I opted for a month in Switzerland and then a month in Mallorca to develop (or redevelop) a writing practice. And in spite of a dash to London for a couple of days, and a stint of cat-sitting in an Alpine village where it turns out I am still allergic to cats, it has been successful. Not a huge amount of writing per se but a great deal of thinking and consideration and exploration has happened on my long hikes, which is all part of the creative process.

"This thoughtfulness is leading to some wise decisions. Writing out the past is not actually healing. Writing the future is."

These wise words were given to me from a good friend after I sent her a long rant several days ago. Both of the pieces I have been working on concern my past, even though written in a non-memoir way: A woman in a remote location suffering post-partum depression without knowing it, pushing against a reality that isn't hers, feeling 'othered' by a workaholic partner, and being an utterly unreliable narrator through a series of heart-breaking events.

Where have we seen this before?

I had considered this to be a beneficial exorcising of demons, a clarification even if in reality I didn't go through such drama. But I could have. In my similar situation, I might not have realised there was an element of gas-lighting happening, I could have reacted in irrational ways. Sometimes I did.

I still think the writing is good, the premise sound, but it's killing me. So no more. Now is the time to work on the present and the future, and that will be a book about this untethered year of mine. Also told as fiction - I work best in a world of emotional possibility - but relevant to who I am today, with ideas of how I want to be tomorrow.

The chalet where I currently live is lovely. In fact, the whole village is charming and feels Swiss rather than French, even though I could walk to France from here, it's only a few kilometres. And while they're not the same, they do share the unfortunate habit of standoffishness, needing to know you for at least five years before they will invite you into their homes. However, I hear rumour that there are oodles of intelligent and worldly people from other countries living in the area due to all the governmental agencies and global organisations based in and around Geneva.

But they're over there, and I'm over here. My peripatetic lifestyle doesn't make it easy to connect. And while I admire and enjoy the different accents and abilities of all the international people, I am still reluctant to speak my more-than-adequate French. Why am I so hard on myself?

After a glorious 13 kilometre hike in sunshine on Sunday, the clouds rolled in and we're on day three of a steady downpour. It reflects my mood. So apologies if this post is a bit blah, but this blog was never going to be all ecstatic moments and grand realisations.

Outside the many wood-framed windows, though, I see leaves twitching in the wind, a large Swiss flag in the neighbour's garden, green ferns against a mossy wall. It is picturesque. The boulangerie has good bread. People say 'bonjour' and 'merci' as they get on and off buses, when they pass on the street.

I read all of one book yesterday, and big chunks of three others. That was worthwhile. And I appreciate the time, the stillness and yes, even the rain, that allows me to settle in and do just that. From this evening, though, I head into a bout of movie-watching, with three films planned over the next six days: two in English and one in French. I always find that films inspire me creatively.

Bee Hives

I just let the chickens out into the garden of my latest abode here in Crassier, Switzerland.

These are words I take great pleasure in writing - I mean, chickens?

Deep into my fourteenth month of this untethered life, I am amazed and grateful and slightly awestruck.

I've been in Switzerland just over 48 hours and it's been busy, starting with a pick-up at Geneva airport on Tuesday evening by a good friend from my Costa Rican days. One of the joys of this floating year is choosing to place myself near distant friends, creating the opportunity to deepen friendships.

Along with the chickens, I have a resident housemate who is the son of the friend's friend's friend who offered me this lovely place to stay while she and her husband are in Australia for several months. As we ate the delicious local dish that Ben had specially prepared for the night of my arrival, the conversation meandered from local cuisine to local activities by way of Ovid, Constantine, ancient philosophers, wine-making, the Bible and numerous other subjects that have been lost in the pleasant glow from that evening.

Stimulating, enlightening, engaging and just plain fun. I may never leave.

The next day, following a morning of unpacking and positioning my computer on an unvarnished slab of wood by a window overlooking the garden, I was picked up by Lydia. You may remember that we crossed paths last June in Waterloo station, serendipity in every sense, thirty years after we last saw each other in Costa Rica. We pootled around nearby Nyon, my go-to place for shopping and trains, where I learned the essential places, saw the beautiful ceramics she makes in her studio and had a delicious lunch. On the way back to my village, I did a grocery shop (expensive!) while she bought rope for a swing she'd spontaneously purchased the other week. I love her creativity.

Last evening, the sun just disappearing behind the Jura mountains, I had an extraordinary moment as I settled into sleeping pigeon pose, my forehead resting lightly on my hands, while around me fourteen men and women did the same. It was like a camera shot that started with me, on a yoga mat, and then zoomed out to include the others, then the community hall, the village, and the area, and farther out until it was Switzerland, Europe and backwards even more until the whole globe was spinning in front of me.

I was awed.

Until it shattered with an unexpected act of kindness. Hinde, the yoga instructor, was moving between us, laying a hand here or gently pressing someone deeper into a pose, and at that moment she whispered in my ear, "est-ce que je peux vous toucher?"

Suddenly, I felt so alone that I wanted to weep. 

Never mind the idea of being in a yoga studio amongst people I knew or saw regularly, people I crossed paths with in the street, recognised in a café or ran into at a book launch. The simple laying-on of hands by Hinde made me yearn for physical touch, for intimacy, for affection. 

That was just a blink, though, within an hour of contentment. My walk home, along the dark (but sensibly lit) street, the Jura looming indefinably to my right with twinkling stars above, filled me again with awe and an ease at where I am now, what I'm doing, who I am.

Less than two weeks ago I finished the Portuguese Camino with a sense of satisfaction and joy. But this whole untethered experience is also a pilgrimage of sorts. It's a search for purpose and community, and I am on a track now. By keeping my mind and heart open, continuing to put one foot in front of the other without looking too far into the distant future, amazing things happen. Look at those chickens in the garden, the mountains beyond the fence line. I could never have foreseen this but how extraordinary that it has come to pass.

"I don't know where I'm going but I know how to get there."

Boyd Varty, The Lion Tracker's Guide to Life

Scallop shells - the symbol of the Camino

My arrival into Santiago de Compostela this past Saturday gave me such a feeling of completion. The place was teeming with people, which was overwhelming and disconcerting at first after the peace of the countryside, but we soon settled into this magnificent town with its narrow winding streets filled with colonnades, fountains and history.

The sight of the present day cathedral, begun in 1087, filled me with awe. The Romanesque building, tinged with Gothic elements and some Baroque features, is enormous and elaborately decorated inside. The stories it holds and the events it has witnessed seem to be captured in its very stonework.

The evening of our arrival we had our version of a last supper, but without the water-into-wine or the betrayal. As always, on the menu were mussels, squid, octopus, fish and razor clams, all liberally sprinkled with olive oil and pimentón (paprika). For the record, not a morsel of octopus passed my lips on this whole trip in spite of it being on offer everywhere. Yes, it is delicious, but I'm sure your dog or cat would be too, given how well you look after them. Octopuses are too intelligent to be eaten, and I worry that our intense consumption will add them to the list of species we are eating to extinction (a list which includes sharks, pangolins, eels, beluga sturgeon, gorillas and the Yangtze soft shell turtles which are down to four individuals).

As the group dispersed into the warm evening, four of us headed out to look for a Quemada, a Galician alcoholic drink made with aguardiente and infused with lemon, coffee beans, sugar and cinnamon. Traditionally, it is served in a pumpkin but ours came in a shallow, three-legged clay pot. Our young waitress began by reciting an incantation as she lit the brew on fire and then stirred it for a long time, raising the ladle and pouring the flaming blue liquid back into the pot, continuing to recite the spell to confer special powers to the Quemada which would then be transferred to those drinking it. 

We sipped the warm brew in tiny clay cups and retold stories of our time together. Around us, in the small slanted square (from the steep street rather than the aguardiente of the Quemada) people were also sharing and laughing in the surprisingly hot evening on this last day of September.

We ended our magical arrival day into Santiago de Compostela in the central plaza, with a just-past full moon rising over the towers and roofline of the cathedral. Behind us, in the colonnade of an old building, a folk group in full costume danced and played their old Galician instruments. Tuna music, as it is called, is a tradition dating back as far as the 13th century, and used to involve groups of needy university students singing, accompanied by traditional instruments, in order to earn money to pay for their studies.

I feel blessed, literally blessed, by the experience of the Camino and then the arrival into such a magnificent place.

I didn't have any major epiphanies on the Camino but found that the rhythm, routine and mixture of both solitary and social time gave me the opportunity to think through many of the realisations that I have had on this year-long untethered road. 

I noticed random dips in self-confidence, which I attributed to my inability to engage conversationally with other pilgrims along the way. Disinterest could be a better way of putting it, as this wasn't why I was doing the Camino. I likened the daily route to a cocktail party, where one never gets past the "I'm from wherever, and I do this, and have x-number of children". That's not to say that I didn't have some good chats with a few people, but these were rare, and anyway, I had five dynamic and interesting women to hang with when I wanted. The awkwardness diminished as I relaxed and realised I could just be me. I don't need to compare myself to others, my disinterest in mundane conversation is just who I am. It doesn't make me better or worse than those who can light up a room or engage a table of twenty in their stories. I am who I am. I've been called intense, but there are worse names in the book!

I was interviewed by a radio station the morning after our arrival into Santiago, while eating breakfast of all things. It was mostly about what we had ordered but touched a bit on my background, particularly why a Canadian spoke such fluent Spanish. I was eating Tarta de Santiago, a delicious cake made only of ground almonds, sugar and eggs, with my tea and juice. I don't usually have cake for breakfast, but when on holiday...

It was fascinating visiting the tomb of St. James before heading off to find breakfast (and get interviewed). This is the resting place of one of Jesus' disciples and the tomb was left undisturbed when the town was razed to the ground in 997 by Abū Amir al-Mansūr, military commander of the Moorish caliphate of Córdoba. The cathedral is one of only three churches built over the remains of disciples, the others being St. Thomas' in Chennai, India and, of course, St. Peter's in Rome. 

I feel like a million bucks now, full of energy and excitement. As if my hopes and ideas and anticipation for what comes next is a massive basket, about to overflow. I don't think I've ever felt this high on life before - which says a lot as these past few months I have had numerous moments of joy and contentment.

The question now is what to do with all this potential, where to direct it. The plan starts with a week here in London. I arrived yesterday afternoon into a teeming Gatwick airport to find grey skies, a non-functioning Victoria line and that polite British formality of crowded trains. My days will be mostly writing or walking or exploring cultural opportunities, and my evenings socialising. After that, a month in Switzerland, in a French-speaking area that I know nothing about but where I have three, even four, sets of nearby friends. Exploration on all levels, hanging on a structure of regular writing. What do I have in me? What stories would like to be told? And is it books, or screenplays, or short stories, or punchy anecdotes which don't fit a genre?

Time will tell, as it so often does.

sunrise on the Camino

"I'm not complaining," I insist, sitting on a velvet-striped couch that looks as though it came off a tv sitcom in the 1970s, looking at a glassed-in courtyard that holds the dichotomy of an old ten-foot stone pillar topped with a cross and a trellis covered in fake leaves and plastic pots. "But there's no bathtub."

This decrease in quality of hotel, down to one-star today after beginning with a four-star hotel in Viana do Castelho, has been manageable because there has always been a bathtub. After a long day of walking, even if the room is small and the bathroom a cheap reno, I can climb into the tub for an hour, put my feet up on the wall and recover. It takes the achiness out of the day and slides me into an evening of wine, seafood and laughter.

But this latest place, in which we stay for two nights and get taxis to the beginning of where we left the Camino the day before, the rooms are so small that I had to rearrange the furniture in order to open my suitcase. The window is minimal and while I can see the top of the cross in the courtyard, there is little opportunity for breeze or sun.

However, I'm not really complaining - it's not my style. Although I have yet to bathe.

We tend to cross paths again and again with the same pilgrims, and we have met interesting ones from all over - the Walk draws many nationalities. In the church of Padrón (yes, the place of the pimientos), a rather fed-up man dealing with change for postcards while also stamping Camino passports, perked up when my friend said she was from Vigo, a nearby town, and the next person said she was Burmese. Kind of says it all, doesn't it?

The Portuguese Camino has become popular of late because it's shorter than the French one, and of course we're in the best season with the heat of summer gone but the rains of winter not yet arrived. We get up in the dark every morning because here on the Galician coast we are so far west that the sun doesn't rise until after 8 am, and all day we walk. We stop when our feet demand it or when we're hungry. We have coffee in simple cafes where we are often given croissants, fruits and nuts alongside a one-euro espresso or cafe con leche.

At the end of a day of walking, we eat a late dinner together, usually after a bath and a rest, as most Spanish restaurants don't start serving until after 8 pm. Then we sleep. 

I appreciate the ease, the repetition, and the lack of agency I have to make any change in this routine. A simple rhythm, no decisions needed. Just one foot in front of the other, hour after hour. It calms the mind. The last two days have been long - averaging 26 kms each day - so in spite of the enjoyment of the routine, I think we're ready for our Saturday arrival into Santiago de Compostela.

Today included a boat trip up the river Ulla from Vilanova de Arousa, following the route that the disciples of St. James (Santiago, for those who hadn't put two and two together) took when they brought his body (in a stone boat, no less) to bury in Santiago de Compostela. Beneath the altar of the church in Padrón, behind glass and etched with symbols, is the rock used to moor the boat where the river ended and the disciples continued overland. 

I lit a candle for my father, enjoying the quietude of the church. Content in my life. Even without a bathtub.

I must add that it is such fun to see the dynamics between six women all used to being in charge. We're not at Lord of the Flies level, though. Not yet. There will be no war dances nor sacrifices. Not unless the bar runs out of Albariño, or if the last place has no bathtub.

"If you're tired, learn to rest, not to quit."

Such a mixed bag. Not the people but the hotels, the restaurants, even the landscape and the weather. The first night we were in a grand hotel down on the waterfront, with its pool table in the lobby and a spa, where our lovely rooms overlooked ... the bins, with all the cacophony of garbage pick up, staff on their smoke break, and then more rubbish. Last night the room was tiny, the pillows rounded chunks of foam and the bathroom functional (because it included a bidet) but the bathtub was divine, the lighting good and even with a driving rain through my (open) French door through much of the night, I slept a charm.

I had to mop the floor in the morning and wring out the one sock that had fallen into the puddle, but it was joyous.

Sometimes it's the meal that can make the moment, such as my first evening in Porto, when five of us dined together at "Raiz", a lovely restaurant where we had a prime table, engaged waiters, and we shared the unusual dishes that came out. The wine was delicious. It came from Cartuxa, a winery that I'd visited on my "couples cycling trip" in 2017, and somehow it felt as though I was raising a glass to the end of that period of my life. I may need more rituals like that.

Decision-making, though, is the bane of our existence here, as we finish day three of El Camino. Particularly about dinner. When I did four days of the Costa Rican Camino in February, we were just served a plate of food at the end of the day, usually in the home of a local woman. Effortless. One gets tired of making decisions in life, so that was a real treat. Here, there are six women, all used to deciding everything, all the time. None of us wants to make decisions but we know it needs doing.

A large bus pulled up to our wedding-venue type hotel, overlooking the crashing surf of the Spanish coastline (we entered Spain yesterday, so our Portuguese Camino only had two days in Portugal), as I was working on this post. The restaurant includes four very long tables set for dinner, so I can only assume more buses are expected. I'm happy we dined at a local tapas place nearby.

That dinner, which I just returned from, was divine. A small restaurant where we sat at an excellent, round table with the sunset view out a plate glass window. We ate pimientos de padrón, as one should in Spain, and mussels, and a squid-ink pasta that "es como calamar pero no es". I can only assume cuttlefish but can't find the word in Spanish. We had such wide-ranging conversations and laughed so hard that I think (I hope) we shocked the youngish man sitting by himself eating steak frites with a beer. Perhaps he was listening and learning that older women talk about everything from politics to vibrators to books and erotica. Often in the space of ten minutes.

The details, however, remain with us. What happens on the Camino, stays on the Camino.

 

We need a videographer!

I mean, seriously. There were many opportunities today to film a new series. Five women, between the ages of 59 and later 70s, coming off the train in Viana do Castelho, heavy suitcases in tow. Yes, we are actually doing the Camino. Many do it carrying their belongings on their back, but we're just dipping our toes in, having a 12-day initiation. We have opted for the luxury Camino, which is a non-sequitur from the get-go.

So it's a heady combination of shared power bars, hydration mixes, drinks in the lobby and a lifetime of habits. Can you imagine trying to come to a consensus as far as a start time tomorrow? I mean, it's the first day of walking. Five of the six of us have just arrived from North America, so there's jet lag to contend with, never mind completely different morning routines.

We trundled our standard-but-heavy suitcases down the central avenue, turned right just past a street-side restaurant that sent delicious scents of fish and garlic and tomatoes our direction (did I mention it was 3 already and we hadn't eaten lunch?), then hit the hard-core cobblestones. Not the time for a wheel to come off.

Fortunately, none did. Instead we arrived at our gorgeous, waterfront hotel. My room is a deep blue. Or maybe it's green. Hard to tell with the low light reflecting off the antiqued armoire doors. There's a pool table in the lobby area and the spa, I gather, is divine. Outside my large window, I can hear only the gentle whirr of air conditioners. My bed looks inviting.

After a journal writing stint in the comfortable lobby bar, glass of white wine at my elbow, the complete cohort of six (where's that videographer?) headed off for dinner, only to be thwarted by the lack of a reservation and so we ended up at a typical restaurant where the wine came in jugs and (too) much of the food was fried. But we laughed and shared stories, and tried to come to an agreement, yet again, as to when we should start. 8 am? Our bags need to be down by then to be transported to our next hotel (no more cobblestones for us). But suddenly that seems early.

Even while being in a group like this is so unlike my normal, independent way of traveling, I am so looking forward to spending the next couple of weeks with such fabulous women. There isn't a shrinking violet amongst us, so I wonder how it will unfold. 

The end of the day before the first walk. I may or may not write regularly. The goal for me for this Camino is inspiration. Writing inspiration. Everything else I've thrown to the wind recently has come to fruition, so here's hoping. 

Summer is over. Perhaps not in the UK where record temperatures have kept the thermometer above 30 for the past seven days, but here in Canada I have put jeans on for the first time in months. September is my new year, a habit left over from decades of this being the beginning of a new school year for the girls with all its changes and challenges, and I often make a new year's resolution.

I have, however, realised that for it to have any actual effect, I need to examine what I'm really looking to do. A resolution to learn something new, read more books, write every day or drink less wine won't work unless I shift something.

A small change, acted on regularly, can have a dramatic transformation of habit patterns and outlook. I know I'm know good at the large changes - renting out my house, buying one-way tickets to various countries or, looking farther back in time, studying in France and eloping to New Mexico, but the little ones matter, too.

So my new year's resolution this September is all about intention. I want to live more intentionally. I will use a notebook to jot down my plans and ideas, and will make time in the evening to reflect on how my day went. I feel this might work, and I'm writing it here as sometimes it helps to create accountability. 

I watched the premiere of Swan Song yesterday afternoon at the Toronto International Film Festival. This documentary is a deep dive into the creation of Swan Lake by Karen Kain, one of Canada's top ballerina and former artistic director of the National Ballet. She's also known as Canada's Princess Diana.

Well-made, emotional films such as this light a fire within me. I want to create like that. I want to push everything aside and focus on my writing. I want to own being a writer in a bigger way.

My amazing sister, one of Canada's most sought-after post-production professionals, was the Sound Designer on the film which meant we were invited to the post-screening cocktail party. Watching friends or family in their professional world is always eye-opening, and I was happy in her orbit. I also - fan girl moment - met Karen Kain, and I told her what a thrill it had been to live on the same street as her in the 1980s. 

Going forward? After a quick visit to Chicago, I head to Portugal on Saturday for two weeks of the Portuguese Caminho, which goes from Porto, along the coast, to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. I'm doing it with five women I met through the Baja workshop in March, which adds to the fun. We're all in similar places in life, with similar outlooks, but we don't know each other well. This is an opportunity.

After that, I plan to settle in Switzerland for the remainder of the autumn. I'm ready to unpack and be in one place. To write and read, to visit with the surprisingly large number of friends I have in that country and to hike in the Alps as the weather shifts. If anyone knows anyone with a house, flat or caravan to rent near Lake Leman and Geneva...

This entry is more of an update than an exploration, and lacks any sharing of the wonderful trip I took to Williamsburg, Virginia and Washington, DC a few weeks ago. That was a time of reconnection and learning and fun, again with people from the Modern Elder Academy workshop I went to in March. Have I mentioned how much of a hinge that was on this year of discovery? My untethered year has been everything I hoped for, and more. What will the autumn hold??