The Camino and Me Counselling and Psychotherapy

The Camino and Me Counselling and Psychotherapy
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    • Cork – St Jean Pied de Port
      • Day 1; St Jean Pied de Port – Roncesvalles
      • Day 2; Roncesvalles – Zubiri
      • Day 3; Zubiri – Pamplona
      • Day 4; Pamplona to Obanos
      • Day 5; Obanos – Estella
      • Day 6; Estella – Los Arcos
      • Day 7; Los Arcos – Logroño
      • Day 8; Logroño – Ventosa
      • Day 9; Ventosa – Cirueña
      • Day 10; Cirueña – Santo Domingo de la Calzada
      • Day 11; Santo Domingo – Belorado
      • Day 12; Belorado – San Juan de Ortega
      • Day 13; San Juan de Ortega – Burgos
      • Day 14; Burgos – Hontanas
      • Day 15; Hontanas – Castrojeriz
      • Day 16; Castrojeriz – Frómista
      • Day 17; Frómista – Carrión de los Condes
      • Day 18; Carrión de los Condes – Ledigos
      • Day 19; Ledigos – Calzadilla de los Hermanillos
      • Day 20; Calzadilla de los Hermanillos – Mansilla de las Mulas
      • Day 21; Mansilla de las Mulas – León
      • Day 22; Leon – Hospital de Órbigo
      • Day 23; Hospital de Órbigo – Astorga – 15 km
      • Day 24; Astorga – Foncebadón – 27.2 km
      • Day 25; Foncebadón- Ponferrada – 25 km
      • Day 26; Ponferrada – Villafranca del Bierzo – 23.5 km
      • Day 27; Villafranca del Bierzo – La Faba – 25 km
      • Day 28; La Faba – Triacastela – 26 km
      • Day 29; Triacastella – Sarria – 25 km
      • Day 30; Sarria – Portomarín – 22.4 km
      • Day 31; Portomarín – Palas de Rei – 24.8 km
      • Day 32; Palas de Rei – Ribadiso – 25.8 km
      • Day 33; Ribadiso – Lavacolla – 32 km
      • Day 34: Lavacolla – Santiago and Goodbye
      • The Camino and Me
  • Themes
    • Stepping into the Ring
    • Enjoying the mystery
    • Fear and Courage
    • Risk and Vulnerability
    • Meeting and Letting go
    • Giving In
  • Tag: albergue

    • Taking the plunge!

      Posted at 6:54 pm by Mary Murphy, on January 30, 2021

      Cork – St Jean Pied de Port

      In the weeks leading up to my departure, even though I longed for what I hoped the experience would bring, I was filled with fear about travelling alone, and if my flight had not already been booked, I might have backed out. Each night before bed, as I completed my routine with a variety of potions and creams, I thought about how few of them I could take with me and how little control I would have over my daily life. How was I going to deal with the loss of all the small, almost unnoticeable, comforts and crutches I relied on each day and settle for not much more than a sleeping bag and a toothbrush?

      When the day came I took the first flight out of Cork to London Stansted to get a connecting flight to Biarritz and an overnight stay at the airport hotel there. The following morning after a hot, restless night, I took a bus from outside the airport to the train station in Bayonne and boarded a train for the relatively short journey to St Jean. When I arrived less than an hour later, I followed the rucksack-bearing crowd to the Camino office to complete the formalities. One of the volunteers, a lovely man with a little English, helped me, and although I didn’t understand much of what he said, I figured I knew enough to get started. With my details recorded, I was given my Credencial (Camino Passport), which meant that I could stay in the pilgrim-only hostels (albergues) along the route. His advice was that in the morning I should take Route Napoléon, the harder, higher and more spectacular of the two routes out of St Jean, to my first overnight stop at Roncesvalles, twenty-five kilometres away.

      With the preliminaries completed, the same volunteer led me and two other pilgrims to the nearby albergue and we were shown to a basement dorm with three bunk beds. Standing inside the little sparsely furnished room without a soft furnishing in sight, the impact and reality of pilgrim hostel life began to sink in. Checking the ticket number I held in my hand, I identified which of the blue tubular-framed bunks was mine, before I tentatively laid out my sleeping bag for the first time. Then I placed the items I thought I would need later – my earplugs, torch and toiletries – at the bottom of the bunk. Actually I could have emptied out the entire contents of my rucksack for I was carrying only what was absolutely necessary. As the three of us unpacked, we exchanged information in response to questions that would be repeated again and again over the coming weeks: where are you from? Have you walked the Camino before? The most obvious question – why are you doing the Camino? – was one I asked sparingly. For me, the answer was very personal and I imagined it might be so for others too.

      As well as being the official starting point for the Camino Francés, St Jean is a significant tourist town. But I wasn’t a tourist and I wasn’t really interested in exploring; I was only pretending as I filled the hours until I could leave. Over coffee I looked at my guide book and maps, although I felt unable to absorb the enormity of what I was beginning to realise was ahead of me. Oh my God, five weeks! At that moment, five weeks felt like a lifetime.

      Back in the albergue dorm, I made my first novice pilgrim error when I began talking to one of my room-mates in the semi-darkness without noticing that someone else was trying to sleep. Oops! I was to learn in the weeks ahead to enter dormitories quietly, as pilgrims sleep at all times of the day and night. That night I slept better than I expected, and I was very surprised to find when I got upstairs to the dining room the next morning that the adjoining dormitory was completely empty at 7 a.m. I wondered what the hurry was, and at the same time I began to feel I was running behind before I had even started.

      Posted in Camino Frances | 0 Comments | Tagged Adventure, albergue, Alone, Calling, Camino Frances, Camino Passport, Connection, Credencial, Facing Fear, Faith, God, Intention, Roncesvalles, Route Npoleon, Sincerity, spiritual calling, vulnerability
    • Day 33; Ribadiso – Lavacolla – 32 km

      Posted at 7:21 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 12, 2020

      I set out knowing I was on schedule to arrive in Santiago the following day with just forty-two kilometres remaining. What I really wanted was to arrive in time for pilgrim Mass at midday. It was important to me that I arrive in my walking clothes with my rucksack straight from the Camino to take my place as a pilgrim before God. That would make my pilgrimage complete. However, the albergues were spread out in such a way as to make that wish impossible. No matter how I calculated the possibilities, I didn’t see how I could arrive in Santiago in time for midday Mass.

      With so many pilgrims now within two days of reaching their target, the route had become particularly busy in places, so I decided to let people go ahead while I crossed the road to a café to consider my unresolved dilemma. As I was removing my rucksack I heard my name being called and I looked around to see Frank, Jill and Brett. It transpired that the three of them were planning a long day’s walk to Lavacolla, which would get them within ten kilometres of Santiago. I had stayed in a hotel in Lavacolla the previous year, so I was aware that it was nicely placed for reaching Santiago in time for midday Mass. I had considered it as a possibility myself but dismissed it as I knew the village didn’t have an albergue. Jill and Frank were intending to make a hotel reservation and Jill asked to borrow my phone. She spoke Spanish sufficiently well to make such enquiries whereas I didn’t, and until then I hadn’t considered a hotel a viable or cost effective option. I had anticipated both a lack of availability and a prohibitive cost, given that the hotels were within striking distance of Santiago. However, I was amazed to discover that I could indeed get a hotel room for just €30. Not only that, Brett was staying in the same hotel so I had a dinner date too, while Frank and Jill found an alternative source of accommodation. Synchronicity at it’s best! My decision to cross the road at that moment brought about the resolution to my dilemma.

      My perspective on the day was completely changed as I set off again. It would be a long one; thirty two kilometres is no joke, but well worth it in the circumstances. I couldn’t have been happier. I felt as free as a bird as I walked between the eucalyptus trees on my way to Lavacolla. When I reached the hotel and discovered it was real; there was actually a room booked in my name, I felt so relieved. There had been a little worry at the back of my mind that it might not materialise. It was a tiny space but nevertheless a palace in my eyes. I had made it! I could taste it. Ten kilometres from Santiago, something that seemed almost unattainable five weeks earlier. It was a moment to celebrate. I switched on my phone for only the second or third time since I had left home. My Camino was a very internal experience and I had kept it to myself but now I wanted to share my joy with my friends.

      In the hotel foyer later as I waited to meet Brett, I noticed my nervousness. It wasn’t really a date, so why was I nervous? I think because of his ministry. Sometimes, I can view people who choose religious life as something other; maybe not entirely relatable. That misperception is probably leftover from childhood and a time when Priests were more revered as high moral authority figures, while the rest of us were the sinners! At the same time I was fascinated by his vocation, and how his partner fitted into his life of ministry. Partnership or marriage isn’t allowed within the Catholic Church so my interest was piqued about Brett’s life of ministry and how it was intertwined with an intimate relationship.

      Brett quickly showed me that concerns about his relatability were misplaced. I enjoyed his company very much and he took as much interest in me as I in him. We talked so easily, openly and freely. He was ordinary, approachable and full of good humour. I felt nourished by the encounter and the opportunity to share what gives meaning to me in my life.

      I really liked him.

      Posted in Day by Day | 3 Comments | Tagged albergue, God, Lavacolla, pilgrim mass, pilgrimage, Ribadiso, Santiago, vocation
    • Day 32; Palas de Rei – Ribadiso – 25.8 km

      Posted at 7:39 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 11, 2020

      My plan for the day was clear: I was going to walk to Arzúa and spend the night there regardless of what anyone else was doing. Why? The answer to that question lay with my experience of attending Mass in Arzúa the previous year.

      On that occasion I knew I was in a special place when I heard the soulful sound of a singing congregation as soon as I entered the church. Then without any knowledge of the language I felt completely enthralled by the Priest when he spoke. It wasn’t what he said as much as where it came from, and I knew the scene was set for a powerful experience.

      Moving towards the altar to receive holy communion I felt a oneness with the community of people around me. As I met each person, I watched their facial expressions and the devotion in their movement as they returned to their seats. I experienced a level of grace and connection that is impossible to describe and out of that space the words came; ‘if I die now it’s okay’. It would be okay because I had experienced everything.   

      Later the Priest invited the pilgrims amongst the congregation join him at the altar to receive a blessing, and we stood before him in a semi-circle whilst he searched internally for his words. When he spoke, my mind had no idea what he said but my heart recognised their source and tears streamed down my face. I felt loved absolutely.

      Mass in Arzúa is a nightly event, just as it is in most towns along the route. The blessing is a nightly event too, yet its impact was such that I felt it was the one and only time it had ever been given. Of course, I wanted to return in the hope of the experience being repeated, without any guarantee that it would be.

      During the day I talked to Leo, who was part of the Spanish/Limerick contingent I had met a couple of days earlier in Samos. He told me that he had received reports advising that accommodation in Arzúa was already fully booked. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear and initially I blocked it out. I wasn’t going to be easily diverted from my goal. However, as I thought more about it, I realised that I ought to listen to what I was being told, even though I didn’t like it. The prospect of not being able to get a bed in Arzúa was not one I really wanted to test, and although it wasn’t easy to let go of what I wanted, my day became a lot easier once I did. My Camino was teaching me about flexibility; without realising it, that had been a persistent challenge for me over the previous thirty-two days. By letting go of my fixation on a particular outcome, other things became possible.

      That night I stayed in Ribadiso, a hamlet with a couple of albergues two or three kilometres from Arzúa. After the initial relief of checking in and completing my chores, I went to the bar with my journal and a beer, and I noticed how lost I felt without my new friends. In Mike, Jackie, Frank, Jill, Brett and a few others I had found an inclusive circle where I felt safe. I didn’t know where any of them were and I was afraid of losing them. With only two days to go before arriving in Santiago I was afraid that I would be celebrating alone and I didn’t want that.

      However, as I sat there Leo came in and joined me at my table while Javier joined some friends he knew. Soon we expanded to become a trio when a UK pilgrim joined us, and when I spotted Heather and Eugene arriving, I invited them over to join us for dinner. The things I worried about sometimes manifested into being while probably mostly they did not!

      Posted in Day by Day | 2 Comments | Tagged albergue, Alone, Arzúa, Blessing, Camion, Connection, devotion, flexibility, grace, journal, letting go, love, Mass, oneness, Palas de Rei, pilgrim, Ribadiso, Samos, Santiago, Soul
    • Day 31; Portomarín – Palas de Rei – 24.8 km

      Posted at 4:38 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 10, 2020

      The day started with drizzle and progressed into full-blown rain within an hour or two, and I was back into full rain gear. While some people scurried for shelter I ploughed ahead. Then I realised, much to my dismay, that my waterproof boots were not in fact waterproof! They coped well with showers but were no match for heavy rain. My feet were soaked and I squelched as I walked, fully aware that my blisters were also coming under pressure, as my plasters loosened their protective grip. Up ahead I saw a café and decided that I would stop to change my socks, even though I’d be returning my feet to wet shoes.

      The café had a calm, sedate atmosphere without a rucksack in sight. That was unusual. Sitting at the dining tables enjoying lunch were groups of four-star pilgrims (their luggage was transported). By contrast, I sat on a barstool in my waterproof leggings with my rucksack beside me. After a few minutes, Mike made an entrance in his dark green poncho, with Jackie, Frank, Jill and Brett following shortly behind. As we all lined up at the bar, I heard Frank ask Brett what he did in the real world. ‘I’m an Anglican Priest,’ Brett replied. I was certainly surprised; all I knew until then was that he was a four-star pilgrim with an English accent. While I was surprised, I was delighted too; now he really interested me as I have always been fascinated by people who choose a life of service to God. Conversation turned to more immediate matters; accommodation, we were all heading for Palas de Rei and there was some concern about availability. The wet day would force pilgrims to stop earlier than usual, and we were hearing that the private albergues were already booked up. So I decided to head off in advance of the others. Truthfully that wasn’t the only reason for leaving ahead of the group. I seemed to want to be part of it and also on the periphery.

      The downpour resumed as soon as I left the café and it continued for the rest of the day. When I arrived in Palas de Rei I was absolutely dripping. On the outskirts, I noted the existence of the municipal albergue, and even though I questioned the wisdom of my desision to walk a further couple of kilometres into town, that is exactly what I did. Nearly an hour later, when I couldn’t get a bed in town, I had to retrace my steps to the municipal albergue, which turned out to be a modern version of Colditz. Even after a hot shower I still felt cold. The small laundry room was, I discovered, the warmest place in the building, so some clothes washing seemed like a good idea.

      Soon I realised that my idea was not unique. With the day being so wet, a lot of people wanted to use the machines, and the facilities didn’t quite stretch to accommodate the needs of so many people. In fact, there was a long waiting list; I was fourteenth in line for the dryer, and fifth in line for a washing machine. While I hadn’t bargained on such a long wait, I didn’t have anything else to do. Then five girls got very upset when they returned from lunch to find that someone had removed their clothes from the washing machine. Their discovery was followed by drama and chaos as people argued about what had happened and who was next on the list. The noise, as it was to me, was all in Spanish and carried on until Javier arrived and took charge. He looked like an unlikely leader, as he stood in the middle of the room in his schoolboy shorts; nevertheless he was a leader – he came across as a really genuine man and people listened while he calmed the situation. It was a lot of drama over laundry, but with so few clothes available to pilgrims, laundry is very important business on the Camino.

      That night I had a lovely dinner with Frank and Jill in the nearby hotel restaurant. Their walk had begun in León. Jill worked as a teaching assistant in Madrid and had travelled from there, while her father had come from New York. It was Jill who really wanted to do the Camino; Frank was a somewhat reluctant pilgrim. There was much of the whole adventure that he could have done without. He suffered quite a lot with blisters, which made walking tough, but he did like the social aspect, so it wasn’t all bad.

      When I look back I see the ways in which I deny the fulfillment of my own needs. Earlier in the day I moved away prematurely from others when I left the café. I had begun to feel vulnerable as they began to discuss accommodation plans. As a four-star pilgrim Bret’s accommodation and evening meal were booked in advance, while Jackie and Mike had each other, and Jill and Frank had each other. Wherever they went, they went together, whereas I was on my own which put me in a more vulnerable position, one I didn’t really want to expose. At such times, it seems like making an exit is the only thing I can do, and then the impact of those decisions hit home later. That night I was lucky to meet Jill and Frank. Being alone is great when it’s what I actually want, but when it’s not what I want, it’s a lonely experience.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Alone, Blisters, Camino Frances, four-star pilgrims, León, Lonely, Palas de Rei, pilgrim, pilgrimage, Portomarín, vulnerable
    • Day 30; Sarria – Portomarín – 22.4 km

      Posted at 2:55 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 9, 2020

      In the morning I left shortly after 6 a.m. while the Limerick and Spanish contingent slept on. Outside the albergue I met Jim, Richard’s dinner companion from the night before. While we talked, we lost our way in the darkness, but doubled back before we got into too much trouble. Soon we were tangled up with quite a few other pilgrims and I was content to just follow, trusting that those ahead could see where they were going. There seemed to be an influx of Spanish pilgrims walking the last one hundred kilometres to Santiago, so it was quite noisy. When a group of Spaniards got together, no matter what time of day, they could be loud, and so I looked forward to getting away from them.

      As the morning stretched out before us, so too did the line of pilgrims, and I separated from Jim until we met again mid morning over coffee. At the café I saw Kathy with her group and we chatted briefly before she moved on again. Then Peter, a man from Dublin who was travelling with his wife, took a seat nearby. I greeted him; we had walked together briefly a few days earlier, although his expression told me that he didn’t remember me. Then after my companions left, he came over to make amends for forgetting me and we left together to walk the ten kilometres to Portomarín.

      Peter didn’t seem to notice that I shrunk as our walk progressed; by the time we got to Portomarín I was feeling utterly crushed. Although he walked alongside me, Peter seemed oblivious to me, as he talked and talked. There was no connection between us; we were walking alongside each other without actually meeting. My experience with Peter helped me to connect with another pain within and I knew I needed my own space; I couldn’t stay in a crowded albergue. At the bridge on the entrance to town I left him to wait for his wife while I went ahead to find a hotel.

      In the hotel I waited as a young couple checked in, but when it was my turn the receptionist told me they were full. Fortunately, a young male employee with very good English overheard the conversation and told me they had rooms with shared facilities on the top floor for €25. That was all I needed: a room; sharing facilities wasn’t an issue. He showed me such kindness as he took my rucksack and escorted me upstairs, telling me that as I was first to arrive, the place was mine. It was as though he could see what I needed.

      The impact of his seeing me was powerful. Once inside the room, I broke down into convulsive tears as the crushed part of me expressed itself. What I felt was absolute abandonment. It was too intense to be about missing the people whom I had met and parted from on the Camino. I knew this pain had earlier, deeper roots.

      After I slept, I ventured out with my journal to get a beer and do some writing. There were lots of bars, but I wanted somewhere quiet. When I finally found one that met my needs I ordered my drink, and while I waited for it to come I heard my name called. It was Jackie; she was with Mike, Jim (the Alaskan) and Dave (the New Zealander). I couldn’t believe it. Of all the bars in town we could have chosen, how did we all end up in the same one? I joined them, even though I wasn’t sure I was ready for company. But within a short time I discovered it was just what I needed.

      Frank and Jill, a father and daughter duo from New York, joined us too and we all became so comfortable that we stayed in the bar for dinner. Later, we were expertly guided through a selection of local aperitifs by the young male hotel employee who had helped me find a room; he turned out to also be a barman. Then we went outside, wrapped up, to enjoy our drinks and the remainder of the night. By then I felt relaxed. I really liked the people I was with; it felt like being in a family. Mike and Jackie were clearly at the helm, as they created the welcoming environment for waifs and strays to come into the fold. We might not have met at all that night, so I felt really blessed with good fortune. It was also nice to have the freedom of a hotel and not to have a curfew to comply with.

      Earlier, when we were in the bar, Darren had come in and I waved to him, but he looked a bit preoccupied. I guessed he was asking about accommodation; it was about 9 p.m., very late to be looking for somewhere to sleep. When I saw him leave, I was in two minds about whether to go after him. I was worried in case he couldn’t find anywhere to stay and I wondered if I should offer to let him sleep in my room. When I confided my thoughts to Mike, he asked me whether that was what I really wanted. No, it wasn’t what I wanted. I was torn between what I wanted for myself and my impulse to rescue Darren, which came from my own fear of being unable to find room at the proverbial inn. Then as we sat outside later, the Australian woman with whom Darren had left Villafranca a few days earlier, came by our table. She had just arrived and was staying a few doors down. I guessed then that she was with Darren, so I knew he wasn’t homeless after all and I was very glad that I hadn’t interfered or acted on impulse.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged abandonment, albergue, Camion, Connection, journal, pilgrim, pilgrimage, Portomarín, Santiago, Sarria, seeing, seen
    • Day 29; Triacastella – Sarria – 25 km

      Posted at 4:04 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 8, 2020

      I wasn’t the only pilgrim to sleep well. The hospitalero had to wake up the whole dorm at 7 a.m., which was when we made the collective discovery that it was pouring with rain, and I mean really pouring. While I was still mentally adapting to the sight of such rainfall, I became aware of a heated exchange between some agitated pilgrims and the hospitalero. He was being confronted with suspicions that there were bedbugs, which featured high up on the list of ills a pilgrim might face. Some marks on the bed above mine were being pointed to as evidence, along with suggestions that they might have fallen into my sleeping bag. But there was no certainty that we had bedbugs at all, so I shrugged off the fuss and hoped, as I packed my sleeping bag back into my rucksack, that I was not also taking some unwanted companions with me.

      Breakfast was a non-event – I hadn’t been able to make it to the supermarket the day before. A very sweet cappuccino from the vending machine had to do while I applied extra padding to my blistered feet before departure. The dining room was busy with pilgrims, taking longer than necessary, it seemed, to don their waterproof ponchos before venturing out into the pouring rain. With my waterproof leggings on for the first time, I went back upstairs to tell Branu I was leaving. ‘How can you say that!’ he exclaimed. His surprise that I could just leave when I was ready to go was evident. Feeling a bit guilty then, I told Kirsten I would text her after I found a café for breakfast. Truthfully, that was to soften the blow that I was leaving without them. Although we sometimes walked together, I didn’t feel obliged to do so. I wanted the freedom to make the choice that was right for me on any given day.

      The rain was still falling as I headed towards the main street, and I discovered that the restaurant we had dined in the night before was open for breakfast. However, when I went inside I realised I didn’t actually want breakfast at all; what I wanted was to walk. Although I remembered what I had said to Kirsten, the bother of removing my rucksack to search and text in the dark and the rain was something I couldn’t face, so I just kept going. As I walked through town, I saw other pilgrims spill out onto the street in the half light of the early morning, and I felt there was already something different about the day, without being quite sure what it was.

      Most pilgrims were heading for Sarria, the town where many pilgrims begin to walk the last one hundred kilometres to Santiago. There were two routes: one shorter and more direct, the other route was longer because it looped around to include the village of Samos, the site of an abbey and Benedictine monastery. As I hoped to walk a little further than Sarria, I intended to take the shorter route and initially I thought I had succeeded – that is, until I could no longer deny the fact that the road signs indicated I was en route to Sarria via Samos. Just like that, any realistic possibility that I would get beyond Sarria that day was gone. We had had lots of discussion the previous evening about whether or not to visit Samos, and although it had not been my plan, it was seemingly on my path.

      As I looked at the poncho-wearing group along the road ahead of me, I observed for the first time a pilgrimage before my eyes. It was a scene I hadn’t witnessed previously. There was a mystical quality to the sight of poncho-wearing, slow-moving pilgrims with sticks in one or both hands. It was striking in its simplicity and reverence. People were talking quietly, if at all, and there was something much more devotional about the procession than usual.

      The arrival of the rain seemed to bring a lightness and freshness to the experience. I remember in particular walking through a small wood where the branches intertwined overhead to give shelter from the rain. This brought me into very close contact with the beauty and perfection of the raindrops as they sat on the leaves in their simple Buddha-like poses. Coming out of the woods, Samos soon opened up and I saw the monastery stand imposingly on my right at the entrance to the village.

      Earlier I had met Mike and Jackie, a couple from Limerick, for the first time. Initially I stuck up conversation with Jackie before falling into step with Mike while Jackie walked behind with Marlene from Belgium. Mike referred to himself as a passionate Christian and we quickly got to talking about life and, of course, God. I enjoyed his company very much; he had an open, inclusive way of interacting with the world. When we reached Samos, Mike and I were ahead of the others and as we were longing for breakfast, we headed straight for a café.

      Afterwards, we approached the abbey and were advised by someone on the steps to be quick as it was about to close. When we got inside, a young monk came towards us, making a key-locking gesture with his hands. In the brief time we were there, I took in the tranquil holy atmosphere within the abbey; I would have loved to attend Mass. I considered waiting in the village for the next Mass, but people outside were talking about different Mass times. Some said Mass would be another hour while others said two hours, and as I knew Sarria would be busy with pilgrims, I didn’t want to get there too late. Faced with such uncertainty, I decided to continue my walk and return another day to Samos.

      On leaving the village I pulled away from the others, as I wanted to walk alone for a while. I wanted to reflect on what meeting Richard had meant to me. As I walked, I wept with gratitude for the feelings he awoke in me. I felt alive, excited and playful, and I knew he had touched my soul. The whole experience felt like heart medicine, and I decided that if we met in Sarria I would let him know how he impacted me.

      In the afternoon, although much of the route followed the road, it was really peaceful, uninterrupted by traffic except for a tractor. Walking along quiet, winding country roads felt completely different to walking on busy main roads, and for most of the day I didn’t meet another living soul – that is, until I heard Dave from New Zealand walking behind me. We introduced ourselves and talked only briefly before he powered on ahead of me.

      Close to Sarria I rejoined the Limerick couple, and as we arrived in town we followed Javier and Leo, two pilgrims they knew, into the municipal albergue. As we settled in, Jackie asked me if I would like to join them for dinner later and I said I would, although in truth I wasn’t in much of a social mood by then. I needed some time alone and headed out with my journal to find a bar and a beer. Failing to find a bar nearby, I opted for a lovely Italian café and a glass of wine. There, I talked to the Italian man who was the café owner and he told me about setting up his new business with his Spanish wife. Then while he swept the wet leaves from the floor, the most beautiful furry kitten appeared to play with the leaves and the sweeping brush. She was thoroughly irresistible and when I picked her up, the owner asked if I wanted to take her with me. Ha ha! She had strayed into their lives a few weeks earlier and had taken up residence with them. Later, he asked if I would like to come back the following summer to give his wife a break – in the kitchen!

      As I sat in the café I longed for a connection with someone who really knew me, someone with whom I could bear my soul. The people I felt closest to were gone and I was starting over again. During the day I had discovered that Branu and Kirsten were staying in Samos, and although I had said I would join Mike, Jackie and the others for dinner, I wanted to stay where I was. The owner came over to me as the café filled. ‘You tell me if and when you want your dinner here,’ he said. I felt really touched that he was taking care of me and tears flowed down my cheeks. The full power of the Camino experience happens in the most unexpected ways and circumstances; the connection I longed for came from an unexpected source. It had been a day of abundance: meeting Mike and Jackie, Samos, walking, feeling my connection with Richard and then the café owner.

      While I was having dinner, Richard came in with Jim, an Alaskan man I had met briefly earlier in the day. Seeing me, Richard came over, expressing his surprise, for he had expected me to have gone further. I told him about my unexpected detour to Samos, which had been absolutely worth it. He asked if I wanted to join them and I declined. I knew it was time to move on. Then as I was leaving, I went across to where they were sitting and told Richard that I had really enjoyed meeting him and that he had touched my heart.

      Back at the albergue and ready for bed, I took out my book to read while I waited for the others to return. When they did, I was informed that they had come back to look for me a few times during the evening. I apologised and told them where I had been. They didn’t mind; they weren’t offended. Javier asked me what I was reading and I exposed the cover so he could see Conversations with God. ‘What are you reading that stuff for,’ the Spaniards chimed, before recommending their own reading material. I just laughed, feeling pleased that I didn’t need to hide my book cover.

      Before lights out, Mike came over and sat on the edge of my bunk with his bible in his hand and took out photographs of his daughters to show me. It was a lovely gesture of welcome and inclusion.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Abbey, abundance, albergue, alive, bedgugs, Benedictine monastery, Camino, Connection, excited, freedom, God, gratitude, heart medicine, hospitalero, journal, pilgrim, pilgrimage, playful, Samos, Sarria, Soul, Triacastela
    • Day 28; La Faba – Triacastela – 26 km

      Posted at 3:39 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 7, 2020

      In the morning, Branu and Kirsten were just sitting down to breakfast as I was ready to leave. Although we had planned to leave together, I could see they were pretty relaxed, so I said I’d meet them for coffee later and left. The guidebook had promised some spectacular views on the way to O Cebreiro, but the morning was cold, misty and foggy and I could only see a few yards in front of my feet.

      At the entrance to O Cebreiro stood a tall majestic tree that seemed to announce the special place the village held at the top of the mountain. Passing through, I headed for the church and met Richard emerging from it. Inside, the church was more understated than most I had seen. I liked the simplicity; the seats were made of plain dark wood while the walls were devoid of the usual baroque grandeur. However, what usually engages my attention in a church is how I feel. Despite the noise and activity of those around me, I felt really at peace and I knelt down to pray. As I did so, I realised that I felt torn between wanting to stay and wanting to go. I thought that if I left, I might be able to manipulate an encounter with Richard in the village. Then as I contemplated my dilemma, I felt clear that if I allowed distraction to steer me, I would be straying from my intention to walk this pilgrimage with sincerity. In hindsight, I see it as a test of faith and perhaps the most important decision I made on the Camino.

      While I waited for Kirsten and Branu, I walked around O Cebreiro before stopping for coffee and cake. Just as I was about to leave they appeared. By that time our schedules were out of sync and I decided to continue walking alone. As the fog cleared, a warm day was revealed and with a full heart I left O Cebreiro. Around me the landscape felt intimate again; animals grazed in fields of lush green grass, wildflowers grew in the hedgerows and I felt connected to my surroundings. Being physically close to the bushes, the trees and the brambles connects me with my internal home, and my connection with the landscape brought forward thoughts of all the people I had met on my Camino, as well as my family and friends at home, and I felt tremendous gratitude.

      During the day I was reunited with Kirsten and Branu, but as the afternoon progressed I went ahead of them. I expected Triacastela would be busy and I thought it best if one of us went ahead to get beds for the three of us. Arriving in town at about 5 p.m., I saw a ‘Full’ sign posted outside the municipal albergue, and my concern about finding accommodation increased. Then as I walked on further, I met a local woman dressed in black who told me that everywhere was full, but that I wasn’t to worry – she had a room in her house for €30. I hoped she was a chancer and I thought she probably was. When I asked two young German lads I knew about accommodation, they told me they had got the last two beds in their albergue; they also told me that the woman in black had peddled the same yarn to them. Further along, I saw more ‘Full’ signs and my anxiety deepened. Then at the end of town I entered the last albergue on the street. Inside there was no sign of the hospitalero, and while I waited I peeked into the ground floor dorm and saw some empty beds. What a delightful sight!

      Later, as I stood brushing my teeth, Branu emerged from the shower. ‘What now?’ he asked. ‘A beer, and then dinner,’ I suggested. Although clothes washing could wait for another day, some tasks could not be delayed. Branu needed to go to the bank and the supermarket, while I needed to tend to my feet before going out. As there wasn’t enough space or sufficient light to carry out the necessary foot repairs in the dorm, I went downstairs to the entrance foyer cum dining room. While I worked, Richard appeared at the open doorway. ‘Just in time! I’m in need of a doctor,’ I said. I was delighted to see him, though it turned out that he knew less about tending blisters than I did. I couldn’t believe that I didn’t even have to leave the albergue to meet him. We talked about the day and I asked if he would like to join us for a drink. He accepted. I felt so excited.

      As Richard and I walked through the narrow, pedestrianised main street full of bars and restaurants looking for a table in the evening sun, I heard my name called. To my surprise I saw Kathy, my American friend. I couldn’t believe it; I thought she would be at least a day ahead of me. The moment we embraced, I knew that what we had shared together was over. Although walking with Kathy had been one of the most beautiful and spiritual encounters of my whole Camino experience, I knew then that the purpose of our meeting had already been served. She was with a new group of Spanish pilgrims, as well as her earlier walking buddy Vanessa, and that was okay with me. I was happy walking my own Camino.

      At dinner with Kirsten and Branu talk turned to home. Richard was coming to the end of his Camino, and that was when I found out that he was going home to his wife. Initially I became quiet as I felt my disappointment register, but I didn’t withdraw from conversation. In Richard I had found a kindred spirit, and I was able to continue enjoying our playful banter for the remainder of the evening, even though I had fantasised about more. When we parted later, it really felt like the final goodbye. He was heading for Sarria the next day while I thought I might go a little further.

      That night I slept like a log.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Camino, Connection, Faith, gratitude, Intention, internal home, kindred spirit, La Faba, landscape, O Cebreiro, peace, pilgrimage, Sarroa, Simplicity, Sincerity, Triacastela
    • Day 26; Ponferrada – Villafranca del Bierzo – 23.5 km

      Posted at 5:09 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 5, 2020

      The albergue staff switched on the overhead lighting at 6 a.m., and with the brightness difficult to ignore, I sprung out of bed quickly. The three strangers I had shared the dorm with were early starters and had already left. Kirsten, on the other hand, was slow to mobilise herself; I had finished breakfast before she appeared, she looked exhausted after her long trek the previous day, even putting on boots seemed to take a lot of her energy.

      Although we began walking together, Branu gradually fell behind and soon we couldn’t see him at all. It became apparent as we walked through the commercial district, which was completely different to the quaint old city, that Ponferrada was a lot bigger than we’d anticipated. With the city signs competing with one another for attention, I lost sight of the Camino and began to follow another pilgrim, assuming she could see what I could not. Mistake! It transpired that we were following Elizabeth from Dublin, and I don’t know who she was following. She worked as a teaching assistant in Madrid and had good Spanish, which came in handy, as we were lost. If I had been on my own I would have retraced my steps, but I felt safe in numbers and had faith that we would find our way back. However, Kirsten was less trusting – of me, of herself, or anyone else; mostly, perhaps, she was worried about being parted from Branu.

      About two hours later we were reunited with the Camino and shortly afterwards, Kirsten and I stopped at a café. Darren was there ahead of us and I was pleased to see him, as I needed some light relief. Walking with Kirsten for the previous couple of hours had been draining, so I was glad of Darren’s company. The three of us left together after coffee, and as the morning progressed into afternoon, Darren and I laughed our way through story after story. We were as carefree as school kids on a day off. I really don’t recall what we were laughing at, but it all seemed funny at the time. After a while, Kirsten dropped back and later I saw her in a bar having a beer with Heather and Eugene.

      In Villafranca, the albergue of popular choice was referred to as the ‘hippy place’. Run by a family who had been tending to pilgrims for years, it felt more like a community than usual, and it was clear that the family enjoyed the role they played. The upstairs dorms were accessed by external staircases while balconies overlooked the courtyard below, and as I observed the flow of movement from my vantage point in the queue, I had the feeling of being on holiday.

      When Darren and I got to the top of the registration line, we were allocated a double bunk bed – not ideal, but I knew I would be okay. I felt really happy. I knew so many people; Kirsten had arrived with Heather and Eugene, and I was especially pleased to see Branu a little later. Even before he showered, he ordered a bottle of wine and the three of us pooled our food resources for a lovely impromptu picnic. Those were some of the best moments. I felt so fond of Branu. Sometimes we had deep philosophical conversations and at other times we would just look at one another and laugh. I felt no pressure from him or with him. I could come and go as I pleased and we would be happy to meet whenever we did. He was also the bridge that connected me to Kirsten; we seemed to need his laid-back let’s-have-some-fun attitude as an antidote to the intensity between us. His appearance often put things into perspective for me, and I would suddenly find my playfulness again.

      Then after a lovely day I found myself drifting away and disconnecting in the evening. I didn’t seem to know what to do with myself and I felt at a loss. At the communal dinner, I struggled to participate in conversation; it took so much energy for me to talk at all. I could see Darren further down the table; he seemed to be getting along well with the girl on his right and I wondered if I had lost my companion.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Camino, pilgrim, Ponferrada, Villafranca del Bierzo
    • Day 25; Foncebadón- Ponferrada – 25 km

      Posted at 1:47 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 4, 2020

      Cruz de Ferro, a famous Camino landmark, is a huge iron cross originally erected to help pilgrims find their way across the mountain. Over the years, a large mound has formed at its base as pilgrims have added a stone, brought from home, to symbolise what they want to leave behind and their readiness for rebirth on the last leg of the Camino. Legend has it that when the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela was being built, pilgrims were asked to contribute to its building by bringing a stone; hence the tradition at Cruz de Ferro.

      As I approached, I could see lots of people already there, standing amongst the stones and taking photographs. Not only had I missed the sunrise, but I didn’t have a stone. Still, I wanted to participate in the ritual along with everyone else. Stitched to my rucksack was a multicoloured ribbon, which for me represented joy, and I placed it between the stones. Put simply I wanted joy and play to have more prominence in my life.

      Walking across the mountain and through its villages was an uplifting experience. The picture perfect alpine village of El Acebo particularly stood out. I imagined people holidaying in the quaint, historic houses with their rickety balconies overhanging the narrow street, and for a while I felt more on holiday too – that is, until I was struck by the realisation that nothing big was going to happen to me on the Camino. It was like a bolt out of the blue. Suddenly, it became clear to me that I would be exactly the same person when I returned home as I had been when I started out. I could hardly believe that could be true. It was a reality I hadn’t bargained for, and in response I felt really angry and disappointed. What on earth was this Camino all about?

      Before arriving in the town of Molinaseca, where I stopped for coffee, I had managed to walk off or at least park my anger. Inside the café I met Darren, the Irishman I had briefly encountered in Foncebadón, and we struck up easy conversation, which helped me forget my morning’s disappointment. Later we left together to continue our journey. Darren was good company and I felt really relaxed, until we arrived at the enormous municipal albergue in Ponferrada. The registration process took place outside in the courtyard, and as I stood in the queue with Darren I began to feel uncomfortable about the possibility of sharing a dorm with him. But I needn’t have worried; I was allocated a small room with two bunk beds and three new companions.

      After a nap I made my way to the kitchen with my journal and took a seat at one of the long tables. Although I had slept, I felt unbelievably tired on all levels. I began to reflect on what I had discovered earlier in the day. My expectation that something big would happen was really a fantasy, a belief that I would become somebody or something else. It’s not that I actually wanted to be another person, more a case that just being me wasn’t really enough: I had to be something. Once the initial shock, anger and disappointment had worn off, what I felt was total relief. I realised that I had been saved from the utter disappointment of arriving in Santiago expecting my fantasy to be fulfilled there. So as I sat in the albergue that evening I knew something big had happened, just not the kind of big I had anticipated.

      Later that night while I was food shopping, I met Branu for the first time in four days. He had just arrived in Ponferrada, which hardly seemed believable, as it was 9 p.m. I couldn’t imagine that he would have dawdled so much along the way that he needed to walk in darkness to get to his destination. Over a glass of wine in the albergue courtyard, I discovered that he had walked with Kirsten to Molinaseca, intending to stay there, but that they had arrived too late for beds. While they could have shared a hotel room, it was not Branu’s style, so instead of spending a relaxing evening at Molinaseca, they had set out on the additional eight kilometre walk to Ponferrada. Although Kirsten was a good walker, she was nearly thirty years older than Branu, and I wondered if it was something she went along with rather than wanted.

      Our time to catch up that night was fairly short – the 10 p.m. curfew arrived all too soon – but we agreed to leave together to continue our reacquaintance in the morning. When I got to my room, it was in complete darkness and the ladder that had been there earlier to help me reach the top bunk had mysteriously been removed. After a couple glasses of wine, I was both a little tipsy and a little noisy in my endeavours to get to bed. But since I blamed one of my room-mates for moving my ladder, I wasn’t too bothered about the grunts that communicated their displeasure.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, angry, Camino, disappointed, El Acebo, Foncebadón, journal, joy, Molinaseca, Pilgrims, Ponferrada, Rebirth, Santiago de Compostela
    • Day 24; Astorga – Foncebadón – 27.2 km

      Posted at 12:14 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 3, 2020

      As the Camino curved its way back into the mountains, the landscape transitioned from the vast sparseness of the Meseta into vibrant, intimate abundance. It felt like a new beginning, an emergence from the womb into an exciting new world. Most pilgrims I knew were intending to stay the night in Rabanal, a town at the bottom of the mountain, but I wanted to be higher up. When I saw Christine waiting for the albergue to open, I went over to say goodbye. ‘Go be with your spirit in the mountain,’ she said. Her words touched me, and I wondered if she had seen more of me than I realised.

      That night I decided to stay in a community albergue that offered bed, dinner and breakfast on a donation basis. The evening meal was determined by the shopping done earlier by the volunteer warden, and the pilgrims cooked and ate as a community. Until then I had avoided such places; I wanted to be on the outside of the community, not part of it. On arrival, I was told by the American warden that all the beds had been taken, but that I could have a mattress on the floor if I wished. This was followed by more disappointing news: there was no hot water. The man who had gone for gas hadn’t returned, nor was his return that day guaranteed. Since I had already decided I would stay there I wasn’t easily deterred, and I followed the warden to a room full of mattresses and a mix of German and American students. ‘We have one more,’ he announced. Immediately the students began to rearrange themselves to accommodate me. Then later they took over cooking dinner, while I and many others only had to turn up to the table.

      Foncebadón was more of a hamlet than a village; there was no place to go and nothing to do but relax on the veranda. While most people with beds slept, I enjoyed talking to a French couple who were cycling the Camino. It wasn’t often that I got a chance to talk to cyclists, as they generally stayed in different albergues to walkers. Just before dinner I took a short stroll, and while I was out I met Darren, an Irishman from County Meath. He was continuing his Camino after a stint as an artist in residence in Carrión de los Condes. But someone called ‘Dinner’, which put an end to our chat, as I was more than ready for food. Afterwards, I didn’t even wash dishes as there were so many hands available for work. Instead, I sat back on the veranda making a bracelet with elastic bands, colourful beads and letters of the alphabet.

      At bedtime most of us headed for sleep in anticipation of reaching Cruz de Ferro, the highest point on the Camino, in time for sunrise the following morning. However, for me sleep came slowly and as I lay on the thin mattress on the concrete floor, I felt cold and couldn’t avoid for long the call of nature. To reach the bathroom I had to overcome both psychological and physical barriers. Firstly, I had to persuade myself to get out of my sleeping bag when I really didn’t want to. Secondly, I had to give myself permission to make the necessary noise, as everything I was about to do involved discomfort for me and disturbance for others. With permission granted, my release began with the noisy separation of the Velcro strips on my sleeping bag, the equivalent of opening a packet of crisps in the cinema during the quiet bits of the film. Then I switched on my torch and swished the light around to establish the easiest route to the door without stepping on anybody. Stage one of my mission was successfully accomplished. Next was the dormitory with the beds and the sleeping bodies – the night would not be complete without disturbing them too. Oh, and I got to repeat the process on the way back. What fun!

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Astorga, Camino, Carrión de los Condes., community, Cruz de Ferro, Foncebadón, Meseta, Pilgrims, Rabanal, spirit
    • Day 23; Hospital de Órbigo – Astorga – 15 km

      Posted at 4:52 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 2, 2020

      Things did not go to plan. My reliable German alarm clock, Toby, surprised himself and me by sleeping in! Then there was a bit of a scramble in the small room as ten of us tried to get up and pack for departure simultaneously.

      Mid morning Kathy and I stopped for an impromptu picnic with Jan and Christian on a hill overlooking the town of Astorga. They had been walking for three months and were well equipped with utensils and food; I watched in awe as they delicately sliced food into small portions to share with us. Christian sat beside me, and although I had felt blessed by his loving fatherly touch a week before, I found it a little too much that morning. I really enjoyed our picnic initially, but after a while I became anxious to move, and we left to continue our descent, leaving Jan and Christian to savour the view.

      Arriving in Astorga, I headed to the albergue to register and drop off my stuff while Kathy waited at an outdoor café across from the Gaudí building. We had both wanted to see Gaudí’s work, but it was Monday and the building was closed. So we sat and had some lunch as Kathy battled with her decision to stay in Astorga or walk on further. She was very tired and conflicted. At one point she went and lay on a bench to get some rest while I watched over her rucksack. I began to feel hopeful that she might stay, but I didn’t apply any pressure. While I sat on my own, Eugene and Heather came to join me, enquiring about Kathy’s whereabouts. Then when Kathy returned we sat again for a while until she announced she was leaving, and I accompanied her to the outskirts of town. After we said goodbye, I watched her walk on ahead, noticing how tired she looked with the weight of the huge rucksack on her back. I wandered aimlessly around town afterwards and I was struck very quickly by the loss I felt at her departure.

      I felt so sad. I knew I would miss her, but I really, really missed her, and although I hoped to bounce back after a nap, the feeling of loss stayed with me. In the supermarket, I wandered around hoping for inspiration, but I couldn’t make a decision, so I bought some water and sat on a bench in the square. All my energy seemed to have drained out of me; part of me wanted the Camino over because in some ways I felt it was.

      In retrospect, I understand more about what was important for me about meeting Kathy and why I missed her so much. She had the capacity to see me and accept me. I felt seen by her as me, rather than some version of me that she might have imagined me to be. Furthermore she was sufficiently contained within herself to listen deeply and I felt safe to share my inner world. I didn’t need to edit my expression or wear a protective mask. In short, we were kindred spirits. Given that, it’s not surprising I felt her absence intensely; such an experience in everyday life is rare. Back home in Colorado, Kathy worked as a school teacher and studied spiritual psychology at Santa Monica University; in my view, what she had could not be studied – it was simply who she was.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged accepted, albergue, Astorga, Camino Frances, Hospital de Orbigo, kindred spirits, listen, Loss, pilgrimage, Sad, safe, seen
    • Day 22; Leon – Hospital de Órbigo

      Posted at 3:25 pm by Mary Murphy, on April 1, 2020

      After a breakfast of tea and toast supplied by the nuns, Kathy and I departed the albergue in high spirits; in fact, it was the most carefree I’d felt in three weeks. Although, initially I enjoyed mingling with other pilgrims as we exited the City, after an hour or so I felt tired and I longed to return to stillness.

      With the busyness behind us, the rhythm of the day fell into place as we all spread out again. And in the quietness of the unfolding day, an easy peace settled upon us. We were reunited with life without distraction of any kind and we had nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other. In Kathy’s presence I felt held in a sacred, invisible and powerful container, and I experienced an inner stillness that gave me access to a deeper layer. There was no need to speak, and out of the silence the phrase follow the footsteps of Jesus came to me. It was, in fact, exactly what I felt I was doing in that moment.

      It was evening time when we arrived in Hospital de Órbigo, a really beautiful town, but I had no interest in exploring it. My needs were basic after walking 37.5 km and all I wanted was a bed. Kathy planned to reach Santiago a couple of days ahead of me, and for her that meant some very long days. As our time together was limited, I was prepared to push myself for one day, while knowing the next would be a much short one for me.

      After dinner I advised Kathy that there was no need to set an alarm. We were sharing the dorm with Toby, a young German man I had first met in Carrión de los Condes, where I discovered that one of his habits was to leave each day by 6 a.m., and I thought he couldn’t do that without disturbing me.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Camino, Carrion de los Condes, Hispital de Orbigo, Jesus, Leon, peace, Santiago, stillness
    • Day 17; Frómista – Carrión de los Condes

      Posted at 5:57 pm by Mary Murphy, on March 27, 2020

      I had been walking the Meseta for a couple of days and felt I had entered a different phase of the Camino. There were fewer people, stops and shelter, along with much less variety in the terrain and an elusive horizon far off in the distance. Everything seemed to stretch out. Maybe I had stretched out too; I had certainly slowed down. At last I seemed to accept that there was no such thing as getting ahead.

      When I arrived in Carrión de los Condes, I headed for the parish albergue where I met two beautiful young nuns, Maria from Spain and Diane from Peru. At the check-in desk, Maria sat with the male hospitalero inviting pilgrims to join her and Diane for a sing-song before evening Mass. At the appointed time, about twenty of us sat in the foyer in anticipation of being entertained – well, that’s what I anticipated anyway – but before any singing began, we were each asked to introduce ourselves and say what we were looking for from the Camino. I hadn’t expected that. Not only did I feel the discomfort of the truth in the pit of my stomach, I was also first in line to speak. With a shaky voice and a pounding heart I said I was looking for oneness, and just to add to my discomfort, I was asked to repeat what I had said! My mind questioned then whether I had said too much – or perhaps too little; had I been understood? Worst of all, had I sounded too holy?

      After Mass the priest, with the help of Maria’s translation, invited the pilgrim congregation to join him around the altar to receive a blessing. Twenty or so of us stood in readiness for what I anticipated would be a group blessing when unexpectedly, the priest asked us to approach him individually. As he laid his hands on each person’s head, Diane sang in joyful accompaniment, and when I looked over at her through my tears she just nodded. I felt she was saying, yes, it’s all here for you. Then when it was my turn, I walked slowly and as consciously as I could to stand in front of the priest. It was an experience I wanted to savour. I didn’t want to miss a thing, and when I received the blessing, I felt the innocent gratitude of a child truly received. In fact it was like making my first communion all over again.

      Over the previous two weeks I had received a number of blessings, some particularly special, but none compared to that night.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Blessing, camino de santiago, Camino Frances, Carrion de los Condes, Meseta, oneness, pilgrim
    • Day 14; Burgos – Hontanas

      Posted at 4:36 pm by Mary Murphy, on February 9, 2020

      In the morning I left the albergue while Burgos was still in darkness, and even though the streets were lit, the Camino signs were difficult to make out, so much so that I couldn’t see them at all! Ahead in the near distance, I noticed a female pilgrim making decisions without hesitation and I decided to follow her. It turned out that I was following Brandi, a young American in her twenties, and we began walking together from the outskirts of Burgos. At our first coffee stop we met some people we knew, including Eugene and Heather. In fact when I arrived Eugene enveloped me in an uncharacteristic hug, as though I was some long-lost relative. After we found a table, Manoel and Sue joined us and I felt my happiness was complete. When I was feeling good, as I was on that morning, I found those impromptu meetings among the loveliest of my Camino experiences.

      Brandi and I parted company some time later and before lunch I met Wilhelm who, much to my surprise, was walking alone, as he was one of the seven men from Friesland! Naturally I enquired about his comrades and found out that they had not originated as a group of seven, as I had imagined. Wilhelm had set out to walk the Camino alone, but got no further than the airport before he found a ready-made walking group. The six men carried the Friesland flag on their luggage and that was what had brought them to Wilhelm’s attention. What intrigued me about them was how they walked together – more of a march really, as though they were in the army; they looked like they were taking part in their daily drill. The Camino seemed to be mostly a physical challenge to them, while for Wilhelm it was more than that – he had a real gentleness of spirit. So the first day I talked to Wilhelm was his first day alone. The rest of his group had finished in Burgos, while he was walking on to Santiago, and indeed beyond, to Finisterre.

      I had set myself a big task for the day: almost thirty-two kilometres, which was quite an increase under the circumstances. It was the first day of what would be a week of walking the great Meseta Alta, a barren wilderness that provided little or no shade from the relentlessness of the sun. So after lunch I set off on the remaining fourteen-kilometre walk to Hontanas, while others quite sensibly finished their day’s walk at lunch time. I knew it would be difficult; I just didn’t know how difficult until I encountered the reality of no cafés, no trees and no shelter of any kind – just endless walking in oppressive heat.

      When I arrived at my destination it was about twelve hours after my day had begun and I booked myself into the first albergue I saw: a bar. They had rooms upstairs, along with additional dormitories located in a series of random buildings at the back. My dorm accommodated ten people and four of them were present when I arrived. We exchanged the normal pleasantries but I didn’t know any of them and I was soon off to complete my chores. As I stood washing at an outdoor sink in what felt like a back alley, I could hear noise and laughter nearby, and I realised how disconnected I felt. The transition from walking alone to being surrounded by people and gaiety was challenging, particularly after the difficulty of the day. Down in the square, outside pubs and bars, the whole of the Camino seemed to have congregated – so many people and yet I felt so lost and alone.

      Later I went down to the square to face the world, but I felt that I stood out like a sore thumb. I could no more have engaged in conversation than I could have walked another fourteen kilometres. After walking around the village to get my bearings, I positioned myself at a table with a pot of tea and took out my journal to write. Writing helped me to process my feelings and explore what was going on. The holiday atmosphere really jarred with me and I felt out of sync with the rest of the world. I didn’t know what I wanted, while I had a list of all the things I didn’t want. At the centre of it was my ongoing resistance to the evening meal, the pilgrim menu. In addition, I was resisting drinking alcohol as a way of passing time, while others appeared to be doing it with gusto.

      The pilgrim menu, a standard three-course meal served everywhere along the Camino, varies hardly at all from place to place, either in variety or cost. A simple salad – by simple I mean lettuce and tomato – or soup to start, followed by hake or stew with potatoes, but rarely any other vegetables. Dessert might be a banana, Santiago tart (almond), a pot of yogurt or sometimes ice cream, all washed down with red wine for a total cost of about €10. So what was my objection? I should be so lucky, right?

      Well, for days I had been trying to figure out how to reduce the carbohydrate content of my diet and increase my vegetable intake. Vegetables were normally only available in the soup. So in order to have vegetables I needed the starter as well as a main course, and then while I was there, how could I refuse a dessert? While my body had some difficulty with the amount of carbohydrate and lack of fibre I was consuming, my mind was even more troubled.

      Journaling helped me to realise the bind I had got myself into, and I began to see that my resistance to the pilgrim menu symbolised my rejection of how things were, a refusal to accept what is, which meant that I vetoed everything around me. In an ideal world, one of my own making, I would have had more control over my diet, but if I was to have any peace, I had to accept what was available. I was doing the Camino, after all, and pilgrim dinners were part of the deal!

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Alone, Burgos, Camino, Camino Frances, control, Hontanas, journal, journalling, lost, Meseta Alta, peace, pilgrim, pilgrim menu, resistance, Santiago tart
    • Day 12; Belorado – San Juan de Ortega

      Posted at 4:30 pm by Mary Murphy, on February 9, 2020

      A peaceful and quiet morning was made even more perfect by the appearance of two captivating vistas within the first couple of hours. The first gem was a field of sunflowers still in bloom. Having seen many dead or dying sunflowers already, I paused to move amongst them and examine them more closely. We were almost of equal height! Then soon afterwards, I was gazing into the distance at the simple beauty of a small hermitage built into a rock. The humble structure touched my soul more powerfully than the grandest of churches, including the Compostela in Santiago, its impact being in its pure simplicity.

      When I arrived at my destination, I saw that San Juan de Ortega was pretty much a one-horse town: an albergue, a church and a bar – that was it. While a couple of the Irish/Canadians headed for the bar to wait for other members of their group, I waited with the seven men from Friesland for the albergue, a former monastery, to open at 1 p.m. Once inside I saw that it wasn’t worth waiting for – the accommodation was really grim. The only positive I found was that males and females had separate showering facilities. At least I could shower in peace, I thought. I wouldn’t need to queue behind or among the seven men from Friesland. With that in mind, I went into the ladies bathroom where I was met by one of the seven men from Friesland stepping out of the shower. He obviously didn’t want to queue either! His unexpected appearance ruined the one and only thing about the albergue that gave me any feeling of comfort. I was annoyed with him, and to make sure he knew that, I pointed to the female symbol on the door. What could he do? Nothing! He just muttered something in Dutch and left. After my shower I sank into a deep sleep and when I awoke, I saw Jeanie and Elaine (the Canadians) in bunks next to me while the others (Heather, Eugene and Bob) had decided to walk on further.

      In the afternoon I sat on a bench across the road from the albergue having my lunch and pretending to write in my journal while I observed Jeanie and Elaine in the bar. Although I could have walked over to join them, I resisted. My internal dialogue was preoccupied with thoughts of all the things I didn’t want to do at that hour of the day. I didn’t want to sit in a bar and drink alcohol at four in the afternoon, neither did I want any other kind of drink. This was a regular dilemma – what to do when there seemed to be nothing to do except sit in a bar. What I really wanted was some kind of relief from the monotony, but I didn’t want to sit in a bar to get it.

      Later, at about six o’clock, I relented, and with a glass of red wine in my hand, I joined Jeanie and Elaine. They had booked a table for dinner and asked if I would like to join them. Initially I declined and later I relented about that too. Over dinner I got to know Elaine a little and discovered that she was not as aloof as I had thought. I knew Jeanie better; I had spent more time with her and knew she was a talker. They were work colleagues who had become friends, and along the way they had met Bob, also Canadian, as well as Heather and Eugene, who were both Irish and had begun the Camino travelling solo.

      We were joined at our table by a lady from Australia who was staying nearby at a Casa Rural. She was doing the Camino in more comfort than us, which for her was important, but she realised it meant that the camaraderie that resulted from albergue living was something she missed out on. I completely understand why people choose to stay in hotels, but having had the albergue experience, I know something huge would have been missing without it.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Belorado, hermitage, humble, journal, monastery, peace, resistance, San Juan de Ortega, Santiago de Compostela, Simplicity, Soul, sunflowers
    • Day 11; Santo Domingo – Belorado

      Posted at 4:25 pm by Mary Murphy, on February 9, 2020

      As I left Santo Domingo I began walking with Wolfgang, a young German man in his mid to late thirties. Although initially I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to walk with him, I allowed myself to find out. The previous evening we had sat across from one another at the dining table in the albergue. He had tried to include me in conversation with the people he knew at the table. However, I had retreated back into myself and it wasn’t easy to draw me out. It really says a lot about someone who continues to act kindly in the face of little encouragement. So having had that experience with Wolfgang I was positively predisposed towards him. After three or four kilometres together we were joined by Eugene, an Irishman from Cork who lived on the Isle of Man. He was walking the Camino with an Irish woman and a group of Canadians.

      As we approached the first village I could see the bar was busy and some people were sitting outside, amongst them the two Dutch ladies I had paid little attention to, as well as members of Eugene’s walking group. Instead of heading straight for the bar as I hoped, Wolfgang unexpectedly went into the church, and as soon as I saw him disappear, I felt lost. I wasn’t sure what to do. Although I wanted a rest over coffee, suddenly that seemed next to impossible. For some unknown reason I felt unable to walk into the bar with Eugene. To buy some time, I went into the church too. Really I was just hiding while I tried to work out what to do. In the end I decided to walk on.

      At the next village, four kilometres later, I stopped for coffee and within about ten minutes I was joined by Eugene while he waited for one of his group. He began by asking why I hadn’t stopped to join them earlier. In the face of his challenging enquiry, I lied and said I hadn’t felt the need to stop then. I decided it wasn’t a moment for truth. My experience of Eugene had already made me wary. I had the feeling that however unintentional it might be, he could trample on my sensitivities. In contrast, I felt safe with Wolfgang. With him I experienced kindness, gentleness and a respectful distance, while Eugene was a bit more of a bull in a china shop.

      In Belorado there were lots of places to stay, and as a result, the hospitaleros competed for pilgrim custom. One enterprising albergue owner came out to meet us, offering bottles of water while advertising his albergue at the same time. By coincidence it was his albergue that had already caught my attention so in my case his advertising wasn’t necessary. On the way inside, I met Elaine, one of the Canadians, and we both made reservations for the dinner the owners provided on site. Almost immediately I became aware of my attempts to ingratiate myself with Elaine. I was fully aware of what I was doing: I was trying to ensure I was part of the Irish/Canadian party for dinner.

      In the evening while we waited in the foyer before going in to dinner, I overheard someone say that Elaine had booked a table for six people. That worried me a little: I didn’t think it was necessary to book a table; I had assumed it would be a communal meal. Then I hoped I was the sixth person, as there were five members of the Irish/Canadian group. Wrong – it was a New Zealander named Les. I made the discovery while we waited in line on the stairs, and when I entered the dining room they were seated at a table for six. Other tables were set for smaller numbers and I wondered if they had also been reserved. I felt like a spare part. But more than anything I felt hurt by what I saw at the time as Elaine’s meanness. In the awkwardness of the moment, Les rose from his seat quickly, insisting I take it, saying he was the imposter. But the staff sprang into action and placed an extra chair at the end of the table, which I took. By then, whatever confidence I had about being there had evaporated, and in my mind I blamed Elaine for my discomfort. On more mature reflection, I know it would have been so much easier if I had asked to join them, thereby taking the power into my own hands, rather than placing it in someone else’s.

      With Eugene and Les either side of me, we talked about a variety of subjects. Les seemed a gentle, open soul, whereas I found I had little in common with Eugene. His conversation focused mostly on business, which is not something I have much interest in, and I had even less interest in what he had to say when he told me I was taking the Camino too seriously. His judgement felt really hurtful and stayed with me for days, although at the time I tried to conceal my feelings. I felt hurt because I knew I couldn’t have been more sincere in my endeavours, and yet somewhere within me I also knew there was a truth in what he said.

      Although I don’t know what prompted his comment, I imagine it may have been because of something repeated to him by Jeanie (one of the Canadians). When I had walked with her earlier in the day, I had told her I was seeking to experience a depth of inner aloneness, and that I was willing to tolerate the layers of vulnerability that came with it. On reflection, I realise that in some circles that makes me a little unusual. The notion of inner aloneness had come up at a retreat I attended a couple of months earlier. I understood it to mean the place beyond the illusion of separation, where inner aloneness is in fact experienced as unity with the Divine, rather than the aloneness I was more familiar with. And to experience unity I would need to dissolve the layers of separation.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Belorado, camino de santiago, Camino Frances, Divine, hospitaleros, illusion of separation, inner aloneness, lost, pilgrim, Santo Domingo, sincere, Soul, truth, unity, vulnerability
    • Day 7; Los Arcos – Logroño

      Posted at 9:12 pm by Mary Murphy, on December 22, 2019

      The breakfast spread at Casa de Abuela looked inviting and I wanted to do it justice, so I took as much time as I could to enjoy what was before me. But I couldn’t linger too long as there was the small matter of a twenty-seven kilometre walk ahead of me to the City of Logroño. It was a walk I wasn’t particularly looking forward to as my limbs had taken a battering over the previous couple of days, and I would also have preferred to avoid trekking across a big City. Sue had left with the morning still bathed in darkness, while Manoel was coming to terms with losing his map and the consequence of its loss. The previous day’s experiences had left me feeling in an optimistic, positive mood so I asked Manoel if he wanted to leave with me, and my map, when daylight appeared.

      Mid morning we stopped for coffee in a small village where some other pilgrims were already gathered, and I sat outside with Dublin John. He was on a two-week Camino, which he intended to finish in Burgos a week later. While I waited for Manoel to join us, our conversation focused on John’s injured foot. We pondered whether or not he would be able to make it to Logroño that day at all. Typically, feet and legs are high up on the Camino conversational agenda, but it could get a bit tedious, speculating on exactly what had been hurt, and how long it might remain hurt. I needed some light relief, which I hoped would come from Manoel, but when I looked around, I noticed he had joined another table. Interesting.

      Just as Manoel and I were leaving the café, Elisabeth arrived. Earlier in the morning we had left her sitting at the kitchen table in the albergue. At sixty-eight, Elisabeth was an impressive walker, much better than me, and she caught up with us shortly after her coffee break. Soon Manoel and Elisabeth began to converse in French. He had lived in France during his Royal Air Force days, so he found speaking French easier than English. While they talked, I lost interest and fell behind, partly because I wasn’t part of the conversation, but mostly because I was feeling sluggish. In the distance I could see Viana, where we intended to stop for lunch. It looked deceptively close due to the flatness of the surrounding landscape, whereas I felt the reality of the actual distance with each step I walked – for me it couldn’t be close enough.

      In Viana, my spirits lifted at the sight of the enticing and extravagant display of tapas that covered the entire length of the long bar, its beauty alone felt restorative. While we sat outside enjoying a delicious lunch Dublin John came into view and joined us. Quite soon I sensed Manoel wasn’t very keen on John being with us. That seed had been sown in my mind when he hadn’t joined our table at the cafe earlier, and over lunch he seemed to make very little effort to include John. Secretly, I hoped John would push off on his own after lunch so that the awkwardness wouldn’t continue further into the afternoon and he duly obliged.

      As we rested outside in the shade Manoel phoned ahead to a private albergue in Logroño to book beds for the three of us. It was a relief to have accommodation secured and comforting to know that I would be staying in a private albergue. Before leaving Viana, Manoel found a supermarket nearby, so I was able to stock up on black tea bags. I had been missing my morning cuppa, as most albergues had vending machines that dispensed only lemon tea.

      Refuelled, we set out on the remaining ten kilometres to Logroño, which for me was even more difficult than the hours before lunch. By then the day was very hot, and although I tried to keep up with the others, I really struggled. My knee joints were swollen and my legs felt like dead weight. Every step felt torturous. I knew I should just stop and take a break. In fact I should have taken as many breaks as I needed, but I was reluctant to either let the others go on ahead of me or ask them to wait.

      As the afternoon progressed, walking in the heat felt almost unbearable, and by the time we got to the outskirts of Logroño I just wanted it to be over. Every step required physical, emotional and mental effort, so I left the navigation through the city to Manoel and Elisabeth. Then as we drew closer to our destination, I thought I spotted the albergue and I tried to point it out – they ignored me, and continued on. While I was annoyed at being dismissed, I still followed them, as I wasn’t entirely certain of what I had seen either. Within minutes we arrived outside the building I had identified earlier, having gone the long way round, which wasn’t very long at all; still, I was irritated as it confirmed I had been correct, although not confident, in my observation. As we arrived, we met Sue emerging from the albergue and I felt even more resentful. She was heading out for a walk around the City having arrived well ahead of us and seemed to have taken the twenty-seven-kilometre walk in her stride. I didn’t like her being so carefree when the experience had taken so much out of me. I was more familiar with seeing myself as the one striding ahead, rather than the one struggling behind and I didn’t like this new turn of events.

      Inside the albergue, the check-in process was unusually laborious and I found my patience further tested. I needed to rest so badly, but the hospitalero moved at a snail’s pace and she had an appetite for collecting more information than I was used to providing. When we were shown to a large, thirty-bed dormitory, I felt really disappointed. I just couldn’t believe my eyes as I looked around at what was more akin to an open-plan office and not at all the kind of private albergue experience I had in mind.

      When I lay down to sleep, it proved very difficult, as a group of young Spanish students were making a lot of noise, despite other pilgrims telling them to be quiet. As I sat up again in exasperation I caught the eye of a familiar Spaniard resting in his bunk across the room. ‘They are very loud,’ he said. ‘They certainly are,’ I replied before I burst into tears and lay down again in my sleeping bag. I sobbed uncontrollably. I didn’t know why I was crying; I just was. When Manoel realised what was happening, he stood by my bed and held my hand. Between the sobs I said to him ‘I can’t stop,’ he replied in his best English, ‘why you want to?’

      When my tears began to abate, Manoel and Elisabeth asked what they could do, and I suggested a cup of tea with my newly purchased teabags. As I sipped my hot tea, the Spanish guy from across the room came over to enquire if I was all right. He wondered what had happened to cause the tears. Nothing had happened as far as any of us knew; that puzzled him, I think. After he returned to his bunk, conversation turned to plans for dinner and while I was absolutely shattered I though I would regret it later if I didn’t summoned my strength to join them. However as we walked around the City savouring the atmosphere, I was very much a follower, just as I had been earlier in the day. During dinner my companions began to speak again in French and I felt increasingly more excluded as it continued. Truthfully I felt hurt by Manoel’s insensitivity in particular, as he was the person I had the primary relationship with. To prevent myself receding into the background completely I asked him to speak in English. It took some courage to voice as I was speaking from a place of hurt, a small place, a child place, rather than from a position of adult confidence and strength. It was an awkward moment as he didn’t seem too happy with my request, although he did acquiesce.

      After dinner and an eventful day, there was a lovely quiet hum in the albergue as people completed their bedtime rituals just before lights out. And as I sat up in my bunk the Spanish pilgrim from earlier mouthed across the room, ‘Are you okay?’ My nod indicated yes, I was feeling better. Sue observed the exchange, and I could see from her expression that she wondered what she had missed. But I chose not to enlighten her; I didn’t want to share my vulnerability any further.

      Earlier in the evening, Elisabeth suggested that my tears were caused by tiredness. Although, it was certainly true that the difficulty of the day dismantled my defences, I also felt that something deeper was being exposed, without knowing what specifically it might be. With hindsight, I see much more in the symbolism of the adults walking ahead of me, speaking a different language while I languished behind, unable to let them go, get their attention or voice what I needed.

      I met my inner child so many times on the Camino, this was just one of those encounters.

      Posted in Day by Day | 1 Comment | Tagged albergue, Burgos, Camino, Camino Frances, Case de Abuela, defence, emotional, Inner child, Logrono, Los Arcos, mental, physical, pilgrim, Viana, vulnerability
    • Day 5; Obanos – Estella

      Posted at 6:08 pm by Mary Murphy, on December 8, 2019

      After breakfast in Puente de la Reina, Manoel, Sue and I separated, and until mid morning, which on the Camino is about 9.30, I walked alone. Then I met David, an Irish musician in his mid thirties, who lived in Paris with his girlfriend. We hit it off straight away, and I realised as the hours passed that I didn’t want to share him with anyone else. It seemed we could talk about anything, and our conversation flowed freely. We talked about life, struggles, heartbreak, personal histories, influences; we covered a lot in one day! I usually think of myself as an open person, but on the Camino that was not how I was at all. However with David I was completely open. I let him see me and I saw him.

      After five hours of walking together and only one brief coffee stop we reached Estella. Immediately, I faced a choice between a further uphill climb into town to find a private albergue, or settle for the big municipal hostel that stood in front of me. Despite my preference for small homely places, my tiredness dictated my decision. Initially we waited in the street with a few other pilgrims for the scheduled 1 p.m. opening time, not realising it was in fact already open. While we waited I noticed that the ease I had felt while I had walked with David had gone. I now felt awkward about our arrival together, as that often meant sharing a bunk, or at least ending up in close physical proximity. I also didn’t want anyone to assume we were a couple. Quite why that had any importance I don’t know, but at the time it did.

      Once inside the albergue, David placed his rucksack on the ground before he set about a comprehensive rummage through his belongings. I was puzzled about what needed to be so urgently rescued when we only required the usual items: a Camino passport and €5 in cash. Why anyone would bury them in their belongings I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know whether to wait for him to find whatever he was looking for or not. In the end I decided to register without him, and when I received my bed number I went upstairs, leaving him to continue his search in the foyer.

      Shortly after arriving in the dorm, Dublin John appeared next to me. He had been allocated the bunk above mine, and as we prepared our nests for the night, we did our best to navigate around each other without touching. There was still no sign of David. I thought perhaps the rummaging in his bag had been a delaying tactic, and I wondered if I had lost him. Despite the connection I had experienced with him, or perhaps because of it, I was relieved not to be sharing close physical quarters with him – it was easier for me to share such confinement with strangers – but I didn’t want to lose him either.

      We hadn’t eaten along the way, and even though I was really hungry, I delayed lunch further in favour of chores. That was a mistake! By the time I had finished washing, the supermarkets were closed for siesta, so any ideas I had about making lunch in the homely albergue kitchen were quashed. Instead, I found a soulless, empty bar along the street serving food, and while I could have explored the town afterwards, I had neither the interest nor the energy for more activity. It might have been a pretty town, but I was unlikely to see it, except on the way out in the semi-darkness of the morning.

      Late in the afternoon, I observed a few people, including David and Dublin John, chatting in the garden, and although I wanted to join them, I hesitated. I questioned whether or not I should. Maybe David wants some space, I thought, and as I second-guessed what David wanted, I held back and denied my own needs. In the evening, Dublin John was rounding up people for dinner, but I wouldn’t join them – by then I had lost any ability for conversation.

      With hindsight I have a clearer understanding of the events that triggered my reactions that day. In David I had found a kindred spirit, someone who spoke my language. He was the first person I was willing to confide in, and while we walked I felt held in a protective bubble, without interference from the external world. But when we were reunited with the world, it was a transition I found difficult to make; I felt challenged by the reintegration process. During the day when I observed David in conversation with others, I told myself not to be a burden to him, yet at the same time I felt burdened by what seemed to be required of me – assimilation into a wider group and the ordinary conversations of Camino life.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged albergue, Camino, Camino Passport, Closed, Connection, Extella, heartbreak, kindred spirits, Obanos, Openness, pilgrim, Puente de la Reina
    • Taking the plunge!

      Posted at 4:56 pm by Mary Murphy, on November 3, 2019

      Cork – St Jean Pied de Port

      In the weeks leading up to my departure, even though I longed for what I hoped the experience would bring, I was filled with fear about travelling alone, and if my flight had not already been booked, I might have backed out. Each night before bed, as I completed my routine with a variety of potions and creams, I thought about how few of them I could take with me and how little control I would have over my daily life. How was I going to deal with the loss of all the small, almost unnoticeable, comforts and crutches I relied on each day and settle for not much more than a sleeping bag and a toothbrush?

      When the day came I took the first flight out of Cork to London Stansted to get a connecting flight to Biarritz and an overnight stay at the airport hotel there. The following morning after a hot, restless night, I took a bus from outside the airport to the train station in Bayonne and boarded a train for the relatively short journey to St Jean. When I arrived less than an hour later, I followed the rucksack-bearing crowd to the Camino office to complete the formalities. One of the volunteers, a lovely man with a little English, helped me, and although I didn’t understand much of what he said, I figured I knew enough to get started. With my details recorded, I was given my Credencial (Camino Passport), which meant that I could stay in the pilgrim-only hostels (albergues) along the route. His advice was that in the morning I should take Route Napoléon, the harder, higher and more spectacular of the two routes out of St Jean, to my first overnight stop at Roncesvalles, twenty-five kilometres away.

      With the preliminaries completed, the same volunteer led me and two other pilgrims to the nearby albergue and we were shown to a basement dorm with three bunk beds. Standing inside the little sparsely furnished room without a soft furnishing in sight, the impact and reality of pilgrim hostel life began to sink in. Checking the ticket number I held in my hand, I identified which of the blue tubular-framed bunks was mine, before I tentatively laid out my sleeping bag for the first time. Then I placed the items I thought I would need later – my earplugs, torch and toiletries – at the bottom of the bunk. Actually I could have emptied out the entire contents of my rucksack for I was carrying only what was absolutely necessary. As the three of us unpacked, we exchanged information in response to questions that would be repeated again and again over the coming weeks: where are you from? Have you walked the Camino before? The most obvious question – why are you doing the Camino? – was one I asked sparingly. For me, the answer was very personal and I imagined it might be so for others too.

      As well as being the official starting point for the Camino Francés, St Jean is a significant tourist town. But I wasn’t a tourist and I wasn’t really interested in exploring; I was only pretending as I filled the hours until I could leave. Over coffee I looked at my guide book and maps, although I felt unable to absorb the enormity of what I was beginning to realise was ahead of me. Oh my God, five weeks! At that moment, five weeks felt like a lifetime.

      Back in the albergue dorm, I made my first novice pilgrim error when I began talking to one of my room-mates in the semi-darkness without noticing that someone else was trying to sleep. Oops! I was to learn in the weeks ahead to enter dormitories quietly, as pilgrims sleep at all times of the day and night. That night I slept better than I expected, and I was very surprised to find when I got upstairs to the dining room the next morning that the adjoining dormitory was completely empty at 7 a.m. I wondered what the hurry was, and at the same time I began to feel I was running behind before I had even started.

      Posted in Camino Frances | 5 Comments | Tagged Adventure, albergue, Alone, Calling, Camino Frances, Camino Passport, Connection, Credencial, Facing Fear, Faith, God, Intention, Roncesvalles, Route Npoleon, Sincerity, spiritual calling, vulnerability
    • Risk and Vulnerability

      Posted at 8:54 pm by Mary Murphy, on January 21, 2013
      Señal del Camino
      Señal del Camino (Photo credit: gabsiq)

      On the second night I stayed in Zubiri, a fairly grim experience.  The albergue was as much like a concentration camp as I ever wanted to experience. During the night I got up, to go outside to the toilet, which meant walking across the yard in the rain. I had heard the rain before I got out of bed but I hadn’t remembered that my walking shoes were outside! Thankfully some good Samaritan had moved indoor so they were only partly wet. In the morning I was up early and it was still dark as I packed and dressed without disturbing others too much. After breakfast when the light was just about up I set off to find the yellow arrow that would direct me back onto the Camino.

      During the day I stopped for coffee outside Pamploma where I sat with Christian, a young German, who was walking alone that day as his girlfriend had taken the bus due to an injury.  We were sitting out in a wide open square with lots of tables and chairs, and although it was midday the place was almost empty. Christian then sprang the big question on me, why I was doing the Camino. I took a moment to consider his question as my answer felt very personal to me and I felt emotional before I responded. I was wondered, ‘will I give the real answer or tone it down to something bland’?  I realised being truthful would expose my vulnerability and I didn’t know if I was ready for that. However as I began to find the words, the tears came and I knew I couldn’t deny the truth “I have come to meet and be alone with myself”, I said. My companion asked “is that not something you can do in day to day life, without coming on the Camino”? I replied “no, I don’t think it is, there are lots of distractions and I can’t do it to the extent that I wish to”. 

      It was strange and surprising to discover that even on the Camino it was difficult for me to reveal and acknowledge the truth of why I was there. Even on the Camino I was afraid of being judged. I had thought that it would have been easy to be truthful as I assumed that others would have similar reasons for being there. In fact, lots of people I met seemed unsure, some for the challenge (the walk), some for time out to contemplate, for others it was on their bucket list and one person I met told me he was there to give thanks to God. In this exchange with Christian I was beginning to come out of hiding about the importance of my inner relationship with God (true nature, higher power) in my life.

      My sense is that we were all searching for something – connection, meaning, purpose – whether we were conscious of it or not.

      Posted in Themes | 2 Comments | Tagged albergue, Camino, camino de santiago, Connection, consciousness, courage, letting go, meaning, Risk, searching, truth, vulnerability, Zubiri
    • Mary Margaret Murphy

    • Recent Posts

      • Taking the plunge! 30/01/2021
      • Guided by Intention 30/01/2021
      • Day 34: Lavacolla – Santiago and Goodbye 13/04/2020
      • Day 33; Ribadiso – Lavacolla – 32 km 12/04/2020
      • Day 32; Palas de Rei – Ribadiso – 25.8 km 11/04/2020
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