Nadine Walks

stories of trekking and travel

Day Two on the Pennine Way: Torside to Standedge, 12 miles

My second day on the Pennine Way, compared to the first, was glorious. And oh man, did I need it!

Landscape on the Pennine Way

The sun was shining brightly and the report at breakfast was that the weather should be clear for the next week, at least. And breakfast, for the record, was also glorious: my first full English of the trip. A bowl of cereal, two sausage links, scrambled eggs, a thick slice of ham, tomatoes and mushrooms and baked beans and toast and juice and coffee. It was delicious and also too much but I ate as much as I could and then ordered a packed lunch to carry with me.

Sitting at the next table was Margaret, also from California, and she told me how she had also gotten lost the day before, by walking along Kinder River. “Those footprints you saw were probably mine!” she said. It never occurred to me that I might have been following someone who had also gotten lost.

Margaret was staying two nights in The Old House B&B, and taking advantage of their transport service, so she had already walked the second day and would be driven to a point about 15 miles further on. She told me and David about a shortcut around one of the reservoirs, and our B&B host confirmed it, and I was careful to make a note in my guidebook. We were directed to the best way to get back to the path from the B&B, and so I hoisted my pack and set off across the neighboring field.

Within just five minutes, I was walking back to the B&B to ask for clarification. I’d been wandering around the field rather aimlessly and feeling kind of silly and honestly, I think I had lost a little confidence the day before, when I’d made several big navigational mistakes. My B&B host once again pointed me in the right direction, and finally I was on my way.

Green tunnel on the Pennine Way

The day’s walk was just beautiful. There were some challenging sections, mostly in the first four miles which climbed and climbed up to Black Hill, but even that part wasn’t so bad. The sky was clear blue with huge fluffy clouds and for awhile there were sheep at every turn. I hadn’t yet grown used to the sheep (spoiler: I would pass hundreds and hundreds of sheep nearly every day of the walk), and it was so amusing to approach and see how close I could get before they would spook and run a few feet away.

Sheep and clouds, Pennine Way

And as I climbed up towards Laddow Rocks I was totally alone, and the views stretched out behind me, wide and vast. My legs, despite the strain of the day before, felt good, and I was happy and energized and excited for what was ahead.

One of the most beautiful moments of the day (and maybe of the entire trip) was when I turned off the road towards Wessenden Head Reservoir. There was a great slope of green hill that stretched down from the top of the path, and sitting at the top of the hill was an older woman on a wooden kitchen chair. Darting and racing all around the field in front of her were at least a dozen dogs, maybe more. They were all shapes and sizes and colors, and there were two women amongst them, who seemed to be their handlers. I still haven’t figure out what, exactly, they were doing or where they were from: one of the women would occasionally throw a ball and the dogs were run after it, or sometimes when one might begin to stray too far the other woman would call him back. I watched the dogs for a few minutes and then the woman in the chair began to talk to me. She told me that she had very recently found out that she had cancer, and by some coincidence she had discovered these women with the dogs on Facebook, and they invited her out to this hillside.

She sat there, with a blanket wrapped tightly around her legs, the sun on her face and a dozen dogs racing at her feet. “I think this must be some version of heaven,” she said.

Dogs at Wessenden Head Reservoir, Pennine Way

A little further down the path- after I ate my sandwich on a rock in the sunshine- I attempted the shortcut that our B&B hosts and Margaret had told me about. I studied my map, I made a left at the end of a reservoir, I followed the path and I had no idea what went wrong! I reached what I thought was the end of the path and I couldn’t figure out a way to go forward, so I gave up and retraced my steps (it was around this point that I began wondering just how many miles I was adding on to this whole Pennine Way thing). Just when I got back to where I had attempted the shortcut, I ran into Nigel and Judy, the friendly couple who had shared a taxi with me on the way to Edale.

Shortcut on the Pennine Way, Wessenden Reservoir

Shortcut gone wrong!

We ended up walking together or close to each other for the last few miles of the day, and despite my failure with the first shortcut, we ended up taking another when a very friendly local man explained the best way to get to our lodgings in Standedge. This time- finally- I figured out the right path.

Stile on the Pennine Way

My lodging for the night was a campsite around the back of The Carriage House in Standedge. I’d brought my tent and some camping supplies with me because there were a couple nights along the way where I couldn’t find a bed in a B&B or a hostel or bunkhouse. I also figured that if my plans needed to change or I ran into any trouble, having a tent with me would allow for some extra insurance.

But camping is still a relatively new thing for me; I’ve been car camping only a couple of times, and really, the only thing that gave me any sort of confidence to attempt camping along the Pennine Way was the three nights I spent in my tent on Cumberland Island several years before.

Before I left for my trip, I meant to practice setting up my tent- and I did, just one time. But when I unfurled everything from my pack on the grassy lawn of The Carriage House, the material looked alien and the color coded tabs indecipherable. I flipped the tent and the footprint and the rain cover around a few times and weaved the poles together and clipped things here and there and, eventually, I had something that looked like a standing tent. I realized that I could have used one more stake, and I wasn’t sure if I’d used the stakes that I did have in the correct way; with the first strong gust of wind, I worried that the tent was going to be flapping around too much.

Camping at The Carriage House, Pennine Way

I stood back, with my hands on my hips, and surveyed my work. Good enough. I walked around the side of The Carriage House to find the shower blocks so I could clean up, and then I went inside for a glass of wine. Later, I met up with David and we ate dinner together, and then around 9pm I somewhat reluctantly went outside to see about sleeping in the tent. Once the sun went down the temperatures dropped and I put on every layer of clothing I had in my pack and tucked myself deep in my sleeping bag. But I was cold, and stayed cold all through the night- tossing and turning and trying my hardest to sleep. I think I finally got comfortable around 5am once the sun started to rise and the tent began to warm back up. A little late for a good night’s sleep, but it was enough. Mostly, I was relieved that my first night of camping was over, and I let my tent out in the sun so the dew could dry while I went inside and had another full English breakfast.

Ready for Day 3!!

All smiles in my tent; Pennine Way

Day One of the Pennine Way: Edale to Torside, 15 miles (that somehow turned into 20)

I woke up at 4:30am, and then again at 5:30am. The sun was shining bright in the sky and it felt impossible to fall back to sleep. I was alone in my bunk room and the air was cool outside the open window, and when I looked out I could see clouds in the distance.

I put on my hiking outfit and rolled up my sleeping bag and began to remember how to arrange my backpack. I was moving slowly. Breakfast was a coffee sachet and a banana and a granola bar, and by 7:00 I was dressed and packed and ready to start my long walk.

The Pennine Way starts in the small village of Edale, a 45-minute drive east from Manchester, and the track immediately heads into farmland and open countryside. As I was halfway up the first (very) small hill I began to breathe heavily and it felt as though I was being pulled backwards, as though there were two hands on my backpack gently tugging, and tugging. My pack was heavy, heavier than anything I’d walked with ever before. Only 15 minutes into the walk, I began to worry that because of the weight I was carrying (a weight that included camping supplies), this walk might be a bit of a challenge.

And the first real challenge of the day was Jacob’s Ladder, a series of steep steps that climb and climb and climb, dropping you off at Edale Rocks. Step by step, inch by inch, I made it to the top and as soon as I did I felt my first raindrop. And then more, and more, so I took off my pack and pulled out my raincoat and then kept walking. The rain, at first, didn’t seem so bad, but within minutes I was walking through thick clouds, rain pelting me from every angle, the wind blowing fiercely so that no part of me was left dry. My hiking pants quickly became wet and cold against my legs and I was only an hour into the day’s walk. I found the best cover I could, and I huddled under the overhang of a rock and took off my pants and changed into my long underwear and rain pants, much like I did that time when I walked Hadrian’s Wall. “Already prancing around the Pennine Way in my underwear”, I thought.

My guidebook says this about the first day: “The Pennine Way throws you straight in at the deep end. If the weather is poor, it may also test your navigation and equipment as you skirt around the notorious Kinder Scout and ascend the remote summit of Bleaklow.”

Ahh, truer words were never spoken! The Pennine Way certainly did test my navigation skills (or lack thereof) on that first day; as I crossed Kinder Scout and made my way across what felt like the ridge of a mountain (though honestly I had no idea because I couldn’t see a thing), I focused so carefully on the faint path at my feet. The trail wound in and out of large rocks and sometimes it was really difficult to tell where I needed to go. Visibility was also extremely poor, but for awhile I managed to follow the path.

Here might be a good time to say something about the signage on the Pennine Way: well, there could be more of it. There were many, many times along the trail where it seemed as though the path divided and there was no clear indication of which way to go. I quickly learned that I needed to follow my guidebook closely, and by doing so I always figured out the way. But on that first day, when it started raining, I hadn’t wanted to take off my pack and dig through and get everything wet looking for my guide, so I foolishly thought I could just follow the path without much trouble.

Well, the first trouble came at Kinder Downfall. I was suppose to cross over the river which is mostly dry unless there’s been really heavy rain, and it involved a rather sharp left turn. It had been a long time since I’d checked my guidebook and I was oblivious to the fact that I needed to cross a river or make a left, and I assumed that a signpost would indicate where I needed to go. The other complicating factor was that I just couldn’t see a thing. There should have been sweeping views, and a rocky cliff face, and I should have been able to see a path on the other side of the river bed. Instead, all I could see was the trace of a path at my feet, and I just continued to follow it straight on.

Straight and straight and straight, along a mostly dry river bed. For a long time I didn’t even question whether I was still on the Pennine Way or not; I was on a path, there were footprints in the mud which meant that others had come before me, and there were even a few cairns- those large pile of rocks which, to me, mean that I’m on the right path.

How long did I walk? A mile? Two? Eventually, the path faded into obscurity, and suddenly there were half a dozen different directions I could walk in. I tried a few of them, I tried to see a way forward, I turned around and around looking for something, for someone, but there was nothing.

So I turned around, because it was all I could do. I knew that if I retraced my steps I would eventually get back to what I knew was the Pennine Way, and so I walked back, for one mile or maybe even two, and I found a cairn that I knew was on the path and I took out my guidebook and luckily there was a break in the rain and I sat and I thought and I thought. I noticed that I needed to cross the river, but with visibility still being so poor, I couldn’t quite figure out where I was supposed to go.

And then, emerging from the fog and the mist, was a man wearing a black raincoat. I could see him in the distance, slowly moving closer, and I sat and waited until he was nearly upon me and then I said, “Are you on the Pennine Way?”

His name was David, from LA by way of Liverpool, and he took out his own guide and we studied the maps and together figured out where we needed to turn. By even more great luck there were two men coming from the other direction and they were able to point out the path to us. I chatted to David for a few minutes and then I continue on ahead of him, grateful and happy that I was finally back on the way.

And then, before long, I made my second mistake of the day. This one was just plan stupidity and lack of focus; I was tired and wet and worried that the path was much more difficult to navigate than I’d expected, and I turned too soon and headed down a very steep, very large hill, so confident that I was going the right way until suddenly it was clear that I wasn’t. I turned around, I looked up and up at what I would have to climb. This was actually one of the hardest moments of my entire walk- that feeling of knowing you’ve already walked so long and so far, of feeling wet and cold, of knowing you still have so far to go, and then looking at this really steep hill and knowing that you need to retrace some very difficult steps.

One by one, I did it. I got back to the top and ate half my sandwich and changed my socks and then kept walking. The rain started again, and then didn’t stop for the next two or three hours. Wet and cold, wet and cold, I rummaged through my pack until I found my buff and I wrapped my numbed fingers in it like a muff, as best as I could.

The last few miles of the day followed Clough’s Edge, a high and narrow path through ferns, before a very steep descent down to Torside. The entire time I was so worried that I was on the wrong path, because it felt like it had been hours since I’d seen a sign for the Pennine Way. Maybe it had been hours. My legs were so tired and the path was so steep that I had to watch my footing carefully. Finally, finally, just as the skies began to clear, I reached the bottom of the descent and saw a sign and knew that I was close to my destination. The sun burst from behind the clouds, warming my face for the first time all day. I was exhausted, but I had made it.

I had a room at The Old House B&B reserved for the night, and I was grateful for it. A clean towel and a bar of soap were laid out on the bed, the shower was hot, and there were supplies for making tea in the kitchen. There are no dinner options at the B&B or anywhere nearby, but the hosts of The Old House offer to drive guests to The Peels Arms a few miles away. I went with David- my trail angel from earlier in the day- and we spent our evening talking about rain and gear and our feet and where we were going the next day.

I told him how I was wearing hiking shoes, and not boots, and that I wasn’t concerned about falling or twisting an ankle. “I don’t have the slimmest ankles in the world,” I told him. “Not good for high heels, but great for walking and hiking.”

David held up his beer glass. “To sturdy ankles!”

So this was day one: long and difficult and wet and at times defeating. But in the end, I could feel the sunshine on my face and I had the company of a fellow hiker over a warm meal in a cosy pub, along with a room of my own and a clean towel. This was all the fortification I would need; when I woke up the next morning, I was ready for whatever the day would bring.

One Week to Go

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

Making our choices

When I haven’t written in awhile, I like to begin a post with where I am, and what I’m doing. It centers me, it gives me a place to start. It sets the scene.

And while I wish I could be reporting in from some exotic place (or, Europe, which is still quite exotic in my mind), I’m where I usually am at this time of the year. Sitting at my kitchen table, the one that’s covered with a bright yellow table cloth. There’s a dill plant on the table that my mom gave me this past weekend (so if any of you have recipes you love that feature dill, I’d love for you to share them!). Playing on Spotify is Phoebe Bridgers’s album, Stranger in the Alps, and I’m eating some crackers and cheese and drinking a glass of seltzer with lime.

What else can I tell you? It’s 6:15pm and the sun is shining and it’s so nice to have these longer hours of daylight, and the approach of a warm spring. It’s been a slow approach, and not consistently warm yet, but I think those days are right around the corner.

Ridley creek state park, pa

It feels as though so much is right around the corner, and that’s a good feeling. Two weeks ago I took a small trip to the mountains of Virginia, where I hiked and explored and did a little writing and took stock of the first three months of the year. And then I thought about what the focus of the next few months would be about, and all of a sudden it felt like time was moving quickly. Even though work is busy and my days feel full and I can’t wait until I head off to Europe in mid-June, I also want to slow time. Not the days, necessarily, but the years. I want to slow down the years.

Where am I heading with this? I don’t know. Today, a student I work with was telling me how much trouble she’s having about choosing between two colleges. “Why can’t someone just decide for me?” she said.

I looked at her. “Because it’s the first really big decision that you have to make on your own. It’s practice for life, in a way. Because actually, besides loss, I think that’s one of the hardest things about life. You have your one life, and you have to figure out what you’re going to do with it. You’ve got to make decisions about which direction to take and no one does it for you.”

She buried her head on the couch and I heard her muffled voice from under the pillow. “Why if I choose wrong? It’s so hard because I don’t get this time back. And I don’t want to waste it.”

We don’t get time back. Maybe this is one of the hardest things about life, too. I think about this a lot, with where I am in my life, with the things I want to do, with what I want for myself. I want to be doing exactly what I’m doing now: working with kids and living in my beautiful neighborhood and visiting my friends and family and traveling in the summers and writing in the evenings at my kitchen table. And, also, I want to live in a tiny attic apartment in Paris and buy a baguette every day from the corner boulangerie and write a novel. And, also, I want to be married and raise a child and buy a small home somewhere close to the woods and a lake.

creek in Rawley Springs, VA

And I want to hike the Appalachian Trail (maybe). And I want to see a giant panda in China. And I want to live in Maine. And I want to set up a darkroom and develop pictures and have exhibits in local cafes and galleries. And I want to have dinner parties and children’s birthday parties. And I want a garden. And I want a yard with a magnolia tree.

Sometimes it feels like to chose any one of these things means to give up another. Sometimes I think I have the time to do everything. Sometimes I worry that it’s already too late.

I don’t have much regret with the choices I’ve made so far in my life, but what does sometimes keep me up at night is the thought that my time is so precious. It’s so, so precious. I like what I’m doing and how I’m living but there is always a voice whispering, “And what else? And what else? And when? And when?”

I don’t have any big changes just on the horizon, but I also know that time does not wait for me. I have to make my choices even if it means that one choice might eliminate another. I have to make my choices because one choice might lead to another. I have to make my choices because time marches on, and the years in my one life slide by, and slide by, and slide by.

The years slide by, but to have this time at all is such a gift. What a beautiful thing, to get to make choices in my life. To be free, to have an education, a roof over my head and crackers and cheese on the table before me. To get to choose my direction, to have so many choices.

So, happy spring my friends, here’s to another season, the one that ushers in new life and growth. Let’s make our choices, and see where they take us.

spring skies

“Going Back Again”; Thoughts on Repeating Travel Experiences

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.’

magnolia tree in bloom

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.

Parisian sunrise

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).

Calm ocean in Emerald Isle, NC

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.

Euterpe, La Muse, Labastide, France

La Muse terrace

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.

Camino del Norte, coast, Spain

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.

Camino marker at sunrise

Memorable Walks of 2017

I’m at my parents’ house, home for the holidays, and I just got back from a short walk. As I looped around the little park at the top of our neighborhood, I starting thinking about all of the walking I did this year. I don’t track my miles (though I may start that next year!) so I’m not sure how far I’ve gone, but I know that I’ve walked a lot.

And when I think about all of this walking, my first thoughts always jump to the big trips: the plane flights, the journeys abroad, the treks through Europe. These were great, but the smaller walks were pretty fun, too. In the mountains of southern France or on the sidewalks of a leafy suburban town; I’m happy in either place, as long as I’m outside and I’m moving.

So here’s a small roundup of some of my favorite and most memorable walks of 2017: in places near and far, hot and cold, simple and stunning.

1. Women’s March on Washington (January 2017)

At the start of the year a friend and I boarded a bus in the wee morning hours and journeyed down to Washington DC, where we marched alongside thousands of others in the nation’s capitol, the day after the Presidential Inauguration. This was a different sort of walking than the kind I’m used to, but it certainly counts as one of my most memorable walks of the year. We didn’t move fast, and we may not have covered much ground, but we stood up for women’s rights, for our values, for unity and peace, and it was an incredible thing to be part of.

Favorite Moment(s): So many small things to love- chanting along with hundreds of other voices, getting complimented on our sashes, ducking into the National Gallery to see some art, picking out our favorite signs.

Women's March on Washington, DC

2. Hadrian’s Wall, England (April 2017)

In early April, my friend Heather and I walked 84-miles across northern England, following the route of an ancient wall. It was a trip I’d hesitated to take: would we have enough time, was it going to cost too much money? But in the end, as I nearly always am, I was so happy that I’d made the decision to walk. The weather was about as good as we could have hoped for, and while we had a couple of very long days, we were healthy and strong and finished in good spirits. As my walk in Scotland had done the previous year, walking along Hadrian’s Wall made me crave a return to the UK, and to discover more of their wonderful long-distance walking routes.

Favorite Moment(s): I loved the day when the wind blew so fiercely it was hard to move forward; nothing makes you feel more alive than standing on top of a hill with the ruins of an ancient Roman wall at your side, the wind howling and raging so loud that it is the only sound you can hear. I also loved (for its hilarity) the moment when I realized that the rain was, in fact, coming down harder than I imagined, and it forced me to make a wardrobe change (i.e. take my pants off) in the middle of an open field.

Hadrian's Wall, England

Port Carlisle, Hadrian's Wall, England

3. My tried-and-true Ridley Creek State Park, PA (all year long)

I’ve mentioned this park before, because it’s where I do the bulk of my hiking every year. It’s my nearby state park, with 2,600 acres of woodland and meadows and a great network of hiking and walking trails. When the weather’s decent I try to go at least a couple times a week, more if I’m preparing for an upcoming Camino or long-distance walk. Winter, spring, summer and fall: each season brings a different flavor, a different experience to the park.

Favorite Moment(s): After years of hiking in this park, discovering a small side trail that led to an arboretum, with miles and miles of additional hiking trails. It was a bit like Narnia!

Ridley Creek State Park in the spring

Ridley Creek State Park in the fall

4. Le Chemin du Puy, France (June 2017)

In June I walked for 2 weeks on the Chemin du Puy, a pilgrimage route through France that eventually leads to Santiago de Compostela. I spent the first four days with my cousin Hilary, and then continued the rest of the way on my own.

Favorite Moment(s): One of my favorite moments with my cousin was when we stopped for an epic picnic lunch on Day 2 of our journey. We’d picked up sandwiches earlier in the day, and these things were nothing like the bocadillas you’d find in Spain. Soft and crusty bread, smooth mounds of goats cheese, caramelized onions and a fig spread, all fresh and local ingredients. We’d also procured a bag of potato chips and several peaches and we spread out on a blanket in the grass in the shade after walking 15 kilometers on an early summer’s day. Is there anything better than this?

And my favorite solo moment was walking across the Aubrac plateau, with such a feeling of openness and peace and joy.

Hiking the Chemin du Puy, France

Aubrac Plateau, Chemin du Puy, France

5. Hiking to Lastours, France (July 2017)

I’ve been to La Muse three times now (the writer’s and artist’s retreat in the mountains of southern France), and this means that I’ve hiked just about all the nearby trails. But on this past visit I decided to hike down to Lastours, the site of the ruins of three Cathar castles. Each year the retreat takes a “field trip” there, shuttling us down the mountain in a van. Since the castles were only about 8km away, I decided to walk. I left La Muse a couple hours earlier than the others who were going in the van, and we arranged to meet up at a café near the castles. All in all it worked out perfectly, though I had to do a bit of trailblazing to figure out how to actually get up to the castles.

Favorite Moment(s): Tourists and visitors need to first pass through a visitor’s center where they buy an admission ticket to the site. But I hiked to the castles from the opposite side of the mountain, and I arrived just before the site opened, coming in on an overgrown side trail. Up among the ruins I was totally and completely alone, and when I began my descent in order to meet my friends, the tourists who were just arriving seemed startled to see me coming down (so, too, did the workers in the visitor’s center, which I needed to pass through in order to get out of the site and into the village).

 

Arriving to Lastours, France

6. My last few days of walking in Paris (July 2017)

I could easily say that all of the walking I did in Paris was memorable, because I just love Paris so much. I was there for a week this summer, and by the end of my visit, I felt like I knew where I was going. I’d done tons of walking and exploring in the quartiers (neighborhoods) around where I was staying, and so in those last few days every time I headed out, I knew my way. There is so much beauty to Paris: the grand architecture and boulevards and all of that sparkling light on the Seine, but there’s also the beauty in the quiet corners, the winding cobblestoned streets, the corner cafés. I started to recognize those quiet streets, and as I walked around and around, I felt as though I fit into it all.

Favorite Moment(s): When several people stopped me and asked for directions. It makes me smile every time I think about it!

Walking in Paris

Promenade Plantée, Paris, France

7. Clingman’s Dome Hike, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, TN (August 2017)

Friends and I stayed near Great Smoky Mountains National Park when we traveled down to North Carolina in August to see the total eclipse. Because we only had a few days, because we were a small group, and because we had some other activities we wanted to do, we didn’t actually get to do much hiking (a bit of a disappointment for me, but the main purpose of this trip was for the eclipse, so I’ll just have to get down to the Great Smoky Mountains again for some real hiking). But we did manage to fit in a quick (and steep!) hike up to Clingman’s Dome, the highest point in the park and the state of Tennessee. The weather was perfectly clear and the view was stunning in every direction.

Favorite Moment(s): Good conversation with a friend as we hiked to the top, and being able to see so far into the distance on a really beautiful summer’s day.

View from Clingman's Dome, Great Smoky Mountains National Park

8. Overlook Tower Hike, Catskills Mountain, New York (October 2017)

Another steep hike to another lookout point in another mountain range (though this one much smaller), in the Catskills of New York. But this hike was very different: I was on a solo trip, and the weather did not cooperate. I knew, when I started hiking, that I wouldn’t get much of a view at the top, and the weather only turned worse the longer I climbed. I moved into the clouds and the mist and the fog, the air grew colder, and there were a few points when I wondered if I should just turn around. The 2 1/2 miles to the top was a long and steady climb, and it was late in the day and not many people were out. Just when I wondered how much further I’d have to walk, the outline of a large and looming building began to emerge from the fog. It was the ruins of an old hotel, eerie and spooky in the fog and the mist. I explored there for awhile, then continued just a bit further to the fire tower at the end of the hike. I started to climb up the tower but about halfway up I totally chickened out: once I started climbing I couldn’t even see all the way up to the top because the fog was so thick. The wind was blowing and shaking the structure and the steps were slippery. I’m not really scared of heights, but I was terrified that this old fire tower might get blown straight off the mountain, with me clinging to its side. So I missed the sweeping views and the achievement of climbing to the top of the tower, but all the more reason to return one day.

Favorite Moment(s): Those hotel ruins!

Hotel ruins, Overlook Tower hike, Catskills, NY

Overlook Tower hike; fire tower, Catskills, NY

9. Walks around my neighborhood (all year long)

I’m going to end with the walks that I do most days of the year: the paths that lead straight out my backdoor. I live in a beautiful suburban neighborhood with tall trees and friendly people and lots of deer. If I take a left at the end of my driveway I can veer off onto a wooded trail that winds along a small creek and is tucked away behind all of the houses. I can’t go very far without needing to cross some busy roads, so I’ve just made a big loop out of the streets and the trails and cover the same ground pretty much every day. The walking may be repetitive, but there is so much beauty to see as long as I pay close attention.

Favorite Moment(s): Snow, fox, deer, flowers.

Memorable Walks of 2017; neighborhood in the spring

Neighborhood snow day

Here’s hoping that 2018 brings lots of new and exciting walks!

First Snow and Life These Days

Hello my friends! It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? At least a month since I’ve posted something here, and since so many of my recent posts have been about my summer journey on the Chemin du Puy, it feels like ages since we’ve actually caught up.

So here I am, with a little post to say hi. What have all of you been up to since I last checked in? I hope there’s been a lot of walking and maybe some traveling and adventures. Some of you have been out on a Camino, some of you are doing your best to discover new local walks. And some of you are continuing to just get outside everyday, walking the same old roads. I like all of these options.

My corner of the east coast had its first snow of the season on Saturday, and I have to say, I wasn’t quite prepared. Mild weather has stretched long into the fall this year, and so even though we’re well into December, I’m not quite ready for winter. But on Saturday, it was unmistakable: winter is here.

First snow of the year

I always slow down at this time of the year, and I’m sure that this year will be no different. Already I think I’ve gotten back into a good writing routine, and I’ve returned to my big project, ‘The Book’. This is my memoir about my Camino Frances, interspersed with some other life tidbits (though this ‘interspersing’ is proving to be a difficult task). I’d written the bulk of a very rough draft nearly two years ago, and in the meantime have worked in fits and starts, getting little accomplished before becoming completely overwhelmed and confused about what I was trying to write.

Writing this book has felt, at times, so overwhelming and I’ve felt so far from having anything good, that it’s been easy to just walk away. I always intend to come back, but beginning the process again is difficult and I never get very far. But about a month ago I had this feeling that was hard to ignore- a bit of a tug, a persistent nudge, something echoing and bouncing around my mind: the book. The book. The book.

So I’ve come back to it and it’s been slow going but man, it feels good to be in it again. So that’s probably where you’ll find me this winter- sitting at my kitchen table, maybe with a glass of red wine and some mellow music playing on Spotify, muscling through the language and structure of my story. It’s where I always try to be in this season, sometimes more successfully than not. This year, I hope for great consistency and steady forward progress. Wish me luck!

And, beyond the writing, I’ve been continuing to walk. There have been a few new places: hikes in the Catskill Mountains of New York, a towpath along the Susquehanna River in Maryland, a new walking path a few miles away from where I live. But otherwise I’m in my familiar park, looping through my neighborhood, sometimes pacing back and forth in my apartment when my legs are feeling itchy (ahh, these cold and short winter days!).

Catskills Mountains, NY

On the horizon, well, there’s just more of the same. In an effort to save money for a desperately-needed new(ish) car, it’s doubtful that I’ll be taking off for any long-distance walking adventures in the springtime (but my memories of the Hadrian’s Wall trip last spring are such happy ones, and I’ve already done a good deal of research on hikes in Ireland for the springtime. For now this is just wishful thinking, and Ireland in the spring will probably have to wait at least another year).

But even as I’m staying put for the immediate future, there’s always the summer to dream about. Ahh, these have been such fun dreams. It’s all but certain that I’ll be returning for a 4th (!!) trip to La Muse, my writer’s retreat in a small French mountain village. If I hadn’t made such good connections in these past two years I don’t know if I would have returned again so soon, but more and more I realize that I’ve been craving community. And I’ve had this incredible fortune of finding an artistic community of people I adore, and we have this really special and beautiful place we can return to and reunite in. Several of my friends are returning this summer, and I can’t resist the pull to return with them.  And even though I seem to do more hiking and sitting-on-the-terrace-talking-and-wine-drinking than I do writing on these retreats, I think it is good that I’m giving myself the space and time to work on my projects. If I can continue to move forward with my book in these next months, then I just might be able to have a workable draft ready to send out by the end of the summer. Maybe.

A friend from the retreat has suggested a quick trip to the Italian Dolomites after our stay at La Muse, full of hiking and good food, and this is very, very appealing. (Do any of you know anything about the Dolomites? This would be a new area for me and I’m curious to hear of your experiences!).

And then, of course, I want to do some long-distance walking. Maybe some part of a Camino, maybe a trek through England (there are several I have my eye on). There’s still a lot to be figured out, but this is the fun part, when everything is a possibility, and I can research and look through photos and try to figure out what I most want to do. I’m lucky, very lucky, to be in this position.

Autumn walk

Other updates:

-I’m still loving my Nadine Walks Instagram account. I try to post a photo every day, all of my favorites from my past-treks and Camino’s. Right now I’m still posting about my walk on the Camino del Norte, from 2015 & 2016. If you have Instagram and haven’t followed this account, please come over!

-The e-book I published two months ago, ‘After the Camino’, is still around. It was such a fun experience to put together a book and share it with people, and I hope that more travelers and pilgrims will continue to find it.

-Have you heard about #walk1000miles? It’s a free challenge that was created by Country Walking, a top-selling magazine in the UK. I think it’s been around for at least a few years, and it encourages walkers to sign up and join a larger community of people who are all trying to walk 1,000 miles in a year. It’s easy to join and is all honesty-based, so all you have to do is track your miles. There’s a very interactive and supportive Facebook group and check-ins throughout the year, which all helps with motivation and encouragement. Even though I’m not in the UK, I signed up and thought it would be a lot of fun to track my miles for 2018. I know a lot of you reading this could be interested in the challenge, so here’s the link… we can do this together!

-Finally, I decided to try to use some affiliate links on this blog. I’m not sure that it’s really something that will be worthwhile for me and for what I do here, but occasionally I talk about the gear that I use on my walks and I love to recommend stuff that has worked for me (like, for instance, my Keen shoes. I will probably never stop talking about how much I love them). So if I use an affiliate link (like I did above with the Keens), and if you click through and end up purchasing that product (or, since this is the Amazon affiliate program, any product you purchase after following my link), a very small percentage of the cost will come to me (and at absolutely no cost to you!). If I make $10.00 I think I will be lucky, and I promise you that I will use that money to buy a coffee and sit somewhere nice and work on a blog post. Any more than $10.00 and I will use it to support this site and my walks. Look for a holiday pilgrim/walker gift guide coming soon! And then I’ll probably forget that I ever signed up for this affiliate thing.

Thanks for staying with me and continuing to read, and if you have a minute, leave a comment and let me know what you’ve been up to in the past few months. Happy holidays, happy winter, and all my best. I’ll be back soon.

Sunset late-autumn walk

Revealing my latest Project: ‘After the Camino’ e-book!

Hi everyone, I’ve written an E-book! It’s called ‘After the Camino’!

Arrow on the Camino Primitive

Here it is, for your viewing/reading pleasure (click this link, or any of the links in this post). I’ve been calling it a ‘small’ and ‘simple’ thing, though when all was said and done it clocked in at a little over 50 pages. Some of those pages are photos and there’s much less text per page than what I’m used to, so 50 pages feels much bigger than it actually is.

Despite this, ‘After the Camino’ is a book, and I’d love for you to take a look. The chapters read like blog posts, so in a way it feels a bit like a collection of blog posts, with a focus on tips for dealing with the ‘post Camino blues’. Its ideal audience is anyone who has walked a Camino and has returned home and felt a bit lost, or felt like they weren’t sure what to do next.

Camino shell

But in some ways, I think it can be for anyone who has had a big experience and is transitioning back to regular life, and feeling like something is now missing. Most of the content is framed around a Camino experience, but the concepts can be applied to nearly anything. In any case, the book is free, so I think you should all take a look, pilgrim or not! (And if you’re in the planning stages of a pilgrimage, then bookmark this page and come back when you’ve returned from your Camino. This book might help).

Writing this and putting it together was a good experience for me. It never felt overwhelming, and maybe that’s because I worked in stages, and with small steps (like I usually do). I wrote most of it back in the spring, added a few chapters this summer, and have spent the last couple of months tinkering away at putting it together in an e-book format. There was a lot to learn there, and still more to go, I’m sure.

I could have toyed with this for another two months but have you ever heard the expression ‘begin before you’re ready?’. Hmm, well, I’m not sure that this was the expression I was looking for… but in any case the idea was that I may have never felt ready to hit publish and send it out into the great unknown. I needed to finally say to myself ‘good enough’ and then just take the next step.

The Meseta, Camino Frances

Here are a couple technical details: if you want to download the book, you’re going to have to submit your email to essentially ‘subscribe’ to the book. There are a couple emails involved here; you’ll have to enter your email and name, then confirm, wait a few minutes (this is key… just wait for it, the email will eventually arrive), and THEN you’ll get the email with the link to the book.

I wish this process could be smoother and less complicated, but it’s what I’ve got for now. Doing it in this way is important to me because it gives me a sense of how many of you are interested in taking a look at the book. As I’ve mentioned before, I have other ideas for projects around this ‘After the Camino’ idea, and am thinking about developing an e-course. But in order to invest a lot of time into that, I want to have a sense of the level of interest.

So, happy reading, and the next time you’ll hear from me here will hopefully be soon, with my final blog post from the Chemin du Puy.

buen camino drawn on rock

The Creative Side of Things

I thought I’d take a break from the Chemin du Puy posts (am I still writing about that adventure??) with some updates on… other stuff.

The creative stuff.

The blog is part of it, so I’ll start there. Hi, blog readers! I’m still here, and I think some of you are, as well. Ever since I made the migration to a self-hosted site back in January, I’ve had some minor issues. I still need to iron those out, and most of the time I just kind of ignore them and hope that my posts are making their way out to all of you.

And yes, I’m still writing about my pilgrimage through France but I only have a couple of posts left (well, I have four days left to write about but I think I’m going to combine three days into one post, for the sake of just getting the writing done already!). And after that, I’ll keep blogging and it will probably be a mix of stuff, until I can head out on another walk. I want to revisit some of my past adventures, and do some roundups and maybe mini guide-like posts (sort of like the one I did for the Camino de San Salvador).

So while it may seem like the blog has gone a bit quiet, this is my assurance that I have no intention of stopping this thing.

But I’m working on some other things too and sometimes it feels like I want to do everything. I want to do it all. I want to write a book and I want to publish essays and wouldn’t it be cool if, somewhere, somehow, I could have a regular column where I write all about my walking adventures? I want to write e-books and I want to run an e-course and I want to do more with photography. I want to buy a nice camera and a nice lens and lug it around everywhere and take photos.

Right now it feels like there is so much I want to do, and I have this notebook where I’m collecting ideas and it seems as though the list just gets longer and longer.

So I have ideas, but I also have a start on a couple things. Small starts, but here are updates on some of the things I’ve been working on.

blogging on the Camino de Santiago

The Book

The Book seems to be the project of all projects, the one that feels the biggest, the one that feels like it will still take years and years before I have something that feels even close to ‘finished’. It’s the memoir I’ve been working on, the one about my first Camino. I have a very (very) rough draft written, more or less. I like that I have this start, but it feels like just the very beginning. There are pieces missing, the pieces that pull it all together, and I’m still wondering which story, exactly, I want to be telling.

This is a big thing to need to figure out, and I feel a little stalled. Or maybe it just feels really hard right now, so I’ve put that project on the back burner for a little while. It’s not going anywhere, and I know I’ll get back to it. Two years ago I was convinced that I needed to write as much as I could and as fast as I could so that I could get a book published right away, but now I realize that I need this time. Time to write and then time to let it sit and time to figure out how to share this big story.

E-book cover image After the Camino

The E-Book

But in the meantime, in the spring, I wrote most of the content for a small e-book that I’m hoping to publish soon. In the last month I’ve been editing and arranging and pulling it all together, and it makes me smile. It’s called After the Camino, and it’s something of a guide for pilgrims who have walked a Camino, returned home, and find themselves feeling a little lost. Or for the pilgrims who find themselves really, really missing the Camino (so… that’s basically all of us, right??).

The book was fun to write: the chapters aren’t long and each feels like it could be a blog post. The chapters focus on different aspects- food, memories, community, simplicity, etc. I talk a little about my own experiences, and I talk about ways to continue walking your Camino at home. There are ideas and tips, and some general thoughts and musings.

What do you guys think of this? I know I have blog readers who haven’t walked a Camino, so this probably won’t be of much interest to you; but for the rest, for those of you who have walked a Camino, would you be interested in reading something like this? It’s going to be free, so once I get it “out there”, I want you all to download a copy and give me some feedback! Because it ties into my next idea, which is…

The E-Course

This is still very much in development, and is mostly in the ‘idea phase’. But as I worked on the e-book, I knew that there were areas that I could really delve into, and topics that I could spend more time on. I like the idea of developing a course where I could guide people as they worked on taking the things they learned on the Camino and then applying them into their lives at home. Identifying the themes and lessons of their pilgrimage, and then taking those lessons and making changes/adjustments back home. Or figuring out their next steps.

I’m still figuring all of this out, but I know that I want to be a guide, and I want to create some kind of community within the course, the kind of community that mirrors what is often found on the Camino. Stay tuned.

Mossy path on the Chemin du Puy, France

“Nadine Walks” Instagram

Earlier this year I created an Instagram account for Nadine Walks, and I’ve been trying to post a photo every day. I have to say… I love it. I’m just going through all of my walks and posting my favorite photos and sometimes writing little captions and it’s just so much fun to revisit my travels. And it’s fun to pick out the photos and, bit by bit, form a collection, a picture book of my years as a pilgrim, as a walker.

I’m not sure if you have to have an Instagram account to see the photos (click on the link above and see if it works); but if you are on Instagram, then follow along! There will surely be photos that have already been featured on this blog, but there will be others that you probably haven’t seen, too.

“Nadine Walks” Facebook

I’m now on Facebook too, but unlike Instagram, I’m not quite as enthusiastic. I think I’m still figuring out how I want to use this space (or if I want to, ultimately, use it at all). Oh, social media. I have mixed feelings about it all, and sometimes the idea of being ‘present’ on all of these different sites can make my skin start to crawl. But I try to focus on my overall goal, and that is to find my audience. I’ve always wanted to share photos and stories with people who would appreciate them, or smile at them, or take something away from them… and those are the people I want to find. And since I’m living in an age where we can all connect in so many different ways, I figure that now is the time to try it all out.

So if you’re on Facebook, you’re welcome to follow me or like me or whatever it is we do these days. I haven’t been updating the page frequently, but I’m hoping to come up with a plan for how I want to use Facebook and what I want to share there. More photos, links to my blog posts, but also some other stuff: thoughts, articles, resources.

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But, you know, you could ignore all the rest of it and just keep coming back here. I’m still so happy to be writing, and for all of you to be reading whatever it is that I’m writing. I’m still so happy to be taking photos wherever I go, and it delights me to share my very favorites. There is so much beauty all around us, and I love sharing what I see.

As I finish this post I’m taking the last sips of a glass of wine, and listening to Bon Iver, and my porch door is open and it’s warm in my living room. It’s October but it feels like summer is still trying for it’s last grasp. It’s a peaceful evening, and I hope it’s peaceful where you are, too. We’re down to our last months of the year, and I feel it strongly. It’s time to do the things that we’ve been wanting to do for the last 9 months. It’s one last big push, before we think about what comes next.

Happy October days to all of you, thanks for being here.

October landscape

Paris of My Dreams

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.

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

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

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

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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You Have to Go Slowly

As some of you may or may not have noticed, I am quite behind on my Chemin Le Puy blogging updates. In fact, the walk is already over, the two weeks have come and gone and three days ago I arrived at La Muse, where I’ll spend the next three weeks writing (and hiking, and staring off into the green mountains).

Mountain view at La Muse, Labastide, France

I want to try to post as much as I can about my walk, but those posts might not start rolling out for at least a few more days. And the biggest reason for this is because I don’t really have the means to write them.

It’s like a strange riddle: how can I be a writer at a writer’s retreat and not have the tools to write? In the past I’ve traveled with a lightweight, foldable keyboard that I hook up to my iPad and it’s worked brilliantly. That first keyboard stopped working at the end of last summer, so I bought myself (what I thought was) an identical replacement. Here’s the first lesson of the summer: always check your equipment before setting off for a 6 week trip.

This keyboard is a mess. Quite frankly, I hate it, and I know those are strong words but it’s hard to convey my frustration. For example, it took me a solid 20 seconds to type the word ‘convey’. My fingers hit the keys and some of them take, others don’t. I press harder and the same letter shows up three times, others not at all. If I type really slowly and carefully it’s okay, but I move at a snail’s pace. I can write much faster by longhand (and for a fast typist, this is totally inefficient).

I realized the keyboard was a problem while on the Chemin, but I sort of thought that it might just take some getting used to. It didn’t. So this was a big reason I didn’t blog while on the walk: posts took forever to try to write, and I didn’t have forever. I don’t have forever here, either, but I certainly have more time to sit and tap out a post (even if it does take me 10 times as long as it normally would).

Okay, this rant is over. Yesterday I ordered a new keyboard and it should be here soon, and then the writing can commence in ernest.

In the meantime, I want to write a few general thoughts about the trek I just completed, as well as what it’s like to be back at La Muse for a third time.

It may be too soon to say, but I like the order of things. Two weeks walking, then three weeks at a writer’s retreat. Two weeks of movement, long days of activity, unpacking in a different place every night, repacking every morning and moving on. A constant rotation of faces and voices. Introductions and goodbyes, every day. And just as I was beginning to crave permanency, just as I was wishing I could dry myself with a full sized towel and not have to roll out my sleeping bag liner every night, just as I was longing to keep the same people beside me each evening… the walk ended, and now I’m able to do and have all these things I’ve wished for.

That being said, I’m also missing the Chemin and the walking and the constant discoveries. My French was just starting to improve. I was understanding conversations much more easily and on my last night was translating for a German girl who couldn’t speak French. As I’d drift off to sleep, conversations and voices in French would replay in my head.

And I was also getting into the walking. I felt pretty strong from the first day, but it always takes my body time to adjust to a long walk. And after 10 days I was feeling really, really strong. Which was just in time to finish up the trek and transition to something new.

Go slowly; walking the Chemin Le Puy

Walking the Chemin in France was both different and similar to walking the Camino in Spain. I’ll explore all of this in my posts about the walk, I’m sure, and for now I’m still reflecting on the comparisons. There was definitely a strong feel that we were all on a road leading to Santiago (even though most people I met wouldn’t arrive there, at least not any time soon); the spirit of the Chemin, the Camino, was strong. There was a sense of comraderie and support, there were brief converstions that yielded strong connections, there were beautiful churches, there were coffee stops, there was rain, there were blisters (none for me, thankfully, but I saw a few that were bad enough to end the pilgrim’s walk).

Camino de Santiago, scallop shell

There was also a lot of peace, and quiet, and sometimes- for me- a feeling of isolation. This came and went, and never while I walked; only in the evenings and especially if I was among a large group of French people who were all traveling together. My French, even if it had been improving, is only passable. If one person was speaking to me, slowly, I could pretty much understand. If a group of people were all talking at once then forget it: and this was common at dinner time. So there were a lot of nights where I sat at the end of the table, smiling, trying as hard as I could to keep up but not being able to understand, not being able to contribute to the conversation. I’d take another sip of wine and laugh along with everyone else but actually have no idea what was happening.

But this wasn’t the case every night and by the end, I got to know the people I was with and so even when I couldn’t quite understand the conversations, it didn’t seem to matter as much. I was no longer uncomfortable sitting in the middle of all that French: now I felt a bit like I belonged. Maybe a lot like I belonged.

French pilgrims, dinner on Chemin Le Puy

So. Now I’m in a tiny village that hangs off the side of a small mountain and I’m in the midst of a different group of people. There are, currently, 9 of us here at the writer’s retreat (it’s actually a writer’s AND artist’s retreat but this particular group is all here to write). Four of them I already know- we were here together last summer- and four are new to me. All women and one man. Homer (the dog) is still here and I hope to go on lots of hikes with him. I’ve already been on one hike: up to the waterfall and around to the viewpoint that looks down upon the ruins of Cathar castles and further out to the Pyrenees. The hike felt good. Not effortless, but also not too difficult. I like that after my weeks of walking through France and I can setttle in here and still hike to my heart’s content.

Hiking at La Muse

But I’ve also got to write and that’s going to feel a lot easier once I get my new keyboard. I haven’t said nearly everything I want to say but for how frustrating it’s been to type out these words, for how long it’s taken, for how much I want to throw this keyboard out my window, I need to hit publish on this post and then go old school, and start writing by hand in my notebooks.

View from my window at La Muse

And maybe, actually, that’s just what I need for now. The French had this word that I heard a lot while waking: ‘doucement’. Slowly. Gently. Quietly. Carefully. ‘Il faut aller doucement’. You have to go slowly.

Go slowly. Go slowly. Doucement.

Yes.

Previous Post: Day 1 on the Chemin Le Puy

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

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 walking trail

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 and Raritan Canal Towpath

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.

Walk in my neighborhood, Rose Valley

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

Lake Erie, Geneva, OH

Introducing: Nadine Walks

I haven’t been writing. Not really, nothing that feels very concrete or hefty. Some words here and there, and I have ideas swirling around, but I’m just not putting words down onto the page.

What I have been doing, on the other hand, is tinkering with this blog. Can we even call it ‘tinkering’? It feels more substantial than that, but to say this is an ‘overhaul’ feels too dramatic and grand. I think it’s something in-between; a change, a shift, a renewed focus.

Line of trees in the snow

the first- and so far only- snow of the winter

If you receive notifications of my posts through email then I don’t know if anything will look very different. Come to think of it, if you find my posts in your wordpress reader, those may not look different, either. Would any of my followers actually notice anything different if I’d decided not to write this post?

But things are a bit different, and for what amounts to something between tinkering and an overhaul, there sure was a lot of work involved. I decided to upgrade my blog; for any of you who know anything about it, that meant migrating over to a self-hosted site and buying a domain and a design and hoping that I could transfer all of my content from the old site to the new one.

Confused yet? The details don’t really matter. I think what matters is that I’m trying something new with this, just to see what it might be like to invest just a bit more into my blog, and this blogging practice.

Creek and snow

So to begin with, I changed the name of the site, and I’m now calling it ‘Nadine Walks’. To slap my name up on the top of this thing feels… showy and like I can’t really hide behind anything. A little scary. ‘Begin With a Single Step’ felt right for the start of all of this, it felt right for my first Camino, for the first months when I was attempting to write a book. But I feel like I’m past the beginning of things, and besides, ‘begin with a single step’ now feels a little vague.

Nadine Walks, now that pretty much tells you what you’re getting. You guys can hit me with your feedback on this name, but at this point there’s no going back. I’ll blog about some other things, but what remains at the heart of this space are the stories of my walks. And I hope to have many, many more years of walking adventures.

This isn’t a Camino blog, exactly, but one thing I’ve grown to love in these last few years has been the chance to help out others who are starting their own Camino’s. People have slowly but surely found my blog and picked up advice and information after sorting through the contents. At first I only wanted to write about my experiences but now there is part of me that- very much- wants to write about what I’ve learned. And then I want to share that information with others.

My vision is to create some pages on this blog that can direct people to this information in a clear and easy way, but there’s a lot of work left to do in that area. An even bigger vision is to write an e-book, some sort of Camino guide. This idea has been tumbling around for a year, and might tumble around a little longer until I can decide what, exactly, I want to do.

There’s a lot I want to do. I also want to keep writing my book, but why does it feel so difficult? I was on fire last winter- writing and writing and writing. I set a goal for myself and then I sat down in my chair every evening and I wrote. But now I’m finding it so difficult to get back to this book. I wonder what the point is, if I will ever want anyone to read it, if it will ever be ‘good enough’ (whatever that means).

Snowy path

There was too much existential-writing-crisis going on over here, so I decided to set the book-writing pressure to the side and work on this blog, instead. It’s been confusing and frustrating and hours can go by without much progress. But I’m building something new, and there’s something gratifying about that.

Now, there are a few details that I’m worried about. A couple things haven’t migrated well to this new site- a few images lost, some formatting issues. But the most worrisome is that I’m not convinced that I managed to shift all of my subscribers and followers over to the new site. So this post is something of a test. Are you reading this? Is this thing on? Do things look okay, are you able to access the new website? I suppose silence will mean that I’ve lost all of you- so if you can, please comment to let me know that you are still here. Is anything not working? Is something terribly wrong? Your feedback on this will be immeasurably helpful.

In the meantime, now that this new blog change is mostly set-up, I can get back to some of the things I’ve been avoiding (like: writing my book). And because we’re in the middle of February, it also means that soon I can start ramping up my walks and hikes. Aside from a short burst of snow earlier this week, the winter has not been a hard one. Nevertheless, I’ve mostly only been doing fast walks through my neighborhood, and I’m itching to buy a new pair of shoes and to start really breaking them in. Soon. Soon.

That’s the update but I promise, more to come soon.

Snow landscape

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