers,” he said.

“Yeah, me too.”

The men all stared at me for a moment, and then they kept walking down the platform. One of them called back, “But we’re walking the West Highland Way.”

Huh. I couldn’t understand what was going on, but maybe it was best not to. A few minutes later another old man walked up, but this one had a set of keys in his fist and came right up to me and asked if my name was Nadine.

“Strange day,” he said to me as he led me into a room with two sets of (three-tiered!!) bunk beds. “Last night we were packed, but tonight there’s hardly anyone. You’ll be the only one in this room.” The three old men were staying in a room further down the platform (and to be honest I was a little relieved), so I found myself, yet again, with a room of my own.

I ate dinner in the bar of the Inn down the road; it was a beautiful white building and my table had a big leather chair that I sank into and the room was warm and cozy. I ordered a hamburger and fries and a couple glasses of wine (and paid three times as much as I would have in Spain but who’s counting?), and while I was eating a man from California came over to talk. When he found out I was hiking he fired dozens of questions at me, not seeming to understand that I wake up in the morning and just start walking. “You don’t have a bike?” he asked. “You don’t take a train?”

He invited me to join him and his friend for some whiskey but the sun had set, the sky was a dark shade of blue and I had a 10-minute walk back up to an empty room in a deserted train station. I politely declined his offer and he walked away, and then a local woman at a table across the room began talking to me. Under the table and at her feet was a big white dog, and she told me that she overheard some of my conversation and wanted to know how my trek was going. She asked how many days it would take me and when I told her 5, her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

But she quickly recovered. “I walked it with my girlfriends,” she said, “And it took us 7 days. But 5 days is fine, my husband did that.”

I told her that I was worried about tomorrow’s walk- it would be another long day and there were two difficult stretches but her reply was instant. “Don’t worry, you can do it. They call it the ‘Devil’s Staircase’ but it’s really not that bad. And just think, all you’re really doing is walking, right? It’s only walking.”

Yes, it’s only walking. Sometimes it’s uphill, sometimes it goes on for hours and hours and hours, sometimes it’s muddy or rocky or smooth or rough, but at the end of the day, it’s only walking.

So I walked myself back up to the train station under the light of a near-full moon, opened the door to my private room and crawled under the covers of my bottom bunk.

It’s only walking, and I love it.

The Loch that Never Ends; Day Two on the West Highland Way; Balmaha to Inverarnan, 32km

October 9, 2016

“This is the loch that never ends, it just goes on and on my friends…”

17 miles into the day’s hike, I found myself repeatedly singing this line as I stepped up and down over large rocks, sloshed through mud, ducked under low-hanging tree branches. Every time the trail bent around a curve or the trees opened up I would look ahead anxiously, hoping to see something other than the gray, dim water of Loch Lomond. Instead, I saw the same views I had been seeing for the past 10 hours.

Before I set off that morning, I was aware that the day’s walk would have me following the shoreline of Loch Lomond for nearly it’s entire length- all 23 miles. I paged through my guidebook as I ate breakfast in the restaurant of The Oak Tree Inn. A giant spread was laid out before me: cereals and muesli, yogurts and toast and juice. Coffee or tea, eggs and grilled sausage and tomatoes and mushrooms and baked beans and haggis. I took a little of nearly everything and ate to my heart’s content, pleased and surprised to discover that I quite liked haggis (it’s a savoury pudding made of the heart, liver and lungs of a sheep, all of it minced and mixed with onions and suet and other spices, packed into a sheep’s stomach and boiled. This sounds absolutely disgusting and to be honest I didn’t really know exactly what it was when I ate it- I only had a very vague idea so I didn’t think too hard about what I was eating. And I found it to be delicious).

I set out for my walk with a full stomach and an easy feeling about the trail ahead. My guidebook showed the elevation of the day to be mostly flat, and there would be one split in the trail with an option for an easier route that I planned to take. All in all, it looked to be a straightforward and uncomplicated day.

And for the first part of the day, I found this to be true: the path hugged the shoreline of the loch and treated me to gentle, misty views of fog hovering just about the water. Every once in awhile I passed a few people on the trail, many of them walking in the opposite direction. But mostly my walk was quiet and peaceful, the trail a bed of dirt and small rocks that wasn’t too difficult to walk over.

After a few hours I stopped at a bar for a cappuccino, served to me in a large mug with a gingerbread cookie on the side. I took my drink outside to sit at a picnic table at the back of the property, just as the clouds parted long enough to throw some sunlight onto the yard. I sat in a pool of the warm light, sipping my creamy drink, and thinking about how nice of a day this was shaping up to be. A woman and her grandson stopped by my table to chat- they were on holiday and were curious about the walk I was doing.

I smiled to myself as I walked away, prepared to continue walking along the loch. My plan was to stop for lunch at the Inversnaid Hotel, the only restaurant I would pass for the rest of the day’s hike. I figured it would take me another 3 or 4 hours to reach it, but oh how wrong I was.

I’m not sure when I figured out that the path I was on was much more difficult than I had anticipated. Sometime after the coffee stop, the path began to get a bit tricky- I had to pay close attention to my footing given all the rocks and pits of mud that I had to navigate. I passed the point where the trail split, and this was probably my mistake. Instead of taking the higher, easier route that I’d planned to, I stayed on the lower path that continued to hug the shoreline. Here’s what my guidebook had to say about the lower route: “a small path which forges a tortuous route clinging as close to the shore as it dares. Many short, steep climbs, fallen trees and rocky sections make the going slow and arduous”.

So why in the world did I take this path when it wasn’t in my original plans? First of all, the split wasn’t exactly clear. There was a spot where I could continue on the path that I had been on, or follow a different path slightly higher. But at this point the signposts only indicated that the West Highland Way continued on the lower path. I’m still pretty sure that this was the split my guidebook described, and I knew it at the time, too, and yet I stayed on the lower path. I think it’s because after three years of walking the Camino, I’ve been trained to follow the arrows. Always follow the arrows. If there had been a sign indicating that the West Highland Way also followed the higher and easier track, I’m sure I would have taken it. But instead I chose to just keep following those arrows (or, in this case, the thistles), even though I knew that the low path could be quite difficult.

And it was. It wasn’t quite as bad as what the guidebook promises, and I think the most difficult sections were probably helped out by the addition of wooden bridges and stairs. But even with these structures, the walk was tough. My favorite kind of walking is the mindless sort- where I can just cruise along and let my mind wander. But the walking on this second day of the West Highland Way? I had to pay attention to nearly every step I took. Sometimes I had to stop and look hard at the trail and figure out where I should place my feet. My steps were measured and careful and muddy. And despite the “flat” elevation shown to me on maps in my guidebook, I had to step up and down over rocks so many times that my knees were soon begging me to stop. In fact, at the end of the day when I checked the health app on my phone, I discovered that I “climbed” more sets of “stairs” on that day than on any other day that summer. More climbing than in the mountains in southern France, more climbing than on the San Salvador, more climbing than on the days ahead on the West Highland Way. 20 miles of constant up and down over rocks made what I thought would be a rather easy day into maybe the most difficult of the summer.

So not only was the walk exhausting, but it took a long, long time. Because I had to be so careful, I was moving so much more slowly than I usually do when I hike. I figured I would be having lunch around 2:00 at the latest, but the hour came and went and I kept trying to peer through the thick cover of trees to search for the Inn somewhere in the distance, but I only continued to see nothing. Nothing but more gray water, more green trees, more sharp rocks. I stopped for a break and checked my guidebook and read that the kitchen of the Inn would close at 4:00 and I checked the time again and worried that I wouldn’t make it in time. I tried to pick up my pace and sometimes I could walk quickly for a few steps but inevitably I would have to slow down as I was greeted with a muddy pit or a pile of rocks.

Finally, I made it to the Inversnaid Hotel. It was after 4:00 and I tried to keep my expectations low, figuring that at least I could order something to drink and take off my shoes and rest my feet. I dropped my bag off in a side room where hikers could keep their things, and changed out of my muddy shoes, then went off to find the bar. To my great luck, the kitchen was opened until 4:30 so I ordered a giant sandwich and a mound of fries and an icy coke.

I wanted to stay there forever. Or at least check into a room and not have to do any more walking for the rest of the day. I had another 6 1/2 miles to go and I guessed that much of it would be along the same sort of path that I had been tediously and carefully picking my way through for hours. It was just after 5 when I left the Inn; on just about any Camino day in my last three years of walking, I would have been long settled into my albergue, showered and cleaned, and set up at a bar with a glass of wine and my journal.

“The West Highland Way isn’t the Camino,” I told myself as I set off again. The next few hours continued to be somewhat challenging, but I felt more relaxed. I’d eaten plenty of food and had renewed energy, plus I knew that I could take as long as I needed to. I had a bed reserved in a cabin at Beinglas Farm Campsite, and the sun didn’t set until after 9pm. No one was waiting for me, and there wouldn’t be much to do once I arrived in Inverarnan, other than shower and have dinner.

So I took my time and amused myself by singing silly songs, and eventually, the path moved away from the shore of the loch and opened up to some new views.

I finally hobbled into Beinglas Farm Campsite around 8:00pm. There was a pub on the grounds of the campsite and I checked in there. The guy behind the bar handed me a key to a small cabin that I had reserved, saying, “It’s all yours.”

“All mine?” I responded. I’d only reserved a bed and figured that I would be sharing with others, but this was another reminder that the West Highland Way wasn’t the Camino. Turns out that reserving a cabin means you have it all to yourself. Maybe. I’m actually still not sure how it works- when I emailed my reservation I asked for a bed in a shared cabin, and then I paid 15 pounds- certainly not the 40 pounds I should have paid to have it all to myself. Maybe no one wanted to share with me?

The cabin was basic- really basic- but it was all I needed. A mattress to sleep on, a roof over my head, and even a little heater that kept the room nice and toasty. I showered and then headed back to the pub, where I ordered a light dinner and drank a glass of wine. The pub was filled, and I noticed one or two other people on their own but mostly people were in pairs, or small groups.

But I found that I didn’t mind that I was alone, in fact, it was adding to the adventure of the whole thing- just me and my pack and my stick (oh yeah, I found a new one earlier that morning!), out in the great wild Highlands of Scotland. Bring on Day 3!

There’s always a mountain at the end; Day 1 on the West Highland Way, Milngavie to Balmaha 30km (19 miles)

September 30, 2016

I think I knew within a few minutes of setting off on the West Highland Way that I’d made the right decision. When I’d been trying to figure out my summer plans, I had wanted to do it all: another writer’s retreat in France, another return to the Camino and to Spain, AND I wanted to do something new. A trek in a different place. But in the middle of my travels, and especially when I got sick, I wondered why I had decided to tack on a trip to Scotland. It felt like a bit too much.

That changed the instant I got off the train in Milngavie and made my way to the start of the West Highland Way. My shoes were laced tight, my pack was loaded up, my hand felt a little empty without a walking stick but otherwise I felt ready to walk. And I was so excited to be walking in a new place.

The beginning of the WHW is about 10 miles past the center of Glasgow, in the suburban village of Milngavie (there were a lot of town names I had trouble pronouncing, but this is perhaps the most perplexing: “mullguy”. Sounds nothing like it looks). It’s possible to start walking in Glasgow, and my guidebook had a good map detailing the way; maybe if I ever walk the trail again I’ll do this, but because I was short on time I did what most people do, and took the 30-minute train ride to the official starting point.

It was past 8:30am but only a few people were milling about the main street of the village. Some shops were just opening and I looked around curiously. The skies were gray, there were dark patches on the pavement from the recent rain. I approached the obelisk that marks the beginning of the trail, and noticed a girl in hiking gear lingering nearby as well. We smiled shyly at each other, then offered to take each others’ photos. We continued to chat for a moment or two, then I waved to her as she set off down the trail.

I wanted to put a little distance between us, so I waited around at the start of the trail for awhile, reading the informational posts, retying my shoes. August is the busiest time for the West Highland Way, but I still wasn’t sure what that meant. Would the trail be crowded? Did I have to worry about not being able to feel like I was walking on my own? I already had my beds reserved for each night of the walk, but would the places where I was staying feel cramped, overrun?

I’d stalled long enough, and finally, I started walking. I walked 19 miles that first day- about 30km- and by the end of the day, I felt really, really happy. It’s hard to put my finger on exactly why I felt such happiness, but I’ll try to explain it as best as I can. Aside from a few bursts of sunlight, the day was overcast and windy and cool. Ideal walking conditions for many, but I always prefer blue sky and at least some sun. I had brief, friendly interactions with about a dozen people, but no real conversations or connections. There was a large hill/small mountain (still don’t really know the difference) to climb at the very end of the day and it wore me out. By the time I got to where I was staying- a private room at the Oak Tree Inn- I was shivering and wanted nothing more than to wrap myself up in bed and watch the Olympics (which, for awhile, I did).

All of this, and I felt nothing but happy. Happy, and excited for the next four days. I think it might go back to that very initial feeling of wonder and awe that I had at the beginning of my trip, when I was settled in my bunk in Bath, England. Just 24-hours before I had been in my apartment, and suddenly I had gotten myself to a very different place. Just like that; it’s easy, and yet, it also requires something of us.

I’d made it through my first day on the West Highland Way, and I guess it gave me the feeling that I could walk anywhere that I want in this world. Scotland is definitely a much easier country to navigate than many others, but the thing is, I think I’d forgotten what it was like to be somewhere completely new. Scotland reminded me of all the exploring I still want to do, and it made me feel like it was all still possible. If I want to walk around the world, I probably can. I just have to decide to do it. If I needed more proof of how much I love this thing- walking alone for great distances- then I got it on the West Highland Way. All I really need is my pack and a good pair of shoes and a walking stick. To be feeling healthy. Some good coffee in the morning, a warm meal at night. It’s a pretty simple recipe for happiness.

The scenery for most of the first day was okay; technically, the beginning of the walk was considered to still be in the suburbs of a large city (though the path was tucked away in parks and woodland), but very quickly it moves into the countryside. For the first half of the day I was crisscrossing with a large family who were out for a day hike- kids and parents and grandparents- and at some point the girl from the obelisk in Milngavie had joined up with them. After a few miles I walked under a drizzle, soon the drizzle turned into a steady rain. I pulled on my rain jacket and when I passed one of the members of the large family, the grandfather, maybe, he turned towards me and opened his arms out wide. Then he turned his face up to the sky, raindrops splashing on his cheeks. “It’s wonderful to be alive, isn’t it?”

The rain only lasted for about 10 minutes, and that was the only rain I walked under on the 5-day hike. Supposedly the weather in the Highlands is fickle and unpredictable; locals told me that it could be pouring rain in one area, while 5 minutes down the road it might be dry. On Day 3 of the walk I was ordering a sandwich at a cafe and the woman behind the counter shook her head in sympathy when I told her I was hiking. “I’m sorry about the weather,” she said. I only looked at her in surprise. “But the weather’s been great!” I replied. “No rain at all!”

The trail wasn’t too crowded on the first day, but that was probably the most crowded I saw it for my entire walk. There seemed to be a lot of people out for a day-hike, but there were several small groups of thru-hikers as well, loaded down with large packs and muddy boots. I said hello to everyone I passed, but it seemed as though other hikers were taken aback by my friendliness. Not all of them, but enough of them. That seemed to be the trend during my hike- I’d try to make eye contact and smile and a good number of people didn’t even really look in my direction, and if they did, they smiled lightly and just kept walking. Many hikers were in pairs or groups, and a lot were camping. It felt like everyone was doing their own thing, which is a very different experience from the Camino. Different, but it wasn’t bad. It almost felt easier to walk my own walk and stay alone and independent when I knew that the chance at community wouldn’t be as easy to find.

But while the other thru-hikers seemed to be in their own worlds, the locals were beyond friendly. I suppose that’s the case in some parts of Spain too, as I walked the Camino, but the difference there is that I couldn’t speak Spanish and communicate with them. But in Scotland? On some parts of the walk, it seemed as though I was getting stopped every 30 minutes or so, by someone who wanted to say hi. That was it! They just wanted to know how things were going- no one exclaimed over my being alone, no one warned me about the hard days ahead. They asked where I was headed to that day, and where I was from- often there was a quick comment about Trump and the upcoming election when they heard that I was American- but mostly it seemed that the locals just wanted to share their love of the Highlands. And I think they wanted to make sure that I was enjoying it too. They seemed pleased when my face would light up, when I talked about how great the weather was, how beautiful the scenery, how much I was enjoying myself.

About 10 miles into the walk I met a man coming in the opposite direction; he was from somewhere in northern Scotland and had walked the West Highland Way dozens of times. We talked for at least 20 minutes, as he told me about the best times of the year to walk, his favorite sections of the trail. He asked about the towns I was staying in, and told me that doing the walk in 5 days would be fine. “Let me see your pack,” he said. When he saw that it wasn’t too big, he nodded. “5 days won’t be too hard, don’t worry.”

The highlight of the day might have been coming across my first “Honesty Box”. There were several of these set up along the West Highland Way: tables full of bottled water, baskets filled with candy bars, and in this first instance, a large cooler filled with ice cream and popsicles. A sign showed the price of each item and there was always a lock-box to drop some coins into. But ice cream in the middle of a vast and empty countryside! (Well, there was a tiny village with a few buildings, but I felt like I was in the middle of nowhere). What a special treat.

20-miles was a big first day, and I had equally- and longer- days ahead. Most of the walk had been fairly flat and not difficult, but the day ended with a winding trail up the side of a small mountain called Conic Hill. The trail was steep, and my legs hurt. Up and up and up, and as I climbed the wind grew stronger, the air cooler. When I walked I worked up a sweat, but as soon as I stopped for a break I began to shiver. Dark clouds swirled around the sky and as I approached the top of the climb I squinted out towards the horizon. I was at the southern edge of Loch Lomond, the largest area of fresh water in Britain. From where I was standing, I was at the start of a 23-mile path that would wind its way along the edge of the lake; but that would be tomorrow’s walk.

For now, I just had to follow the steep descent down the hill and into the town of Balmaha, my destination for the night.

I felt like I stumbled into town with aching feet, heavy legs, my hair in tangles. But I was looking forward to my bed for the night; because I booked rather late, the cheaper beds in the bunkhouse were all taken, so I had to reserve a room at the Inn. It was an expensive night- the most expensive of the summer- but I welcomed the luxury with open arms.

I checked into my tiny room with the cleanest, shiniest bathroom I’d ever seen, and the first thing I noticed was a tray filled with mugs and tea bags and several packet of shortbread cookies. So I took a shower and then heated some water and crawled under the heavy comforter to eat some cookies, drink some tea, and watch some of the semi-final men’s Olympic tennis match. I didn’t want to move from the bed, and I only left for a quick trip over to the Inn’s restaurant for dinner (fish and chips and a tall pint of beer), and then I returned to bed for more tea, more cookies, more Olympics.

A good first day on the West Highland Way. I knew that the days ahead would be more difficult, but finally, my excitement outweighed my nervousness. I couldn’t wait to see what would be next.

The Next Adventure: 5-days on the West Highland Way

September 22, 2016

Scotland- the land of kilts, whiskey, ruddy-faced men and a dish called haggis. Clichés? Sure. But to tell you the truth, I didn’t know much about Scotland before my 5-day walk on the West Highland Way, and I only learned about haggis when I was planning my trip. Vague images from the movie Braveheart swirled through my mind, and I always meant to do research about this place that I was headed to, to at least read up on a little history, a little about the cuisine and the culture and the landmarks, but I didn’t have time. Or maybe I didn’t want to make the time.

One thing I love about traveling is that I’m exploring something that is, to me, completely unknown. And the less I know about a place I’m going to, the more open I am to whatever awaits me. So I think there was part of me that just wanted to arrive in Scotland and… see. Just see what was there, let my experience be my teacher.

What do I know about Scotland, now that I’ve walked about 100 miles through its hills and mountains and moors? Whatever I know, it’s hard to put into words.

Maybe that’s why it’s been taking me so long to write these posts. I left Scotland (and Europe) to fly home on August 20th, a full month ago. I keep thinking about writing, and sometimes I craft my blog posts as I’m out on a hike, thinking that I’ll come straight home and write, but I never do.

It felt easier to write about the Camino, maybe because I’ve done it before. I was never writing about Spain, not really, though parts of the culture and the countryside did seep into my words. But on the Camino I was always writing about the journey- there was always a bigger story that I was telling.

On the West Highland Way? I was walking. I was on a vacation. I was on an adventure. I was alone. I liked being alone. I liked haggis- no, actually, I loved haggis. I had no expectations. I wasn’t really walking towards anything, even if I had an end point. I was happy. I didn’t overthink things. Things were easy. Things were hard. I felt like I belonged there.

I’m sure there’s a story in there, somewhere, and I’m sure I’ll find it as I write about my trek. But while the Camino felt like a pilgrimage, while it’s always felt like a pilgrimage, the West Highland Way felt like a long walk in a beautiful place. I thought that maybe my days in Scotland would be like a continuation of my Spanish Camino, but that wasn’t the case. I was just out for a walk. An incredible, challenging, beautiful walk.

But when I started, I didn’t know what I heading into. All I knew is what I had just finished. My final day in Spain was spent in Santiago: the morning was full of errands: printing out boarding passes and picking up my extra luggage and finding souvenirs and remembering where my favorite corners of the city were. I always meant to write an entire post about this day but that’s going to wait for another time, maybe (most likely) a time that will never come; in any case, the day in Santiago was relaxed and easy and perfect. I retired early to my private room and, with a package of cookies and my West Highland Way guidebook, I crawled into bed.

I spent about an hour reading through the guide, really studying the first two days of the trek. I pulled out a pen and made some notes in the margins- places where I could stop to eat, a good lookout that I didn’t want to miss. But as I continued reading, studying the same words over and over, I began to get a little nervous. It seemed as though on every other page, there was a warning: Do Not Underestimate How Long It Will Take You To Walk. I flipped back, studied the maps, looked at the elevation profiles, and chose to mostly ignore those words. I was an experienced walker, after all. I’d always been fast on the Camino, why would it be any different on a path in Scotland?

But in the back of my mind I knew that I had no idea what I would be walking into. The West Highland Way is not the Camino, and I could feel a tremor of nervousness as I wondered how difficult the terrain would be, what the weather would be like, if I would get lost on the trail.

I flew first to London, then to Scotland the next morning. During the first flight I had an easy and fun two-hour conversation with the pilgrim seated next to me, and as we were about to part ways in the airport in London (where I had a long layover), he gave me a big hug and wished me luck. It felt like a good omen, and one final, last-minute Camino friend.

But when I arrived in Glasgow, I was greeted with gray skies and a steady rain. The tremor of nervousness was back, a little stronger this time. I wasn’t happy walking in the rain for the ten minutes between the train station and my hostel; what was I going to do if I had days of weather like this?

I found my room and my bed (top bunk) and began to arrange my things for the next day. The room was mostly empty, except for two girls sitting together on one of the bunks, their heads bent low over an open book. I moved through the room quietly, trying not to make too much noise, but then I happened to glance out the window and I couldn’t help but gasp.

We were up on the 9th floor, and the large windows of our room overlooked parts of the city and the River Clyde. When I’d arrived at the hostel the view was nothing but gray with wet splashes of rain on the glass, but all at once there were gaps in the clouds and the sun burst through and a strong and solid rainbow was pouring from the sky and landing somewhere that felt just out of reach.

“It’s a rainbow!” I exclaimed, looking over to the two girls. Other than a smile when I had first arrived, we hadn’t said anything to each other. The girls exchanged glances and slowly came over to the window. I was grinning like an idiot because things like this make me happy, it felt like a really good omen for the days ahead.

And when the girls saw the rainbow, all shyness and coolness dropped and the three of us were exclaiming over the views, and crowding around the window to snap photos. Then we started talking, and I found out that they were also planning to walk the West Highland Way. We didn’t move for at least 20 minutes- standing there in front of the window as the rainbow slowly faded, but talking non-stop about the walk and our plans and what to expect.

Their names were Claire and Josephine, they were from the Netherlands and had walked Hadrian’s Wall the year before. “We loved it,” Claire said, “It was hard but we wanted to do something like it again. We’re taking 8 days to walk, how about you?”

I hesitated. When I told them I was going to walk in 5 days, their eyes opened wide and they poured over their guidebook. “But, like, that means that the end of your day 2 is the end of our day 4! Whoooooa.”

The tremor of nervousness roared its ugly head and I can’t really call it a tremor anymore. Was I crazy to be walking the route this fast? The distances were big: 30km, 32km, 31km, 35km, 24km, but when I planned the walk I reasoned that it wasn’t something I hadn’t done before. And after hiking in France and spending two weeks on a Camino, wouldn’t I be in fairly good shape?

But part of my nerves were due to the fact that I was locked in. The 96-mile route is, overall, much more isolated than 100-mile sections on the Camino Frances or the Camino del Norte. There are places to stay in every town that you pass through, but you don’t pass through a dozen in a day. And sometimes the only option in a given town or village is a pricey room in a bed and breakfast or an inn. Plus, because August was peak season for walkers on the West Highland Way, I’d needed to make all my reservations well in advance. My beds were booked; if I wanted to slow down because of fatigue or bad weather, it wasn’t really an option. If I was going to walk the entire route, it was going to have to be in 5 days.

“Good for you,” the girls said. “I think it’s amazing you’re going to walk it that fast.”

I laughed, but the laugh was shaky and thin. “Well, it’s only going to be amazing if I actually do it.”

I went to bed just after the sun went down, tucked under a sheet and a blanket, high up on a top floor of a tall building in the center of Glasgow. My phone was tucked under my pillow, the alarm was set for an early hour. I closed my eyes and shut out all the questions and the worries about what I was about to do, and instead only focused on the good things: I was in a brand new place. I was about to set out on another adventure. Even if was only fleeting, I’d made a few new friends that day. There had been a rainbow. A beautiful rainbow. One way or another, I would be okay.

The Last, Perfect Camino Day; Day 9 on the Camino del Norte (Miraz to Sobrado dos Monxes, 25km)

August 31, 2016

Warning: this is a long post. I think this is what happens when I write after the Camino ends, when I’ve had time to think about my days and reflect on all that happened. So maybe grab a cup of coffee or a glass of good Spanish wine and read about my last day on the Camino.

It seems like each time I do a Camino, I have one perfect day. Or, a day that’s just all-around so good and I feel so happy that I don’t want to even think about it too much- I just want to be in the day, in each moment of it, soaking it all up. On the Camino Frances it was the day I walked into Burgos; last year, it was the day on the Primitivo when my friends and I cobbled together some food and ate in the garden of the albergue under a setting sun.

And this year, it was my very last day on the Camino. How beautiful is that? It seemed like good Camino symmetry, that I’d had a rather difficult and isolated time overall, until the very end. And the very end felt magical.

All three of these ‘perfect days’ have something in common: I spent them with people whose company I truly enjoyed, people who I felt connected to. This makes me laugh, because I spend so much time alone on these Camino journeys; walking alone is important to me, facing challenges alone makes me grow, being happy and content with my own company is something I admire about myself.

But in the end, I need people. I think we all do.

My last post left off in the albergue of Miraz, where I’d eaten a hearty pasta dinner cooked by an Italian woman and eaten with a table full of new friends. I woke in the morning knowing I wouldn’t get an early start- the hospitaleros prepared a simple breakfast for us that they began to serve at 7am, so after a couple cups of strong coffee and a large stack of jellied toast, I didn’t set off until well after 7:30.

From my seat at the table in the albergue kitchen, I had watched the light change out the window. At first a dark, almost navy blue that slowly shifted and thinned, turning pale and then pink and orange tinged at the horizon and it was a perfectly clear, pastel colored sky.

I sat watching this sky in the albergue, wanting to be out there, walking, but at the same time content to sip my coffee and crunch into another piece of toast and make groggy conversation with the pilgrim sitting across from me. I almost felt like I was beginning to master something on this Camino (though in reality I’ve probably still got lots of work to do): I was able to just be in the moment, letting go of expectation and control of how I thought things should go or how I wanted them to go. I had learned to let go of worry or stress, and to just sort of take each day for what it was going to give me. I’m still frustrated that I got sick on my Camino, but if there was one take away, it was that everything felt so much easier once I started to feel better. And that I was reminded that feeling and being healthy is maybe the thing I’m most grateful for; if I have my health then I’m able to walk, I’m able to enjoy the food on the table in front of me, I’m able to smile and talk to a stranger. I’m able to be alive in the world.

So for the end of my Camino, I felt so settled into my days, accepting of whatever they would look like: if I would be alone, if I would make a new friend, if I would fly through the walk or if I would feel the burn in my legs. I had no need to make my last day into anything- to frantically fill it with all my favorite things, to make sure I drank Rioja wine or to have a cafe con leche break, to ensure that I would walk alone, to walk to a beautiful sunrise, to arrive at an albergue at any given time. Maybe I’d have these things and maybe I wouldn’t; it was okay.

This is a long way to open a post about my last day, but I’m reflecting on it now because I think my attitude probably contributed to how beautiful this day turned out to be (and it’s a reminder of how I try to keep living, back at home… it’s awfully hard but I’m trying).

When I did finally leave the albergue, full of coffee and bread and the warmth of the hopsitaleros and my new friends, the walk was beautiful. The day was beautiful: it was barely 60 degrees and a strong wind was blowing and the world around me felt a little wild, and free. And by extension, I felt a little wild, and free. I was alone for most of my walk, facing forward but also turning around to catch the sun reaching over the peaks of distance hills. The light was golden and cast long, deep shadows across the reddish dirt and rough stone. I walked, sometimes feeling like I was gliding, being pushed along by the wind.

And as I approached my destination, Sobrado dos Monxes (after a 25km walk), I didn’t feel sad or anxious to try to capture the last steps of this year’s Camino, to savor each one. I just felt… good.

Just before the small town of Sobrado is a small lake, and sitting off to the side along a stone wall was a big group of Spanish teenagers and a few young adults. One of them flagged me down, and began speaking quickly. When I told them I spoke English, another came over to translate. “Do you know where we are?” he asked. They wanted to know where I had come from- they were walking in the opposite direction, not on the Camino exactly, but maybe on a scouting/camping trip. I mentioned the names of towns I’d seen as I walked, and pulled out my guidebook and pointed at a map, to help them orient themselves.

I walked away feeling satisfied that someone had asked me for direction, knowing that I felt sure about where I was, what was behind me, where I was going. I walked a few more steps and saw two pilgrims sitting on a small dock at the water’s edge. They were two English guys who I’d seen a couple times the day before; we chatted for a few minutes- they were killing time because apparently the albergue in Sobrado didn’t open until 4pm. It was almost 1:30 at this point but I didn’t want to linger too long, I wanted to get into the town and find a restaurant where I could get a good meal. One of the guys nodded and said, “Natalie passed by about 15 minutes ago, so she’s just ahead of you.”

I grinned as I walked away, pleased that this pilgrim had linked me together with Natalie, even though I’d only met her yesterday. And I was pleased that she wasn’t far ahead of me. I’d known that just about everyone I’d been in the albergue with the night before was planning to stay in Sobrado- the albergue is in an old monastery and there were over 100 beds available for pilgrims. So I continued walking and I arrived at the monastery to read a sign posted on the door: the albergue had been open until 1:30, and would reopen at 4:00. I checked my phone for the time- it was 1:38. I had just missed a chance to drop off my pack and claim a bed, but in keeping with the theme of the day, I wasn’t bothered by it. I noticed a German man who I’d met briefly the morning before, and for some reason- even though he hadn’t stayed in the Miraz albergue with us and I didn’t even know his name- I considered him part of our group of solo walkers. I grinned and shrugged at our bad luck and said, “Lets go find some lunch.”

We went back to the main square of the town, looked around, and I picked a bar that had a large black board propped against the wall, listing some items from the day’s menu. After using translators on our phones to decipher the food choices, we ordered and took glasses of wine to a table outside. No sooner had we settled in than Natalie, Silvia, Michael and Matthias walked up (they had made it into the albergue before 1:30). They laughed and cheered when they saw us, and we all crowded around the table, then moved inside when the wind started blowing over chairs and knocking over glasses.

My food came out first, and it was then that we realized we had stumbled onto something great. This wasn’t just another Spanish bar with bland lettuce and watery tomatoes, fried slabs of meat, hunks of white bread. I’m sure there are restaurants like this in larger cities on the Camino (I’ve even been to a few good ones), but this was a hidden gem in a small, dusty town. On the outside and on the inside, it looked like any other bar, maybe a touch more modern, a touch more clean. But the food! The guy bringing out our dishes was the chef, and he owned this restaurant. He was young and full of energy and ideas. He could speak some English (which I hadn’t encountered much), and explained that his menu evolved; he aimed to use the freshest, most local ingredients, and so he cooked with whatever was available and in season.

And it was evident in the food that we ordered. My salad wasn’t a normal ‘ensalada mixta’: the lettuce looked like it had been picked sometime in the last hour (and maybe it had; it took awhile for the food to get to us). The tomatoes were the right color of red, there were thin slices of radish and a broiled cheese that I couldn’t identify but the flavors burst on my tongue and I scraped up every last bit. My next dish was mounds of smoked salmon piled on top of an avocado mousse and layered on thick toast and there was so much I could only finish it because it was so good.

I’m not totally sure of what everyone else was eating because I was so absorbed in own meal, all I know is that everyone was raving over the quality of the food. I saw some sort of pulled pork, and long plates of deep green padron peppers. We drank glasses of wine, and then more glasses of wine. When the chef came to ask us if we wanted dessert, we rubbed our stomachs, looked at each other, and asked what he was making.

I ordered his personal recommendation, in English he called it “cream cheese with jelly”, but even he knew that this description didn’t do the dish justice. “Just try it,” he said. “It’s made with ingredients unique to Galicia, and it is the very best.”

And it was. After dessert we ordered coffee, because there’s nothing like a strong shot of espresso to end a really long and really good meal. We thanked the chef countless times and raved over his food and he urged us to come back later that night. (I’m kicking myself for not noting the name of this restaurant; my google searches are bringing up nothing).

Just as we were leaving, I noticed the two English guys I had passed on my way into Sobrado. One of them- the handsome, blond one with long hair pulled back into a knot at the back of his head- was paying at the bar and I decided to walk over and talk to him. I did it without giving it much thought; he had caught my eye and I wanted to say hi. I was feeling good from the weight of the wine and the fullness of my meal, from the soft morning sunlight and the wild wind, from the freedom I’d felt as I walked and the confidence I had at the end of this journey through Spain.

We stood at the bar, talking, then moved outside to where his friend was sitting, then all walked together back to the monastery. We stood in line together and waited to check in, talking about the day’s walk, about where we lived, about our ideas for the future. I was so distracted by the conversation, by the English guy’s light blue eyes and his nice smile that it wasn’t until we were almost at the front of the line that I realized I had left my walking stick behind.

My stick! You guys know how much my walking sticks mean to me on these Caminos, and this year was no exception. I’d found the stick on my second day of the San Salvador and it was different than the sticks I’d carried on my other Caminos but I’d learned how to carry it so that it fit into my hand perfectly, I learned to love it. I couldn’t believe that I had gotten distracted by a guy and left it behind. I was about to turn around and go retrieve it, but then I realized that I didn’t need it anymore. My walking was done, the stick had fulfilled its purpose, I was going to leave it behind that day anyway. (I did go back later to look for the stick, but it was gone. And that, despite knowing I was going to leave it behind anyway, made me a little sad).

I’m amazed that I don’t have a good photo of this year’s walking stick. So here’s another shadow photo.

We got our beds and I showered and a French woman I’d never met before asked if I wanted to share the washing machine with her so I didn’t have to hand wash my clothes. While my clothes were washing I walked around, exploring the monastery. I couldn’t quite believe that I was staying here on my last day of Camino walking. It was my kind of place. Old and nearly abandoned, crumbling and decaying, vines growing through empty windowpanes, the flap of pigeon wings echoing around the vacant spaces. In many ways it was sad to see this beautiful, imposing building left to rot, left behind. But it was also quietly beautiful, more beautiful to me than so many of the gilded and ornate churches that dot the path of the Camino.

The rest of the afternoon and evening went by too fast, and I wanted more time. Time to run my errands and wander through the town. Time to write postcards to my friends and family, time to explore more of the monastery, time to talk to my new friends. I was able to do some of this, all of this, but I wanted just a bit more. More, and yet, what I had was enough. A big group of us did go back to the same restaurant where we’d had lunch, we ordered several bottles of wine and plates of tapas and stayed until just before 10:00, and then we had to rush back to the albergue before we got locked out.

At some point in the evening, Natalie asked me if I was sad that my Camino was over, that I couldn’t continue on to Santiago. And you know, I surprised myself a little that my answer was ‘no’. It would have been wonderful to continue on for two or three more days to Santiago, to try to stick with the group I’d found, and with the people I was continuing to meet. But a few days into the San Salvador I’d known that I couldn’t walk all the way to Santiago this year, and despite my recent connections, I was okay to say goodbye that night. The entire day had felt surrounded by a haze of that ol’ Camino magic- and I was happy. Content with the way I’d walked, excited about a new adventure to come, but mostly just focused on the beautiful place I was in at the moment, the beautiful people surrounding me.

Walking back to the albergue under a half moon and the fading light of the sky, my friends before me, I thought to myself, “This is the perfect end to a Camino. I don’t need anything else.”

The Camino Magic is Back; Day 8 on the Camino del Norte, Baamonde to Miraz, 15km

August 26, 2016

It was my second to last day of walking in Spain when everything changed. I’m not sure what happened; I think it was the moment I decided what the Camino experience was going to be like for me, when I said: “It’s just a really solo walk. Not about connection and families and friendship, it’s about me.” That’s when the Camino showed up and responded with, “What have I tried to tell you, time and time again, Nadine? You’ll never walk alone.”

I suppose I helped determine my own path a bit, in addition to whatever Camino magic was happening in those last days. On the morning of my 8th day of walking, when I left Baamonde, I stopped in the bar just around the corner from my albergue for a cafe con leche and a croissant. As I got ready to leave, I saw a girl sitting alone at a table near the door; I’d noticed her the night before, as well, sitting alone on a couch and reading.

When I passed her I paused, and then stopped and introduced myself. Her name was Natalie, and she was from Belgium. We chatted for a minute, talking about where we were going that day, and when I moved towards the door to leave she said, “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”

She was right. I walked alone for the first 7km of the day and then stopped in a bar for a second breakfast. It was the first place you could stop on that day’s walk so there were lots of other pilgrims there, as well, and the place was actually like a little pilgrim haven: it was attached to a new, private albergue and was filled with pilgrim paraphernalia. The owners were friendly and welcoming and I was immediately comfortable. Natalie walked in about 15 minutes after me and we shared a table- she chatted with some other pilgrims she knew and introduced me, and suddenly, I didn’t feel different or isolated, not like I had the night before. Here, I was a pilgrim like everyone else, and suddenly- for one of the first times since I’d been on the Camino this year- it seemed easy to talk with people, easy to fit in. I felt part of something and not separate, like I was doing this on my own.

Natalie left the bar a bit before me but once I started walking I caught up to her, and then we walked together. At first I hesitated; this was the first time I had walked with anyone on my trip, and initially I was resistant to it. But it was a short day- only 15 km to Miraz and the albergue I’d heard so many good things about- and already the day was half done. Natalie was planning on staying in the same albergue as me, and so we walked the rest of the way together.

And it was great. It still surprises me when I can meet someone who I almost instantly feel comfortable around, someone similar to me even though they’re from a different part of the world. We discovered that we had near identical beliefs about how we wanted to walk our Caminos: connecting with others when it felt right, but always going our own way and following our instincts, which often meant walking alone and not sticking with a group.

Because the day’s walk was so short, it, almost strangely, felt like a rest day to me. I had been walking really long days (and the shorter days I walked when I was sick felt like they would never end), so it was a treat to be feeling good and only walking 15km. Natalie and I both didn’t want to rush to Miraz to ensure we got a bed in the albergue we wanted to stay in; I’d decided days ago that I wasn’t going to stress about where I would sleep, and I liked that Natalie had the same view. So we took our time, or maybe the Camino encouraged us to take our time.

Our first stop happened when we passed by a house with intricate carvings in the stone wall out front. We heard music blaring from the lawn and a bright yellow arrow pointed the way through an open gate.

“Should we go in?” Natalie asked.

I looked at her and nodded. “I think we have to at least check it out.”

It was the home of Francisco Chacon, a stone sculptor with a studio in a garage attached to the side of his house. He was working when we wandered in, but put his tools down and came over to talk. Natalie could speak some Spanish so mostly I just listened to their conversation, doing my best to try to understand what I could and communicating my appreciation for his work.

Examples of it were everywhere: in the stones under our feet, covering the walls of his house, designs carved into columns, small figures lined up on table tops. He took us inside his home to show us more, and then back outside to give us stamps for our credentials- hot orange wax dripped onto our pilgrim passports and stamped with his seal.

We walked away, grinning and chattering about how happy we were that we’d made the decision to poke our heads inside. We kept walking, but it seemed as though every 10 minutes we stopped. First a man flagged us down, just wanting to say hi and ask how we were doing, then an older woman who heard Natalie’s French accent and wanted to tell us all about the 4 years she lived in France when she was in her 20’s.

Then we saw a deer bound across the road, then we passed a few pilgrims that Natalie knew. Before we knew it we had arrived in Miraz- it was noon, and the albergue didn’t open until 3:00. We joined a few other pilgrims who were seated outside the entrance, and I was pleased to recognize them all. Two Spanish boys I’d met in the kitchen the night before, Michael, the Swiss lawyer who I’d had coffee with several days before (it turns out that he had been in the hospital for a day with stomach issues!), and Silvia, an Italian girl about my age who I’d first seen in the albergue in Gontan, and again the night before in Baamonde.

Since we were so early, Natalie, Michael, Silvia and I decided to walk to the next village to have lunch, so we left our bags propped up against the albergue wall and sauntered out of the village. Our lunch was wonderful- caldo gallego (a white bean soup that’s a specialty of Galicia), roasted chicken and rice, ice cream and wine and bread. We took our time eating and made it back about 30 minutes before the albergue opened.

And once the albergue did open, I realized why it had been recommended to me. It’s a simple place- there’s nothing fancy about it- but instantly I was comfortable. It’s run by the Confraternity of Saint James, which is a UK-based charity that helps promote the Camino, and the hospitaleros were warm and kind and soon as we walked in. The albergue is donativo and they provide breakfast in the morning, and tea or coffee any time we liked. The kitchen was large, clean and well stocked, and the bunkrooms were also clean and spacious.

After showering and washing my clothes I made myself a cup of tea and settled in with my journal at one of the long tables in the kitchen area. But no sooner than I sat down did I hear someone say, “The fruit and vegetable truck is here!” It was like I was back at La Muse, waiting for the honk of the weekly bread truck so I could run outside and make my purchases.

A group of us ventured outside and when we saw that the truck offered more than just fruit and vegetables, we decided to buy ingredients for a big pasta dinner that we could enjoy together. We walked back to the albergue with plastic bags full of round, heavy tomatoes, onions and garlic, olive oil, two packages of penne.

Silvia was tasked with making the pasta because, well, she was Italian. She set to work immediately, even though it was barely 5pm. “I have to let the sauce simmer for as long as possible,” she explained.

At 7:00 we went over to the village church where the hospitalero gave a small talk explaining some of the history of the village and the church we were in, and we were invited to sit quietly and pray, or just reflect on our pilgrimage. I sat for a few moments but then I walked outside, where I had to zip up my fleece against the cold air and the chill of the wind. I walked in a long, slow circle around the church, and thought about the day. How was it possible that I’d found myself in the middle of such a kind, welcoming group of people when just the night before I had felt alone? When, in fact, I’d felt alone for so much of my time in Spain? Suddenly it was as if the Camino was back, and back in full force.

The rest of the evening was beautiful. We all sat around a large table and feasted on the pasta that Silvia made. Matthias, a German man with light blond hair and ruddy red cheeks had procured a few bottles of wine at the neighboring bar, and the rest of us pulled out bits of bread and cheese and crackers that we’d been carrying in our packs. Michael invited the hospitaleros to join our meal, I included the two Spanish boys who, with only two potatoes between them, looked hungry.

We talked and laughed and toasted and when I went to bed that night, I felt full. I come back to Spain, time and time again, because I love walking through the country. I like that I can spend all day outside and not have to worry much about where I’m going to sleep at night, that I can have my cafe con leches and my vino tintos and that it’s an incredibly affordable way to spend weeks in Europe. But I also come to Spain and come back to the Camino for the spirit, for the like-minded people, for the community. It took awhile this time, but finally I’d found it, my own group of solo-walkers, people who were doing this Camino on their own and in their own way. Somehow, we’d all found each other that night, and just like that, and even for just a very short time, we became a little group. A family. I fell asleep feeling full, and happy.

Photo credit: Natalie

Like it was all a dream

August 21, 2016

I’m back! In more ways than one: back with another blog post, and back home in the US.

Back home, already? I was gone for 7 weeks- I did a whirlwind few days through Bath and London and Paris before spending three weeks at La Muse in southern France, then two and a half weeks in Spain, and then a week in Scotland. Before I left for my trip, I was overwhelmed with everything I had planned, with all the different parts, and I worried that it was too much. And when I started the Camino and then got sick, I still worried that it was too much. “Why am I going to Scotland?” I asked myself. “Why did I decide to do so much?”

But in the end, I have to say, I’m glad I decided to do it all. And the traveling and the unpacking and repacking of bags, the different bed every night, the connections and the directions and all the different towns and cities… by the time I got to Scotland it didn’t feel too difficult or too hard. In fact, I sort of felt like I knew what I was doing, even though I had never been to Scotland before. I felt like, maybe just a bit, I’d gotten rather good at this traveling thing.

That being said, it’s good to be home. In the last few days of my trip, I kept thinking to myself, “I only have to do this two more times. I only have to do this one more time.” “This” referred to showering in cramped and not-so-clean hostel bathrooms, to waking up in the morning and trying to be super quiet while packing up my stuff, to having to dry myself with my incredibly small travel towel that I should have upgraded to a larger size two years ago.

But it’s also strange to be home. Nothing has changed here, and I wouldn’t have expected anything to, and yet, when you’re away from home for a long time and have seen and done so much, you return and expect that the changes are at home, too. That everything should look a little different, should sound a little different and taste a little different. But my apartment is my apartment- a bit musty and cobweb covered but everything is in the exact place where I left it. My mailman waved to me yesterday and said, “Welcome back”, at Trader Joe’s the shelves are reassuringly stocked with the same familiar products, the sounds of cicadas come in through the screen door and it’s like background noise that has always been there.

I fell asleep on my couch last night around 7:30; I was trying to stay up as late as I could to beat jet lag, but I decided to close my eyes for a just a few minutes and of course that sent me into a quick and deep sleep. I awoke with a jolt about 40 minutes later and blinked my eyes and looked, confused, around the room. Where was I? Home? Why am I here? It was the strangest feeling, I struggled to understand that I was in a familiar place, and for a split second, it felt like all of my traveling had been a dream. Like I had been on that couch all along, and had only dreamed of the writing in France, the trekking through Spain and Scotland, the different lands, the new friends, the sunrises, the green mountains.

My next post should be back to the Camino, to finish telling you about that journey, and then I’m anxious to write about Scotland and my experiences there. I tried to write a bit in the last week of my travels but I never got very far. The faulty keyboard made it difficult, and to be honest, most evenings, I didn’t feel like writing. I sat in bars with a glass of wine and a hearty meal and watched what was going on around me and sometimes chatted with the locals, or other travelers. I just wanted to absorb where I was. One night, I set up my keyboard and iPad in the hostel in Glen Nevis and started writing a post but then a Londoner named Tony started talking to me and then so did a woman from Minnesota and then a man from Norway and so I folded up my keyboard and put it away.

But my keyboard is open again, and I’m so happy to return to writing, to telling these little stories, to processing my experiences and then looking forward to my next projects. It was good to be away, and now it’s good- in different ways- to be back home. Thank you all for following along, for your comments and emails, for any time you took to read what I had to say. I hope you’ll keep reading.

An Adventure All My Own; Day 7 on the Camino del Norte, Gontan to Baamonde, 40km

August 11, 2016

I’ve been having some slight technical difficulties over here; my trusty keyboard that a good friend gifted me before my first Camino has been malfunctioning. Sometimes it seems as though certain keys don’t work at all; just now I had to wait for awhile and fiddle with it and tap and tap on each key until everything started working. There’s a lag in my typing, the ‘m’ key never seems to register and I always have to go back through and add the ‘m’s’ back in. But right now it looks like things are in (somewhat) working order so I can finally get around to writing another post.

I’m days behind. In fact, in “real time”, I arrived in Santiago today! (by bus, I just didn’t quite have enough time to make it all the way by foot). And tomorrow morning I’m off to Scotland, and it seems surreal. This was a fast, fast Camino- just 15 days of walking which is half of my usual time out here. And the first five days were a totally separate Camino from the Norte, and awfully isolated, and then I was sick for nearly a week, and it wasn’t until 5 or 6 days ago that I finally felt like I was “in” a Camino.

It’s been disjointed, but as I’m sitting here in a bar I know and love, drinking a glass of vino tinto, listening to the happy sounds of pilgrims on the street, I feel great. The end of my Camino was amazing and unexpected, in only the way that a Camino can be.

I’m going to eventually write about it all and who knows, maybe I can keep churning out posts, but some of these recaps will probably be delayed. I have no idea what my trek through Scotland will be like- if I’ll have extra time, if I’ll have time to myself, if I’ll be able to write- and it might remove me too much from what I’m experiencing to be writing about Spain while I’m off in a different place.

A tiny plate of tapas was just delivered to my table- a wedge of tortilla and two croquettas. I’m going to miss Spain. Just as I was getting my footing back, finding my joy again, remembering all the things I love about doing a Camino in this country… it’s time to leave. The overwhelming feeling of the past few days has been that I want just a bit more time here.

But the last three days were so great, each in a very different way. So lets go back to where I left off, back to Day 7, the day after I felt like I was flying through the mountains.

I was planning on a 40km day. I’d already done one a few days before (and really, the day through Ribadeo registered at around 4o as well, with the extra city walking), so I wasn’t too concerned about taking on too much. But as I well know from past Caminos, no good feeling lasts forever. I’d had such a strong, strong walk the day before, but now my body was asking for a little rest, or at least an easier day. And I said, “Sorry… I have big plans.”

I think I knew pretty early on in the day that my feet were tired and that my legs weren’t moving quite as quickly. I wasn’t in a hurry- my destination was Baamonde, the site of one of the largest albergues on the Norte (I think about 96 beds?)- so I knew that even if I arrived in the evening, I would have a place to sleep. So when I realized that I was tired, I took my time.

And sometimes, even with fatigue, days like this are fun. I kept thinking of it like one big adventure- planning a long, epic day of walking, pouring over my guidebook to plan my breaks, thinking about what food I would buy when I passed a grocery store, wondering how I would feel when I reached 20km, when I reached 30km.

I barely saw other pilgrims on the walk either, and this added to the ‘adventure’. Just me and the road- lots and lots of road.

I crossed into Galicia two days before, but on this day I really felt like I was in it. If I had the time or the memory to give some background on this region of Spain I would do it now, but I have neither. What I do know is that there are strong Celtic influences in this region, and that some parts of the area have a very mystical feel. I can’t think of a better word than mystical, though I’m not sure that’s quite right. In any case, whenever the trail passes through the woods, it’s a different kind of wood- the trees are large and knarled and twisted in a way that I don’t see at other points on the Camino. Everything seems to be covered with a thick layer of moss- the heavy tree trunks, the crumbling stone walls. If I conjure up an image of Galicia in my mind, it is always darker here, more confined, quiet, almost a little spooky.

There was a heavy wind while I walked, it whipped through the tree branches and blew dust up over my legs. When I entered into a dark tunnel of heavy trees, I saw the first pilgrim in many kilometers. He was standing in the middle of the path and he seemed to be waiting. I had a slight feeling of trepidation- I knew that everything was fine, but the wind and the dark green moss and the wild tree branches all made me feel a little uneasy. But when I reached the pilgrim, he only asked if I could take his photo. And then the took one of me.

On this walk I began to feel like the towns and villages I passed through were more conscious of the presence of pilgrims, they took note of us and respected the path we were on. Just when I was craving a piece of fruit, I passed a house that had a table set up outside, filled with baskets of peaches and nectarines and melons and plates of cheese. There was a hose that poured out fresh water, and a small bowl that asked for donations. I pulled some coins from my pocket and picked out a round peach and just as I was walking away, a woman opened the window of her home and waved to me with a great smile. “Buen Camino!” she called out, waving her hand furiously.

I walked and I walked and I walked and I stopped for tortilla and orange juice, I stopped for an icy cold coke, I stopped in a town with a big grocery store, I stopped to set up a picnic lunch on a patch of grass between a chapel and a small cemetery.

And then I kept walking, and walking. Forty kilometers is a big day, but this one seemed to last forever. The trail kept passing over the highway, and while I appreciated that it often wound away from the big road, I knew that it was snaking and curving and adding on extra kilometers. I’d pass signs that said, “Baamonde 7km” and then I’d walk what felt like 3km and I’d cross the road again and see another sign and it said, “Baamonde 7km”.

The day was sunny, and hot. By 4pm I just wanted to be out of the sun but there was no shade on the path and it was inescapable. I pulled out all the stops- my ballcap to cover my face, my buff to cover the back of my neck, but man, the sun was strong. (I’m attempting to post a video- one of the only videos I took on this trip. This is what the end of a long day looks like!)

(Side note: I’m still in this bar in Santiago, writing, and I asked for a second glass of wine. With the wine came another plate of tapas and a small bowl of potato chips. I love Spain!!)

I finally arrived in Baamonde and it was after 6pm and it was probably one of my latest Camino walking days. The albergue was large and clean, the space was really beautiful (and I regret not taking photos). But I walked in and felt like a stranger. I didn’t know anyone or recognize anyone, and people were sprawled out and settled in and sitting in groups and laughing together. I knew it was more my own feeling of shyness than anything else, but it felt really difficult to walk up to a group and start a conversation. And I didn’t even feel like I was in an albergue on the Camino, it just sort of felt like a nice youth hostel where a bunch of people were there for different reasons. It’s possible that I had just spent too much time alone that day, that I’d been spending too much time alone on the Camino in general- but whatever the reason, I retreated from the groups of people and spent the rest of the evening in much the same way as I had the evening before- in a bar around the corner, doing some writing.

And when I woke up the next morning, I told myself that it was all okay. “It’s a quiet Camino,” I thought. “This one’s just not about other people, this one is about you.” I thought I had things figured out, but it turns out that the the Camino had other plans for me. Isn’t that always the way? Just when you think you know how something is going to go, you realize you don’t know anything at all. So stayed tuned for what turned out to be a day on the Camino that was the last thing I expected, but exactly what I needed.