Estella to Torres de Rio

Friday afternoon it started to rain in Navarra . . . all night, the next day, hardly stopped . . . I enjoyed a writing day . . . a wander into town to see the fiesta . . . picking up more Spanish . . . in a shop, replacing rain gear, a bloke tells me he cycled the camino . . . that next day at the fiesta a whole cow will be roasted, given away free with bread . . . hmm . .

. . . the forecast is rain . . . the news full of floods in Catalonia . . . I tog up, ready to face my first walking day in the rain . . . say goodbye to Fina . . . step outside . . . overcast, but no rain . . . walk along . . . in the East, a glimmer of light on the horizon . . . up into woods . . . after an hour, clear skies . . . another hour, Luquin and coffee . . . another two, Los Arcos and maybe an albergue . . . a fast 20km through vineyards, olive groves, asparagus, cereal . . . rich agricultural land and easy paths . . . at 11.40 find a place . . . come back at 1, she says . . . not drawn to the town, wander along, find a map . . . Viana 18.5 km . . . Torres de Rio less than 7 . . . either doable . . . arrive at Sansol, Torres de Rio's twin village on an adjacent hill, then Torres by 1pm . . . a good feel, a friendly albergue . . . €10 for the bed, €18 including dinner and breakfast . . . why not . . .

Francisco arrives . . . works in Formentera six months of the year, winter, home to Granada . . . no work there . . . has €400 a month to live, plus savings from the summer . . .

. . . wander across to Sansol . . . meet Joe and his son Dylan, from the USA . . . three new pilgrims after yesterday's pilgrim fast . . . Joe is fluent and full on in three languages and we have a lot to talk about . . . it looks like Logrono is today's destination . . . more later . . . it's time to post this and get on the road . . .

dry writer . . .

. . . last night I considered options for today . . . stay . . . see Estella . . . write . . . or press on to Los Arcos . . . only 20 km . . .

. . . only three sleeping here last night . . . Du Yeol from Korea, Alexander from Germany and me . . . Alex and I eat in the bar . . . I wander down to Estella . . . a good ambience . . . a good night's sleep with no snoring . . . and this morning, heavy rain . . . no need to toss a coin . . . wet pilgrim or dry writer is an easy choice . . . I will face the rain one day for sure, maybe snow before Santiago . . . just not inclined to start the day in heavy rain . . . Fina is kind . . . offers cafe con leche . . . how much . . . it's free . . . thank you . . . people come and go to the bar . . . Patxi, Joaquin from yesterday greet me . . . my Spanish slowly improving . . . perhaps time to download Duolingo in Spanish . . . I have it in Portuguese . . .

. . . last night in the pelota court there were thirty or so children playing football . . . this morning a group of men with learning difference, mostly Downs Syndrome are playing . . .

. . . reviewing the blog from the beginning I see the need for some editing . . . there are inconsistencies . . . parallell posting on Facebook sometimes duplicating, sometimes not . . . unsure which of my readers are reading which, both, when . . . FB has its merits . . . more reach and I post the link to the blog from time to time . . . in the end it doesn't really matter of course . . . it's just the ramblings of an old walker/writer/father/lover/friend/pilgrim/philosopher loving his brief human incarnation in the decades between the 20th and 21st century of linear time . . . 

more on poor me . . .

. . . my story about the young Americanpoo playing poor me provokes a message from a friend . . . too harsh, he says . . . judgemental . . . I can see that . . . the difference between judgement and discernment is sometimes cloudy . . . and when there is triggering, from writer or reader, it is always worth examining further . . . explore the shadows a little . . .

. . . so, some context on poverty perhaps, but first the possibilities of the blog: a while back I thought about writing an autobiography . . . mainly for my children, because history is lost generation by generation . . . I know something about my grandparents, beyond that nothing . . . and it occurred to me that an autobiography runs the risk of being one sided . . . the story putting the author in a good light maybe . . . anyway, the story as remembered by only one player in each particular act of the play . . . why not write a wiki-biography? I write my view, invite the other players to tell it from their pespective . . . now that would be interesting . . . Robert Anton Wilson talks about each person seeing the world through their own reality tunnel, differently . . . how much more so with memories, faulty recall added to unique present perspective . . . the point being that this blog, Wear and Dao, may turn into that autobiography, and there is a comment tool readers can use . . . perhaps not as equal as a wiki but I welcome your input . . . if a topic wants exploring, let's all have a go at it . . .

. . . where were we?

. . . ah yes, poor me . . . let's take a look at my relationship with money . . .

. . . I already posted some thoughts on enough . . . consider what money is . . . and how each of us relates to it . . . at present I think it works best flowing . . . its job being a proxy for exchange of value . . .we can barter our gifts, the products of our work . . . we can agree how many potatoes equal a cabbage . . . in Local Exchange Systems an hour of work is usually valued the same, whatever it is . . . in practice you can have plenty of reflexology but getting your roof mended is trickier . . . at first maybe a conch shell stood for a unit . . . later something precious, gold . . . then power comes along, the stronger gather more gold, pay soldiers to guard it . . . money becomes a thing in itself . . . and toxic when not moving . . . like shit . . . works best spread thin . . .

. . . on we go . . . rich and poor . . . those in the middle . . . the fear of poverty . . . the fear of losing your wealth . . . fear being the block to a free life . . .

. . . very clever entities, possibly from another branch of homo, not sapiens, but hominid . . . characterised by huge intellect, zero compassion . . . develop a confidence trick which shifts the world from money related to gold to paper money, issued by Banks, lent at interest . . . protected by governments . . . then ones and zeros on a computer . . . when the whole charade collapses, their governments agree to generate more ones and zeros . . . humans who borrowed "money" are impoverished . . . mostly accept the situation . . . the illusion that governments are elected from below persists . . . the mind control of the media, controlled by the hominids and their allies pulls off the brilliant trick of convincing us that we are free to choose governments, commodities and so on; at the same time they sell us corrupt politicians, poisonous food, shiny baubles we don't need but yearn for . . . our status depending on having more crap than our neighbours . . . where police and army are clearly in the service of the state, ancient, murky networks of parallel power suck in potential rebels, promise esoteric secrets, deliver preferment in a pyramid where orders are obeyed without question . . .

. . . I have enough.  . . lucky whilst the illusion holds out and my pension holds out too . . . though not convinced it will . . . maybe go round the spiral of linear time, find land, grow food, share, build a better world . . . it's happening already . . . perhaps that's my destiny in Portugal . . . maybe Weardale . . . maybe neither . . . in the end it's all a blink in eternity . . . a moment of madness . . . I hold it lightly . . .

. . . in the realm of spirituality, this plays out in different ways . . . throughout the ages, sages have wandered without a thought for money . . . maybe the timeless beggar I encountered in Lourdes was one . . . playing with our Place to Be project, from time to time the price of things arose . . . I am cautious now, this is tricky . . . impeccable speech or writing is difficult . . . I neither wish to offer offence, nor avoid issues worth examining . . . you, dear reader, have the choice of taking offence, which is to say take it personally, or not . . . students of Don Miguel Ruiz will have noticed two of the Four Agreements already . . .

. . . if we come here with our unique gift . . . it is not a gift until it is given . . . not sold, given . . . how does that feel?

. . . those who know me personally will, I hope, confirm that I don't usually play "holier than thou" . . . certainly I am lucky to have several friends who specialise in pricking pomposity . . .

. . . taking on the beautiful rented cottage in Stanhope as a base for A Place to Be, there was no fear of how to pay the bills . . . even though I moved from a very basic £300 all inclusive existence in Larraine's spare room to more than double that, I was smart enough to have hidden half my pension lump sum in a deposit account for a year, which meant the lease was covered for 6 months . . . the universe brought that together with a Swiss elf I met at Findhorn, Corinne, who announced she was coming to stay with me in January 2012 and the idea that Gary and I developed to rent a cottage for the week between Christmas 2011 and New Year 2012 for five days with different topics to introduce our project to others . . . people brought food to supplement the leek and potato soup Tamma and I made each day (Tamma had arrived from Australia via Denmark, which is another story of synchronicity for another day) . . . sometimes people left money in the Chinese urn I found in the local charity shop . . . sometimes money was mentioned, sometimes not . . . as time went on a day each month was offered, then two . . . . First Saturday, Third Sunday . . . so many different people came . . . such a joy . . . Gary's view was that there was a value and we should charge or at least draw attention to the urn . . . I was not comfortable with it . . . I found work in the village . . . enough to meet the bills . . . the initial £5k fell to £1k, but rarely below . . . a few generous sponsors set up monthly direct debits for the necessary expenses of the project . . . mostly accountants' fees . . . a large gift to set up the website . . . we went up the valley to a larger house for a week's retreat . . . I paid the rent, bought food, indicated to friends who came a rough figure we might find together . . . on the last day, when everyone had gone, sat down and counted the donations . . . exactly what was spent . . . a shiver ran down my spine . . . gave thanks to the universe . . .

. . . this topic came up many times with different people . . . I saw friends paying large sums to charismatic gurus to learn how to generate abundance . . . looked like spiritual pyramid schemes to me . . . others struggled with earning a living from their talents . . . when Susie offered my angel card reading we discussed her tariff . . . she offered it free . . . I loved her gift, offered her more than her nominal rate . . . Gary was teaching mindful meditation, paid by the employment service, then the council and the health service . . . latterly a big contract in schools . . . impossible to do that as part of a gift economy . . . he always offered it free at A Place to Be . . . in fact, when we two first met, he offered me a free place on a government funded eight week mindfulness based stress reduction course . . . not that I was especially stressed, just his gift freely offered and the other participants, long term unemployed folks and workers from the service trying to encourage them to find work . . . his benchmark was not a job found, rather a self-reported shift from feeling hopeless to hope for the future . . . any separation between employed and unemployed dissolving over the weeks . . .

. . . looking at Buddhist traditions, near Stanhope I found three kinds, each with a different approach to money . . . the Tibetans at Samye Ling, with a clear tariff; the Soto Zen monks at Throssel Hole, a suggested amount to donate, bookshop with prices; the Theravadans at Harnham, all is offered, books published for free distribution, a few boxes around for donations, a lay sangha supporting . . . a great story of an old monk who loved to wander, begging his food in the traditional way in villages and towns around; one day set off into Kielder Forest, a wilderness on the border between England and Scotland; on the first day met a forester, got talking, invited home, spent a week sharing his wisdom, the forester taking care of the food and shelter, later joining the lay sangha. . .

. . . then there are the new age communities: Findhorn with an income related three tier structure and bursaries, not cheap; Tamera, around £500 for the introductory week . . . plenty of talk about an abundant universe, even courses . . . not so easily practised . . . fear at the root, perhaps . . .

. . . back to Buddhism in countries where it is the main tradition . . . on one level there is incentive to place a child with the monks . . . their food is assured . . . maybe also some antipathy in the hard pressed villages, when the monks come round every day with their bowls . . .

. . . so, the combination of a challenge from a friend and rain in Spain has given me the opportunity to look at this question a bit more deeply . . . which shadow part of myself was the young American triggering? . . . which part of my version of the story triggered my friend's shadow side? . . . we both have history supporting equality . . . my support of communism now dissolved, having understood the fatal flaw in its assumption that the end, the great goal of equality and social justice, justifies the means employed to get there . . . ends and means cannot be separated, they are connected, entangled . . . any violent deed done in support of peace taints peace . . . you might as well fornicate for virginity . . . my challenge for my friend is to see if feeding, clothing, sheltering a whole section of society we label the poor, doesn't effectively disable them . . . as the witty line in a radio play I heard many years ago had it, spoken by a young woman on state benefits to her rather condescending social worker: listen you snooty cow, if it wasn't for people like me, people like you wouldn't have a job . . . dependency culture working at many levels . . .

. . . does all this mean there is no place for charity, the impulse to help our fellow sentient beings? . . . not at all . . . each may respond in tune with their soul's call . . . for me, the beggar in Lourdes drew me to empty my pockets of change (though not notes), Juan, the Argentinian peace pilgrim, to share my food, make porridge with honey for breakfast for him, Sergio and me, and give him €20 for the road too . . . he shared his biscuits.  . . . inspired Sergio and me with his mission . . .

then to make a pot of soup for incoming pilgrims on my rest day in Puente la Reina . . . and if the young American had arrived sooner, he would have been invited to help himself too. . . as it was, Alberto, Elias and a couple of others got there first . . . appreciated the gesture . . . reciprocated later, though it was not expected . . .

Charles Eisenstein writes beautifully about the gift economy . . . charismatic author of Sacred Economics . . . of course it takes time to transition from fear based, money mediated systems . . . and if it's worth talking about, it's worth doing . . . how else will we create the new heaven on earth, except by removing fear and allowing love to flow . . . each one of us joyfully giving our gift away . . .

poor me . . .

. . . at the Puente la Reina albergue
yesterday, a young American arrived . . . I only have €60 to get to Santiago, he tells the woman in charge . . . can I sleep on the floor? . . . this albuerge is church run, the priest looks in each evening to ask: todo buen? . . . the woman says, you can have a bed . . . she goes away, comes back with a sandwich, some fruit for him . . . he is grateful . . . later, when Alberto is cooking Carbonera and the Koreans their speciality, he says, I am going to look for food . . . he comes back when everyone is tucking in to the shared meal . . . looking mournful . . . sit down, they say, eat . . . are you sure there is enough, he asks, ever so humble . . . plenty, here you are . . . well, if you are sure . . .

. . . there was something inauthentic going on for me . . . Albon was travelling without money . . . Juan getting by somehow . . . this bloke (I never found out his name) had €60 . . . the bed was €5 . . . bread, cheese, fruit another €5 . . . after that he would still have more in his pocket than most people in the world . . . and after Santiago? What then? Anyway, he was playing the poor me role as best he could . . . this part of the audience found his performance unconvincing . . .

San Miguel . . .

. . . a kilometre outside Villatuerta is the 13th century hermitage of San Miguel . . . I go inside, meditate for a while . . . give thanks to San Miguel for his protection . . .

. . . a few years ago I met Susie Warburton . . . she sees angels . . . she and her husband, Chris, both Oxford graduates and radical Christians, moved into a challenging part of Walker, Newcastle, to live, bring up their two daughters . . . they also have a cabin in the countryside . . . their retreat . . . I meet them there . . . we eat . . . Susie offers a reading . . . Angel cards . . . first: your children are blessed (I am grateful . . . don't pursue the question of which children may or may not be blessed or why); second: your relationships are a reflection of you (sound psychology); third; wild wide open spaces; fourth: your Guardian Angel is Archangel Michael . . . San Miguel . . . earlier this year, a friend in Stanhope, Denise, confided that she had a gift of seeing spirit . . . she didn't tell people usually . . . next time I saw her she said: you know you have someone looking after you . . . yes, Michael . . . she jumps . . . how do you know? . . . I see a Michael, she says . . . I explain . . .

. . . when I was twenty, I found myself in Washington DC, after a summer on Camp America . . . staying with a friend I met there . . . wandering around, heading back to his house late in the afternoon, through a park, beside a road . . . a car pulls up . . . a young woman driving . . . get in the car, she says . . . I get in the car . . . do you know how many people have been killed in this park, she asks . . . are you crazy . . . or English . . . er, so why have you picked me up . . . I just felt something was wrong . . .

. . . there are other stories, for another time . . . not rational evidence maybe, but surely a possible explanation . . . if you believe in angels . . .

Puente la Reina to Estella plus . . .

. . . the pilgrims travel in packs, flocks, shoals . . . since the norm is every day around 25km . . . the same group plus or minus a few turn up at the main albergues each afternoon . . . on the Aragon route it was two or three . . . at Puente la Reina the first night, twenty, the second night a new group from Pamplona . . . including a gregarious Italian who played his national stereotype perfectly . . . passionate, ebullient . . . after my early bedtime, loudly singing opera, the Beatles . . . drumming on the table . . . Camino party time . . . great practice for equanimity . . . impossible to sleep . . . decided to dodge the group today somehow . . . guessing they would stay in Estelle after 22km, I considered stopping before or after . . .

. . . set off at 6.15 in the dark . . . the way clear and fast with my newly superlight pack . . . like clockwork . . . an hour to Maneru . . . an hour to Cirauqui (a drink from the church fountain and lost for a while looking for signs) . . . a photo opportunity as the sun rose behind the hill town . . . Lorca at 9.15 . . . two Albuergues, both closed . . . a short rest . . . Villatuerta at 10.15 . . . a busy cafe, cafe con leche, water refill . . . a brief stop at the Hermitage of San Miguel (of which more later) and in Estella by 11.15 . . . to the tourist information centre and a friendly young woman with excellent English . . . Noelia . . . she worked in Canada for a while . . . visited Cambridge . . . I explain my options . . . the Albergue in town not being one of them . . . there is one a kilometre further on at Ayegue . . another small one at Azqueta, 7km . . . we have to phone first . . . and Los Arcos? . . . another 20 km . . . I can do it, but do I want to? . . . only two sides to a coin, so my choices are Ayegue . . . or Azqueta . . . I toss a coin . . . one kilometre, then maybe stroll back for a look at Estella . . . weather permitting . . . rain was forecast and I have dodged it so far . . . now, at 2.15, it has arrived . . .
. . . the albergue is a little surreal . . . owned by Patxi, a bloke with a very warm smile . . . he has walked the camino . . . there is a pelota court, a bar, dormitory, kitchen, showers . . . 70 beds, but recently only one or two pilgrims at a time . . . full in the summer . . . his record, including folks sleeping on the pelota court, was in 2008 . . . 250 people . . . one of the Koreans arrives . . . the Italian singer? . . . took a bus further on . . . his leg is injured . . . the other two Koreans likely to arrive . . . they have things planned . . . as for the others . . . let's see . . .

lightening the load again . . .

. . .  the woman taking care of the alberge in Puente la Reina gives me a sack for excess baggage . . .this time it's serious . . . sleeping bag, water bottle (metal and too heavy even before filling it . . . the flask will do for tomorrow), waterproof trousers (shower proof jacket, gaiters . . . cape for heavier rain . . . and shelter . . . is enough), heavy winter pullover . . . boots . . . now that's real weight reduction . . . be flying to Estella tomorrow . . .

writer . . .

. . . as a pilgrim, Sergio, with whom I travelled for five days, would tease me: always looking for internet, always on the tablet . . . not proper pilgrimming . . . although there has been no judgement from him or any other devout pilgrims on adventurers, secular seekers and others using the ancient Christian Camino for our own trip . . .

. . . and being a pilgrim, with pilgrim passport, gives access to the cheap albergues, opens the hearts of locals along the way, provides the company of an international crew of philosophers . . . their stories, insights, friendship . . .

. . . which means my roles are three-fold now: writer, cook, pilgrim . . . and would be philosopher a fourth perhaps . . . that's lover of wisdom above the other translation, lover of knowledge . . . maybe just lover of life . . . and like any good actor, I want to play the roles as best I can, all the time aware that in the end they are only roles . . .

role playing . . .

. . . when I was a pilgrim, arriving tired and hungry at the albergue and finding nothing to eat until late evening was a trial . . . at Monreal, for example, everything was closed until 6pm and the woman at the bar said we could eat at 7.30 . . .she produced a four course meal, which lay heavy since it was bedtime when we finished eating . . . so, today, taking a break from being a writer, I became a cook . . . made Pilgrim Soup . . . enough for the first few arrivals anyway . . . I have loved receiving food along the way . . . now I can offer it . . .

. . . the first pilgrim arrives . . . Albert from Barcelona . . . he seems pleased about the soup, though he hasn't tasted it yet . . .

more on enough . . .

. . . just to re-assure readers who can subtract 12 from 30 and know their Dickens . . . there is a cushion . . . some savings . . . for the past year or so this has been around £1k . . . for the journey it is around £2k . . . which translates more or less into €2k once the bank charges its fee for using the cash machines . . . then there is Helpx . . . a month's bed and board in exchange for work puts the pension straight into the savings . . . and now that I am a writer, Google (don't be evil) allows me to monetise the blog . . . they put advertisements into my posts and pay me every time someone clicks onto the site . . . the advertiser pays them twice what Google pays me, so everyone's a winner . . . hopefully lovely ads from tourism authorities in Aragon, Navarra and so on . . . let's see . . . I will let you know when to start some extra clicking . . . 

a day in Puenta la Reina . . .

. . . last night was interesting, the six beds in dormitory four full . . . a symphony of snoring . . . wake early, coffee from the machine, chat with Craig . . . Pep and Sergio come for breakfast . . . they are starting early for Estella . . . an easy 22km after yesterday . . . I join them for an hour, walking in the dark without the pack . . . easy . . . at dawn, turn back . . . pass Craig . . . offer to carry his pack up the hill . . . no thanks, I have to do it alone . . . pass other pilgrims . . . arrive at the Albergue in time to discover I have stay out until midday . . . wander the streets, find the well hidden tourist information centre . . . Tito's bar with wifi . . . reflecting on the roles we play and how much we can choose them . . . happy with roles, chosen or given; just want to hold them lightly . . . and having played pilgrim for a while and found the norm to be 25-30 km day after day to get to Santiago . . . encouraged by feedback from friends reading the blog and facebook posts . . . consider playing "writer" for a while . . . the camino is certainly a rich vein for people's stories, the way replete with metaphorical opportunity . . . slow it down, shorter stages, rest days . . . Ernest Hemingway can be my hero for a while . . . he is well known in Pamplona, just a few kilometres from here . . . read him years ago . . . shot himself in the mouth in the end I think . . . lived full on and chose his time to move on . . . perhaps all that bull-fighting pulled him into the bloody death scene . . . 

Three more pilgrims . . .

Josep is a philosopher farmer (pictured) . . . a farming family near Barcelona, studying philosophy at university . . . says he would like to walk a day or two on the camino with his mother, a gentle soul . . . not with his father though . . . Pep has done the ten day vippasana meditation programme . . . a weddings and funerals Christian . . . his English is basic, but we are tuned in to a similar frequency, so communication is easy . . .

Albon is a French seminarian from Lourdes, a pious young man, travelling without money . . . completely confident that the camino will take care of him . . . I suppose the church network is a safety net of a kind . . . I share my opinion of Lourdes, the commercialisation . . . it's the same in Rome, Santiago . . . all along the camino, he says . . . his trust in providence is uplifting . . . inspires me to lighten my load again . . . not convinced about going without money though . . . since providence has supplied me with an early pension, I am happy to put it to work . . .

Craig is an American having a crisis at 35 . . . last night I offered him soup . . . he declined, sat alone reading from his kindle . . . early this morning he was first up, before 6 am . . . hasn't slept for days . . . overweight, struggling with the walk, the pack . . . not sure about Santiago . . . me neither, but while I'm here, why not? . . . just more slowly . . . his work was political analysis for the U.S. military . . . we agree that politics is a game . . . he has no idea what to do, where to go . . . says none of the pilgrims he has met are Christians on the pure camino (whatever that may be) . . . your projection I suggest, kindly . . . his role is loner, but it doesn't have to be . . . a few words about energy, the universe . . . my father is into all that, he says . . . the harmonics of the universe . . . I don't ask about his mother . . .

Monreal to Puenta la Reina . . .

. . . 30 km on the map, so we set off early . . . 7.30, still dark . . . too early for breakfast at the bar . . . the next village, we are told . . . we go fast . . . the coffee like a carrot to a donkey . . . 4 km, 45 minutes . . . the village looks quiet . . . I explore . . . an alsatian loudly lets me know the limits of his territory . . . his owner calls him in . . . hola, is there a bar here . . . no, the next one is Tiebas, 10 km, do you want some bread? She insists . . . half a fresh baguette . . . these are the special moments on the camino . . . we press on . . . Tiebas, coffee, bomba (chocolate doughnut) . . . the road widens, we chat for a kilometre or two . . . Pep asks a cyclist the way . . . you are off the route . . . just what we need on a 30 km day . . . cross the Madrid road and railway, pick up the camino again after half an hour . . . the weather is perfect for a long walk, cooler, overcast, a few drops of rain . . . on and on we go . . . my mind focuses again on the pack . . . Pep's is lighter, all thought out . . . a litre of water is one kilo he says . . . thin layers, one pair of walking shoes . . . decide to take a rest day, sort out the pack, slow down . . . jumper can go, sleeping bag . . . the inner bag is enough, there are blankets at the albergues . . . wear in the shoes, then maybe lose the boots . . . it is so much about trusting the universe . . . there is a French bloke here, an apprentice priest, travelling without money . . . it all works out . . . so here is Pep, started at Montserrat, heading for Santiago . . . invites me to his house near Barcelona . . . tomorrow he and Sergio carry on, I have a rest day . . . the albergue at Punta la Reina is busy . . . the route from St Jean Pied de Port, Ronscevalles, meets the Aragon route here . . . French, Lithuanians, Germans . . . rain forecast . . . another good reason to take the day off . . .

enough . . .

. . . is enough . . . and I feel lucky there has always been enough . . . though discussing this topic with Ros and Hannah a while back they reminded me of the time a few years ago when there was a temporary deficit and they took me in . . . yet that was fine too . . . I had to learn to ask - Ros for shelter and a loan, Judith for a larger, longer term loan . . . it was repaid as things picked up . . . I tormented Hannah with philosophy as the price for sitting beside her as she learnt to drive . . . Jennie was a delight . . . Mike good company and ready to produce great artwork for projects . . .

. . . this financial setback followed a year of working in a small social enterprise, which set out to redesign the transport system in County Durham . . . a kind friend said: you could have started somewhere easier . . . another said: ah, County Durham . . . missionary work . . . our collaborators from Newcastle University had the evidence and methodology from European research projects; we had a community transport focus, allied with real time demand responsive buses, liftshare, taxi brokerage . . . an integrated system which would improve the service and save 30% of the costs . . . the local health service supported. . . offered £120k to do cross sector cost benefit analysis, design and prototyping . . . the Council, still focused on maintaining a local high wage economy above excellent, economic services, took control . . . invited tenders . . . er, that's our intellectual property . . . don't worry, we will make sure you get it . . . well, that's illegal even to say, let alone do . . . of course their usual consultants won the tender, wrote a report . . . they set up their own demand responsive service as another layer . . . we retrenched, gave up the office, my rented cottage . . . I found a part time job to supplement the work we found . . . sympathetic friends in community transport commissioned us . . . and there was enough again, for a while . . .

. . . important to acknowledge that globally people do die daily, because there is not enough food or clean water . . . politics . . . as Gandhi said, there is enough for everyone's need, but not for everyone's greed . . . inequality is out of control and serves neither rich nor poor in the end . . .

Teri would also probably remind me that my fecklessness was supported by her salary at times . . . though a sum when Mum died helped buy a house and the sale of an antique secretaire funded a holiday in Morrocco for the five of us . . . the antique came from Dad's aunts and uncle . . . Uncle Frank, jolly and fascinating to us children due to the absence of any fingers on one hand . . . lost in a factory accident . . . Auntie Nell, a dwarf . . . Auntie Em, rather austere, kind, spinster . . . later we found postcards from her soldier lover in WW1 . . . she had his baby, he was killed in France, she had to give up the child . . . a disgrace to a respectable family . . .

. . . on one level there is poverty thinking . . . the fear of "not enough" affecting people of all income levels . . . at times I have fallen into it . . . buying bargains that don't last . . . a year ago I went for new boots . . . I walked a lot . . . for the first time I bought good ones, have walked in them every day . . . they are serving me well on the Camino . . .

. . . over the years, I have worked in the system of contemporary slavery . . . changing jobs from time to time when things got tedious . . . and through that I find myself with enough to live on, more or less . . . well, there is around €12 a day . . . I am spending around €30 a day . . .  what could possibly go wrong . . . ?

Peace pilgrim . . .

Juan arrived at the albergue yesterday . . . going in the other direction . . . from a military family in Argentina, his grandfather and father implicated in the disappearance of radicals in the 70s . . . his father in prison in Buenos Aires, charged with 85 crimes . . .

Juan has decided to break with his lineage . . . packed his rucksack and set off for Jerusalem . . . seeking interior peace first, then peace in the world . . . travelled through Peru, Colombia . . . walking, hitch-hiking . . . took a plane to Spain . . . started at Santiago with €10 and wandered along the Camino . . . stopping to work with Helpx . . . finding hospitality, kindness . . . a wonderful encounter . . . this morning I considered going with him back to Urdues de Lerda, stopping there to continue the philosophy . . . in the end set off with Sergio towards Monreal . . .

Sanguesa to Monreal . . .

. . . a tough first half . . . 18 km to Ixco . . . late start due to porridge, philosophy and photos with Sergio and Juan . . . a gentle stroll through town before 9, saying hola to locals and hearing buen' camino in reply . . . then a kilometre steeply up to Rocaforte, with notices warning there is no more drinking water until Ixco . . . down the other side, stop to strip off to t-shirt, take a drink . . . whoops, forgot to fill the bottle . . . just a quarter full, plus the flask . . . hey ho, it's not summer . . . on we go, up and down, the path muddy and puddly in places, made worse by grazing cows and sheep . . . it seems either we have avoided the rain or it has avoided us . . . either way, I am grateful . . . four and a half hours later, Izco . . . pelota court, albergue, bar closed . . . a young woman arrives, opens up, cafe con leche . . . a rest outside in the sun . . . ten km to Monreal . . .

. . . which turns out to be much easier . . . concrete road over compensating for the muddy track and a slog through fields . . . in high summer it would be interesting . . . In Salina, two benches facing the sun and a welcome rest after 8 km in 45 minutes . . . the last 2 km into Monreal a dry woodland track . . . maybe it helps that it's near the end, but I reckon the energy of the trees helps too . . .

. . . Sergio already at the Albergue and Josep. from Barcelona arrives later, having covered 40km from Undues de Lerda today . . . but no sign of anyone running the place . . . nor bars or shops open . . . a sign says there is food at the bar later . . . if not it will be porridge and honey again . . .

simplicity

One of the three treasures of the Tao is simplicity . . . the Camino is a great practice for that . . . the Albergues provide basic, warm, comfortable shelter . . . not austere, nor luxury . . . the pack has to be simple too . . . you have to carry it (though I am told onward baggage is possible!) . . . dress is layers . . . put them on before getting cold or wet, take them off before you sweat . . . walking is simple too . . . one step after another . . . simple food, water to drink . . . life on the Camino or not need not be complicated . . . and the more you have to carry: worries, possessions . . . the harder it gets . . . enough is enough . . . which is another chapter . . .

reflecting on Lourdes and Les Chartels . . .

. . . sometimes it is best to say nothing, sometimes just to let things rest a while . . . plenty of time and space on the road to reflect and there are a couple of things to share . . .

. . . one of the drivers who picked me up after Lourdes said: ah yes, the church's supermarket . . . pretty sure Jesus would be turning tables over if he showed up . . . the only holy thing for me was an old beggar at the gate of the Grotte . . . sat impassively, like a Buddha without the smile, eyes fathomless, he held out his bowl . . . I took out my change, gave him it all . . .

. . . then there was the Vietnamese restaurant . . . noodle soup, no meat . . . very spicy . . . it's been over 20 years since I tasted it, but I reckon there was chicken stock in it . . . which reminds me of my children's granny, making us macaroni cheese . . . what are the pink bits Joan? . . . just some bacon for flavour . . . well as long as it's not a big lump of meat, it's vegetarian then . . .

. . . before Lourdes was Les Chartels, which I keep typing as Les Charlets for some reason . . . still rather concerned for Cat, living in a barn with winter coming . . . next door to the house she used to live in, now a second home for a Parisian who comes three times a year . . . a warning about ownership structures . . . a co-op with some investment could surely take her vision forward . . . find her on Helpx if you are interested . . .

Ruesta to Sanguesa . . .

. . . perhaps the perfect stage . . . or half stage anyway . . . leaving Ruesta at eight . . . hospitable hosts, Maria - feisty, Carmen type; Jose-Marie (Joseph-Mary?) manly and gentle, his two part name combining masculine and feminine qualities . . . maybe the perfect complement to fiery Maria . . . she speaks some English . . . explains about Ruesta's ruin . . . not inundated, the excavation of the reservoir undermined the foundations of the town . . . I could not resist the more dramatic story and the town/drown rhyme . . . shower, two course evening meal, bed, breakfast, snack for the road and wifi all for €24 . . .

. . . an hour of gentle climbing through the forest, an hour descending, half an hour up to Undues de Lerda, another hill village, alberge, bar . . . cafe con leche outside in the warm sun . . . reverie . . . birdsong and a brief moment of bliss . . .

. . . Sergio arrives . . . I left him chatting with Jose-Marie . . . we prefer walking alone, at our own pace . . . another coffee . . . at dinner last night, a jug of wine and a jug of water . . . only briefly interested . . . we both took water . . . I'm not not drinking alcohol on the trip, I just have not wanted it so far . . . something about aligning with the frequency of the universe perhaps . . . I remember from previous trips coffee with brandy in the morning . . . maybe when it gets cold . . . meanwhile maybe coffee is not conducive to aligning the vibrations . . . I will let you know how that goes . . . and talking about spiritual aspects of the journey, John O'Donohue quotes Meister Eckhart: If there were a spiritual path, it would be a quarter of an inch long and many miles deep . . .

. . . writing this in Undues . . . already over halfway . . . 70 minutes coffee break seems right . . . Sergio leaves first . . . his feet are better after he punctured the blisters . . . he has socks marked L and R . . . asks which is which, in Spanish it's E and D . . .  not sure it makes a difference, maybe they are special socks, maybe placebo effect . . .

and so to Sanguesa in Navarra . . . first town since Jaca . . . spread out . . . horticultural suburbs with small houses and big vegetable gardens . . . a small albergue, very simple . . . 16 beds, a shower, kitchen . . . €5 a night, cheaper than the free one at Arres, where €10 seemed right as a donation . . . Sergio has been to the supermarket and is cooking pasta . . . after that, a search for wifi . . .there is none here . . .

. . . and after a pleasant meander around town, a visit to the supermarket . . . thought to make porridge with honey and banana for breakfast . . . an English treat for my pilgrim pal . . . the library has free wifi and a map of the Camino all the way to Santiago . . . one of my pleasures after the morning hike is to walk without the pack . . . tomorrow to Monreal . . . my local map says 29 km . . . the sign by the bridge says 24.5 . . . either way, it's the next Albergue . .  the one at Izco is closed until March . . .

Arres to Ruesta . . .

Dawn descent from Arres, ready for a 28 km stretch to Ruesta . . . the way is along straight lanes, through fields . . .

James often says, "Life is to be enjoyed, not endured" and this Camino is neither race nor penance for me . . . and when the path is less interesting, the game is to see how fast I can go with the pack . . . today's answer is 5km an hour and the first stop is Arieda, another hill village, four hours from Arres and an albergue with bar for cafe con leche . . . enjoying the ambience and ponder stopping there . . . Ruesta is two hours further, but better for tomorrow's hilly leg into Navarra . . . leaving it to chance, I toss a coin . . . Ruesta wins . . . a strange, deserted place . . . mostly ruins . . . the albergue and bar the only place open . . . the only other functional building a holiday home run by the trade union confederation, in memory of the workers "enslaved" building the dam . . . which opened in 1959 and drowned most of the town . . . hello, says Maria, you're the first pilgrim we've seen for a week . . . well, there's another one on his way, I say . . . Sergio arrives soon after . . .

. . . yesterday evening, the priest came to Arres . . . Mass for the pilgrims in the little 16th century church . . . three times he sent Sergio to ring the bell . . . once to the bar for wine . . . only us in the end . . . interesting . . .

. . . the weather is changing . . . time to test the rain gear tomorrow . . .

Jaca to Arres . . .

. . . 25km according to the map of this part of the Camino . . . set off at eight, walking quickly along mostly flat paths alongside the Pamplona road . . . a couple of climbs to improve the view . . . the Pyrenees now on the right looking across the plain of Aragon . . . a ten minute cafe con leche stop at Santa Cilia . . . regular updates on the distance to Santiago . . . musing on what 850 km looks like, if each step is one metre and one thousand steps is a kilometre . . . after a short stretch by the road the path drops into woodland, then a grove of stupas . . . there are small cairns along the way, yellow painted arrows, posts and large signs, but this is a surprise . . . when did it begin? I add my stone . . .

Last night at the Jaca Alberge there were two of us . . . Sergio, from Ibiza, seems quite devout . . . started his camino at Lourdes and, unlike me, has walked all the way . . . this morning he said 25km was to far, he was stopping at St Cilia . . . they said it's closed, I tell him . . . his feet are hurting . . . two hours after I arrive in Arres, having found the key at the bar, had a good lunch and established the wifi connection with Pilar from the bar . . . here he is . . . looks like the two of us again . . . friendly, but his English is about as good as my Spanish, so we won't be doing philosophy . . .

. . .so here we are, outside the bar, waiting for the sunset . . . tomorrow 27km to Ruesta . . . after today that seems fine . . . the light walking is coming along nicely . . . or maybe I am getting fitter . . .

camino life . . .

. . . set off early for the four hour climb to Somport and the border . . . options were: lunch at the top, maybe stay at the pilgrim gite; descend to the next Alberge at Canfranc . . .

. . . after a glorious, arduous ascent, through well marked forest paths, arrived at the summit cafeteria with an appetite for a good lunch before strolling down into Spain . . . closed . . . walking round to get out of the wind . . . an old French couple and their daughter having a picnic . . . do you have food? yes, bread and honey . . . here, we have too much . . . bread, cheese, apple, orange, chocolate . . . thank you . . . their other daughter walked the camino . . .

. . . and so, to Canfranc . . . two hours to Canfranc Station, a tourist place . . . skiing . . . not much going on . . . another 40 minutes to Canfranc . . . the Alberge closed and the only other place with rooms closed too . . . onwards to Jaca, tomorrow's walk, but I am not walking it today . . . a few minutes hitching, then a bus to Jaca . . . a tourist info centre . . . yes there is an Alberge, here is information on the stages to join up with the Camino Frances near Pamplona . . . five days . . . Alberges open all the way (they say) . . .

Jaca Alberge is good . . . wifi too after yesterday's outage . . . a lovely ancient town centre to wander in . . . start to tune in to another language . . .

Arres tomorrow . . . maybe . . .

manana espana . . .

. . . or demain espagne . . . and a change of plan . . . after an early start in the dark of Lourdes, I followed the road signs for Pau, took the bypass and after an hour or so ended up more or less where I started . . . there is a poem on this theme I think . . . anyway it was met with equanimity, since I am not in a hurry and the training is necessary . . .

. . . hitching from the outskirts of Lourdes wasn't working, so I set off again along the quiet road in the direction of St Jean Pied de Port, though the route is not direct . . . the camino from Lourdes is marked most of the way, but I wasn't planning to walk it all . . . at St Pe de something or other, the first coffee of the day . . . perhaps my last addiction . . . I was craving it . . . in Stanhope I would drink a glass or two of red wine each evening; since starting the trip I haven't drunk alcohol at all . . . so far . . . at the tourist info I explained about the hitching difficulty . . . that's Lourdes, she said . . . I didn't seek clarification . . . outside the village, the first lift, and good conversation . . . a builder, spent most of his life as a chef, changed direction . . . a short ride to Bruges and another coffee . . . four layers leaving Lourdes, now, at 11 am, it's t-shirt again . . . nothing moving in Bruges, so walk to the next village, pick up a lift, another friendly chat . . . a short wait . . . Oloron? . . . just before . . . he doesn't talk, though friendly enough . . . drops me at a junction 5km before Oloron, halfway to St Jean . . . I walk it . . . hot, hungry . . . find a restaurant before lunch is finished . . . salad chevre and a plate of chips . . . realised I had skipped meals . . . 3pm now and late to make the still awkward second half of the trip before dark . . . see from the map there is a direct route to Spain and a Camino trail too . . . voie d'arles . . . check options at the tourist info . . . hotels here are dear, the Auberge closed . . . three buses to St Jean . . . one to Urdos and the Auberge open . . . she books my bed, arranges for the local organiser of the association of Chemin de St Jacques to meet me, sort out my pilgrim passport (so I can use the Auberges along the way) . . . not sure I want the pilgrim label . . . or that I will walk all the way to Santiago . . . let's see . . . at Urdos a 12 bed Pilgrim Gite . . . only me here . . . tomorrow up to Somport, down to Canfranc . . . and Spain . . .

Lourdes et moins lourd . . .

. . . a brief conversation over morning coffee changed my idea of walking the cycle route to St Gaudens . . . longer, lots of hills . . . good for cycling . . . some research on the Camino said the stage from St Jean Pied de Port is bloody . . . 7 or 8 hours up to the border and steeply down to Roncesvalles . . . mind focused walking the old route nationale, now by-passed by the motorway . . . the spare pullover, socks, pants, t shirt can go . . . one change is enough . . . and the survival bag . . . if I can trust the universe enough to travel without a tent, then what's the point?
The first hour climbing out of St Martory, sun coming up behind me, misty over the river, mountains calling alongside . . . good for training with the pack and the sheer joy of it . . . second hour on long, straight roads, an exercise in endurance . . . then a roundabout . . . time for a ride . . . ten minutes and a bloke in an old car pulls up . . . St Gaudens? . . . Lannemazen . . . 20 km past . . . a self-unemployed builder, returning from a quest for work in Toulouse . . . smoke? . . . no thanks I stopped a few years ago . . . he doesn't light up . . . people are very kind around here . . . hitch-hiking is very easy . . . I am not kind, he says, regretfully . . . well you are today, I say . . . and so to Lannemazen on market day . . . now that's what I call a market . . . a coffee . . . spot a bank . . . do you change pounds into euros . . . er, no, this is the town hall, the bank's opposite . . . a fruit stall . . . pick up a banana . . . how much for one? he looks at me briefly, a smile, it's free, don't tell everyone . . . a good loaf of bread . . . spread with honey . . . several passers by say bon appetit . . . lunch break over and it's hot . . . to a roundabout on the edge of town . . . ten minutes and Richard stops . . . Tarbes? nearby . . . philosophy ensues . . . and after Tarbes? maybe to Pau, up to St Jean . . . why not Lourdes, worth a visit . . . I can drop you on the road . . . he yearns to travel . . . most of all to go to Canada to work . . . his wife resists . . . the social security is not so good there . . . the suffocating embrace of the cave . . . he leaves me just 10 km from Lourdes . . . ten minutes and Jerome comes along . . . 21 years old and just completed his lorry driver training . . . a little more philosophy and information on where to drop the excess baggage . . . and so, to Lourdes . . . in the low season . . . a simple hotel, old and friendly couple . . . take the excess load to the centre de secours populaire . . . repack . . . much better . . . a tour of Lourdes, the huge plaza in front of the church, thronging in high season, mostly empty today . . . souvenir shops full of tat . . . surprised the Pope hasn't put a stop to that . . . a huge tourist enterprise built around St Bernadette's visions of the Virgin Mary and associated healing . . . decide not to mention the teeth . . . save that for the Camino . . . a local map from the tourist information folks . . . a route across to St Jean . . . tomorrow's goal . . . three days walking . . . four or five hours hitching maybe . . .

St Martory . . .

. . . two hours walking . . . up to Alzen, down to La Bastide . . . feeling the weight of the pack again, but no further forward on what to jettison . . . a sunny day and two quick lifts to St Girons, two more to St Martory . . . a sleepy small town on the Garonne . . . it was early, but I felt like slowing down, the town felt good, the sun was hot . . . hotel Chez Kiki welcoming, especially the hot shower after three days without . . . important to keep clean . . . there are a few other vagrants about and I am aware that I am lucky to have the choice to do this . . . and to find a hotel room at the end of the day . . . never planned to sleep out, though will have to watch the budget . . . still, it will work out somehow . . . 
Tomorrow's options: a few hours walking the back road to St Gaudens . . . other options there, including train to Pau, pushing on to St Jean Pied de Port and the high Pyrenees, which are very seductive dressed in white . . . or more hitching, bus . . . let's see what the morning brings . . . just glad to be in a warm room after three nights in a cold caravan . . .

supplement . . .

. . . as I go, I am aware of the blessings and good wishes for the trip . . . it has been clear that lots of people really get the point, or the pointlessness . . . two of the drivers who picked me up today knew of Krishnamurti and his message of embracing the unknown with an open heart . . .

. . . arriving in St Martory, I found the tourist information, checked the opening hours: 14.30 Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday . . . realised I had no idea what day it was . . . which I took as a very good sign . . .

When I arrived at Les Charlets a few days ago, Cat explained the facilities: dry compost toilet . . . piss where you like, especially on the compost, just not in the toilet . . . fifty plus years ago we had a similar arrangement at home . . . nothing wasted . . . great vegetables . . .

. . . if any permaculture friends fancy a trip over, you can find her on Helpx . . . Catherine Harrison . . . though best leave it until spring . . . and if anyone is really keen, she may be open to developing a co-operative ownership structure to take her vision forward . . .

. . . it seems Lourdes is more or less en route . . . wondered about calling in to see about my teeth . . . I am missing three at the front and have been trying to grow some more . . . lost three sets of dentures and gave up with them . . . an exercise in ego depletion . . . it really doesn't bother me and I don't have the resources for implants anyway . . . seems rather disrespectful to trouble them at Lourdes though . . . they have folks really suffering there . . . maybe give it a miss . . . keep working growing the new ones . . . that and the light walking . . .

possibilities . . .

. . . sunshine and showers today . . . rain here, snow on nearby peaks . . . another day to myself . . . Cat in Foix for her French class . . . exploring the land, finding the bergerie and yurt space high in the woods, gathering rotting logs, discovering two apple trees in a clearing, collecting a bucket full from the ground . . . some coppicing, cooking and dreaming of what this place will become . . .
. . . a small house in the hamlet for rent . . . consider a winter retreat . . . then the camino and Portugal call . . . tomorrow a few hours walking over to the next valley . . . maybe hitch to St Girons . . .

hugel beds . . .

Today's task is to continue building Hugel beds for vegetables . . . raised beds using rotting logs for nutrition, heat and water retention . . .

Cat has gone to fulfil her exchange: six hens and a cockerel for garden weeding . . . no idea what the exchange rate is, but the system is used a lot round here . . .

The sun is hot now, after lunch . . . later it gets quite cold and the only heating is in the caravan . . . a wood burning stove which makes the small space like a sauna quite quickly . . .

Cat came here a few years ago with Ben, her boyfriend . . . both keen rock-climbers . . . bought the house, two barns, seven hectares of woods and fields, spring water . . . so far, so good . . .

When Ben decided to seek a warmer climate in Andalucia, they sold the house to release his money . . . she kept the barns, with planning permission to convert, and the land . . . planning is one thing, money another, and the conversion is happening very slowly . . . so, there is shelter, with no heating or draught-proofing, wi-fi! , plenty of cold running water, gardens with vegetables, a friendly local peasant, Jean, who helps . . . and wandering helpexers who come and go . . . and,  since winter is arriving, this one will be going in a day or two . . .

circus at les charlets . . .

. . . and so to the first Helpx experience . . . a circus yoga place in the hamlet of Les Charlets, near the village of Serres sur Arget, twelve kilometres from Foix . . .
. . . a fair few hours walk, but most of the way a lift from a local couple . . . hitch-hiking changes on rural roads . . . stranger danger recedes and a more ancient impulse of hospitality appears . . .
Cat is from Australia, teaches Iyengar Yoga, trapeze . . . training ducks . . . slowly transforming a barn to a house . . . I have the use of a caravan with a wood burning stove . . . there is a compost toilet . . . a bath heated by lighting a fire underneath . . . the deal is bed and board in exchange for five hours a day work . . . fencing, fruit tree planting . . . the priority perhaps making the living space in the barn draught-proof before the snow comes . . . which is anytime soon, though the forecast for the next week looks mild enough . . .
. . . a few days, perhaps a week . . . a beautiful, remote place . . . let's see . . .

to Foix . . .

. . . a beautiful walk along quiet roads from Parahou towards Quillan . . . autumn colours in full glory . . . a half expected lift the last few kilometres . . . warm and sunny in Quillan and a steep climb ahead on the route to Foix . . . time for some hitch-hiking . . under an hour and a car stops: Foix? Mirepois, viens . . . no idea where Mirepois is and my French is inadequate . . . the driver is terse . . . I understand he is ill . . . his heart . . . his driving is erratic, overtaking style indicating he does not expect to live much longer . . . anyway, he passes the Mirepois junction, drops me at Lavenalet . . . a very quick and quite exciting twenty kilometres . . . a strange and friendly town, post industrial and not quite sure what it's for anymore . . . like much of County Durham . . .
. . . a response from a Helpx host near Foix . . . come Saturday . . . find a room . . . find out where I am heading . . .
. . . this morning, the perfect hitch-hiking spot . . . on the edge of town, after a roundabout, a lay-by and a bus stop with Plan B due in under an hour . . . after forty minutes, a car . . . Foix? almost, one kilometre before . . . Laurent, who speaks almost no English and somehow we communicate very well . . . on the same wavelength . . . a tree surgeon, as a child he wanted a job climbing trees, became a butcher, listened to his heart and found his perfect job . . .
. . . and so to Foix . . . a beautiful old town between Toulouse and Andorra . . . a simple room in an Auberge . . . a helpful Englishwoman in her shop, Simply British (Marmite, Baked Beans), hello, is this the British Embassy? . . . she calls the Helpx place (very remote) . . . gives me directions . . . lived here thirty years and loves it . . . easy to see why . . .
. . . lunched on camembert baked in milk, garlic chips, salad . . . the sun is shining . . . time to wander . . .

lost in the woods . . .

Earlier this year, in a rural area of the USA, a man was captured in the woods . . . a series of petty thefts over many years had worried the locals . . . now the crimes were explained . . . as a young man, he had mental anguish, difficult family relationships . . . escaped to the wilderness and lived there, foraging for food and stealing the other things he needed . . . he described losing his sense of self after some time without human contact . . . and perfect peace . . . in some cultures he would have been released to the wild . . . maybe encouraged to share his wisdom with others . . . in small town America he was a menace to private property and locked up for his crimes . . .

slowing down . . .

. . . having travelled quite quickly so far . . . with interludes . . . the time and place feel right to slow the pace . . .
. . . planning the journey, considered bringing one book . . . light in weight, small in volume, deep in content . . . Rachel suggested Anam Cara by John O'Donohue and I read her copy . . . perfect for rereading, dipping into for inspiration . . . take it as my gift for the trip, she said . . . Richard and Maggi discovered a spare copy . . . take it as our gift for the trip, they said . . . one book, three gifts . . . in it the author tells a story about travelling too fast . . . we have to pause, allow our spirits to catch up . . . walking pace is perfect to keep things together . . . and, not being so grounded, open also to other opportunities . . .
. . . a gift from Judith and Jean-Paul, a Michelin map of France . . . the balance between planning and intuition is interesting . . . keeping the mountains on my left should ensure eventual arrival at St Jean or Irun . . . the choices now appear to be Camino Frances or Camino de Norte . . . though the foothills of the Pyrenees seem also propitious for Helpx . . . lots of lifestyle projects . . .
Jean-Paul is rather scathing about would-be self-suffiency settlers . . . they head for the hills where the soil is no good . . . subsidise their lives with money earned in wealthier, North European countries . . . push up prices . . . ignore the locals . . . new colonialism he calls it . . . at another level, the impoverishment of Southern Europe . . . Greece, Spain, Portugal . . . the austerity imposed by the European Central Bank . . . all appears also as colonialism . . . how to transform these movements . . . build land redistribution from below . . . simple living, crowdfunding (including all people of good heart and intention) . . . involving locals from the beginning . . . co-operative governance structures . . .
. . . passing signs at the roadside saying, Private Property - Keep Out . . . dreaming of thousands of new signs for the new world: Co-operative Property - Welcome!

Bugarach

Near Limoux, in the foothills of the Pyrenees, is Bugarach . . . a mountain and a village . . . nearly two years ago, hundreds of people gathered here for the end of the Mayan calendar and whatever that might mean . . . a portal was to open on the mountain and take folks off to another dimension . . . or something . . .
So, when Jean-Paul suggested a trip to the Mediterrenean this morning, I said the mountain was drawing me . . . they kindly dropped me at the top of the pass on a diversion to Perpignan . . . after two hours and ten minutes walking I was at the summit, with a glorious view all round . . . the descent was quicker . . . down the steep face . . . two locals on their way up said, be careful, it's dangerous going down that way . . . it was . . . just an hour for the very careful descent . . . no portal to be seen . . .
Loving the hills and thinking about wandering along to Irun and the start of the Camino . . . I put out the intention last year and in Spring this year my friend and neighbour, Neil, did it in five weeks, with his son, Reece . . . let's see . . .

south . . .

Monday's options: hitch-hike or train South, stay a day longer . . . tempting . . . so good to spend time with Yann, Joelle and their boys . . . over thirty years ago Judith, my sister and Jean-Paul, asked me to be Godfather to Yann . . . an honour, of course, and I resisted, since I was in my communist period and mostly atheist . . . well, the main thing in France, is you are responsible if the parents die . . . will you do it . . . fortunately for all concerned, they survived and Yann has grown into a fine man, without any influence from his irresponsible uncle . . . and somehow has come to enquire into the ideas of Buddhism . . . reading Matthieu Ricard, the French bio-chemist turned Buddhist monk (well worth checking on You Tube if you don't know him) . . .
. . . resisting the known to head towards another known in a warmer climate, decided to try hitching to see Judith and Jean-Paul at their holiday home in the foothills of the Pyrenees . . . they met in Toulouse, when both were students . . . she studying French and becoming a teacher, he, agriculture and returning to the family farm to become a pioneer of organic vegetable growing . . .
. . . so, a lift into Morlaix with the lovely Joelle, a walk up the viaduct to check the trains . . . which go east-west, like most of the roads in these parts . . . drawn to Brest, probably for psychological and infantile reasons . . . decided to try hitching, since the rain which was forecast had not arrived . . . down to the Brest road and a lift with a young woman heading out to her lifestyle project at La Fume, some six kilometres away . . . past the expressway on a minor road . . . you can take this road south west . . . by-pass Brest . . . it's a beautiful road . . . which indeed it was . . . since I had no map, she drew one for me . . . hmm, not quite Michelin, but you get the idea . . . standing by her house, noting the absence of traffic, thinking maybe to get going . . . after five minutes a car . . . well, if you are going south, you had better go back to Morlaix and head east to Rennes . . . detaching from my Brest obsession . . . turned round and walked back along the wooded valley . . . stopping for a coffee, chatting with a customer who knew Jean-Paul . . . he married an English woman you know . . . err, yes, my sister . . . on to the expressway ramp at St Martin des Champs . . . hitch-hiking cultivates patience and opens the way to meeting strangers and unexpected places . . . after an hour walked on to the station, booked a train to Rennes, having surrendered to the geographical reality of this trip and wanting to arrive in St Louis et Parahou while Judith and Jean-Paul were still there . . .
Rennes was busy and the light was fading, so the hitching option went . . . now it was stay here or train south . . . the city was not drawing me, so, a night train to Narbonne was possible . . . from Paris at ten . . . the TGV to Gare de Montparnasse, an hour to cross to Gare d'Austerlitz . . . a warm exchange with two Parisians opposite about the way to manage the change without getting lost . . . there is a direct bus, but safer to take the Metro . . . line 4 to Odeon, line 10 to Austerlitz . . . thanks, and how to buy the tickets . . . another Parisian steps up . . . here is your ticket . . . the kindness of strangers, defying the stereotype usually attached to Paris people . . .
. . . the night train at Austerlitz, unclear of the route . . . snoozing and waking at stops . . . Limoges, Brive . . . Toulouse . . . Toulouse? . . . thinking it was past my stop, checked and misread my watch, leapt up half asleep, jumped off the train . . . checked again . . . too early . . . asked, have we passed Narbonne? . . . no, not yet . . . back on the train . . . another stop . . . Castelnaudary . . . then Carcassonne, a surprise since I thought I had to change at Narbonne to get here . . . another quick exit from a surreal ride . . . on day trains there is constant information, on the night train they let you sleep . . .
Carcassonne at dawn . . . a beautiful city at the best time of day and very aware of the geographical changes from north to south (the leap mirroring my English lives, hopping from south to north and back, without lingering in between) . . . a bus to Limoux later . . . breakfast in a cafe . . . trying out my rusty French . . .
. . . and so, to St Louis et Parahou, after a day sharing Judith's holiday, to a hilltop village with a strange story of Cathar treasure and freemasonry myths . . . a woodland walk . . . a beautiful gite and a mysterious mountain, of which more later, with photograph and end of the world tale . . .

chateaux . . .

clear skies and sunrise as we docked in Roscoff . . . today's choices: hitch-hike south to see my sister on her holidays near Toulouse, walk a while to get used to the pack . . . call in to see my nephew in Carantec . . . did that after three hours stroll along well marked cycle route via St Pol de Leon . . . "hello, Mum said you might call . . . will you have lunch? Maybe sleep the night in the chateaux?" They let it out by the week, sleeps up to fourteen . . . empty this week . . . from reclining chair on the boat to chateaux . . . all good and still not slept outside after a week . . . time to ditch the sleeping bag, lighten the load?
. . . maybe . . .

plans, plans, plans . . .

. . . this morning I planned to walk from Lyme Regis to Seaton, then onto Exeter by bus . . . at dawn it was pouring and blowing . . . Lyme does storms spectacularly, as fans of the French Lieutenant's Woman may recall . . . so it was bus all the way . . . passage booked to Roscoff tonight . . . tomorrow, France . . .

freedom from the known . . .

. . . a topic of conversation with reference to this journey as well as a book by Krishnamurti . . . and the journey is delivering . . . when I first imagined the trip to the Rio Dao, I thought to visit my big sister in Dorset and my little sister in Brittany, then head down the west coast of France . . . and a dear friend in Southampton was added to the plan . . . none came about . . . today's idea was to take the bus to Poole, then onwards to Exeter, with some coast path walking in between . . . my bus pass allows me free travel after 9.30 am and the Poole bus left before that, so I took the Bournemouth express and set off walking along the promenade towards Sandbanks . . . a strong south westerly wind was warm and in my face . . . inspired by the walk, I recalled happy days at Studland and decided to take the chain ferry across the Poole Harbour opening and walk to Swanage . . . rounding the Haven Hotel I saw no boat . . . it was being refurbished, the service suspended . . . so, a bus to Poole and another as far as Lyme Regis . . . wandering, watching the full moon rise over the bay . . . spotting shelter in case accommodation was not available . . . then, at a 17th century house in the centre - vacancies . . . a friendly and slightly eccentric landlady . . . breakfast early and a walk along the cliffs . . . then the bus again . . . maybe aim for Plymouth tomorrow and Santander Sunday . . . the France bypass via the Bay of Biscay . . . though the journey may have its own ideas . . .

beautiful Brockwood . . .

. . . today dawned cold and bright . . . a travelling day after a wonderful few days reflecting, walking, talking with K fans from France, Spain, Holland, Andorra, Canada and England . . . reading in the library, watching K and David Bohm in dialogue in the video room, sitting silently in the tranquil quiet room . . .

. . . an hour or so wandering along a track towards Winchester, getting used to the weight of the pack . . . bus from Cheriton along back roads, past big houses . . . this is one of the wealthiest parts of England . . .

. . . plans for a couple of visits came to naught as I took the bus to Southampton, tried hitch-hiking for a while, hopped on a bus for Salisbury, then on to Ringwood in the rain . . .

. . . tomorrow's options? . . . thinking about a bus to Poole, then along the coastal route with some seaside walking . . . maybe Plymouth in a day or two then cross the water there . . .

... an experiment in freedom

... where do you live? - nowhere .... what do you do? - not a lot ... where are you going? - to the Dao, maybe ...

...interesting to read and discuss Jiddu Krishnamurti at beautiful Brockwood ... his teachings were all about freedom from the conditioned life and love at the heart of it all ... letting go being the key ...

... today I am walking towards Winchester then onwards to Verwood to see my sister ... still not clear when or where to cross the water .. all options still open ... to St Malo, Cherbourg ... the France bypass to Santander or Bilbao ... let's see ...

... meanwhile the moon is shining outside and Brockwood is still sleeping ...

at Brockwood

the sun is shining here in West Meon . . . the K Centre is wifi free and I have walked here along a quiet lane . . .
the journey yesterday was perfect . . . 20 minutes late into Kings Cross, which cut my time across London to Waterloo from a comfortable 56 minutes to a risky 36 . . .briskly walking through the rain, a fitting pace for the manic metropolis . . . on Kingsway a 68 bus in a hurry and I knew it was going to Waterloo since I drove that route some decades ago . . . 10 minutes to spare for the Winchester train . . . a short walk to the Petersfield bus . . . a double decker on a rural route at 3pm can only mean one thing . . . or about 40 in this case, at Alresford . . . noisy but civilised . . . at the K Centre by 4.15 . . . simple, beautiful building in lovely grounds, in a corner of Hampshire strangely underpopulated, due to a savage experience in the Dark Ages with the Plague and subsequent reforming as large estates . . . which led me to consider the merit of perspective and how something so terrible becomes something so tranquil given time . . .

transport modes . . .

. . . the first time I went to Portugal was in 1974 . . . the fascist regime had toppled with a little help from junior army officers and other progressive forces . . . my best pal at the time, Pedro, was a political refugee, who I met at college and we set off to join the party . . . exciting times!

We went by train that time . . . the following year Pedro decided to relocate to Lisbon and invited me to co-drive his Austin Healey Sprite, with his belongings somehow crammed in with the two of us . . . my request for holiday from my job driving buses in London was refused, so I went anyway and rang in sick from Lisbon . . . the drive was 48 hours, more or less non-stop . . .

At other times I have flown there, which is quick and convenient, though missing all the bits in between, of course . . .

This trip is different . . . there is no fixed mode, though car and train have already been involved and buses too before the day is over . . . plenty of walking ahead . . . a boat . . . lifts, trains maybe . . . and maybe not even arriving in Portugal at all . . . this trip has its own ideas and I am listening . . .

off we go . . .

With a heart full of hope
And a mind clear of fear
The journey begins
To the Dao from the Wear

happily homeless

. . . intentionally homeless now . . . and reflecting on home and place . . . my first home was a tied cottage on an estate near Ringwood, Hampshire . . . Dad was a carpenter on the estate . . . when I was five we moved to a smallholding on the edge of Verwood, Dorset . . . fields and woods were on the doorstep and were our playground . . . I moved away when I was seventeen . . . my elder sister, Linda, lives there now and though the place holds good memories, I am not attached to it . . . having wandered in and out of many homes since then and even co-owned two of them, I never really understood them . . .which was reflected in my lack of enthusiasm for DIY . . . landing in Stanhope on an outing from Newcastle over twenty years ago, I felt immediately at home, though it was fifteen years since I lived here . . . looping time perhaps? Now I am off wandering I leave it gladly and when people ask if I will return, my honest response is I don't know . . . I am not coming back and I am not not coming back . . . and of all the places I have lived so far, Stanhope is closest to home and I am happy to know I am welcome here . . .