brother sport

It never fails.  As soon as I see that I am within 1 kilometre of an approaching town, I become a bedraggled vagabond having wandered the Sahara without food or water for weeks.  My legs become increasingly unsteady as  they start to quiver under the unbearable weight of a rucksack equivalent of carrying a baby elephant.   I drag myself into the quiet pueblo and my worldly belongings crash to the ground as I collapse into the waiting arms of Javier Bardem who carries my limp body across the cobblestone streets to his modest cottage.  I am nursed back to health under his supervision and with the aid of his signature sopa de verduras and mandolin lullabies. Oh, and then I save the world.


Dramatics aside, the camino has been carried on at a reasonable pace, in fact perhaps a bit too reasonable. In the last couple of days I have become the proud parent of a family of blisters which likely made their entrance to spice things up a bit.  It clearly isn´t enough to ruminate over existence whilst the wind and rain spit in my face. I´ve tended the ongoing campaign to keep such events from becoming psychological, but as soon as destinations are reached or the sun actually makes an appearance, most battle scars are immediately invalidated.

The terrain following the halfway point is thankfully flat and without the lovely addition of being drenched in rain.  However, many have described this period as being somewhat "hellish" due the the never changing landscape.  Personally, I´m finding all the surroundings to be enchanting and am comforted by the striking similarity with one of my favourite Van Gogh paintings.  In little time it will be back to the mountains and forests, each day with it´s own offering.


Aside from the understandable physical wear and tear, I remain surprised by the whole experience thus far.  The camino possess a soft intensity.  When the days come to an end, one can only reflect on the hours past and what emerges as the intrinsic intentions of such an undertaking.  A real sense of community on this path is also apparent with a shared sense of respect and generosity between pilgrims and locals alike.  "Ultreya peregrina" indeed.

the goal is no goal

Five airports in just as many days.  A brief transit through London found two immigration officers shoving their fingers in my direction bitterly declaring that I wasn´t really British.  Like hell I´m not; nevertheless, the event won´t go down as one of my finer moments of dual citizenship and it was a perfect reminder of a world left behind.  Deep breath, Piccadilly Line, consumable tap water, overdue exchanges, cleanliness to a forgotten degree, and an all too familiar lifestyle that mutated culture shock into a mind blowing level of anxiety.

I was pleasantly thrust back into the comforting bosom of the unknown once I was received in Biarritz, France.  A picturesque journey was swiftly undertaken to St. Jean Pied de Port, one of the traditional starting points for the Camino de Santiago.  Other "pilgrims" were easy to spot with their over-sized backpacks, impeccable trekking gear, and a general look of bewilderment combined with excited anticipation .  Although walking the camino has been a dream years in the making, I joined the masses with substantially less mental and physical preparation.  The beastly high temperatures during the final weeks in India made it extremely difficult to bound and leap anywhere (much less an accessible mountain) or complete a test run with excess baggage. After a debut on the French news and a cosy night in a family style albergue (hostels established specifically for those undertaking the camino), I was off to cross the Pyrenees blue jeans and all.

Every passing hour gave birth to a new landscape, atmosphere, acquaintance, and realm of thought.  The more penetrative moments occurred when movement ceased and I momentarily surrendered to the still of silence.

Cliched philosophies are thrown around the pilgrim watering holes but much of what is dispensed generally comes back to the desire to live in the moment. Initially I found myself in the category of those who had an agenda or goal.  Mine was to sprint to Santiago within 27 days so as to have my cake and eat it too.  Similarly there are many whose days begin and end with the obsession of daily destination points and measurements of the hourly pace.  However, my body had other ideas of what I am meant to gather from this experience.

On day three, my right knee and ankle were in so much pain  that my companions on the trail were all able to recognise me by the time I limped into the albergue.  Contained in this day was an immense outpouring of generosity and sincere attention from my fellow peregrinos.  Medicine, walking sticks, and an encyclopedia of advice and personal opinion was showered on me without having to utter a word.

Day four saw the introduction of angels.  Hours after visually salivating over the thoughts of a massage, I was taken aback by the timely entrance of vibrant, wild-eyed Emmanual.  This French gift from God casually offered his professional skills and my legs were brought back to better form under his caring hands.  The days that passed found me in varied company from the days preceding but it has been effortless to make connections and strike up conversations that form the stepping stones for friendship or at the very least take allow me to take a token of the exchange to heart.

Nevertheless, the future of the camino hangs in the balance as my ability to walk at a normal pace has been hindered by tendinitis. A visit to the medical centre (and several unqualified but experienced pilgrims) have all prescribed rest of which I undertaken the past two days.  Tomorrow will be the test to how far I will be able to carry on and to what pace.  However, my attitude has shifted a great deal in a short period of time.  In place of possible disappointment, I own excitement at what lies ahead or rather, in the present... if not Santiago then where, what, and why?  After all, this trail will be here my whole life for the taking, and I have never been more appreciative of the moment. To quote the lovely Tili, "the goal is no goal"....so be it.

fever pitch

The G.T Express roars across the Indian countryside, a 35 hour journey that will draw the curtain on the last 8 months.  Every second unravels a surreal slideshow of snapshots whose normalcy is lost in the wake of detachment.  It’s as though I am seeing India again for the first time.  In fact, at the time of writing this a man of certain determination races across the platform at Maramjhiri train station on his motorbike. Oh, India, but of course… 

My last weeks in Tiruvannamalai provided a kaleidoscope of the quintessential Indian experiences in addition to a spiritual and emotional crescendo which found me in the loving embrace of many, not least Mount Arunachala whose spell endlessly enraptures the masses.  Every passing moment proved to be a reflection of self and for the first time in my life I sobbed with tears of release and elation.

India’s sense of extremes in the kiln of incomparable intensity makes it so the country and experiences contained within it pass unparalleled.  It goes without saying that the impression of such an introduction pulsates through my core.  I prepare for my departure a stranger to who I was when I arrived.  The most profound additions being an understanding of a life without limitation and an unapologetic surrender of the perceived control I held in the daily grind.  Of course, such notions are better put to the test in the surrounds of familiar faces and consistent routines.  Bring it on. 

However, before I temporarily hang my hat I must first fulfil an old dream to complete an 800 kilometre hike across the northern border of Spain. I pray my venture on El Camino de Santiago de Compostela is more Coelho than Sheen, but whatever I make of it, the pilgrimage will be a fitting transition back into the Western world.

Oh, India...in my life I love you more.