What follows is a direct transcription from a talk Thea Hughes gave to the PROBUS Business Association in Auckland City on Wednesday 4th August 2010.
My husband, Ollie, and I have hiked and cycled and travelled in many parts of the world and we are always looking for new and exciting places to explore. A few years ago, a friend told us about an 800 kilometre walk somewhere in Europe called the Camino de Santiago Trail. It sounded exciting. “You put a pack on your back and you start walking in the direction of Santiago in the north western corner of Spain,” our friend told us. “Everyone is talking about it; everyone is doing it. People are doing it by bike and some people are even doing it on horseback,” he added.
Ollie, always keen to try something different, lit up at the idea. We had already planned a cycle trip down the Danube for that September, so we altered our holiday plans slightly and extended our three-week cycling trip, which was to take us from Donaueschingen (a town in Germany where the Danube River begins as a small spring gushing from the ground) to Budapest in Hungary, where our trip would end cycling alongside the transformed mighty Danube complete with ferry boats, large passenger ships and cargo vessels floating upon it. It would be a simple matter to fly from Budapest to France with our bikes and panniers and continue our cycling holiday along the Camino.
But, as Robbie Burns said, “The best laid plans of mice and men often go askew,” and Ollie and I landed in Toulouse, but our bikes and our pannier bags with all our luggage stayed behind in Paris. Air France was in the middle of a strike and could give us no idea of when the luggage might arrive. To add insult to injury, as compensation for our loss, Air France gave us each an ear bud and a T-shirt (mine was so large that when I put it on it slid from my shoulders, over my hips and landed on the floor at my feet, much to Ollie’s amusement).
After two days we decided we could wait no longer for our bikes to arrive as the allocated two weeks was disappearing fast. Either we had to abandon our Camino plans or improvise. So we bought ourselves a backpack, some hiking boots, two pairs of shorts, two t-shirts that fitted, some underclothes, and raingear and caught a bus to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port in France, close to the Spanish border (which is where we had been told the Camino trail started). We knew absolutely nothing about the Camino other than that we needed to get something called a credential del peregrino, a pilgrim’s passport, which would give us access to the refugios – hostels where pilgrims could get a pilgrim’s meal and a bed for the night.
At St. Jean-Pied-de-Port we found ourselves squeezed into a small office filled with newly-arrived pilgrims speaking many different languages, all queuing to get their pilgrim’s passport and eager to start the walk. Many carried staffs and had scallop shells pinned to their packs. We were to see many scallop shells in the next couple of weeks as it is the symbol of the Camino, and signs with large blue and yellow scallop shells show the way along the Camino route.
Finally, armed with our passport (which had a crudely drawn map on the front cover with the names of towns and villages along the route together with the distances between them) clutched in our hands, we put our packs on our backs and set off towards our first destination, a medieval monastery 27 kilometres away on the other side of the Pyrenean mountains.
Our very first night on the Camino we slept in an enormous dormitory in the ancient monastery alongside 100 other pilgrims each tucked up in a sleeping bag in wall to wall double-decker bunk beds, with just enough room to place our backpacks and boots between them. It was that night that I realised I should have brought a pair of earplugs with me as 100 people snoring and coughing and making all manner of other night-time noises takes quite a lot of getting used to. I resolved to treat myself to accommodation in a hostel every now and then where we could have our own room and get a good night’s rest. At the same time it was exciting to be sleeping in the same ancient monastery where the monks of old had once slept; and despite the unfamiliar sounds, tired from the long walk, I fell asleep wondering what adventures the next day would bring.
We woke early, along with the first pilgrim who moved and began to rustle his plastic bags as he repacked his backpack. There is no such thing as sleeping late in the morning in a refugio. At first light we were all on the move. We walked in small groups, asking questions and learning about the Camino from others. We learned that the name Santiago is Spanish for ‘Saint James’ and that James was one of Jesus’ 12 apostles, brother of John the Baptist. An energetic woman in her seventies, walking faster than I could comfortably breathe, regaled a group of us with a brief history of the Camino and kept us entertained with legendary stories about how Saint James had been beheaded by King Herod and his remains placed in a boat where it drifted on the Mediterranean Sea, until it ran ashore at the edge of the known world. And how, 800 years later, a monk saw stars falling from the sky which led him to find some ancient bones with a parchment identifying the remains as being those of Saint James, which the Pope hailed as a miracle and proclaimed Saint James the patron saint of Spain. The hill was named Santiago de Compostela which, translated, means ‘Saint James in the field of stars’.
Throughout the day, as we walked and talked and we learned that the Camino de Santiago (also known as The Way of St. James) had been in existence for over a thousand years and had been one of the most important Christian pilgrimages since medieval times. We also learned that the Camino is not a single route as we had thought, but that there are at least five routes. There is the Camino Frances – which was the one we were walking and also the most popular route, the Via de la Plata / Silver Route (which starts in Seville and stretches for 1000 kilometres), the Northern Route (which follows the Northern Coast of Spain and covers 825 kilometres), the English Road (a much shorter route, approximately 100 kilometres long) and the Portuguese Road (from Portugal; only 230 kilometres long). It seemed you could start anywhere in Europe, as all routes ended at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, which is the ultimate goal of the pilgrimage We were amazed that we had never heard of this pilgrimage before. Every year, 100,000 pilgrims flock to reach the cathedral, considered the third most holy place in the Roman Catholic world, after Jerusalem and Rome. Why do they do it? They walk for weeks, sometimes months to reach the cathedral, enduring blisters, sore hips and knees, pulled muscles, sunburn and chest infections. Think about it – nearly 800 kilometres. That’s a long way.
As the days passed and we walked and talked to the people we shared those weeks on the Camino with, I tried to discover what their motivation for doing this gruelling walk was. I soon realized there are as many reasons for walking the Camino as there are pilgrims.
I was told that very early on, the Roman Catholic Church established a system of penance, and pilgrimages were undertaken as adequate punishment for one’s transgressions. Reaching the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela ensured that all of one’s sins would be forgiven.
Yes, there were those who walked for the religious benefit of having their sins forgiven, but there were just as many who walked for cultural reasons – like visiting the many churches, castles and bridges en route connected with the history of the pilgrimage. Others were there simply because they loved travelling to new and exciting places, and some just for the enjoyment of the challenge of walking all those kilometres.
But the vast majority of people I discovered were on a spiritual journey to find a purpose, to make a space in their lives to think and meditate and to sort out their problems.
Most people have burning issues at some time or other in their lives. Often, talking things through with a stranger is a bit like being on a psychiatrist’s couch. It can be cathartic, and by having someone listen it could pave the way to a solution being found. Each day spent on the Camino is an opportunity to give time to these troubling issues and to work out a way forward, which the hustle and bustle of modern life seldom allows one to do.
The highest point on the Camino is the crossing of Mount Irago. There is an age-old tradition on the Camino of placing a stone brought from one’s own country at the base of the famous cross which has been planted on this mountain. The cross is called Cruz de Ferro, literally “cross of iron”. It is a small cross at the top of a 30-metre tall wooden pole, but to pilgrims on the Camino, the Cruz de Ferro is a major milestone. Not only is it the highest point on their long, long journey, it is also a shrine where they can leave behind the burdens of sorrow they are carrying with them in this life. People don’t only leave stones there. An amazing variety of objects are heaped in a mound beneath the iron cross.
For many pilgrims who are at a crossroad in their lives, this place is the highpoint of their spiritual journey. This is what they have walked so many miles for, enduring physical hardship while battling with making decisions about the personal issues they have brought with them. For it is here, under the cross of iron where that symbolic act of leaving an object behind enables them to let go of whatever it is that is holding them back from finding a way forward.
Last month Ollie and I travelled back to Spain to introduce my book into the bookshops along the Camino trail and we followed as closely as was possible in a car, the actual route of the Camino. When we arrived at the Cruz de Ferro, I climbed the small stony hill to the base of the cross again and once again was moved by the immense pile of personal items that had been left there. A pair of baby’s bootees was tied to the iron pole; a wedding photograph flapped in the breeze, a straw hat, a gold chain with a ring; all left behind by pilgrims who had lightened their burdens of sorrow beneath this cross.
In medieval times, pilgrims who dressed in their traditional garb of cape and felt cap adorned with scallop shells, carrying a long staff and gourd, were housed and fed in hospices and monasteries along the way. Imagine what it must have been like in those days with thieves and vagabonds waiting to waylay them and take advantage of them. Food could not have been readily available and they must have been often cold and hungry. As modern pilgrims, we had a much easier time. There were small restaurants in each village selling bocadillos (rolls filled with cheese and tomato, or ham) and cups of coffee and hot chocolate to refresh us when we arrived. When the afternoon shadows grew long, there were refugios in every small town or village with volunteers offering us a hearty three-course pilgrim meal served with a bottle of wine as well as a clean bed and a place to shower for only a few Euros.
On the Camino Frances, and this is the only one I can speak about with any authority, the infrastructure is good and it is almost impossible to get lost. Yellow arrows and blue and yellow scallop shells mark the way at every turn. Our pilgrim’s passports were stamped at every overnight refugio we stayed in, so that when we reached Santiago we could show that we had walked at least 100 kilometres in order to get our Camino certificate.
Every day on the Camino was different as our path took us through rough mountain trails, rural lanes past farms and villages and at times even onto heavily-travelled highways. Even though we only had two weeks to complete our journey and chose to catch a train from Pamplona to Leon which meant we missed the starkly beautiful plains and plateaus of the northern Meseta (tablelands) we passed through some of Spain’s most wonderful countryside, from the Pyrenees and foothills in Navarre, to the green and Ireland-like Galicia. We met people from all walks of life, each walking the Camino for very personal reasons. We would strike up a conversation with someone if wished or could choose to be insular while we walked. We found that people respected and understood our need for quiet contemplation. In the evenings we socialized over dinner with newly made friends or met up again with pilgrims we thought we had lost contact with. Everyone was supportive whether you had a blister or a stiff knee or just wanted to chat. We always found a helping hand and willing listeners.
We met a woman one day who was battling with the enormous load of her backpack. We asked her what she was carrying and she emptied out her pack and showed us. She had bottles of wine, photos of her children, books to read, five changes of clothing for each week (each meticulously packed in a separate plastic bag); a big fluffy towel, and a hairdryer. With aching knees and painful blisters on her feet, she was willing to listen to some advice. She dumped all her excess paraphernalia and stripped her belongings down to the bare essentials.
Later she spoke to us about the wonderful feeling of liberation she had felt when she realised that all the things she had always considered absolutely necessary were in fact just excess baggage. Learning to let go of her worldly possessions was something which she would carry back with her into her everyday life even after the journey was over.
So what was it that inspired me and motivated me to write my novel Buen Camino – beyond the journey?
The groundwork for my story had actually been laid down many years ago when I worked in the field of child abuse – specifically with sexual abuse of children. Abused children do not talk about the abuse voluntarily, either because they have been told by the abuser to keep it a secret between them or because they do not think they will be believed, especially if it is a member of the family who is doing the abuse. And it is this festering, guilty secret, kept sometimes for a lifetime, that scars emotionally and psychologically. In my work with these children, I used puppets to help them to speak more easily about the abuse, for it is much more comfortable explaining what happened to a puppet than to oneself. It never failed to touch me how quickly, once the simple message – “it was not your fault that this happened to you. You did nothing wrong. You are not to blame” – had been given, that the child’s self esteem bounced back and the healing process was able to begin.
Many, many women have been sexually abused in their lives. You would be surprised at how many are still holding onto their secret, afraid to tell lest they be judged. One of my goals has always been to write a story that would manage to inspire women to stop blaming themselves for what happened in the past and be able to find peace and self acceptance.
Then three things happened in swift succession which brought this story to the fore. Firstly, a friend told me the story of her early childhood. Her mother, she told me, had been a woman of extraordinary beauty and love of life – what one might call a free spirit. When she gave birth to her first daughter, she made a decision that she did not want a husband and kept her child, which 55 years ago was a pretty bohemian thing to do. Over the next few years she had a further two daughters, each from a different relationship. Still she did not wish to marry. When her oldest daughter was 8 she met a man who proposed and she decided that the time had come to marry. The only problem was that the husband to be was adamant that he did not like the oldest child and told the mother to choose between him and the girl. The mother chose the husband. Whipped away from her mother and two sisters, my friend (who was the oldest daughter of this woman) was sent back to her father whom she had never seen, to live on a lonely farm in South Africa where she could speak only her mother tongue, which was neither English nor Afrikaans. My writer’s antennae stood up straight and buzzed. Here was an incredible story. True stories are always much more far-fetched than any novelist could ever invent. I had to use it. Yes, my friend agreed, of course I could write her story.
The second thing that happened was that I walked the Camino de Santiago trail.
And the third thing that happened was that whilst walking the trail I met up with a man in his fifties who had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. He told me how lost he had felt when he had to resign from his high-powered job as he could no longer remember names, dates, events. His doctor told him not to stress and to concentrate on doing the things he still could do and to let go of those he couldn’t. He was strong and fit and loved the outdoors, so he decided to do the Camino Trail. The small group of fellow pilgrims he found himself travelling with understood his disability and made him feel safe. They made sure he didn’t lose his wallet or belongings and re-orientated him when he forgot where he was or why he was there. He began to relax and accept his illness. All that was required of him was to walk from town to town. He did not have to remember anyone’s name as he called all women he met Rosebud, and he did not have to remember how to get home. His home was always the refugio he reached at the end of the day. When he reached the end of the pilgrimage at Santiago he did it all over again. When I met him, he had done it three times and was living in an old house he had bought and was busy renovating it into a refugio for the Camino pilgrims to lodge in. He had found his home on the Camino.
I was excited. Fresh from my immersion in the journey of the Camino, which had been teeming with people trying to make sense of the curveballs life had thrown them, I began to craft my novel.
Essentially, Buen Camino – beyond the journey, is Ana’s spiritual journey. Returned at the age of 8, like an unwanted gift, to a man she has never seen; to a foreign land and a foreign tongue, my protagonist, Ana, becomes trapped in an incestuous relationship with her father.
Then, as an adult, burdened with her secret, she walks the Camino Trail. There she meets Richard, a gentle, older man who, even though he suffers from the first stages of Alzheimer’s, readily lends Ana support and companionship. These two pilgrims, one who can not remember and on who can not forget, become friends; and Richard teaches Ana to leave the past behind and to live in the here and now as his illness has forced him to do. Richard shares his dream with Ana of one day opening a refugio on the side of the trail.
Many of the characters I met while walking the Camino appear in the book, as do many of the incidents that took place along the trail. For example, needing a doctor for my blistered, itchy feet in the middle of the night; the three-course pilgrim meals we were served, with a bottle of red wine (tinto) thrown in for sustenance, the refugios we slept in with double bunks, where the snores and visceral noises of sleeping pilgrims keep you awake most of the night; the Monastery where we were greeted with slices of melon and a small glass of wine and, of course, the unforgettable conversations we had with fellow pilgrims en route. Much was drawn from my real life experience of the Camino. Even the house that Richard finds in the narrative is based on the original 500-year old stone house my friend on the Camino bought which is now a functioning refugio and which you have to walk right past when you do the trail.
Buen Camino is a tale of of romance and drama, but most of all, I hope it is an inspirational one. For Ana, the act of walking the Camino has less to do with visiting a physical place than of finding that empty place inside herself, that void, either real or imagined and filling it with purpose and inner peace, which I think, is as good a reason as any to walk the gruelling nearly 800 kilometre, 1000-year-old medieval Camino de Santiago pilgrim trail.
ENDS
That was a direct transcription from a talk Thea Hughes gave to the PROBUS Business Association in Auckland City on Wednesday 4th August 2010.
If you would like to invite Thea Hughes to be a guest speaker at a private or public event, please contact office@scintillapublishers.com.
