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Nadine Walks

stories of trekking and travel

One Week to Go

June 11, 2018

One week. One week!! You’d think after all these years of planning summer adventures and long walks and reunions with friends and writer’s retreats in the hills of France, I wouldn’t feel the same kind of excitement or nerves that I always do.

But thank goodness this hasn’t gotten old yet. I’m a week away from this year’s long summer journey and I’m feeling that exact same mix of thrill and anxiety that I always do. I write about it every year, too: here are ruminations from 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017.

This year’s “check-in before the big adventure” feels most similar to what I was feeling before my very first Camino, which is a little strange. I’m worried about my gear and the weight of my pack and the fear that I haven’t trained nearly enough.

So let’s rewind just a little, and fill you in on what’s been happening in the past month in regards to my trip.

I’m starting off in England, with a plan to walk 15-days on the Pennine Way, beginning to end. Here’s a map from my guidebook that might give you a bit of context as to where the Pennine Way is, and the route it takes:

map of UK walking routes

My plan for the Pennine Way was to stay in a mix of bunkhouses and hostels and B&B’s, much like I did on both the West Highland Way and Hadrian’s Wall Path. In fact, I found an itinerary for a Pennine Way walk that allows a walker to stay almost exclusively in bunkhouses and hostels, and so I planned for this route, hoping to save some money.

The only flaw in this plan was that, even months in advance, some places were fully booked, including several large youth hostels (though, as my mom pointed out, these are youth hostels that are most likely being used by the youth of this world. As hard as it is for me to admit, my days of being considered a ‘youth’ are probably long behind me. So I should graciously take a step back for the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts and youth groups who are taking up the beds in the hostels). But then I discovered it wasn’t just the hostels; B&B’s were booked too, and it’s all boiled down to this:

I’m going to camp on the Pennine Way.

Well, sort of. I’m bringing a tent and any other accompanying gear I might need, but I’ll probably only camp a couple nights (at established campsites with showers and toilets and a nearby pub with warm food). It’s a long and complicated story of how I can’t find any accommodation for one night on the trail, and I honestly can’t come up with a better solution than to bring a tent.

And part of me is really excited about this: I get to add a new element to this year’s walk, I get to push and challenge myself, I might fall in love with backpacking and sleeping outdoors, etc.

But the real problem is this: I’m adding an awful lot of weight to my (new) pack for just a couple nights of sleeping outdoors. Yesterday I loaded up my pack with everything I plan to take and the pack was a whopping 26 pounds and I really have no idea if this is reasonable or not. What I do know is that it is nearly twice as much weight as I started with on my first Camino (though, for the record, I packed so little for that first Camino that I ended up buying things along the way). I think I’ve averaged around 15-18 pounds on my other walks, and while an increase of 8 pounds might not seem like a ton, I felt every ounce of it as I walked yesterday.

And this is why I feel like I did before my first Camino. I’ve been researching gear and making multiple trips to REI and buying things and returning things and I’ve been trying to go on as many hikes as I can. A few weeks ago I threw a bunch of books in my pack and hiked with about 20-21 pounds and I was getting used to that, but the addition of another 5 might as well have been akin to adding a boulder to my pack.

I’m going to weed through my stuff and get rid of whatever I can, and then, well, hope for the best.

I can do this, right? Right. Right! As ever, I hope to blog a bit while I’m walking, but in an effort to shed weight I’m not going to bring a keyboard or iPad, so any writing that happens is going to be my thumbs on an iPhone screen (but once I arrive at my writer’s retreat I’ll have proper writing tools, have no fear). So there may be short updates here, but I’m also planning to update photos on Instagram, and maybe even on Facebook. You’re welcome to friend/follow/sign up/stalk/whatever it is we do these days on social media; as ever, I’m so happy to be able to share parts of my experience with all of you.

walk through the woods

There are so many other wonderful and amazing parts of this trip: Paris and Sète and La Muse and more walking somewhere and reuniting with old friends and I’m excited about every single part of it. I still feel so grateful that I have the kind of life where I can do something like this, and so grateful that, despite the very hard, hard things in this world, I can find this pocket of beauty and freedom and adventure and joy.

So I think this is where my mind is this year, as I prepare to head off to Europe again: I’m nervous and excited about the physical challenge ahead, but I’m also seeking abundant beauty and joy.

It’s my wish for all of you as well, in these months ahead: pockets of freedom and adventure, moments of abundant beauty and joy.

More soon.

Ridley Creek State Park, PA, after the rain

11 Comments / Filed In: Pennine Way, solo-female travel, Travel, walking
Tagged: adventure, beauty, England, hiking, pennine way, solo female travel, travel, walking, writing

No Room at the Inn! Small Shoes!

May 15, 2018

Minutes ago, in a flurry of excitement and anticipation, I dug through my drawers and cabinets, assembled clothing and toiletries and trinkets, and put it all together in my old Camino pack.

“Off on an adventure!” you might be thinking. “Where is she headed to?” you might be asking.

These are fine observations and questions but the answer is: Nowhere. Not yet.

But then why am I loading up my Camino pack? All I can really tell you is that I feel as though my summer trip is right around the corner. Today was just a Tuesday in the middle of May but it felt like one of those days that immediately precedes a big adventure. The air was heavy and humid and hot, the trees were bursting with green, I had off from work and so it felt like the normal pace of the last 9 months was pulling to a close. School’s out, summer’s here.

spring walk

Not yet, not yet, I still have a month to go. One month! But just one month, and maybe that’s why I can practically taste my next journey. I’m in those final weeks where it feels like time just slips away so quickly, when there is still so much left to do, when every day I need to look at the great big list I’ve made for myself and try to manage to check at least one thing off.

And today, I let the excitement wash over me. My first stop on my summer trip will be the Pennine Way, a 268-mile route through the mountains and hillsides that are said to make up the backbone of England. I paged through my guidebook and began to re-read the blogs that had been part of my research months ago.

Along with the excitement was a sudden burst of nerves, the kind that always hit me, but this time they feel early. There’s still so much I need to do, but I have nearly 5 weeks and haven’t I already done this sort of thing before? Many times before?

Yes, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying. This route will be challenging, and the first days start off with a bang and I just haven’t been hiking like I normally do at this time of year. And this isn’t Spain, this is England- northern England- and what if it rains every day? What if the June days are unseasonably cool? What if I get turned around and stuck in a bog?

The blogs warn of stream crossings that can swell if there’s been rain, and now I think to myself, “I need to pack my Crocs, too.” The blogs also warn of the heavy mist that can obscure the way, and I worry at this as well. When I’m walking, I tend to have a good sense of direction and have really never gotten lost, or strayed far from the path. But what if the Pennine Way is different than the West Highland Way, or Hadrian’s Wall Path? What if I am, actually, vastly underprepared?

Now is probably the time when one of you should write in and tell me to stop over-thinking this, and you’d be right to do so. This walk may indeed be my most challenging yet, but I’ve also read many accounts that say the way-marking is better than ever, and that big stone slabs have been laid down over the boggiest portions of the trail. These things assure me.

spring walk in neighborhood

Usually by now I’ve checked in with some updates on my planning, so here we go…

The planning has been intense!!

On a Camino, you really don’t need to do much planning, outside of your flight, your train/bus/taxi to the start of the walk, and maybe the first night’s accommodation. But walks in the UK are a little different, at least for a non-camper like me. Since I’ll be staying in a mix of B&B’s, hostels and bunkhouses, I need to make sure they I have my beds reserved. Because I’m not going to carry a tent, it would be a little risky to just show up and expect to find a place to sleep. And on the Pennine Way, there are sometimes great distances between towns or villages, so if one place is all booked up, I might be unable to walk the distance to the next.

I pre-booked my lodgings for both the West Highland Way and Hadrian’s Wall Path, but each of those walks were only 5 days long. I’ll walk the Pennine Way in 15 days, and including a night before my start and an extra night in Scotland at the end, I’ve had to research and book 17 different places! I knew this going in, but the organization and communication and details were another thing altogether once I’d started.

I’ve run into a little trouble here, and I’m not out of the woods yet. There are a couple places along the route where accommodation seems- already- to be all booked up. I’m not sure how this is possible; my guidebook talks of all the lodging options in one particular town along the route, and says, “Unless the Rolling Stones decide to play in Middleton Village Hall, there is always going to be plenty of choice.” Well, I looked into every single option in my guidebook, then scoured other options online, and everything is booked. I literally checked to see if the Rolling Stones were going to be in town (had to do it!), and I can’t find any reason that there is no accommodation available. And this has happened at multiple different towns or villages along the route, where I’d been planning to stay. So far I think I’ve figured out most of my nights, and have had to alter my route a bit, but it isn’t all bad. One of the changes I’ve had to make now has me stopping in Haworth, home to the Brontës, a stop that I thought I would have to miss. It does mean that the day out of Haworth will come in at a whopping 26-miles, but, well, I’ll deal with that when I get there.

But there are still a couple nights’ lodging that I need to figure out, and and another curveball has been how to figure out the best way to make a quick phone call over to England from the States. I won’t go into the details here, but it took me far too long to come up with a good solution (but I think I have the solution- Viber Out. I got through to one of the hostels this morning, so something must have worked?).

The other snafu to my summer adventuring has been the shoes. Oh, the shoes! Something I thought I had figured out 4 years ago, when I bought that first pair of Keen Voyageurs and have been singing their praises ever since. Well, maybe I have spoken too soon, or maybe I have jinxed myself, or maybe this is just what companies do: they constantly change things up because they think they need to be bigger or better. But when it comes to shoes that fit wide feet, oh please, leave good enough alone!

Keen Voyageurs

I bought my new pair of Keens and giddily took a photo of all the old pairs and this new one and thought to myself, “How lucky I am to have a shoe that fits.” But then I wore them for a few walks around my neighborhood, and then on a 6-mile hike, and I don’t think there’s any way that I can take them to England for the Pennine Way. The shoes have changed; I’d heard rumors of this a few months ago, but this new pair I bought confirmed it for me. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but the shoe feels a little shorter and my toes feel crowded. I think the width is still there, so maybe it’s the length? But my toes hurt in a way that they never have before, and that was just after a 6-mile hike.

In any case, I’m at a loss for what to do. I’m running out of time so I need to figure out something quickly: either buy a half size larger and hope they work, or maybe try a different model altogether. I stopped by REI last weekend to see if I could try the Voyageurs on, but they are no longer being sold in the store. Someone working there said they thought that a new model of the Targhee is actually the same thing as the Voyageur, just with a different look (does this make any sense??). I tried them on but I wasn’t ready to make a decision- I’m still mourning the loss of my good ol’ Keen Voyageurs.

Keen Targhee

No room at the Inn and shoes that don’t fit… not exactly good omens for this adventure, huh?

But it’s all part of the fun, isn’t it? This is what travel is: it throws us out of our comfort zones, it makes us need to think on our feet, we need to make adjustments and accept change and sometimes just face the unknown with openness, and trust.

And in the end, I’m going to have shoes on my feet and a bed to sleep in, one way or another. I’m sure my walk through England is going to have some difficult moments, maybe entire days that are challenging, but it’s going to be beautiful and amazing too. History (my own, over these last four summers) has certainly proven that.

Ridley Creek State Park spring

(photos from my springtime walks)

10 Comments / Filed In: Pennine Way, Travel, walking
Tagged: adventure, England, hiking, life, pennine way, solo female travel, spring, travel, trekking, walking

Holiday gift-guide for the pilgrim/traveler/walker in your life

December 14, 2017

Does anyone else save their holiday shopping until the last minute? I always think that I have all the time in the world, or certainly enough time to have gifts bought and delivered in time for Christmas. But inevitably, every year, I cut it awfully close.

And this year is no exception- it’s December 14th, and I’m just now starting to think that I should probably go out and buy a few gifts for the people in my life. That, and also give my family a few suggestions from my own wish list.

It was when I began to put together a little list of my own that I started to see a trend: guidebooks and good socks and travel notebooks. In other words, some of my favorite things to take on my trips and my walks.

So this is a little collection of gift suggestions, for the traveler/pilgrim/walker/hiker in your life. And, of course, don’t forget yourself; sometimes the holidays are a nice time to treat ourselves to the things we’ve been wishing for all year long.

(As I briefly referred to in my last post, some of these links will be affiliate links; this means that if you click through and order one of these items, a small commission will come to me at no extra cost to you. A win-win! And, I’ll never use an affiliate link on something that I haven’t used and loved myself.)

Stocking Stuffers $15 and under

  • Dr. Bronner’s Soap: While this could give some people the wrong message, I think a good bar of soap is always a fun and appreciated little nugget to find in your stocking. There’s a lot I like about Dr. Bronner’s- it’s a family business that focuses on organic and environmentally responsible products, and I’ve used their Castile bar soaps on every Camino and long-distance trek (my favorite is peppermint). On my walks I use the soap to wash my body and my clothing and it works great, and smells even better.
  • Buff: Ah, the strange piece of tube-shaped fabric that has countless purposes. It took me a couple Caminos to warm up to my buff, but now it’s an indispensable part of my pack. Some popular uses: head band for windy days, head band on hot days (soaked in cold water first), wrist band for strange patches of sunburn (shout-out to my cousin!!), neck wrap to avoid sunburn, napkin, worn over the mouth in dusty areas, etc. The list is really endless.

buff on the camino

  • Moleskine Journal: I use Moleskine notebooks in my job, and I also use them in my travels. The link will take you to the particular type I use on my walks: they are thin and lightweight but high quality and perfect for capturing details and memories.
  • ExOfficio Underwear: You might not give this to a friend (unless it’s a really close friend!), but with family anything goes. This is great underwear for traveling: light, comfortable, dries extremely quickly.
  • Nalgene Water Bottle: I’ve had my Nalgene for years and years (I have several, but my 16oz bottle comes with me on the Camino, along with a backup supply of water in my pack). The bottle has taken quite a beating, but it’s been indestructible.
  • ChicoBag Daybag: I’ve taken one of these on every summer trip for the past 4 years: they barely weigh a thing, are perfect for using in the evenings when I’m not carrying my large pack around, and they also work well as a shower bag (they are water resistant and can hold an incredibly large amount of stuff).

Gifts $15-$50

  • Camino Frances Guidebook: Now’s the time when pilgrims are planning their 2018 treks on the Camino de Santiago, and many will start with the Camino Frances. Love it or hate it, John Brierley’s guide is the most popular of them all (personally, I really liked it).
Camino del Norte guidebook

Or if you’ve already walked the Frances, get the Norte guidebook!

  • Darn Tough socks: They keep my feet warm in the winter, cool in the summer. They are durable and the pairs I’ve had for several years and worn day after day on my long-distance treks have held up really well.
  • Eagle Creek Packing Cubes: These were a game-changer on my second Camino. They helped me organize my clothing, protected it from the rest of my (dirty) pack, maximized space, and were ultra-lightweight. I’ll probably never travel without them again.
  • Havaianas Flip Flops: Hiking shoes or boots aren’t the only footwear you’ll need for a long-distance trek… you’re going to need something to change into in the evenings. For a summer walk, I love a pair of Havaianas. Soft, durable, designed and made in Brazil.
camino break

Camino break!

Gifts $50-$100

  • Marmot Rain Jacket: Bought it for my first Camino, used it ever since. Lightweight and protects pretty well from the rain. A must for any long-distance walking trip.
  • JetBoil Cooking System: I suppose you’d only take this on a pilgrimage if you were planning to camp (which some pilgrims do!). But if you are planning on any camping or backpacking trips in 2018 and don’t have a way to heat up water to cook food, then I highly, highly, highly recommend this system. Compact, lightweight, beyond easy to use, heats water to boiling in 2 minutes. I’ve only really been on one solo-camping trip, but this thing worked like a charm.
Jetboil cooking system

I use my Jetboil to make coffee… what else??

These are just a few ideas; if you want to read more about the things I brought on my Camino you can take a look at my packing list, as well as this post, which goes into more detail about the items I used and loved on my treks.

Happy holidays to everyone, and I’ll be back with more soon.

1 Comment / Filed In: Camino de Santiago
Tagged: adventure, buff, Camino, Camino de Santiago, darn tough socks, dr bronner's soap, eagle creek packing cubes, exofficio underwear, havaianas, hiking, holiday gift guide, jetboil, John Brierley, Marmot, moleskine journal, Nalgene, pilgrimage, solo female travel, travel, trekking, walking

On the Outskirts; Day 7 on the Chemin du Puy, Aubrac to St-Côme-d’Olt, 24km

August 26, 2017

And we’re back on the Chemin du Puy! These blog posts sure are rolling out slowly (is anyone still reading? Wait, forget I asked, because the answer doesn’t really matter; I think I’d probably write out these recaps even if no one read them. I love revisiting my walks!).

But already the Chemin feels awfully long ago, and the details are becoming a little hazy. That became really clear when I started to think about how to write this post, and what to say about Day 7. Sometimes I use my journal entries to trigger memories from the day, but there’s no journal entry for Day 7. I looked at my photos, and while this helped, nothing really jumped out at me. It was a mostly gray day, there were some nice looking trees, and at one point I had a decent view of a town I’d passed through from across the valley.

Chemin du Puy landscape
House on the Chemin du Puy
St-Chely-d'Aubrac; Chemin du Puy

Not really exciting stuff for a blog post.

Was the walk easy or hard, did I encounter anyone interesting, did I have any conversations, what did I eat? How was my mood- was I feeling energized and happy, or was I feeling a little off and a little slow?

Selfie with pilgrim statue; Chemin du Puy

I met this interesting guy…

 

I look through the photos again: ah, parts are coming back now. I remember that as I walked into a town, I saw a small rainbow in the sky, and it made me so happy. I had a coffee in that town, too, a café crème and I must have been in a café on the outer edge of town because there were no other pilgrims there, and no one passed by.

Cafe creme on the Chemin du Puy

Later in the day, I stopped at a small shelter, this little covered space that had a round wooden table filled with the types of things that pilgrims might want in the middle of a long day. A carafe of coffee, a jug of orange juice. There was a register to sign our names, and benches and chairs to rest our feet. Jerome was here, the French man who’d been at our table last night, and again he was smiling and laughing and talking to everyone. There was a group of French women, and then another solo French woman and I said hi but kept pretty quiet. I remember that I’d wanted a break, but also that I felt like being alone.

Me in a pilgrim shelter; Chemin du Puy

There’s a small story that goes along with this photo (I told it over on the Instagram account for Nadine Walks, and if you follow that link you can get there and see other photos from my walks). So, I was snapping a few photos of the shelter area when one of the French women motioned for my camera and told me that she was going to take my photo. I didn’t protest, and stood sort of awkwardly by the table. But as soon as the others saw me getting my photo taken, they began to get out of the way. “No!” the French woman called out. “It will look sad if she’s in the photo all alone!” I said something in French, I think I was trying to say that I didn’t want anyone to be bothered or feel like they had to move, but I think what I’d actually said must have been something along the lines of: “Yes, please, I want to be all alone and sad in this photo” because everyone continued to move out and wait until the photo shoot was done so they could move back in.

I’m laughing a little at this now, but I remember at the time feeling frustrated that I couldn’t communicate as well as I wanted to, and just not feeling at ease around the other pilgrims I was meeting that day.

But this has been a pattern over all of these walks, hasn’t it? Some days I know that I want to be alone, and after hours of walking solo, it’s hard for me to readjust and be back around other people.

Speaking of being back with other people, towards the very end of the day I ran into Mario. I saw him from a bit of a distance, sitting with an older man at a table of another little pilgrim rest stop. He was wearing his bright orange shirt- that, along with his dark beard, made me recognize him. I hadn’t seen him since the morning of Day 2, and I assumed that I’d never see him again. He was walking big days, and I imagined that he would have been far ahead at that point.

I hesitated just a moment before going over- I was still feeling a little off and not exactly in the mood to do much talking- but I shook the feeling away and went over with a big smile. To this day, running into friends unexpectedly is one of my very favorite things about the Camino. I think sometimes we are meant to meet people again.

Mario in St-Come d'Olt; Chemin du Puy

When Mario saw me he sat up with a start, and soon a big smile of his own was covering his face. “I didn’t think I’d see you again!” he said, his voice both happy and a bit incredulous.

It turns out that we’d both booked beds in the same place that night- Gîte L’Antidote. I took a closer look at my guidebook and realized that our Gîte was actually on the outskirts of Saint-Côme-d’Olt, and that I wouldn’t get to stay in the town at all. And once we arrived in the town, I could feel my heart sink a bit. It was such a beautiful place, with winding cobble-stoned roads, charming squares, fountains, the works. I saw Nassim and a few others from the day before and they were all staying in the municipal Gîte, and suddenly I was sad that I wasn’t there, too. I was missing out on a great town, and I worried that- even with Mario- I was going to feel a little isolated at our Gîte on the outskirts.

St-Come d'Olt, Chemin du Puy

In the end, it was yet another very different kind of Chemin experience. We had a little trouble finding the Gîte- it was in a residential area and we must have come from the wrong side because we completely missed the signage. And soon I realized it was in a residential area for a reason: we were in someone’s residence. I suppose it was a little like the place where I’d last seen Mario, the Gîte on the outskirts of Saint-Privat-d’Allier, where we stayed in a lofted attic area of someone’s home.

Terrace of Gite l'Antidote; Chemin du Puy

It was a similar thing here; Laurent welcomed us and after nearly an hour sitting outside and drinking syrup water (all I wanted to do was go inside and take a shower but the other two seemed content to sit and talk), we got the tour. He pointed out his son’s room and asked that we not go inside, showed us the bathroom that I can only assume was also used by his family, and then we went upstairs to the attic, where there were 8 beds spread across the room.

Gite l'Antidote; Chemin du Puy

It turns out that Mario and I were the only ones staying there that night, and dinner was the two of us plus Laurent and his wife. We were all in our 30’s, sitting around a table outside, eating salad, and stew, and drinking wine and talking and I didn’t feel like I was on the Chemin at all. Or, maybe, it was a different kind of Chemin, maybe it was even more in the spirit of what the Camino used to be like, hundreds of years ago, when pilgrims would knock on a door and hope to find a bed for the night, maybe a little food, too.

But, as usual, I couldn’t appreciate the situation fully because of my French skills. Mario was really good at sometimes translating things for me and making sure I wasn’t totally in the dark about what was going on, but it was still a little frustrating. I wanted to understand everything, I wanted to talk more, I wanted to understand more about these people and why they have opened their home to strangers. I wanted to know more about their son, a three-year old boy with fine hair that curled against his neck, who was running around the yard, shouting and waving his water gun and getting dangerously close to our clothes that were drying on the line.

That night, as Mario and I sprawled on beds on opposite sides of the room, we started air-dropping photos to each other. “Here’s a good one!” Mario said, and ping! A photo of the lake he’d swam in yesterday appeared on my phone. “And here’s a photo of sunrise on the morning when I’d last seen you,” I said, and for the next 20 minutes, photos zinged back and forth across the room. We started laughing- Mario accidentally sent me a photo that I’d sent to him a few minutes earlier, and then we started laughing harder as we realized that our heads were sinking into the plastic covering of our pillows and that it was actually the most uncomfortable thing ever.

We giggled in the dark and all I could think was how strange it is to walk a Chemin, or a Camino. I could walk alone all day and feel a little out of place- the sad girl alone in a photo- but then find myself in the attic of someone’s home in the middle of France, laughing with a new friend, joking like we were children.

So, Day 7 was complete, I was halfway through my adventure on the Chemin du Puy. (What does the next half bring? Hopefully I’ll get these posts out a little more quickly, but here’s a sneak peek: RAIN).

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3 Comments / Filed In: Chemin du Puy, France, hiking, solo-female travel, Travel, walking
Tagged: adventure, Chemin du puy, France, friendship, GR65, hiking, life, solo-female travel, travel, trekking, via podiensis, walking

A Girl in a Tower; Day 6 on the Chemin du Puy, Aumont-Aubrac to Aubrac, 36km

August 8, 2017

If I’d gotten what I’d needed on my 5th day of walking (a German walking companion, a delicious baguette eaten in a park, a private room in a clean gîte, etc), then I also got what I needed on my 6th day of walking. It just looked a little different.

The day before had been a short one- only 8km! To balance things out a bit I countered that with a 36km day and even though this is a distance I’ve done before (many times, by now), I was just a touch nervous. Now I’m not even sure why, but I suppose it could have been because I had been doing much shorter days up until that point. And I was “in between” things, at least it felt that way: everyone I’d met in the previous 5 days was ahead of me, and I knew that my long day would probably catch me up, but I wasn’t sure. Two years before, when I walked the Camino del Norte, I’d somehow gotten myself very off stage and was in a strange “in between” zone for about 3 days. I’d met tons of great people over two weeks of walking, but suddenly I was alone in albergues and seeing no one on the path, and I guess I didn’t want a repeat of that here, on the Chemin.

After another breakfast of toast and yogurt and fruit and coffee, I set off. The morning was clear and blue and cool. It was the most beautiful morning so far, and I think I must have walked with a smile on my face. I passed churches and little stone chapels, fields of sheep and lines of cows.




I was walking through the Aubrac Plateau, an incredibly unique and- for me- completely unexpected landscape of the Chemin du Puy. It also had a special kind of energy, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Later, I would hear pilgrims say that it was their favorite part of the walk (mine, too), that some could feel great weights being lifted from their shoulders, others could do nothing but cry under the great and open sky.

There is a bit of a mystical legend associated with the area; in 1120, a pilgrim named Adalard was on his way to Santiago and was attacked but, surprisingly, was left unharmed. Because of this he vowed to build a monastery on the site, so that future pilgrims could find a place of safety and comfort. He did build the monastery- the Dômerie of Aubrac- and the friars decided to clear the forested land around it in order to breed sheep, for cheese (these sheep eventually gave way to cattle, which are now famous for this region). And this land, cleared by the friars of a monastery built by a pilgrim in the 12th century, remains a plateau: wide and open and expansive and a little wild.

I could feel that there was something special going on in this land. I didn’t feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders or break down in tears; for me it was something different. I smiled. I couldn’t stop smiling, in fact, I was laughing and dancing and spinning in circles as I walked down the trail. I felt so happy out there in the sunshine and under that big, blue sky. My legs pumped with incredible energy and I didn’t want to stop walking.

It’s this kind of feeling that I love when I’m on these treks: an unexpected day or moment, when the sun is shining and a wind is blowing and the air feels perfect on my skin. The landscape opens up and I’m all alone, and I’m walking strong and fast and sure. I’m free but I’m grounded, I can see all the way to the horizon and I know that all I have to do, my only task, is to continue walking as far as I can see.

I took a few breaks during the day but mostly I just walked, and walked, and walked. I felt good for nearly the entire day, up until the last few kilometers, and then a little fatigue set in. But soon the path was twisting and began to dip down and further ahead I could see a small village, with a church spire and a few buildings and a tower.

I didn’t connect the dots immediately- not until I walked into the village and stood at the base of the tower and saw other pilgrims. “Oh,” I thought to myself, “I’m staying in something called La Tour des Anglais… but I didn’t realize it was actually going to be a tower.”

It was. But before I could even step inside I saw so many people that I knew: Nassim (the kind man who gave Hilary and I some cherries a few days before) ran over to me and excitedly told me that he’d seen my name on the list of people staying in the tower, and that I was assigned to a bunk in his room. Then I saw the Quebecois couple, Paul Andre and Chantal, who I’d briefly met at a rest stop. With them was Therese, and coming down the stairs was Marie-Lou. (Aside from Nassim, I hadn’t actually learned everyone’s names at this point- they were all familiar to me but only just beginning to become the people I’d get to know on my walk).

I figured out how to check-in and pay for my bed and dinner and breakfast, and then finally made it up to my room. I couldn’t get over it- I was staying in a tower! A tower built in the 15th century and now serves the pilgrims who pass through on their way to Santiago. I wound up the spiral stairs, into a cavernous room with thick stone walls and picked a top bunk (the only beds left) by the window. I stuck my head out the window: below me were pilgrims milling about, to the left was the church, ahead were fields and countryside.



After the usual chores I walked over to the restaurant where we’d be eating that night, and sitting outside on a small terrace were the two French women I’d shared a room with a few nights before (whose names, unfortunately, I never learned or else have forgotten). They waved me over and soon we were joined by Katherine, the German woman, and the four of us sat and drank wine and talked about the day. We spoke in French, but the two French women made an effort to speak slowly and clearly (and I’m just now realizing how much of a difference this made for me- nearly everyone I met on my walk was so kind, but not everyone spoke slowly or clearly and often that made it difficult for me to understand).

There was a group of 9 of us for dinner: the four of us were joined by Nassim (a Moroccan man living in Belgium), Marie-Lou (a French woman in her 60’s), Jerome (a French man probably in his 30’s/40’s), Georges (a French man in his 60’s, who I’d sat next to at dinner on our first night in Le Puy), and Irmhild (a German woman in her 50’s).  We spoke French, but because Irmhild, Katherine and I weren’t fluent, the conversation was slower and easier to follow, and sometimes Nassim would jump in and speak English.

And it was such a good, good night. Aside from the two French women, the rest of us were doing the Chemin solo, and I think it’s special to find a group of other solo walkers to spend time with, especially walkers who haven’t really hooked up with a group of their own. It made me feel less isolated, less uncomfortable speaking French or not understanding the conversation. I felt like I was folded into the mix: I asked Georges questions about the other Camino’s he’s walked and he was so happy to tell me his stories. Nassim poured us all more wine, Irmhild laughed and taught me a few German words.

I marveled at how different this evening felt that the previous two: the night before, when I didn’t know anyone in my gîte and ate a restaurant alone, and the night before that, when I was surrounded by people but felt quite alone.

After dinner I found a quiet corner in the bar area of the restaurant and wrote in my journal, and by the time I headed back to my tower the sun had just disappeared behind the horizon. The sky was full of soft hues: the lightest pinks and blues and purples. I went up to the top floor of the tower- as high as I could get- and leaned out the window.

A girl in the top room of a tower in the French countryside- it was like a fairy tale.

I smiled. Just like I’d been doing all day, I smiled.

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Tagged: adventure, Aubrac, Aubrac plateau, Chemin du puy, France, hiking, life, solo-female travel, travel, trekking, walking

Paris of My Dreams

August 4, 2017

I arrived in Paris in my hiking clothes: long green pants that zip off at the knee, a t-shirt over a tank top, my good socks, my sturdy and quite worn in shoes. I wore my pack, too, and over my right shoulder was a small duffel bag, all the extra clothes and items I’d needed for the writer’s retreat I’d just left.

I felt just a little strange, and nervous. My walking stick, which I’d carried for the last 34 days, had been left behind at La Muse; tucked away in the corner of a basement room where, hopefully, I might be able to find it again. My loaded pack felt heavy, though it was a weight that I had gotten used to just weeks before, as I hiked through the Chemin du Puy. Already, I was out of practice.

But I wasn’t in Paris to be a hiker or a walker, was I? I thought that maybe I was here to continue my writer’s retreat but I wasn’t sure about that, either.

All I knew were, well, three things:

1. I missed those full days of walking, and part of me wished that instead of a week in Paris, I had organized a week long trek somewhere new and exciting.

2. I missed La Muse. I missed Homer and the way he would bound up to me and then bound away, dancing in a circle when he knew we were going for a hike. I missed, already, my room with the big window and the view of the mountains, I missed the friends that I’d made, the little writer’s community we’d formed.

3. I love Paris. I really, really love Paris.

But why was I spending a week in the city, alone? What was I going to accomplish here? I already know Paris, at least I know the things that tourists know: where to get a hot crêpe and what the view from the top of Notre Dame looks like, how to find the room with the Van Gogh’s in the Musée d’Orsay and how to open the door of a car on the metro.

I’d spent time in Paris at least a half dozen times during the year I studied abroad in Toulouse, and in the last 4 years, have spent between 1-4 days in Paris every summer. It’s become a regular thing, a mandatory swing through Paris when I’m in Europe. Sometimes all I have to do is buy a baguette and walk down the streets of the Île de St Louis and come upon Notre Dame and stare up in wonder.

Now I was in Paris and I had an entire week and I wondered: am I going to continue to be in love with this city? Am I going to become restless? Will I wish I were somewhere else?

Here are the answers: Yes. No. No.

My days in Paris didn’t exactly have a routine, though I suppose in some ways, little ways, they did. I’d wake up between 7 and 8am, though sometimes if I was awake in the 6 o’clock hour I’d roll out of bed and walk onto my balcony to see if there was a good sunrise. Several times, there was.

Once I was up for good I’d spoon some coffee into the little stove top expresso maker and then take a shower, toweling off just as the coffee was ready. There was a small fridge in the “kitchen” of my place and on my first day I’d stocked it with some essentials: yogurt, fruit, cheese, meat. I’d have a small bowl of yogurt with my coffee and flip through a guidebook and come up with ideas for the day.

Around 9, sometimes earlier, I would set out. The city is quiet in the morning, even at 9 many places are just beginning to think about opening, the tables start to go out in front of the cafes, brooms sweep leaves and trash off the pavement and sometimes I’d pass men or women hosing off the sidewalk in front of their shops. Trash trucks drove up and down the streets, bottles would crash and shatter as recycling bins were emptied.

Usually, the first thing I’d do was stop for another coffee, or a croissant. I found a few cafés that weren’t traditionally French but featured pretty decent coffee, and a few cafés with mediocre coffee and a lot of French charm.


After coffee I would always head off somewhere, walking through the streets, never using the metro (not in the morning, anyway). I went to art museums: the Musée d’Orsay, Espace Dali, the Musée de l’Orangerie, the Musée Rodin. I explored the arrondissements, the neighborhoods: the 5th, the 3rd, the 14th, the 17th, the 6th and 7th, the 3rd and 4th, the 20th. The Latin Quarter, St-Germain, Montparnasse, the Marais, Montmartre.




And more. I walked everywhere. I almost don’t want to write this because it seems absurd, but on two separate days I walked 20km through the city. 20km! Around and around and around.


But I used the metro, too, I love the metro. Even in the summer when it is hot down there in those winding corridors, when the smell is so distinct, it’s a smell that screams to me: “This is Paris. THIS is Paris.” But the metro can take you anywhere, and on the streets you will always find one, there seems to be one at every other turn.

I went to bookshops, and I bought books. I read books, too, in back rooms of the cafés, with a noisette or a flat white (the coffee that is taking over Paris, apparently), and I’d sit and arrange myself on a wooden stool and I would open my book and read.


A few times, I met up with friends: for dinner in a bistrot, for a picnic by the Seine, for a glass of champagne to celebrate my birthday. We shopped for picnic supplies in La Grande Epicerie, a place I’d never been to before and I went back two days later to pick up food for lunches or dinners on my balcony: double crème brie, eggplant and yogurt dip, octopus and prawns and mussels marinated in olive oil, crispy baguettes, fresh raspberries.


I discovered new places: a covered market where I bought hot fries in a newspaper cone, a street market that I walked up and down three times, just to watch the vendors and listen to the sounds. I bought a bottle of wine from a little shop, a chunk of cheese from another.

Parks and cemeteries and canals and squares: I spent a lot of time in outdoor spaces. Jardin du Luxembourg (twice, because it was a 15 minute walk from my apartment), Père Lachaise (twice, because the first time I got turned around and had to leave to meet a friend before I could find Oscar Wilde’s grave. I’ve seen it before- two or three times at least- but it’s like a visit I have to make whenever I’m in Paris. I’m not even sure why, because I’m not a particular fan of Oscar Wilde… I just know that I have to do it). And what else? The Canal Saint-Martin and the Promenade Plantée, the Place des Vosges and the Place de la Contrescarpe. Parc de Belleville.




So many things, all of this and more. But I also spent time in that little apartment of mine- for afternoon catnaps and a glass of wine in the evening, sitting on my balcony and looking out over the rooftops. At 10pm, and again at 11 and again at midnight, thousands of lights on the Eiffel Tower flash and blink, the tower sparkles for 5 minutes and I could see it from my balcony and every night I was home I would stand outside and watch.


Home. That apartment and even Paris, a little bit, began to feel like home. My friend Alex, an Australian writer I’d met at La Muse last summer, moved to Paris in March. She signed a 6-month lease but always intended to stay for at least a year, and when I talked with her about it, her eyes started to shine. “If  I can swing it, I want to stay for at least 2 years, maybe 3.”

I asked her a lot of questions about what it had been like to move to Paris, to live in Paris, if the language barrier was a problem, if the cultural barrier was a problem. She told me about a French course she took, how she connected with other expats, her favorite things to do, the site she used to find her apartment.

And I began to dream. What if I could do this? I have an entire life somewhere else but the thing is, I’ve been dreaming about Paris ever since I was 20, from the moment I first laid eyes on the city. And Paris, after all this time, is still a beautiful dream. It’s the city of my dreams.

7 different people asked me for directions during my week in Paris; some of them were tourists but some were French, one- an old lady- might even have been a Parisian. I could only give an answer to one of them, a French guy, and I answered with a smile and with an assurance. I’d understood his question, I knew where we were and where he wanted to go, and I could give a response, in French.

After a week in the city I was beginning to feel like I knew where I was, where I was going. Could I ever have more time like this? More than just a few days, more than a week? Could I live here for a few months, half a year? An entire year?

In my dreams, yes. And if I continue to write and work and aim high and big, if I take chances and with a little (or a lot) of luck, I might just be able to live out my dreams.

But, that’s one of my castles in the air and it’s a beautiful one but for now I’ll be grateful for what is right in front of me: the magical week I just spent in a city that I love, the work it took to get myself there, the chances that I’ve already taken in life, the persistance of my dreams for where they’ve already taken me.

And Paris will always be there. Whether for a few days or a week or a month, a year or a lifetime; it will always be there.

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Tagged: adventure, art, artists, beauty, food, France, goals, inspiration, journey, life, Paris, photography, solo-female travel, summer, travel, writing

You Get What You Need: Day 5 on the Chemin du Puy, Les Estrets to Aumont-Aubrac, 8km

July 17, 2017

Today, I only walked 8km.

This was all according to plan, but I have to say that initially, I was not pleased. 8km? That’s less than what I typically do after work when I walk around my neighborhood. And this was a day on the Chemin!

But I was doing it out of necessity. One of my previous posts mentioned the trouble around Nasbinals, the town that was hosting a road race for hundreds or thousands of people who had taken all the hotel/gîte rooms.

So my solution around this was to do a really short day, and stop in Aumont-Aubrac, where I had been able to find a bed in a gite. And the following day, I would walk 35km to make up for the shorter day. Now that was the part of the plan I liked: a long day, a physical challenge.

8km, on the other hand, would pass by in the blink of an eye. I tried to linger- I really did- I savored a second cup of coffee, I took a long time lacing my shoes, I was the last to leave my gîte in the morning.

And as I walked, I stopped to take photos and to try to enjoy the view. But my feet felt restless, and I was distracted. When I arrived in Aumont-Aubrac, what in the world was I going to do? I was going to have the entire day at my disposal, I was all alone, and all I really wanted to do was walk.

I was deep in these thoughts when suddenly the boy in the red shirt with the big pack appeared at the side of the trail. There was no avoiding him this time- he started walking just a pace behind me- but I wasn’t in the same mood as the day before. I decided that I might as well say hi and try to be friendly.

It turns out that he wasn’t French afterall- he was German and his name was Sten, a name that means ‘stone’. Even though he could speak English we spoke in French, and I found that I didn’t mind. In fact, I kind of enjoyed it: our levels were pretty evenly matched, and it was so much easier to speak with him than with a native French speaker. We both made mistakes and often had to search for the right word. He spoke slowly and I could understand him easily.

Sten had to catch a bus in Aumont-Aubrac at 9:40am; he had already walked a couple of the upcoming stages so he was going to skip over the sections he had already done. This meant that he had to walk fast in order to catch the bus, but I was able to easily match his pace. It felt good to stretch my legs like this, to move quickly down the trail, to talk easily with the person at my side.

The only downside of walking with someone like this was that I arrived at my destination by 9:20am. We went to a cafe and Sten bought me a coffee, but before I knew it he was standing and shaking my hand and saying how nice it had been to meet me, then was running off to catch his bus.

I watched him go, and then smiled. The interaction had been just what I’d needed, just enough to shake me out of my loneliness over saying goodbye to Hilary, enough to bring me back into the world of the Chemin. And as I sat in the cafe, I watched as people I knew filtered in and out. They came over and said hi, Pierre sat with me while he waited for Stephanie, the young Quebecoise girl. Katherine, a blond German women who had been in the samegîte  as I had the night before, talked to me about how out of place she’d felt at dinner. “Really?” I said. “You looked so comfortable.”

“I wasn’t,” she replied. “I try to speak in French but it’s really hard.”

Eventually they all left, on to other towns and other gîtes (most of them had found beds in a gîte that was a bit off the main path of the Chemin. I’d tried to get a bed there as well, but had been too late).

I walked around the small town to get my bearings. It wasn’t a large place, just one main street with several restaurants and shops, a main square full of cafes, a church, a park. I found a boulangerie and bought a sandwich to eat for lunch, I stopped by an epicierie to load up on snacks for the next day.

In the park I settled into a picnic table in the shade, opened up my guidebook, and mapped out a plan for the next several days. I made phone calls too (this was one of my least favorite parts of walking the Chemin; calling ahead to book gîtes meant that I not only had to talk on phone, something I don’t even enjoy doing in English, but I had to speak in French which was still kind of nerve-wracking).

I looped through the town a few more times and then around 1:00 decided to see if I could get into my gîte. I was suprised to see that the door wasn’t locked, and that in the hallway on the bottom floor was a note that said to leave my shoes and pack downstairs, and then go upstairs to see which bed I had been assigned to. The hospitalera would be by in the evening to take our money and stamp our credentials, and in the meantime there were notes and signs all around, instructing us on what to do.

The gîte was perfect. Sometimes on the Camino and on the Chemin you get just what you need, and this had been happening to me all day. The place was clean and bright and modern and spacious. We were in a narrow apartment building and the gîte was spread out over three floors. Above the entryway and downstairs hallway was a floor with a sitting room and the kitchen, along with a couple of bedrooms. And the floor above was where I was staying. There were several rooms up here, too, and I was staying in a room with four beds. Since I was the first to arrive in my room, I could have my pick of beds, and I discovered that my room was actually split into two spaces. One had three beds, and another- behind a curtain- had one bed and a little desk by a large window. It’s like it was meant for me! Maybe it was.


The bathroom was large and clean, there was a rack to dry my clothes outside on the small balcony (set up in the sunshine), there was a fridge where I could keep my fruit and yogurt, there was an outlet right next to my bed where I could plug in my phone. This was gîte paradise.

The rest of the day was slow, relaxing, restorative. The other three beds in my room remained empty, the other pilgrims never showed up. The hospitalera, when she arrived, was so kind and helpful; she gave me the names of other gîtes along the way that she thought I might like, and gave me some advice about the trail for the next day. I met another pilgrim who was also staying in the gite- a guy from the Netherlands who had been carrying a big guitar down the trail. In the afternoon he played for us, slow Spanish flamenco music, the sound filled the rooms and floated down the hallways and out the windows and I was so relaxed I almost fell asleep in my chair.

There was no demi-pension at the gîte so in the evening I went out to one of the restaurants nearby. I wanted something simple so I ordered a goat cheese salad and a glass of wine and I should have known that my salad would be anything but simple: there was the goat cheese over toasted bread slices, yes, but also tomatoes and corn and carrots and peppers and lardons and grilled onions and slivers of garlic.

After dinner I walked through the town again, just to stroll through the streets and stretch my legs before bed. I found my way to the church, stained-glass glowing, empty pews, a line of lit candles and I added my own, giving up a small prayer of thanks for the day, for getting what I needed, for feeling renewed and refreshed and ready for what would come next.

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Tagged: adventure, Camino, Camino de Santiago, challenge, Chemin du puy, France, hiking, journey, life, nature, outdoors, pilgrimage, solo-female travel, summer, travel, trekking, walking, writing

And there goes our shuttle; Day 4 on the Chemin du Puy, Le Sauvage to Estrets, 21km

July 14, 2017

Here is the image that stands out the most from Day 4 of the Chemin du Puy: standing next to a small chapel in the middle of nowhere, waving our arms wildly at the shuttle hurtling down the road, watching as it passed us by without even slowing down. This was Hilary’s ride back to Le Puy.

But let me back up for a minute. We started our morning in Le Sauvage, eating breakfast after nearly everyone had already finished and headed off for the day. We were in no hurry because Hilary’s shuttle wouldn’t arrive until 11:10am. We would have to walk just a bit- 4km- to the place where the shuttle made its pick-ups; usually shuttles come to the gites, or some central place in town, but since we were in the middle of a field and the only roads were gravely and sandy, the man at La Malle Postale (luggage delivery and shuttle service) told me that the pick-up was 4km away, at the Chapelle de St Roch.

I’d made the shuttle reservation before leaving for France, and then confirmed it in La Malle Postale’s office in Le Puy at the start of our journey. So I wasn’t really worried unil we we met a couple who were also lingering over breakfast. The woman told us that they were also getting picked up by the shuttle- at 11:20- but their pick-up was at the gîte.

This seemed a bit strange, and Hilary and I laughed about that fact that she was going to walk for an hour, only to be picked up by a shuttle that would most likely be taking her right back to where she’d started walking an hour before. But we shrugged it off and walked on, and finally the morning was cool and almost crisp, the path running through a forest track that was quiet and peaceful and beautiful.

We got to the chapelle an hour early, and had plenty of time to eat snacks and for Hilary’s to rearrange her bag, and to sit and talk about the last few days of our journey together. As 11:10 approached we gathered our things and stood as close to the road as possible. We waited, and waited, and I didn’t start to get really anxious until about 11:15. The minutes ticked past and finally, at 11:20, we saw a white van approaching.

“That must be it!” I said, but the vehicle didn’t seem to be slowing down- in fact, I swear it was gaining speed as it drove past. We waved frantically and I’m pretty sure some of the passengers must have seen us but the driver just stared straight ahead, and we watched as the shuttle faded from view.

I immediately got on the phone with La Malle Postale’s office and didn’t even attempt to speak in French as I explained what had just happened. The guy in the office put me on hold as he made a call to another driver who was out in our area, and luckily, in about 5 minutes another shuttle came by and pulled over to pick up Hilary.

I’m still not sure exactly what happened- later, Hilary told me that the driver of her shuttle said that she was lucky that the office had called him and that he was nearby. That first shuttle was the one she was supposed to be on, and it was clear that the driver had no idea he was supposed to pick someone up (although, two girls on the side of the road waving their arms wildly would have been a good tip off…). Something must have gotten mixed up with my reservation, but with an email confirmation AND an in-person confirmation of the date and the time of pick-up, I have no idea what the mix-up was.

In any case, after a long hug and holding back some tears, Hilary got on the shuttle and I watched as it drove away. And man, did I feel strange and alone. It’s worse than the feeling you get when you leave your walking stick behind: it’s like a vital part of my pilgrimage was no longer with me, and I would have to figure out how to carry on without it.

I wasn’t even totally alone just then- a few minutes before Hilary got on the shuttle, a young guy in a red shirt and large backpack had walked up to the chapel and was taking a break there. After Hilary left I saw him lingering but I waited until he packed up and moved on. I was in no mood to meet someone new or try to speak in French or anything else. I just needed a little time to be on my own and to miss Hilary and to adjust to Phase 2 of my pilgrimage.

To be honest, the rest of the day was… off. I didn’t feel particulary strong as I walked, the day grew hot, I was indecisive. I passed through a town that felt abandoned and strange, and even though I was hungry and needed to pick up something for lunch, I walked past several open cafes, not wanting to go inside. I sat in the shade by the church, knowing I should take off my shoes and rest for awhile, but I felt restless. I saw the guy in the red shirt again and still didn’t want to even attempt to say hi.

Eventually I got myself a sandwich and ate it on bench in the shade just outside of town, and then I kept walking, and the day continued to be off. Right on cue, it seemed, dark clouds suddenly rolled in and I was walking at a bit of elevation and without much cover. I was so focused on the clouds and listening to the rumbles of thunder in the distance that I took a wrong turn and got myself off of the Chemin. I think I was happy to be on a path that was heading away from the clouds and towards a patch of blue sky that I didn’t realize I was no longer going the right way. But the Chemin is well marked and after awhile I realized I hadn’t seen the red and white striped waymarkers for quite a long time. Feeling defeated, I turned around and had to trudge back uphill, towards those dark clouds.


I saw one bolt of lightening and that’s when I got scared. Several days before, Mario had warned me about getting stuck in a thunderstorm and now here I was, alone and off-track with a storm brewing. I found the most tucked away spot that I could and crouched down and waited for awhile, unsure of what else to do. Was it safe to keep walking? Was it safe to stay here?

Finally, when I hadn’t heard a rumble of thunder for several minutes and it seemed as though the clouds were beginning to move away, I started walking. I found the Chemin, I continued on, and as luck would have it, not 10 minutes further down the trail was a shelter made of branches and sticks! There were wooden stumps inside and a sign that welcomed pilgrims and I hunkered down in here until I was sure that the threat of the storm had fully passed.

I was actually fairly close to my gîte and arrived after only another 30 minutes of walking. I was staying in another beautiful spot: a large stone building with a big lawn and plenty of space to hang laundry. There was a cozy space inside to sit and read, and you could “order” a drink and the hospitalera would bring it to you from the kitchen. I was sharing a 4 bed room with two other women, and even though I was probably the last to arrive in the gîte, I still had time to shower, wash my clothes and have a glass of wine before dinner.

But dinner was difficult without Hilary. I think I was feeling sad that she was gone, and suddenly self-conscious about speaking French. I was sitting at a table with such nice people-Pierre, who I’d met the day before- was there, so was a young girl from Quebec, and two brothers, and the kind women I was sharing a room with. But the French was spoken so quickly, the voices jumbling together and it was so difficult for me to keep up, to understand what was going on. I felt isolated, sitting at the end of the table and hoping the meal would be over quickly so that I wouldn’t have to keep feeling so awkward, and out of place.

Mostly, I think I needed a little time to transition into this now solo journey, a little time to adjust to being alone and speaking French and needing to meet people and make friends. I tried to remind myself that it doesn’t happen all at once.

Sleep that night was restful, and in the morning the two women I was with agreed: the way to go was to try to stay in a room without men, to be assured of no snoring! (I know it’s no guarantee, but throughout the night we were all quiet as mice, and it was such a relief to get some sound sleep).

Stay tuned for the next post: no room at the Inn, so I need to come up with a plan of how to walk the next few days AND find a bed for the night.

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Tagged: adventure, Camino, Camino de Santiago, challenge, Chemin du puy, chemin le puy, France, hiking, journey, life, mountains, nature, outdoors, pilgrim, pilgrimage, solo-female travel, summer, travel, trekking, walking, writing

Oversleeping and Walking Sticks, Day 3 on the Chemin du Puy, Saugues to Le Sauvage, 19km

July 12, 2017

It’s not easy to oversleep on a Camino/Chemin, but Hilary and I figured out how on the morning of Day 3: share a room with 4 people who begin to get up and pack their things before 5am. Listen to them rustle around, bump into things, whisper in the small room. Finally fall back asleep after they leave. Realize, a little after 7am, that you’d forgotten to set an alarm and because there is no longer anyone else in the room with you, you sleep well past the time you’d intended.

7:15am may still seem early, but I can’t remember another day on any Camino when I’d slept so late. By many accounts, the time we started that day shouldn’t have mattered: we were walking 19km- so not a huge day- and we already had our reservation for the night. But there was one factor that did make this late wake-up a slight issue: the heat.

Somehow, we weren’t actually on the road out of town until nearly 9am. Packing up, eating breakfast (no milk for my coffee, grr), searching for a boulangerie, then an epicerie for fruit… and once we finally got moving, we were sweating within minutes.

“How is this possible?” I turned to Hilary, sunglasses already secured over her eyes. “It feels like we’re walking under a hot, mid-day sun.” I paused to catch my breath, and we weren’t even going up a hill. “This is crazy.”

Much of our walk that day was over a dirt track through rolling countryside and deep green forests. The stage wasn’t technically difficult, but the heat was oppressive, and made every step feel like we were climbing a mountain. We ran our buffs under cold water at every opportunity, we listened to music and show tunes to regain energy, and we stopped for breaks. We stopped a lot.


Our first rest was in one of those spots that seems utterly ideal: just as you’re truding along, wishing that the perfect rest stop could appear, BAM! There it is: a picnic table nestled in the shade. This particular spot had an added bonus- a perfectly straight, carved walking stick was propped up against the table. Hilary’s knee had started to act up and we’d been keeping our eye out for a suitable stick, and now here was one that seemed to be waiting for us.

We looked around for an owner of the stick, we took our time and rested and finally decided that either the stick had been left there accidentally- and by taking it with us we might be able to return it to its rightful owner- or the stick had been left there purposefully, for someone who needed it.


So we marched on, sticks in hand (I’d found mine sometime on my first day- crooked and with some sharp bits and at that point I wasn’t sure if I would keep it or not). More cows, more countryside, and then our second rest stop, a beautiful lawn with cold drinks and umbrella-covered tables and puppies running around. One playful guy got a hold of Hilary’s sock and for a long time refused to let go (he also grabbed onto someone’s walking stick- clearly this dog was meant to be on a pilgrimage).


More walking, more resting, and finally we entered the home stretch- a slight uphill section through a forest path that opened up onto a wide-open field in the middle of hills and forests. It was here that the path wound though patches of wildflowers and down to a massive stone complex; the only building in sight (aside from a lone cottage). This is where we’d be staying for the night, in the Domaine du Sauvage.


The day before, one of the men in our gîte told me to look up the history of this place and read all about it in English so that we could understand exactly where we were staying. Hilary and I tried, but all the information we could find was in French, and it was difficult to understand and follow. About all I could gather was that we were in a massive farm building, whose granite stones had probably weathered hundreds and hundreds of years of history.

Despite not understanding where, exactly, we were, the place still had a powerful and special feeling about it. Maybe it was the sweeping sky, so vast; maybe it was the thick, anciet stone walls; maybe it was that there was nothing else out here, just this large building that was here for us, for the pilgrims on their journey, all of us arriving by foot like we’d been arriving for so many years.

We settled into our room, again waiting for a free and open shower. Once all my chores were done I headed downstairs to the main room/bar/restaurant area to try to make a few phone calls. Hilary would be leaving the next day and I hadn’t thought much beyond these first few days of the trip, the part that I was sharing with her. I needed to chart a course for myself, at least for the next few days, and I needed to call ahead to the gîtes I hoped to stay in, and make sure I could reserve a bed.

But right off the bat, I ran into a few problems. I couldn’t get a cell signal anywhere on the property (everyone else was having this problem too) so I asked a man behind the bar if I could borrow the gite’s phone. Another pilgrim was already using it; she had a notebook and papers spread across a table and was sitting with two other pilgrims, shaking her head with a frown.

“Everything is full!” I heard her say, so I hovered nearby and then starting asking questions. It turns out that she was trying to make reservations not for the next night, but for the following one- Saturday- and she couldn’t find anything. There was a big race being held in Nasbinals, a medium-sized town where many pilgrims ended their day’s stage. I’m not sure how many runners were registered for the race, but I heard the number was in the thousands. Not only was everything in Nasbinals booked up, but so were all the gîtes and auberges and hotels in all of the surrounding towns and villages.

Hmm. I borrowed the phone and made my reservation for the next night and decided to worry about what to do on Saturday later.

Dinner that night was much better than the awkwardness of the previous night, in Saugues. Earlier that evening I’d met Pierre, a French man who had just retired and was walking to Santiago. When Hilary and I found seats at an empty table, Pierre asked to join us. Two older French women also came to the table, along with another American- Stephen, from St Louis (he would be the only other American I’d meet on my trip).

It was a good group. There was a mix of French and English, and a lot of laughter and hilarity. And the meal was another good one (as they all would be): vegetable soup, a beef ragu and potato casserole, a cheese plate with three different selections (the sheep’s cheese was the best), an almond cake (that I couldn’t eat because of my nut allergy but I heard it was delicious). Bread, of course, and wine.

Hilary and I stayed up to watch the sun set; we ate gummy candy and compared notes on the day and I thought about how much I would miss her when she left the following morning. Even though I’ve been doing these Camino’s and treks mostly solo, it had been such a joy and so much fun to be with my cousin. There was so much laughter and encouragement and odd moments and joyous singing and shared misery and I wondered what this trip was going to be like without her. I was happy to be entering into a new phase of this pilgrimage, eager to tackle some big days and capture that pure feeling of freedom that only standing totally alone under a big open sky can give me… but I was suddenly nervous, too. I hadn’t even said goodbye and already I was overcome with such a bittersweet feeling: that happiness to have shared something big and amazing with one of my favorite people, the sadness with having to say goodbye and continue on alone.

But that’s been such a big part of these Camino experiences for me, hasn’t it? Being together, being alone.

We couldn’t hold onto the night forever so we gathered up our notebooks, collected our laundry that had dried completely in the hot sun, and tip-toed up to bed.

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Why is it so hot? Why are we still going up? Day 2 on the Chemin du Puy, Combriaux to Saugues, 17km

July 9, 2017

Even though I’ve done this walking thing many times before, it still takes a few days to get into the rhythm of the pilgrim life. I woke up on Day 2 feeling a little disoriented; our room had been hot during the night, and at some point in the night I had flipped myself so that my head was at the foot of the bed, and closer to the window. Once we woke up, we had to tiptoe through the other rooms with sleeping pilgrims in order to get to the bathroom, and we packed our things as silently as possible

And then downstairs to another pilgrim breakfast in France. These breakfasts would all look the same: coffee or tea or hot chocolate, bread and butter and usually at least 3 flavors of jam (many of them homemade), yogurt and sometimes fruit. Once I had a fresh croissant brought over from the boulangerie two doors down (this wouldn’t happen until nearly the end of my trip, and oh what a good morning that was!). I really loved the breakfasts on the Chemin, bread and butter and coffee are my preferred breakfasts at home, too, and it was such a treat to come downstairs every moring and have a spread laid out for us. Unlike on other Caminos, I never had to walk before my morning cup of coffee (well, actually, I had to do this on my very last day but you’ll have to wait for that story).

Petite dej on the Chemin du Puy

So after fueling up and rearranging things in our packs, Hilary and I headed out for Day 2. The morning was soft and beautiful, and the beginning of the walk was stunning: we were headed into the hills, climbing above the clouds and looking out onto views that stretched over the countryside.

Morning on the Chemin du Puy
Views on the Chemin du Puy

There was another beautiful view that I loved seeing France, but one of a different sort than the sweeping landscape: the WC. France nails it with their public bathrooms; not only would you sometimes come upon a little shack in the middle of the trail (usually not much more than a toilet, but it’s still a good option), but in so many of the small villages and towns you would always see a sign pointing you towards the nearest WC. Some of these toilets were, ah, quite adventurous, but I appreciated them all.

WC in France, on the Chemin du Puy

Our morning was wonderful, and despite the increasing heat, Hilary and I were both in really good spirits. After about 5 or 6km we stopped in the small village of Monistrol-d’Allier for a coffee and a snack; this would be just before starting a long and diffficult ascent and fueling up seemed like a good idea.

Café crème, Chemin du Puy, France

We ran into Mario, our French translator and fellow pilgrim from the night before, and he told us about the amazing sandwiches the cafe could prepare for us to take along. He held up a wrapped sandwich that was roughly the size of his head. “Local goat cheese with a carmalized onion and fig compote,” he said. “You don’t want to miss this.”

Hilary and I were both already a bit loaded down with food; we’d picked up Babel cheeses wrapped in wax that could last the journey, as well as little sausages and a loaf of day old bread. Suddenly, our lunch options didn’t seem so appetizing, and we made what I think might have been one of the best decisions of the trip: to buy the sandwiches with fresh and local ingredients. (Later, we spread out on the grass for a long picnic lunch and those sandwiches were, indeed, the best sandwiches I’d ever tasted. It helped that we’d walked a long day and were hungry, but then again we were also in France, where the food truly is top notch).

Our packs now even more weighed down, we began our ascent. The guidebook we were using (along with all the French) was the Miam Miam Dodo. It breaks down each stage into detailed sections and shows either a green, orange, or red line (going up, down, or flat) to illustrate the difficulty of the grade of the route. Green is easy, orange is tougher, red is difficult. And very quickly, we came to regard the red line (especially a red line going up), as the enemy.

Miam Miam Dodo, Chemin du Puy

We began a nearly 4km stretch of ‘red up’, and remember, this was during the European heat wave. We were drenched in sweat within minutes. We criss-crossed on the trail in order to find tiny sections of shade. Water breaks were only taken in the shade. The buffs came out, and for the first time on any Camino, I discovered the momentary delight of running the buff under a cool stream of fountain water, then wrapping it around my head.

But despite the heat this continued to be a good day. Other highlights included: stopping in a chapel carved into the rock of a hillside, our first walk alongside a line of cows, a kind man resting in the shade of a tree who gave us cherries, the wooden carvings lining the entrance to Saugues- our destination for the evening. The day’s walk was only about 17km (but with the ascents and heat I wouldn’t call it an easy day), but it meant that we had time for long, leisurely breaks, and still arrrived to our gîte an hour before it opened.




Arriving in Saugues, Chemin du Puy

But once we did get inside, we discovered that there was only one shower for 8 pilgrims (this, too, would become a theme of the trip). There was a lot of waiting around in our sweaty clothes, a storm rolled in and cooled off the air a bit, and once we were finally cleaned up we headed into town to explore and find some ice cream.

Dinner that night was, in a word, awkward. I don’t even know if it would have helped much if my French were stronger; the combination of people around the table was not a good one, and there were a lot of long silences. Then, when dinner was over and the owner of the gîte was trying to arrange a breakfast time, there seemed to be a tense moment. The group of 4 pilgrims staying in our room were pretty insistent on ther 5:30am start time (the only time I would see anyone leave this early on this Camino), and the owner of the gîte didn’t want to serve breakfast that early. There was a lot of back and forth that I didn’t completely understand, but it was finally understood that we’d all help ourselves to breakfast, whenever we decided to get up. (All the while, in the background a radio played 90’s soft rock and sometimes I’d just disengage from trying to understand the conversation and instead tune into Whitney Houston and Celine Dion).

Hilary and I escaped once dinner was over and headed back into town for a pre-bedtime glass of wine, and when we returned to the gîte we sat outside with the kind dog, watching the day’s light fade to black, strains of soft rock drifting through the air.

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Is it just me or is this ‘easy’ section actually quite difficult? Day 1 on the Chemin Le Puy, Le Puy en Velay to Combriaux, 25.5km

June 24, 2017

I wrote about half of this four days ago, and am just now getting around to finishing and publishing. So these posts are going to be delayed and maybe not quite in real time, but I still hope to write as much as I can!

It’s nearly 10:00pm and I’m just now attempting a blog post; I don’t think much is going to get written tonight. Hilary (that’s my cousin, who’s walking the first 3 days of the Chemin Le Puy with me) and I didn’t do a super long day- just 25km- but it was the first day and it was oh so hot and maybe there was still some jet lag and last night I couldn’t sleep so all of this adds up to a lot of fatigue.

I meant to get a blog post written this afternoon but, as you can probably guess, that didn’t even come close to happening. Because what happened instead was the Camino.

Can we even call it a Camino? We’re in France, so the ‘way’ is ‘Le Chemin’ and not ‘Le Camino’ but to me, I can’t call this anything other than a Camino. (So I wrote that a few days ago and already I’m getting used to saying ‘Le Chemin’- how quickly we adapt!).

So this is the recap, for anyone who may not have caught up with my previous post: I’m in France (got here on Sunday morning), and I started walking the Chemin Le Puy today (Tuesday). Hilary is with me until Friday morning and then I’ll continue on for another week and a half.

There’s a lot I could talk about from the past few days, just the whole process of getting down to Le Puy en Velay and being back in France, in Europe. It feels really great to be here, almost like I never left (which is maybe what starts to happen when you travel to the same places a lot?). We spent a night in Paris, staying in my favorite hostel, the MIJE. I was showing Hilary around all my favorites spots and I had to really smile at how I knew my way around the streets: this is where I buy groceries, this is a good cafe, that’s the best boulangerie. I can only do this in one small corner of Paris but to be able to do it at all? It felt pretty special.


There were some initial bumps, the small bits of culture shock that still happen. How do I set up a SIM card? Why is my phone ringing? How do I answer in French? Why does my pack feel so heavy? (this is a question that gets asked every single year).

But after settling in a bit, strolling though Paris and eating ice cream in the shade along the Seine, and getting good and solid sleep, I felt more ready to tackle this French adventure.

We took a train, then another train, then a bus and finally arrived in Le Puy en Velay. I figured out what to do with my extra luggage, I confirmed a shuttle reservation for Hilary. We walked through the town, up the winding, cobblestones streets, and into the cathedral where we bought our credentials. The cathedral is amazing, it sits at nearly the top of the town and you have to walk up dozens and dozens of stairs in order to enter through the arched portal. But it’s really when you turn back and look out onto the town you’ve walked up from that you can feel how majestic the position really is. You almost feel on top of the world.


We ate a communal dinner with other pilgrims (nearly all conversation was in French, something I’m going to have to get used to), then headed back to the cathedral to watch a light show. This meant we were up well past a pilgrim bedtime, not getting into bed until nearly midnight.


But despite the lack of sleep, today was a solid first day. Full. Tough. Hot. Beautiful. At times hilarious. We attended a 7am mass in the cathedral which was followed by a benediction for all the pilgrims starting that day and wow, it was quite a group. It was a special way to start a pilgrimage: we were all given a small medallion and a prayer, rosary beads if we wanted them, and many well wishes and ‘Bon Chemins’.

At first I struggled to remember what it was like to be on a pilgrimage. Hilary and I made our way down the steep street and at the bottom, paused. What, exactly, were we looking for? Oh yeah, didn’t we see a scallop shell on the pavement the day before? So we were off, following the shells, heading west, heading straight up a hill. We were breathing heavily in no time and my pack felt heavy but this is how a Camino begins. This is how it always begins.

9am and suddenly it was very, very hot. And only going to get hotter: we started our Camino in a heat wave. But despite the heat it was a really beautiful first day, and quickly signs of the Camino returned: winding dirt roads. Small chapels. Pilgrim rest stops on the side of the trail.



Most people end the first day in Saint-Privat but I’d chosen a gîte in Combriaux, a hamlet just another kilometer or two further along the trail. We made the wise decision to stop in Saint-Privat for an ice cream, and then continued on for a short section that our guidebook promised would be easy, and yet was deceptively difficult (but maybe that’s just ‘end of the first day on the Camino’ type stuff? Who knows, but a hill at the end of any day is never very welcome).

The gîte experience is a new one for me: gîtes are like albergues but are generally privately run, with smaller, shared rooms that hold 4-6 people (or so). Some gîtes are private homes, with a section of the house open to pilgrims. Nearly all gîtes offer a demi-pension, which provides a bed for the night, a communal dinner, and the typical breakfast of coffee, bread and jam before you leave for the day (I’m finding costs for demi-pensions to be between 30-35 euros; more expensive than Spain but overall a great bargain).

Our first gîte was quite an experience. We stayed in the home of a Welsh man and his wife (and daughter too, possibly?). Elfed offered us a drink then showed us upstairs to our room, which was basically up in an attic (all the rooms were up here, partitioned off with plywood and curtains). There were three beds in our room but Hilary and I had it to ourselves, in the space next to us was Mario (who, despite his name, was French), and at the end of the space were Marc and Veronique.

Just as we finished taking showers and washing our clothing a storm rolled through (this would be a theme of the first few days of the trip), so we were all ushered inside. Elfed kept the wine flowing and later served us a feast: vegetable soup, tomatoes and cheese and capers and olives (it sounds simple but oh, those French ingredients!), lentils de Le Puy (a regional classic) with pork, bread pudding and ice cream for dessert. There was bread, too (mais oui!).

Mario spoke perfect English, and jumped back and forth between conversations with Hilary and I, and then with Marc and Veronique, and would translate and somehow kept the conversation going steadily. Just as dessert began there was an incident with a cat and a dead bird, but otherwise the meal was pretty perfect. It was a good first day on the Chemin.

Coming up next: the heat wave continues, we climb and climb and climb, we eat the best sandwiches ever.

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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.

Breakfast at Howard Lodge, Hadrian's Wall Path

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.

Bridge in Carlisle, Hadrian's Wall Path

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.

Walking through a park, Hadrian's Wall Path
Park, Carlisle, England
Carlisle Castle, Hadrian's Wall Path

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.

House, Hadrian's Wall Path
Church and cemetery, Hadrian's Wall Path
Countryside on Hadrian's Wall Path

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.

Check the tides, Hadrian's Wall Path
Solway Estuary, Hadrian's Wall Path

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.

Day 5 on Hadrian's Wall

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.

Roger and his signpost, Hadrian's Wall

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).

Roger's Signpost, Hadrian's Wall

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!

One mile from the end, Hadrian's Wall

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!

The end of Hadrian's Wall Path

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

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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.

Hadrian's Wall, Grindon to Gilsland

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.

Blown by the wind on Hadrian's Wall

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.

Hadrian's Wall Path

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!”

Sycamore Gap, The Robin Hood Tree, Hadrian's Wall

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).

Sycamore Gap, The Robin Hood Tree, Hadrian's Wall

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.

Lunch at Twice Brewed Inn, Hadrian's Wall

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

Climbing over stiles, Hadrian's Wall

Sheep in the springtime, Hadrian's Wall
Day 3 of Hadrian's Wall

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.

Dinner at Slackhouse Organic Farm, Hadrian's Wall

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!

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11 Comments / Filed In: Hadrian's Wall, Travel, walking
Tagged: adventure, England, harian's wall, hiking, Robin Hood, Slackhouse Organic Farm, Sycamore Gap, travel, trekking, walking

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.

sunny day in Newcastle-upon-Tyne

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!

Homemade butcher pies in Newcastle-upon-Tyne

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.

Albatross hostel, Newcastle-upon-Tyne

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.

Day One of walking Hadrian's Wall Path
Bowness-on-Solway: only 84 miles away!

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.

Hadrian's Way, along the River Tyne
Entering Newcastle on Hadrian's Wall Path

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).

coffee beans at an outdoor market in Newcastle

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.

Cat guarding the gate on Hadrian's Wall Path

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.

Proper Sunday roast on Hadrian's Wall Path
Twin room at Houghton North Farm, Heddon-on-the-Wall
Houghton North Farm, Heddon-on-the-Wall

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!

Countryside of Heddon-on-the-Wall, Hadrian's Wall Path

Next Post: Day 2 on Hadrian’s Wall

8 Comments / Filed In: Hadrian's Wall, Travel, walking
Tagged: adventure, England, Hadrian's Wall, Hadrian's Wall Way, hiking, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, spring, travel, trekking, walking

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.

sheep, Hadrian's Wall Path

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.”

Walking Hadrian's Wall

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).

Acorn signpost for Hadrian's Wall

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.

Howard Lodge, Carlisle, Hadrian's Wall

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.

Packing for my walk on Hadrian's Wall

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.”

Countryside; Walking Hadrian's Wall

Next Post: Day 1 on Hadrian’s Wall

7 Comments / Filed In: Hadrian's Wall, Trail Journals, Travel, walking
Tagged: adventure, Emperor Hadrian, England, Hadrian's Wall, hiking, stones, travel, trekking, walking

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?

Path to Hontonas, Camino de Santiago

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.

Camino shell on the Camino de Santiago

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.

Shadow on the Camino de Santiago

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.

Friends on the Camino de Santiago, Spain

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.

8 Comments / Filed In: Camino de Santiago, Inspiration, Travel, Writing
Tagged: adventure, Camino de Santiago, hiking, life, solo female travel, Spain, travel, trekking, walking

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Welcome! I’m Nadine: a traveler, a pilgrim, a walker, a writer, a coffee drinker. This is where I share my stories, my thoughts and my walks. I hope you enjoy the site!
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