Here I am, once again, in what could be considered the capital of all pilgrimages, at least in the Western world. I don’t think either Canterbury or Rome can compare to Santiago de Compostela, in which pilgrimage feels very much alive “today”.
Whilst all three cities “have” pilgrimages (either directly or indirectly organised, or what appears to be a coach-party), only Santiago gives me a tangible feeling of “life” and “pilgrimage”.
I lived here when I was, eh, 13/14?, and the following year, having moved somewhere else, I vowed to return, this time as a Pilgrim. I wasn’t the only one, and in that year several other people completed the pilgrimage as well. I was 15 and eager to take on the world.
The following year I vowed to do it more – more walking, more duration, more, more, more – as I was clearly hungry for the punishment that walking some 800km would cause to a young 16 year old’s body. But I did. I walked it, accompanied on the weekends by my uncle, his family in the car, meeting us after every day, followed by friends and family on my first mobile phone (purchased by my uncle for the occasion), and so on, and 30 days later, having formed a pilgrim family, I arrived in Santiago.
I remember telling someone that if I felt I had found whatever I was looking for 5 miles from Santiago (or the equivalent in km’s at the time), I would simply turn around and go home.
I didn’t, and I did not.
But the thirst is insatiable – both for knowledge, for punishment, for the experience, for life – and yet some 15 years later I felt like I have to use the Camino as a fix for “something”, in this case, a relationship, and how “doing something together” would magically fix it.
So, we set on. Every year, we would walk a week or so, before flying back home and continuing the life.
The first year, we had an argument as to whether it was important to fill up a bottle of water, or to drink from a water fountain. It was a very important argument at the time.
I can’t remember whether we had a second-year argument.
The third year was supposed to be a hard one, walking across two major cities, and where we identified the middle point of the pilgrimage, where our vows would be exchanged as a sign of commitment to each other. We walked past the point, vows printed, and never did. We never talked about this, either, and we would never talk about it whilst the relationship was still alive.
In the fourth year, my body started playing up, and I felt I could not continue. I felt deflated, not wanting to finish “this thing”, and wanting to give up completely. We used to walk in September.
In the fifth year, we would arrive in Santiago, happy memories, everything would be sorted and fixed. But I pushed our September date to be moved to May, as, secretly, I knew I wanted to leave the relationship, having finished the “business” of the thing that kept us going.
So, we arrived and it all ended with a whimper rather than a bang.
We had arguments about my not walking the last few hundred meters with my ex, and instead walking with a chap we had met a few days for beers. Of course, he never told me this when I could have done something about it, but by that time I had ruined 5 years’ worth of anticipation.
My ex had an argument with a waiter because the waiter would not do anything about someone playing music on his phone in a terrace.
And so on – what was started in deep snow a week earlier, ended up with warm and sunny 27c lovely weather.
My ex spent the next day or so in the hotel, feeling ill due to exhaustion, or heat, or the apnea issues my ex refused to get addressed and looked at.
I was alone, feeling very bitter. I contacted friends and told them I was there – friends my ex didn’t know they existed because they were “forbidden”.
I felt so, so alone, so I threw myself out there. Absorbing life, pilgrimage, and thinking about what I had wasted in the previous 5 years committed to something that was, in all honesty, a waste of time. A stupid “wouldn’t it be nice”, without talking about “this isn’t working”.
A couple of days later we were meant to walk to the end of the world. We took a bus instead, and my ex kept feeling ill.
So I was now, once again, alone, sitting on the edge of the world. Alone.
My ex kept feeling ill, so an earlier return trip was arranged.
I resented that, but I didn’t have anything else to do.
This time is different.
I can talk. I can say. I can discuss. I can disagree. I can agree.
I am not lost, wandering, trying to find meaning to an inescrutable path under the field of stars.
I do want to walk again, but at least I know why I am here.
I can show my husband what I missed the first time around. What he does not know. Retake from my ex what the memories he took from me,
And the most important thing – I have been able to confess to him that I have accepted that I will not be able to show him everything I want to.
But as I it here, naked in our terrace, under the moon and stars, cooling off after a long, hot day, isn’t this what it is all about?
Fields of the soul 