La Muse Archives - Nadine Walks

“Going Back Again”; Thoughts on Repeating Travel Experiences

February 19, 2018

The older I get, the more I keep learning about myself.

I thought I would have had at least the most obvious things about myself figured out by now- I am, after all, well into my 30’s and while I hopefully have a lot of life left to live, I’ve also been around the sun a few times now, enough to know some basic truths.

Like… I still really like the color yellow. And giant pandas and wearing flip flops and listening to the Beatles. At my core, I’m optimistic and friendly and always try to see the best in people. I really like people, but I’m also an introvert, so I can’t be around them all the time.

Stuff like that.

But then there are the things that should be obvious, and when I finally pick up on my own patterns it’s like something had to smack me over the head to make me see what should have been apparent years and years ago.

There was this day when I was out for a walk, it was probably 3 or 4 years ago, and it came to me in a flash, this realization, this truth: I love trees. And I had always loved them, I have very distinct memories of riding my bike around my neighborhood as a child, and always making a point to notice my favorite trees. And the magnolia that grew in our backyard, how I would marvel every spring at the petals that would seem to burst into bloom overnight, and if I looked out my brother’s bedroom window the view would be nothing but those pink petals, it was like magic. And more and more examples of things like this but it wasn’t until recently that I actually realized: ‘Oh, I like trees.’

Bear with me through this meandering introduction to what this post is really about; it’s been a long day. (Or, maybe, it’s just been a long winter and I feel very out of practice with crafting a blog post).

My thoughts have been on traveling lately, as I look ahead to this summer and try to figure out what I want to do and where I want to go. Here’s what I do know: almost inevitably, I’ll be headed back to Europe again.

I say ‘inevitably’ because, while there are other places in the world that I’d really like to travel to, I’m still very drawn to Europe.

And of course I am! Because when it comes to things I love, I’m a repeater.

Maybe there’s a real and technical term for this, but for now I’ll just stick with ‘repeater’. I repeat experiences, I go back, I return… and I love doing this.

I think the psychology of this is really interesting, but I’ll save that for another post. For now, I’m just struck by how often I’ve repeated experiences in my life when I could have been off trying new things or going to new places, and it’s like it just now occurred to me that this has been a pattern for a long, long time. And so maybe it does make some sense that I keep returning to Europe, that I keep returning to the Camino, that I keep returning to my writer’s retreat at La Muse, that I keep returning to Paris and to France.

Another trip to Paris

Maybe this predilection was set for me as a child; when I look at my very earliest experiences of the joy of returning to a place, I think of the beach vacations my family would take every summer. We’d load into our station wagon (three kids across the back seat and we all dreaded being in the middle), and drive 10 hours down to North Carolina- just above or below the Outer Banks, I’m not quite sure exactly where we were- and we’d rent the same beach house and spend a week with my extended family.

I adored these trips, and one of my strongest memories is the mounting excitement I’d feel as our car crossed the bridge over to Emerald Isle, as we’d approach our rental, as I’d walk in the door and run around the rooms and look for all of the familiar things. The couches! The sailboat mirror! The spiral staircase! The room with the bunk beds! It felt like another home, and returning there felt a little like being home. And there were the reunions with the people I loved, too: my cousins, the girl next door (whose family rented the same house at the same time every year just like us, and we’d write to each other throughout the year- “Remember the 10th!” we would always sign off, and I still remember that beautiful day when the waves were calm and the sun was warm and at 11 years old we couldn’t imagine anything more perfect).

So, you know, I’ve been doing this for a long time- settling into a place and learning to love it. The physicality of it, the features, the feelings, the people. And because of those beach vacations, this tendency is linked strongly to travel. When I experience something beautiful in some ‘other’ place, I form a connection with it, and I am drawn- strongly- to return.

My summer trips have been following a pattern lately: a long walk, and then several weeks at La Muse. Or La Muse, and then a long walk. And that’s going to be the case again this summer. La Muse is already set, this will be my fourth time there, and the third year in a row that I’ve spent my July in the hills of the Montagne Noir in southern France.

Why do I go back? The feelings I have as I sit in the Jeep driving up the winding roads towards Labastide are the very same ones I had as a child when we’d arrive at our beach house. I look for all the familiar landmarks in those hills, I look for the sign saying that we’ve arrived, I look for Homer and I look for my friends and I suck in my breath when I walk onto the terrace, I breath the air that smells faintly of chestnut trees and lavender. I’m going to be staying in the same room this summer as I did last summer, and this feels like a sort of home to me, a room that- for a moment- is all mine. A place I can return to where I feel so happy, like the best version of myself.

And it’s not just La Muse. I thought to write about all of this tonight because, as I plan out my summer, I’m also trying to decide on which Camino I might want to walk. I was starting to feel rather committed to trying out a new path- the Camino Aragones (a 165km path that crosses the Pyrenees to the south of St Jean Pied de Port, and links up to the Camino Frances in Puente La Reina). This would be a great option, given my time frame- travel days not included, I have 7 days to walk after my stay at La Muse. And this would be a new experience, the path is supposed to be beautiful, the pilgrim infrastructure good, the Camino spirit strong.

All of this, and yet, I think I might want to walk the beginning of the Norte again.

It’s a thought that’s been nagging at me, and I keep pushing it back, telling myself that it’s too soon to repeat a path, that there are too many new ones out there for me to try, that there’s no point to repeating something again so soon. I walked the Camino del Norte from Irun to Oviedo in 2015 (and then finished the rest of the route in 2016), so it’s only been a few years. And if I’m being honest, I could easily repeat any of the walks I’ve done since I started this Camino thing (including the long-distance treks I’ve done in Scotland and England), so why am I feeling so drawn to the Norte?

I’m not sure, but I don’t know that I need an answer. I think with a lot of things in life- and especially with a Camino- it’s important to listen to whatever is calling you. And I think the only reason that I’m hesitating is because it is, yet again, another experience that I’m going to be repeating.

I’m curious what all of your thoughts are about repeating experiences, especially as it relates to traveling. Would you return, again and again, to a place or a city or a country that you know you love? Or would you feel like it’s more valuable to always travel somewhere new and different? Does it depend on what you want out of the experience?

If I do the Norte again, I’m sure I’ll put my own unique twist on it, something different than the last time I walked. And I’m sure that the entire experience will be different- with any luck, my first day out of Irun will have good weather and outstanding views, something I missed that first time around (oh, the rain and the fog, and the wringing of socks in the middle of a field). My plans aren’t set- I still have months until I have to make any decisions- but I’m really leaning towards walking part of this path again. And right now, it’s putting a smile on my face. It feels right.

Sometimes that’s all we really have to go on, isn’t it? Just a feeling, some push in our gut that tells us we’re on the right track.

And I can see how this is important to me, to the person that I’ve always been- the one who likes giant pandas and magnolia trees and beach houses with spiral staircases- that the return to a place I love allows me to fall into an even richer experience of that place, a deeper connection, a return to my best self, a reminder of where I’ve been and maybe even where I’m going.

Yes, a reminder of where I might be going. A yellow arrow, a marker, to guide me along my way.

The Next Summer Adventure: France! Walking and Writing and Drinking Coffee

June 6, 2017

I sat down to write a blog post but then realized that I wasn’t sure, exactly, what I wanted to write about.

I’ve finished recapping my Hadrian’s Wall walk, I don’t believe I have much to say about training or packing or preparing for a Camino that I haven’t already said before (well, that’s probably not quite true, but now doesn’t feel like the best time to come up with a new or original post on that topic).

There are still things to be said about my past Camino treks, and general thoughts about these pilgrimages and traveling solo and why I keep walking, but those, too, will have to wait.

And there’s still a lot left to be done with this ‘new’ blog format; kinks to work out, images to resize, figuring out how to add a ‘previous post’ and ‘next post’ button or link at the end of my posts (that’s a big one, and I’ve spent several frustrating hours accomplishing absolutely nothing on that end).

There are my projects, too! My book, which has sort of stalled out but is by no means forgotten or given-up-on. It’s more like… it’s in waiting. I think I needed a little break from the writing, in order to figure out what kind of story I want to be telling. Also, it’s just so hard to write a book and tell a big story and there’s been a lot of stumbling around in the dark over here. So I’m working towards more clarity with it all.

Tree and building in Ridley Creek State Park

Hike in Ridley Creek State Park (all images in this post are from walks/hikes/excursions that I’ve been on in the last month or so)

But other projects are (sort of) in the works, too. An e-book, much of which was written this spring. It’s not actually all that much but I liked creating the content: it’s all about ways to deal with the struggles of the sometimes unsettling post-Camino period. It’s about missing the Camino, and how we can hold onto our memories. It’s about how to begin to take a close look at a life that was most likely shaken up and rearranged out on the Camino, and what to do next. Unless I do a lot more with it this summer, it’s going to be a quick read with short chapters and simple tips. But it’s part of a larger idea that’s been percolating up there in my head for months now… and it’s too soon to talk much about it, but I want to deliver something more about this post-Camino time. There are so many resources and conversations about how to prepare for a Camino, but what happens when the Camino ends? Where are these conversations?

All of this is good and exciting: the blog, the book, the e-book and future projects and ideas… but there’s something else on the horizon, something more immediately on the horizon.

And that’s another walk.

Lancaster County

It came up quickly, didn’t it? Wasn’t I just walking in England? (I was certainly just writing about it, but even the actual walk doesn’t feel like all too long ago). But in exactly two weeks (and by the grace of God), I’ll be finished walking my first day on the Camino Le Puy.

This means that I leave for my big summer trip in a little less than two weeks, and oh man, how did this happen? A month ago I thought I was in pretty good shape, but inevitably, it happens: time slips away and it’s the end of my school year and I go to Phillies games and take weekend trips and suddenly my summer trip looms, large, before me. Am I ready? I ask this every single time. Have I been walking and hiking enough? (I’m so afraid that the answer, this year, is ‘no’. Maybe my Hadrian’s Wall walk could be considered good training but that was two months ago and other than the 4-mile walks around my neighborhood that I do pretty consistently, I’ve only had a couple good, long training hikes).

Delaware & Raritan Canal Towpath

And as always, there’s the mental/emotional/personal part of these travels. I’m returning for yet another Camino, my fourth in as many years. This will only be a partial Camino, two weeks on a route in France, but it’s still a Camino. I’ll be sharing the very beginning of the walk with my cousin, so, like the Hadrian’s Wall trip, this walk won’t be totally solo. But we’ll only be walking together for the first 3 days and afterwards I’ll be on my own, so I already know that the walk is going to have several different components for me. Some of it will be shared and some of it will be solo, but will I crave more time in the company of other pilgrims? Will I want to carry on by myself? Will I only meet French pilgrims and therefore be forced to speak in French?? (a thought that sort of terrifies me, even though part of the appeal of a walk in France was that I would be able to have an easier time with communication. Plus I love France).

After my walk is a return to La Muse, my writer’s retreat. In many ways it feels like I was just there. I know that there’s been a solid 10 months since I returned from my last trip to Europe, and life happened in the meantime, but I also feel like I’m continuing the retreat I started last year. Some of the same Musers will be returning with me: I have four sort of ‘built in’ friends this time around, and I’m hoping that this sense of continuity will help me jump right in and get down to work. That, and also go out and roam around the mountains; relax, recharge, and become re-inspired.

Springtime walk around my neighborhood

A week in Paris rounds out the summer, and there’s the possibility of reconnecting there with a few friends I’ve made on these summer adventures, as well as more time to follow my whims: wander and write and drink coffee.

So this year, it feels like there might be a good and welcome balance to my travels. In the past, these have been very solo trips: I take off totally on my own, and the only connections I find are the ones that I have to make. But this time around, each piece of my trip includes some kind of already-established connection, and this feels good to me. I’ll certainly be doing my own thing and having my own adventures, but sharing this part of my life feels appealing, too.

The next time I check in will most likely be from France. As ever, I hope to blog while I walk (and we’ll see how well I keep up with the posts ‘in real time’).

So here’s to summer: to long warm days, to freedom in all shapes and forms, to adventure. Let’s all go out and have an adventure.

Lake Erie, Geneva, OH

You Can Always Come Back: Blue Skies and Final Days

July 21, 2016

Yesterday, I was thinking about how long it had been since I’d seen a cloud in the sky. It feels a bit as though my entire time here has been under a perfect blue sky, and that is nearly true. But then I remember the last thing I posted here, how the weather was chilly, and I remember that yes, there were clouds. There was wind, there was a cool stretch.

It feels so long ago, that first week when I was settling back into life in a small French village in the mountains, remembering how things are done, relearning how to do them, discovering that some things aren’t the same at all. I finally felt settled, another week passed, and now here we are, almost at the end.

How is it possible that my time at La Muse is almost over? It makes me feel a little panicked, and I think, “There’s so much I haven’t done.” It makes me feel a little sad, and I think, “When will I come back again? Will I ever come back again?”

I even thought about canceling my Camino, and just staying here. But it’s impossible- the rooms are all booked, which is great news for La Muse and probably the right kind of news for me, too. As much as I want to stay here and never leave, I also want to settle into the next thing… which happens to be Spain and tapas and lots of walking.

I still have four solid days here, and in addition to my regular brainstorming sessions at Le Roc, the long hikes, the chats with the other residents, we also have an “excursion” down to the ruins of a Cathar Castle (we’re tacking on a lunch in a Michelin starred restaurant, too!), and a concert and all-village fête on Saturday night. Tomorrow Vera leaves, so tonight we’re all meeting on the terrace for a goodbye drink. Last night we had a reading, two nights before we had more goodbye drinks for Kelly.

There’s a really good group of residents here, though I have a feeling I might say that about nearly any group that spends time at La Muse; everyone here is creative, and serious about their creativity. But then you have a great and unpredictable mix of the rest of our personalities: introverts and extroverts, loud and quiet, soft and hard, vibrant and calm. On a few nights I’ve stayed up until the bitter end, talking and singing and laughing with those who remain on the terrace, long past the time when the stars have appeared in the sky. Usually I’m in the “second wave”, not leaving first, not staying until the end. But some nights I slip out as soon as my dinner is finished, the last sips of wine drunk. I sneak cookies upstairs- we’re not supposed to have food in the rooms- and I read a book or write in my journal or work on my story.

The work I’ve gotten done here has been difficult to measure. The bulk of my book is written, I think, but it is so very rough, and I’m still struggling to decide what, exactly, I’m trying to stay. So there is still an awful lot left to be done, but I’m feeing good about it. I’ve had the space here to really delve into the heart of this story, and to my surprise, I discovered that I might not want to really share too much about certain parts, and that I have a whole lot to say about others. And just like last time, the most important work seems to have happened away from my desk, away from the computer. I take the 10 minute path up to the top of the mountain and sit on my large, flat rock and stare off into the valley- the Pyrenees lining the horizon- and after an hour sometimes I just know in my gut what I need to do, what I need to write.

I went on an epic hike today; I wanted to get one full, long day of walking in, a sort of “Camino” training day (because in less than a week, I’ll be on a Camino! Hard to imagine right now….). Lets just say that maybe it was a bit too much. I headed for Latourette, which is just another village tucked away in these mountains, though it is not close. Last time I was here I’d seen signs for it, trails that led there, but it always seemed impossibly far away. But now that I have hiking experience, Camino experience, it seemed doable. The first half was great- up and down and through these mountains, stumbing on tiny villages that weren’t much more than a few houses and a really old church along with some crumbling stone ruins.

I made it to Latourette and sat on a bench and ate some snacks and rested my feet. Then I continued on, following a path that I assumed would sort of take me in a big circle and back to Labastide, but the further I walked, the more I realized that it might not have been so smart to follow an unknown trail. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going, and even though I was always on a marked trail, I had a bad feeling that it was taking me away from where I wanted to go.

I kept walking though, hoping that the trees would open up and I could take a look at the landscape and get my bearings. The sun was hot, the air was humid, it was getting later, I was feeling more and more unsettled. Finally I turned around, walked back to Latourette, and followed a road that I knew would lead me to a village that was not far from Labastide.

I stumbled back into the village, my legs feeling like jelly, just as dark clouds gathered in the sky and a little rain began to spit down. It’s still overcast now, the first not-blue sky I’ve seen in what feels like weeks and weeks. The kind of sky that makes it easier to sit inside and get some writing done.

Already I can feel myself begin to move away from this experience, my thoughts starting to turn towards Spain, and the Camino. But I’m still here for a few more days and I want to really sink into these last moments: write what I can, wander through the village, sit up at Le Roc, hang out with Homer the dog. And I tell myself the same thing that I did three years ago, as I was preparing to leave: you can always come back.

On the Terrace, in the Sunshine

July 14, 2016

I’m writing this post from the terrace of La Muse, sitting on a bench in the sunshine. Sitting in the sun is the only way I can work outside today- it’s downright cold.

Well, that’s probably an exaggeration. But the high today couldn’t have been much more than 60 degrees, but with the strong wind, it feels even cooler. The day has alternated between dark gray clouds, sprinkles of rain, periods of sun, always the strong wind. But it’s felt almost perfect to me: just what I needed to stay inside this morning to write, and just the right temperature to go for a small hike in the afternoon. And now, a blog post on the terrace in the sunshine.

I’ve never really explained how things work here (have I?) and since I’m a solid 9 days in, I figure it’s about time. Most people, when I explain that I’m spending 3 weeks at a writer’s retreat in France, ask about the structure here. “Are there lectures or workshops, is there a teacher?” No, no, and no. It’s all pretty unstructured, it’s one of my favorite things about this place. You apply for a spot- a room, essentially- by sending in a resume and an explanation of your work. If there’s an open room and it seems as though you’re serious about your art, you’ll be offered a spot. But then the rest is up to you: La Muse provides the beautiful room and the stunning, almost magical scenery, and you work on your art.

There are now several places to stay in the village: The Big House (where I am, and the orginal home of La Muse), The Mews (the other half of the Big House that used to be the home of the owners of this whole thing), Cottage #1 and Cottage #2, each with two bedrooms. Right now every single room is booked, so there are 14 of us in total. Sometimes the residents all gather together, if we organize a communal meal, or do a reading, but mostly people are on their own to do whatever they want.

Some people stay and work in their rooms for the entire day. Some (ahem) go off for long hikes. Some work on the terrace or hang out in the library, some work late into the evenings or early in the mornings. But often we come together for dinner, eating with whoever is around, and most of us eventually congregating on the terrace to finish the night.

Once a week you’re driven down the mountain for a bit of sight-seeing but mostly so you can hit a grocery store and stock up for the week. There’s a house in the village where you can buy fresh eggs, a constantly running water source with what might be the best water I’ve ever tasted, a truck that comes through the village two times a week selling bread and basic supply of fruits, veggies and canned goods. There are between 30-40 residents who live in this village, and many of them are well into their 80’s. But I see them out, all the time, tending to their gardens, walking slowly up and down the sloping streets. They congregate when the bread truck arrives, chatting as they wait, lingering as they stock up on supplies. For many, it’s the social highlight of the week.

I’ve found a good rhythm here, though it took me awhile. I wake early to eat breakfast on the terrace, then I go back to my room for several hours to work. I take a lot of breaks and do a lot of puttering around- it’s hard to sit still and write for hours on end. I break up my time by walking up to Le Roc- a viewpoint at the top of the moutain- going on water runs to the source, hand washing laundry, straightening up the few possessions in my room, reading a book. If it’s a cloudy or rainy day (we’ve only had a few), I’ll stay in my room and write. But by mid-afternoon (at the latest!) I’m ready to get out and hike. There’s a network of trails that run through the village, so all I have to do is strap on my pack, walk out the door, and I’ve got several great paths to choose from.

My family and friends have asked me: how’s the writing going? Are you getting much done? The answer is… it’s going okay. I’ve had some great stretches of writing and have started to work out some of the structural stuff for the book. But I’d by lying if I said that I was spending all day writing, getting a tremendous amount of work done. I can’t, or maybe it’s more that I choose not to. Just being here and soaking up this experience is so important to me; it’s good if I can get a lot of writing done, but what’s even better is what I’m remembering from last time: that I feel so inspired and creatively energized. After a week, my writing feels as strong as it’s ever been. I’m having great conversations about the creative process, today on my hike I memorized a poem. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.

Last night the residents all gathered in the library for a reading, to share some of what we’ve been working on. I read a short part from my book, something I wrote last week. It’s the first time I’ve ever done something like this, the first time I’ve shared anything from this book I’ve been working on. And it was scary. But it also felt good. The idea, the hope, is that eventually I can get something published and have lots and lots of people read my story. Sharing just a very small piece of it felt like a good start.

No Sugar Tonight in my Coffee; the first days at La Muse

July 8, 2016

Yesterday morning I made myself a small pot of espresso, heated up some milk in the microwave, mixed it together and added a spoonful of what I thought was sugar. It was salt.

This is a pretty good way to describe what my first few days at La Muse, the writer’s/artist’s retreat in the south of France, have been like. I was here three years ago and some things- many things- are exactly the same. The village dates back to sometime around 1000 AD, and the house where I’m staying used to be the chateau of the village in the Middle Ages. So, things have been here a long, long time. Of course nothing has changed.

In some ways I imagined that I would walk back in here and slip straight to the past, to exactly how things used to be, to the same person that I was when I was last here. I could pick up wherever I left off: journaling in the mornings and gazing out at the mountains and marveling over my explorations while I hiked. I could access the same thoughts and excitement and spirit. It would be immediate, and seamless.

But instead, I walked back in and was hit with such a powerful sense of familiarity, but also of difference. The trees are taller, they change the view from the terrace. I walk up two sets of stairs to my room and not just one, I listen for the sounds of my friends but I only hear the voices of strangers. I go on a small hike and pace back and forth, searching for the turnoff of the trail. Eventually I find it; it is much further down the hill than I remember. I reach for sugar and I grab salt.

I don’t quite have the same sense of wonder that I did the first time, either. It reminds me of my experience with Paris: I entered the city and knew exactly where to go, and what to do. If Paris felt like some sort of temporary home, then La Muse and Labastide do, too. Returning to a place you love is a special kind of experience; it reminds you of where you’ve been, it reminds you of where you are now.

There are 14 residents here, it’s a big group. Many Americans, two Germans, two Australians, one Irish woman and one English woman. One is a film editor but all the rest are writers. This feels a bit daunting to me. I know I’m working on a book, but others are too. Without knowing all that much about their projects, I still have the sense that their books are these real, concrete, serious things. So different than my own, which just seems to be a bunch of words at the moment. Some of the residents have already published, I get the sense that many of them know what they are doing.

Or do they? Maybe we all give off that sense to each other. If I let myself see past my own doubts, I see that others have them, too. It’s a fascinating experience to be back, once again, with a large group of creative people. We’re all still feeling each other out, and as usual, I’m content to sit back and observe the group quietly. But already I can start to see where I fall within the mix: Vera and I have similar writing schedules, we often work and take breaks at the same time. Hilary is introverted, like me, and we take walks down to Le Fenial for coffee. I pour over a large hiking map with Will, pointing out my favorite trails.

I thought I might be able to jump right back into this experience, to hit the ground running with my writing, to feel at ease around the other residents, but (and really, this should come as no surprise to me), I’ve needed time to settle into this. And I’m getting there, I can feel myself beginning to sink in. My room is beautiful, and I’d forgotten how much I love watching and listening to the swallows swooping around outside my window. I’ve been wandering through the hills (a mild cold has stopped me from taking on big hikes, but it’s probably just as well in terms of getting into a good writing routine), and I’ve returned to Le Roc- my beautiful spot on top of the mountain with views that seem to stretch on forever. Homer, the resident dog, has accompanied me both times, and I love this. He runs fast and far ahead, but always circles back to make sure that I’m still coming. And when we get to Le Roc, he finds a cool spot in the shade while I write, and when I’m done, we walk back to the village together.

I love that I have three weeks here, that I can spend these first days adjusting and settling in and finding my routines- the routines of three years ago, but also the routines of today. I’ll mix them together and come away with a brand new experience, and I can’t wait to see what it will be like.

To Summer, To Travel, To Time

June 23, 2016

The great summer trip of 2016 begins in less than a week, so I thought it was about time that I check back in here with an update. And the only update I really have has already been said: I leave in less than a week!

Does time seem to be moving fast for anyone else? Like, really really fast? Until only a few days ago I was convinced that it was still May, that I had over a month to plan and prepare for my trip, that the days are continuing to lengthen, that summer was still far off.

But all of a sudden it was summer, and work had ended for the year, and the only thing that was looming before me was my big trip. I should be used to this by now, it’s been my pattern for the last three years: work ends around the middle of June, and I promptly hop on a plane for Europe.

So why does it feel like this trip is still weeks and weeks away? Last year, on the first day of summer, I was doing this:

I’d already been walking on the Camino for a few days, life at home felt like it was another world away.

My trip begins a bit later than usual this year, maybe that’s part of it. Or maybe it’s just that life is speeding by so fast that I yearn to hit a pause button, and give myself some time to catch up.

But there’s no stopping time so here we go. I think that finally, in these last few days, I’ve accepted that summer is here. I’ve gone to a baseball game and drank a coke slushey and had a dish of ice cream and spent a day at the beach. I’ve stretched in the lounge chair on my porch with my feet in the sun and read a book that I was too busy to finish months ago. Two days ago I went on a 10-mile hike; tomorrow I’ll try for 12-miles. This is the most hiking I’ve done in a long, long time, and well, it’s about time.

And then next week, I’ll leave for Europe. My first stop is England, something I don’t think I even mentioned in my Summer 2016 blog post. It sort of got lost in the shuffle of my mind, and stayed lost until just a couple days ago. But- oh yeah!- I decided to fly into London because it’s been a solid 15 years since I’ve been there and I thought it could be nice to do something a little new.

This photo is from my last trip to England, all those years ago:

My friend reminded me that our original plan was to spend a few days in London, then head to Stonehenge. But in 2001, Stonehenge was closed for 5 1/2 weeks because of foot-and-mouth disease, so we went to Liverpool instead (and honestly, this was probably my vote all along… Long Live Ringo!).

It’s a bit crazy to think back to that trip- parts of it that feel like a lifetime ago, other parts that are so recent in my memory I could swear that I was just there. Wasn’t I just there? Leaving notes for our friends on scraps of paper at the hotel lobby because this was just before any of us had a cell phone; crossing the street at the wrong end of Abbey Road (and causing quite the pile up of traffic in order to get a photo); battling a cold on the train to London and the endless cups of tea to soothe my throat; noticing that a small magnolia tree was growing in the front yard of the house where George Harrison grew up.

These memories are creeping in because I finally sat down and planned some things for my three days in England. I focus on these details for a moment- there’s a Jane Austen Centre in Bath! I can finally make it to Stonehenge!- but then an email pulls me into another part of the trip. It’s from the writer’s retreat in southern France- our host has forwarded a suggested shopping list so that we’re not overwhelmed when we arrive and are whisked off to the grocery store. And then I think back to my time there three years ago, and how I was overwhelmed, and didn’t buy quite enough food. Will that happen again? What will the village be like- will it be just as I remembered, or will there be changes?

And what am I like, this time? Three years wasn’t all that long ago, and yet, I know that I am different. And certainly, I’m different than I was 15 years ago, on that first trip to London and Liverpool.

Different, and yet… still me. Always me.

There’s more, too: another Amazon package arrived at my door, it’s a guide to walking the West Highland Way. And then I need to push the days in England and the writer’s retreat from my mind, and focus on Scotland. Scotland! I know nothing about Scotland! Shouldn’t I learn something, shouldn’t I do some research? A friend warns me about the haggis, and I wonder if I will try it.

And then, finally, in the very back corner of my mind, I remember that I’m also walking a Camino. That I’m returning to Spain. I’ve barely given it any thought, because this is the thing that feels the most familiar, the most comfortable. Other than breaking in a new pair of shoes, I haven’t done much in preparation. I have all my gear, I know where I’m going; this is the thing that I don’t have to plan for.

But remember just two years ago? My fretting and my fear in the weeks before I left for Spain that first time? Wasn’t I just memorizing the Spanish words for ‘I’m allergic to nuts’ and wondering how, exactly, I was to go about hand-washing my clothing?

Ah, time. I still don’t know what to make of it, of how quickly life is streaming past, yet of how far I’ve seemed to travel in what feels like very fleeting moments. I know that in August, I’m going to be back here at my computer, in my apartment, marveling over how fast the summer just went by.

Of course I will. But I’m not at the end yet, I’m only at the very beginning. So, here’s to summer! May it be the best one yet.

Round Three.

April 25, 2016

Plans for Summer 2016 have been made! But here’s the truth- I’ve hesitated to talk about the long, long process of figuring out what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go. There are probably a few reasons, but none more than this: it feels a little ridiculous to spend so much time (publicly) fretting over how to spend my two months off. Because… I get two months off! Every year that I stay in the job I currently have, I am increasingly grateful that the work I do affords me time off in the summer. It’s a luxury that most people simply don’t get. I was pretty intentional about choosing this particular job in order to have the two months off, and like nearly everything in life there are trade-offs. But I still recognize how lucky I am, and for having this job at this particular time in my life: my family is healthy and I am healthy, I have no kids and no commitments or obligations that keep me state-side. And, for better or for worse, I have no partner to worry about. I can do exactly as I please.

It’s an amazing opportunity, but sometimes I feel a little self-conscious talking about yet another summer in Europe. But I work hard, and maybe never harder than I have this year. And for vast stretches of time during the 10 months of the year that I’m not traveling, my life is pretty simple. I have hermit-like tendencies. I am very, very careful about money; if I weren’t, I’d never be able to travel like I do.

Where am I going with this? I’m starting to ramble again. I’ve missed blogging, but as ever, it’s because my focus has been so wrapped up in writing this book. I’ve slipped just a bit from my weekly word-count goal in the past month, and I blame spring and sunshine and all those blooming trees out there. Makes it hard to get my butt in the chair. But here I am, with a simple and easy lemon cake in the oven and the last few fingers of wine in my glass and I am going to tell you about my summer plans, the ones I’ve worked hard for, the ones that I sometimes agonized over.

Here is my main problem this year: I want to do it all. I already wrote a bit about maybe buying a new car and driving across the country, I wrote a big list of travel goals that included Guatemala and writer’s retreats and long hikes. I want to do it all! (and don’t we all?) I tell myself not to think too big, that I can’t possibly do so much with only two months off, that I shouldn’t try to do it all, that there will be time for it all, one day.

But still, I couldn’t settle down or settle into a decision about this summer. I took the cross-country trip off the list, Guatemala too, but the other things were still up for grabs. I knew that I wanted to spend some of the summer focused on my book, so a writer’s retreat was high on the list. But- and if this comes as a surprise then you need to go back and read more of this blog, maybe from the beginning– I wanted to do another Camino. How could I go to Europe and not also go on a long walk?

I figured out a way to do both of these things, a very doable way to do a writer’s retreat and a Camino, and I thought that I should have been satisfied, that I immediately should have scooped up a flight. And, can we talk for a moment about flights? About the deals that I saw come and go? About the $500 round trip flight between Philly and Milan that pretty much worked with my schedule? Every day for over a week I checked to make sure that the deal was still there, until it wasn’t, and I never bought the flight.

Because something was holding me back. In the past few years, a little travel bug has nudged its way into my head and my chest and most certainly my legs and my feet, and I have a growing list of places to go, things to see, paths to walk. So while another writer’s retreat in France and another Camino in Spain would make me happy beyond belief, I still hesitated. I wanted something new, too.

All those thoughts of not trying to do it all, having time ‘one day’? One day is right now. I’ve been telling myself this for a long, long time, but it always bears repeating. One day is right now.

This isn’t leading up to anything epic or earth-shattering. I’m not quitting my job, the book is nowhere near finished, no radical changes (not yet anyway). But I’m going to try to do a lot this summer, a combination of things that seems just right, so right that now I certainly am happy beyond belief, at the thought of getting the chance to do it all.

There are three parts to Summer 2016. The first is another writer’s retreat, which takes me back to La Muse, the same place where I spent three weeks in 2013. When I was there the first time, I had that deep and knowing feeling that one day I’d return. But I also knew that in order to return, I’d need to be in a different creative place. That first trip was simply about learning to call myself an artist. I didn’t have a dedicated project to work on while I was there, I knew I loved to write and take photos but I’ve never really been serious about it before. So those three weeks in southern France were more about the experience of entering a different kind of world, a world where I could start to consider myself an artist, where I could learn what it takes for me to feel inspired and focused, to give me confidence moving forward.

And in the past three years, I’ve moved forward. Slowly, slowly, one small step at a time. I’m returning to La Muse as a writer, who is working on her book. How great does it feel to say that? Pretty great.

During my last retreat I would spend a few hours a day writing, but otherwise I was out in the mountains that surrounded the small French village of Labastide-Esparbairenque. I took long hikes and hundreds of photos, and more than anything soaked up the inspiration and beauty of where I was. This time around, there will surely be more hikes (photos too), but I also have a big project to work on. I’m excited to see what kind of progress I can make on the book with three solid weeks to do nothing but write.

Terrace-La-Muse-Labastide-Esparbairenque-France

Terrace of La Muse, July 2013

The second part of my trip will most likely be another Camino. Nothing is set in stone yet, but that’s also the beauty of a Camino… nothing really needs to be decided until I arrive. I’ve gone back and forth dozens of times on this, too: if I walk another Camino, which one do I want to walk? Return to the Frances? A path in France? In Portugal? My thoughts ran in circles until finally I stumbled on something that felt just right. Start in Leon (a city about two-thirds of the way towards Santiago on the Camino Frances), and walk about 5 days on the San Salvador, a short Camino that extends south to north, from Leon to Oviedo. I passed through Oviedo last year, when I left the Norte to go down to the Primitivo. So now, I’ll make my way back up to Oviedo on the San Salvador, and from Oviedo will continue north up to the point of the Norte where I veered off last year. If the timing works out well, I should have a dozen or so days to finish the Norte and arrive in Santiago.

I’m sure that explanation was super confusing. Basically, all you need to know is this: I’ll have roughly 17 days to walk a Camino, I’ll be back in Spain, I will drink cafe con leches, and it will be beautiful.

This map doesn’t show the San Salvador, but imagine a line extending from the Frances up to Oviedo. From Oviedo I’ll follow that dotted line to Aviles, and then continue on towards Santiago.

And finally, the third part of the trip gives me something brand new. My return flight to the states is out of Glasgow, Scotland, and I’m leaving about a week at the end of my trip to walk the West Highland Way, a popular long-distance footpath in the Scottish Highlands. This area of Scotland is rugged and remote (though the path itself could be crowded in August), there could be lots of rain, and there will definitely be lots of midges (small flying insects that will certainly be a pain). But what I’ve read and seen of this 96-mile route is nothing short of stunning. I’m only going to have 5-days to walk this path, and while it’s doable it’s also going to be challenging. But after a summer of hiking in southern France and walking a Camino, I hope that I’ll be in tip-top shape for the Highlands.

Photo by Bart vanDorp / CC BY

Big plans, exciting plans. Plans to do it all, at least all that I want for this moment in my life. And I can’t wait to share it all here.

Learning how to be a hiker

February 23, 2015

I don’t consider myself a hiker. A long distance walker, yes, but hiking is something different. To me, hiking involves mountains, rugged terrain, shaded trails, sturdy boots (though I’ve never owned a pair).

I consider myself a beginner when it comes to hiking, and things like difficult trails and scrambling up or down rocks makes me nervous. And yet, I also love hiking. In the past few years, I’ve accepted every opportunity to go on a hike that I could, and I’ve pushed myself to do a few hikes that were out of my comfort zone.

When I first started thinking about this post, I wondered, “Do I have enough to say about the hikes I’ve been on?” As I scrolled through my photos from the last couple of years, I realized that I’ve done more hiking than I realized. I’m still going to call myself a beginner, but maybe I have a little more experience under my belt than I let on.

I started to become more confident about hiking two years ago, when I was dating a boyfriend who lived in Vermont. He was a hiker, but more than that: he lived in Vermont. I loved exploring the state and driving around to find trails to climb. I didn’t do any really big climbs, mostly just sticking to 3-6 mile trails with some descent scenic views. My favorite was probably Snake Mountain, a moderate hike through a heavy forest that opened up onto panoramic views of the Champlain Valley and distant Adirondack Mountains.

Then I went to the south of France, to a writer’s retreat in a small village called Labastide Esparbairenque. The village is nestled in the Montagne Noir (Black Mountains), and every day I would fill a backpack with water, cheese, chocolate and an apple, grab my camera and go on a hike. There were several trails that ran out of the village and onto mountain paths, and I spent the three weeks at the retreat exploring every day. (A fun side note: this is when I first decided that I would walk the Camino. It was just a vague idea at this point and something I didn’t think I would do for years, but when I realized how much I loved walking through the mountains and stumbling across tiny French villages, I had a suspicion that I would love the Camino).

After France I hiked a little more in Vermont, and then started checking out trails in Virginia, after my best friend moved down there. I still don’t know it well but I’ve fallen in love with Shenandoah National Park, and I’ve been able to hike small portions of the Appalachian Trail. My favorite hike in Virginia, so far, was the hike up to McAfee’s Knob- one of the most photographed sites on the Appalachian Trail. The hike was about 8-miles round trip from where I parked, and I picked a clear day, so the views were stunning.

And then I went on the Camino. While the Camino is more of a long walk than a hike, some sections were definitely a bit rougher than others- one day in particular. Along with 5 of my friends, I chose to do an alternate route called ‘Dragonte’, which had us going up and down three mountains. The day alternated between moments of strong sunshine and swirling dark clouds, and we got rained on, quite a bit. It was tough. And a lot of fun. If I hadn’t just spent the previous 3 weeks walking 300 hundred miles, I’m sure it would have been a lot more challenging. As it was, it gave me the confidence that, one day, I might actually be able to consider myself a hiker.

Finally, there were the calanques in France. These might eventually get a post of their own, but for now, here was the experience in a nutshell: my friend and I decided to explore these narrow inlets bordered by steep limestone cliffs while we were traveling around the Cote d’Azur and Provence. I was fresh off of the Camino and feeling pretty satisfied with myself- maybe even a bit cocky. We hiked to the first two calanques without a problem, but the third one was no picnic. After a strenuous climb that seemed to go on forever, we looked down a vertical rock wall to an incredibly steep descent. My friend turned back to find the beach we’d passed an hour before (which I think could be called the smartest decision of the trip), but I decided to brave the descent. The clincher was when a skinny French girl wearing a bikini and strappy sandals flounced by. I was wearing hiking shoes AND had just walked 500-miles across Spain. If she could do it, so could I.

Well, I don’t know how she did it. Because after sliding and swinging my way down the rocks, resting at the beach for 30-minutes, and then using every ounce of strength I had to pull me back up the rock wall, I was done. I was more physically exhausted than any single day on the Camino, and my sore legs had me hobbling around Provence for days afterwards.

I still have a lot to experience when it comes to hiking. But the hiking I have done- in Vermont and Virginia, in France and in Spain- it’s ignited something in me. Several people have asked if (and when) I’ll be hiking the entire Appalachian Trail, and I always laugh and say, “Probably never.” And while that’s true, for now, I wouldn’t be surprised if I begin to do some increasingly challenging hikes over the next few years. I know, almost for a fact, that I’ll never be climbing Everest… but wouldn’t Kilimanjaro be pretty amazing?

Last days in Labastide

July 29, 2013

I only have two days left in Labastide, and it’s not enough time. When I first arrived, I thought, “Three weeks will be plenty of time to do everything I want to do”, but now it feels like it’s not nearly enough. I don’t know what happens to the days here: I start my mornings on the terrace and before I know it I’m back there, eating dinner by candlelight. Time moves fast.

Part of the problem (though it’s not really a problem at all) is that I can’t walk through the village anymore without running into someone I know. In the first weeks I would just smile and wave, now I stop and talk.

People know my routines. If they see a blanket in my hand they will say, “You must be going to the rock.” At the end of the day, someone will ask, “Where did you hike to today?” The residents make an effort to gather together for lunch and dinner, and the other girls and I schedule time to sit in the library and talk.

I write in the mornings and take, sometimes, a hundred photos during the day. I’ve explored this village and the mountains around it inside and out, and yet there’s always more to see. Just yesterday, a villager told me about yet another trail with a great view of the village. I added it to my list of things to do in my last few days, but the list just gets longer and longer.

My days are filled with simple and wonderful things: a hike through the mountains with Filou, a village dog. One of the best cheeseburgers I’ve ever had at a cafe in Carcassonne. A village fête where we ate giant sausages and listened to the villagers singing French songs late into the night. Pointing out constellations on a clear night, as we sit on the terrace and see hundreds of stars.

Labastide village