The Camino and Me

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The Camino and Me
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    • Day 3; Zubiri – Pamplona

      Posted at 6:13 pm by Mary Murphy, on November 24, 2019

      I was awake at about 6 a.m., and while it was still dark I crossed the yard to the dining room, where breakfast for me consisted of a humble banana and coffee. Deborah, (Walking for love of God) was up early too and already tucking into a big bowl of fresh fruit, while a man I didn’t know kept a watchful eye on a small stove as he heated milk for his cereal. Observing the importance they had given their breakfast, I wished I too had planned ahead for the nourishment my journey required. Not just in terms of something more substantial to eat, though that was part of it, it was more about the sacredness of their morning ritual. It symbolised to me, patience, self care and apparent ease with themselves. In contrast, I couldn’t wait to be off.

      Packed and ready to go, I waited impatiently outside for daylight to appear so I could be reunited with the yellow arrows that would lead me out of town – and to greater ease, I hoped. However, I soon realised that I could not get away from what I was feeling inside and I knew it was going to be a repeat of the day before. The Camino I was experiencing was not the one I had imagined. I had misjudged it completely. Before leaving home, I thought I would love walking in expectation that I would get lost in the peace and beauty of it all. How wrong I was!

      During the morning I crossed paths with Sue and Manoel for the first time, while they had met a couple of days earlier in St Jean. Sue, a South African in her early fifties, had begun the Camino with her father, but they had separated soon afterwards to walk at a pace that suited them individually. Manoel, a sixty-something Brazilian, fell into step behind, while Sue and I talked, Sue every so often relaying to him the substance of our conversation and throwing in the few words of Portuguese he had been teaching her.

      After a while I walked on ahead of them as I found it challenging to be around people for any real length of time. The pain I was carrying inside felt like a dead weight and made it difficult for me to speak and connect with others. It was as though we were orbiting different planets and what I really wanted was to scream and lash out at the world I felt locked within, but instead of screaming I remained silent.

      My utter disbelief at how awful my experience felt didn’t get any easier to accept as the hours rolled by. In fact, it was further compounded by the struggle between my need for rest and my desire to run for the hills as I faced the challenge presented by the first opportunity to stop for coffee. Facing people I knew was difficult. I couldn’t say how I was feeling, so I knew I would have to pretend I was fine and I found that incredibly hard.

      At a busy outdoor tavern an array of brightly coloured rucksacks stood lined up against the wall while their owners sat at the many outdoor tables, chatting and having fun. I noticed the chatty young South African woman with her Dutch companion from the previous day, and while I stood at the bar waiting for my coffee, I scanned the environment for other seating possibilities. Seeing no alternative, I steeled myself to go and join the faces I recognised and although I tried to participate in conversation it was a huge effort for me. Then as soon as I finished my coffee, I fled. I had to get away to recommence my walk; I had to be alone. When I was with others, it amplified the painful depth of my disconnection from the world, and although I felt compelled to be alone, I also felt the pain and isolation of aloneness. I felt as though I was a small island adrift from the mainland, without the means to return home but I also know that even if I had been sent a life raft, I would not have taken it.

      Another, less crowded, opportunity to stop presented itself about an hour from Pamplona. There I was joined by Christian, a young German man I had met at the outdoor tavern earlier. As we talked he became the first person to ask why I was doing the Camino. On hearing his question, initially I felt stumped. While it sounds like a small, simple question, it’s actually quite big and I didn’t know whether I wanted to answer it sincerely or say something general that would deflect him. I was aware that a sincere response would feel exposing for me but I decided to take the risk. In hindsight I see that answering sincerely was more for my benefit than for his. As I began to find the words, tears came. ‘I’ve come to meet, and be alone with, myself,’ I said. In response, Christian wondered if that was not something I could do at home and I said ‘not in the way I want to experience it’. Actually I had come in the hope of experiencing a deep encounter with my soul. I wanted to be close to God, although I didn’t say so. I noticed my reluctance to name God and soul. Even on the Camino, where I might have assumed pilgrims were accepting and open about their spirituality, I felt vulnerable and reluctant to reveal mine.

      When I arrived in Pamplona in the blazing heat of the early afternoon, I found myself standing outside a homely and inviting two-storey stone house that advertised itself as an albergue and I decided to check it out. Inside it looked and felt just like a family home, and once the preliminaries were completed, I was shown to my bunk in one of the upstairs rooms. It was a complete contrast to the night before – more like staying in a bed and breakfast, where breakfast was offered for an extra €2.50. I found a little more of myself there, as the hospitaleros, two German men in their fifties, offered a more caring experience, in contrast with the no care experience of the previous night.

      In the evening, I was partly filling time and partly hoping to have a spiritual encounter that would connect me with God and myself so I joined a small local community for rosary in the Cathedral. Just when I though the rosary had reached an uneventful conclusion, I noticed the congregation joining the priest to walk in procession around the large, almost empty, church, while they were accompanied by what sounded like a choir of angels. Immediately, I felt moved to join them but I hesitated, telling myself I didn’t know where they were going! However, I felt drawn as if by magnet to the procession, and I put aside any reticence I felt about my spirit being so visible. While I walked slowly around the church, something within me melted as I sank deeper into connection. Then when I came into line with the choir I stopped to digest the experience fully, taking in the ordinariness of the group of men in front of me. As they sang, they channelled pure love and I felt transported to another world. The one I had inhabited earlier in the day had dissolved into a puddle.

      To witness the coming together of the local community to honour their connection with God, with themselves and each other touched me deeply. It was the apparent ease with which they took their place in honour of their God that affected me most, and I realised my struggle lay in the tension between my longing to satisfy the needs of my soul and my resistance to its fulfilment.

      Despite the uplifting experience in the Cathedral, once I returned to the albergue, I noticed myself withdraw. I didn’t have it in me to go and join the group in the garden for a drink, even though I had regained more of myself that day. As I lay down on my bunk I could hear laughter downstairs, and I wished I had a buddy to make my experience easier. I seemed to need someone to open the door for me, so most of the time I felt as if I was on the outside looking in, wanting what others had while I stayed in the shadows.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged aloneness, beauty, Camino, Connection, disconnection, ease, emotional pain, God, Home, hospitaleros, isolation, longing, morning ritual, Pamplona, patience, peace, resistance, sacredness, self care, separation, Soul, spirituality, Zubiri
    • Day 2; Roncesvalles – Zubiri

      Posted at 4:09 pm by Mary Murphy, on November 18, 2019

      When I set off on my second day I hoped that walking would bring some ease to my inner discomfort. However, with each passing kilometre I felt more overwhelmed by how alone I felt in the world. What I felt was the confusion of a child standing alone in a playground while others played together. It felt like being locked inside, unable to get out.

      By the time I reached my first coffee stop at a roadside bar, I felt really cross, frustrated and deeply resentful. I was desperate for a break but when I saw groups of people gathered outside chatting comfortably, I considered walking on and it took every ounce of will to push myself in through the doorway. Once I re-emerged, I sat with my coffee and bacon sandwich at the only unoccupied outdoor table available, where I was joined by a brazen village cat who wasn’t put off by my lack of encouragement. Within minutes a young, very chatty South African woman and her Dutch walking companion joined my table. There followed the usual opening questions before she told me that the experience was, for her, wonderful. At the time, I couldn’t imagine how that was possible, and part of me thought, she’s can’t be doing the Camino! The contrast in our experiences could not have been more marked, and it was that very contrast that meant I couldn’t stay with her for long and soon I was eager to be off again.

      Leaving my lunch companions behind, I continued to walk until I reached Zubiri at about 1 p.m., and I headed straight for the municipal albergue. On arrival I could see a large, derelict yard at the front of the building. It really was particularly uninviting and although it put me in mind of Colditz, the prisoner of war TV series, I still approached. Inside, the warden sat in a small office, sandwiched between two large dormitories. After registering, he showed me to one of them and the Colditz feeling grew. At first I was amazed to find so many beds in a clammy room, and not only that – the bunk beds were welded together in pairs. In part I thought, you’re having a laugh, while another part said, I can do this.

      Shortly afterwards I made my way across the yard to the very basic, unisex, communal shower block. The lack of frills I could cope with; however, I was less keen on the absence of a shower curtain and the necessary equipment to lock the door. Although I was alone in that moment and glad to be so, I was aware that the situation could change very quickly. Then while I was under the shower, I discovered that I had left my soap in Roncesvalles. Things are going really well!

      After a hasty shower, I sat up on my bunk telling myself, via my journal, that I was well able for this, no bother to me at all. But as I looked around the room, my self-delusion began to fade. How would I fill this day, I wondered. I felt in a world of one, in an unfamiliar land, surrounded by strangers and languages I didn’t understand. In fact I wasn’t really there; I was waiting to go, waiting for the relief of darkness to come so that the discomfort would be over and I could get away.

      Later, as I sat at a bench in the shade, I was joined by a couple of Italian men who were waiting for more of their group to arrive. In my naivety I asked if they were staying at the albergue. No, they were waiting to be picked up by a bus that would take them to a hotel in Pamplona. My heart sank as I considered what they were escaping to while I remained in Colditz. The luxury of a hotel room was very appealing and in complete contrast to my circumstances. In retrospect, I see that hotel comforts actually make the Camino more of a holiday, despite the physical challenge, and I realised my four-star pilgrim experience the previous year had been really a holiday too. No wonder I enjoyed it so much.

      As I climbed back onto my bunk, thinking I might read, I was approached by Deborah, an Australian girl who told me she was on a mission to walk the world for love. I had noticed her earlier. She stood out because of the way she was dressed. To me she looked like she was on safari in deepest Africa, as almost every part of her skin was covered. Up close, I could see written on her wide-brimmed hat the astonishing words, Walking for love of God. Such a public declaration of her pilgrim intent shocked me, as I imagined that she might face ridicule and alienation for being so open. It’s only on reflection that I realise my thoughts revealed my own struggle to be open about my relationship with God. In my rucksack, I carried the book Conversations with God, and when I took it out to read later I folded back the cover so it couldn’t be seen. I was afraid that if people saw what I was reading I would be judged and labelled one of them. In hindsight I see how significant it was that Deborah approached me; she was reflecting for me my dis-ease with my own feelings.

      Then at bed time I discovered the long-awaited answer to the question of who would share my bed – well not quite share, but closer than I would have liked. A German man that I had met in St Jean had the honour! There, he had occupied the bunk above mine, and to acknowledge that we were getting closer, I said, ‘We are destined to share a bed’. But I don’t think he understood my attempt at humour. That marked the beginning and the end of our conversation. Besides, I was ready for lights out and oblivion. However, for that I had to wait a little longer, until everyone settled down. Until then, the overhead light remained on while people folded and repacked their noisy plastic bags in readiness for the next day’s departure.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Alone, Camino Frances, Discomfort, Isolated, Loney, municipal albergue, relationship with God, Roncesvalles, Zubiri
    • Day 1; St Jean Pied de Port – Roncesvalles

      Posted at 5:17 pm by Mary Murphy, on November 3, 2019

      On a drizzly Sunday morning my Camino officially began with less composure than I had anticipated, for I hurried through town trying to catch up with those who had set out ahead of me. After about half an hour, my efforts to draw level were rewarded, but I was cautious in my interactions and I didn’t speak to anyone for an hour or two. My first attempt at conversation was with a Japanese man in his seventies. He was with a group, although when I met him they had stretched out and he was walking alone. We proceeded together for a short distance before I acknowledged to myself that I felt ill at ease and I moved on ahead.

      Later I met two girls from South Korea and we walked together to Orisson, where we stopped for coffee after quite a strenuous ten-kilometre climb. Outside the bar there were lots of tables and stunning views. So after being served I went outside with my coffee, leaving the girls to decide which cake to choose. As I waited for them to emerge, I covertly searched my rucksack for something of my own to eat, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed the girls walking across the road to the terrace on the other side. I hadn’t expected that, and I didn’t actually want to be on my own, yet I didn’t move to join them. Looking around at the other occupied tables, I observed that I was the only person sitting alone and I began to feel out of place. Shortly afterwards, I waved goodbye to the South Korean girls and left to continue the climb.

      Along the route, although I wanted to connect with people, I remained cautious about engaging in conversation. As the day wore on, I realised that the Camino was going to be challenging for me in ways I had hoped not to experience. While most pilgrims observed the practice of wishing each other ‘Buen Camino’ (enjoy it) my greeting was quietly spoken, if at all. Later I had lunch at a rest point which doubled as a Camino census station; actually it might have been more a census station that doubled as a rest point. This consisted of a mobile unit, where a man recorded on a white board the number and nationality of passing pilgrims. Looking closely, I saw that three Irish people had passed before me that day and I fantasised about catching up with them, as I imagined I would feel less alone if I met someone from home.

      Although the views across the Pyrénées were at times spectacular, I was more focused on the destination than the journey. I was worried about securing a bed in Roncesvalles, and my anxiety meant that I didn’t take as much rest as I needed. So by the time I arrived I was frustrated by the physical and emotional struggle, and ready to collapse with exhaustion.

      At about 4 p.m. I stepped through the albergue doors and into a large, modern facility with a busy reception desk. While I searched for my Camino passport and money, I chatted briefly and distractedly to a French girl I had met in St Jean. At that moment only three things in life mattered. My first priority was to secure a bed for the night. Next on my agenda was my desire to peel off the clothes that were stuck to my body and feel the comfort of a warm shower. Then I wanted to curl up for a nap. All other matters faded into the background.

      In Roncesvalles men and women had separate shower facilities, and one became available straight away. Once inside the cubicle, I saw a small shelf for toiletries and a hook for items of clothing. These were then protected from water spray by the shower curtain. When I was ready, I pressed the knob to release the water and stood back in case it was cold, but the water stopped almost as soon as it started. I pressed again and the same thing happened. In fact the water stopped each time on the count of eleven. Showering on the Camino was a functional experience; there wouldn’t be any luxuriating under a stream of hot water for some time.

      The large dorm was divided into four-person cubicles and mine was located just outside the men’s bathroom. This turned out to be unfortunate. Although I had earplugs, they were totally ineffective at blocking out the noise that escaped from the hand dryer every time the door opened, so sleep was impossible for me. Plus I was sharing a cubicle with three snoring Spanish men and at least one of them had smelly feet.

      Then I considered three possibilities for dinner. I could cook in the lovely kitchen, eat at one of the local hotels serving dinner after Mass, or finish the leftovers in my rucksack. As it turned out cooking wasn’t really an option – the small village didn’t have a local shop, and with nothing to cook, the kitchen remained in pristine condition. I didn’t want to go on my own to a hotel for dinner, and I hadn’t met anyone I wanted to have dinner with either. So I opted for leftovers and went to the dining room to finish my bread, cheese and meat. There, I was joined by the French girl I had met in the foyer earlier, with two young female companions, and I felt envious of her ability to make friends so quickly.

      With chores and dinner out of the way, the most difficult part of the day by far was upon me. With nothing to do, no friend to talk to, no distraction to occupy me, and nowhere to go, the remainder of the day felt endless. It was also when I felt most vulnerable and alone. All I could do was wait, firstly for Mass time to arrive, and then after Mass I waited for sleep.

      Posted in Day by Day | 0 Comments | Tagged Alone, Buen Camino, Camino Frances, Connection, disconnection, fear, Home, Lonely, Orisson, pilgrim, pilgrimage, Pyrenees, Roncesvalles, Saint Jean Pied de Port, St Jean Pied de Port, vulnerability
    • Camino Frances Introduction, Cork – St Jean Pied de Port

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

      People do the Camino for different reasons. For some it is a journey intimately connected to their faith, while for others it is a quest for something perhaps less clear. In my case, I was consciously questioning my commitment to my working life; I felt I had a deeper calling and I hoped that by walking the Camino, I would find a connection with whatever it is I am here to do in this life.

      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. I had decided to stay overnight at the airport hotel in Biarritz, which meant that I wasn’t actually in Biarritz; I felt more in limbo, in a space between two worlds: the familiar one I had left behind, and the new world that awaited me.

      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 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. When I looked around the little bare room, the reality of pilgrim hostel life began to sink in. There was no comfort in sight. 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? How far are you walking? 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. Truthfully, I was filling in time until I could leave. Over coffee I looked at my guide book and maps, although I felt unable to absorb any of the information. Oh my God, five weeks! At that moment, five weeks felt like a lifetime.

      On my way back to the albergue in the evening I noticed the church and realised that I had passed by it earlier without actually seeing it. Inside, the atmosphere felt magical as the church was beautifully lit by an abundance of long, thin white candles. With lots of people talking and taking pictures, I could have been quite distracted, yet I relaxed quickly as I felt the connection with God immediately.

      Despite the buzz around me, I felt a still presence and realised I wanted to set an intention for my Camino. Although I didn’t know what it was, I just knew that it would come if I sat and gave it time. At the altar, I lit one of the long white candles and placed it before me. Then closing my eyes I waited. In time the word sincerity came to me loud and clear. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I promised I would walk the Camino with sincerity; it was my promise to myself and to God.

      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
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