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??

 

 

It's been a busy day for wildlife - and I write this in the morning. From my bed, I watched a beaver heading out into the bay. At breakfast, a great blue heron landed with a surprising screech in the back channel and stood stock still for so long that I forgot about him and wandered out to discuss dock plans with my builder who had arrived by boat. Sandhill cranes, with their distinctive creaking, flew overhead. And just now, sitting to write, a mink appeared amongst the cardinal flowers, scrabbling in the rocks for frogs or heron scraps.

It's Nature, writ large. Although we now have internet, it's still remote and quiet; any neighbour is a boat ride away.

After almost three weeks of company, I'll confess to feeling nervous about spending five days up here on my own. I even tried to borrow a dog. It's not the beaver or the mink or, heaven forbid, a bear that would make me peer anxiously into the shadows but rather my own imagination. I would swim before bed with anyone else up here and float on my back to admire the canopy of stars without any problem, although I wouldn't drift far. In my heart, I knew that the large snapping turtle who lives in the bay would shoot off the minute she heard a disturbance in the water, but did anything more sinister lurk below the surface?

Alone now, I don't swim at night, but it no longer fazes me to wander around after the sun has set. What changed? My attitude, I suppose, the personal growth that came from this untethered year, and my immersion into this landscape.

Last night, beyond the large window which reflected back the light from the candelabras on the table, I watched a small moon slide towards the horizon. By the time I'd blown out the candles and extinguished the propane light, the moon had set, and I headed to my cabin with a flashlight.

The darkness is like velvet, but not in a tropical sort of way with the croaking of tree frogs, the warm humidity wrapping itself around you like a soft blanket. Here, the thick blackness has an edge. Because it's really black. No moon at the moment. No ambient light. No glow over the horizon from a town. If it's calm, the stars will reflect on the water, otherwise the water, the islands, the trees and the sky blend into an impenetrable darkness. At times, the quiet makes my ears pulse, even though everyone drives their boat at night, returning home after dinner at a friend's or the younger set head out to gatherings. It's as if the darkness, after initially amplifying any sound, then swallows it all.

It's also later in August. The Americans have gone back to school, the days are shorter and the nights cool, so fewer people come up during the week. I wonder what it will be like when I return in September for a week. It's been years, decades probably, since I've been here so late in the season. The morning plunge will remain as it's such a magical way to start the day, but it will be much chillier. I will miss that when I head to Europe in mid-September but perhaps I can do some wild swimming in Portugal.

I've ended up thoroughly enjoying being on my own. I like the busy solitude, especially as the tasks here are elemental and satisfying: breaking up an old dock ramp with a hammer and drill, then using a circular saw to reduce the beautifully-dry planks to a size that will fit in the fireplace; sanding the large table and benches on our deck and then applying urethane - a process that gets repeated three times; looking at some of the warped screens and doors, wondering if I should take a woodworking course over the winter. There are also domestic tasks like sorting the muddled-up linens and sweeping the main cabin but they hold little interest for me. Since I was a child, I've preferred to do stuff outside, to get grubby and then fall in the water. It's odd to take my bathing suit off to swim but really, what's the point of getting it wet when there's no around? And if someone sees, do I really care?

I balance this solitude with the occasional social foray. I had some girlfriends over for cocktails (called docktails up here) on Sunday, which began shortly after 5 and ended at 11 pm. Dinner was the assortment of dips, cheeses, crackers, vegetables, smoked trout and olives that everyone had contributed, and the conversation spun around many diverse topics. I like small-scale socialising.

Tomorrow I head back to civilisation. I will bathe in hot water for the first time in more than three weeks. I will have to put away my moccasins and think about my clothes. I'll be able to turn on lights without a match. I love the contrast, and am happy to know that I'll be back here before the end of the month.

Classic Zen Buddhism says that "by carrying water and chopping wood, you will find the Tao" which is what I experience here in northern Ontario. This cottage of ours, located at the outer edge of the 30,000 islands of Georgian Bay which itself is an enormous body of water on Lake Huron, takes life back to basics.

In our secluded bay, on our little island, surrounded by water and rocks and wind-bent pines, life is shaped by weather. Today we have a honking southerly wind which cancelled our planned kayaking, last week it was horizontal rain and a tremendous thunderstorm. In between have been idyllic days of sunshine and calm. The propane fridge, stove, lights and hot water heater have kept things going here for years, along with a generator, but last year we put in solar. We feel as though we've gone forward a century, but is this a good thing?

We still eat by the light of a candle chandelier, though, and light the two silver candelabras when we want to play cards. On moonless nights it is truly dark, and when clear, the stars, the Milky Way, the occasional planets are magnificent. I feel nervous in a way that makes me feel alive. Perhaps it's clarity rather than apprehension.

View from the main cabin

This is a return to a place that I know well yet again I arrive with a new sense of self-awareness, a shifted mindset and a forward-looking curiosity. Just as in London, the change is marked. The what ifs and the if onlys no longer crop up to needle me with their distorted views of the past. 

I am, by nature, independent. I enjoy solitude, and solitary projects. Each morning, I climb out of bed and, still warm from being under the covers, throw myself into the lake. It's a fantastic awakening; hot water is so overrated. Then I often kayak out into the open and around the many islands of varying sizes. It's lovely in the quiet of early day. 

I bookend my day with another skinny dip, watching the stars above, floating in a calm way, hoping the beaver that lives in the boathouse doesn't inadvertently bump into me. In between these dips, I read books, write, prepare meals and even socialise occasionally. I'm just back from a kayaking lunch which would normally entail meeting up with a group of women and paddling out to picnic on one of the large, unpopulated rocks but today we stayed at a cottage because it was too windy to be in a kayak. 

The older I get, the more I appreciate the humour, experience and wisdom of the women I meet. If we could run the world for ten years. Just ten years. I'm sure we could straighten up some of the challenges facing us today. Then we'd open it up again. Promise!

Last weekend, seventeen members of my family gathered at Richard's cottage (the cottage where I went as a child) to celebrate my mum's 90th birthday, and I saw again how blood runs thicker than water. We all slotted in without a hiccup - siblings, children, cousins, wives, fiancées and lovers - and the teasing was epic. Hats off to my sister-in-law who manages to not only come up with bedding and beds for fifteen but also popped up an old bell-style tent which she decorated with pillows and blankets, books and lanterns for my eldest daughter (her goddaughter) and her beau. She's an Italian romantic at heart.

My mum is amazing but because she's my mother, I tend to take her for granted. So all her strengths and capabilities just wash over me. Before the birthday weekend, she told me she'd "knocked up" a sour cream coffee cake, some brownies and an assortment of blueberry tarts with crumble topping, after preparing some pickled mushrooms and a leek, mushroom and spinach strata for the brunch following the party. This was after we told her she didn't need to be involved in the menu.

The tapas-style meal included Lebanese fattoush to Moo Ping skewers, Thai corn fritters to Korean-style pork lettuce wraps as well as chicken wings, devilled eggs (because they're so good), a 5-foot long charcuterie board and my humble offering of a mango, cauliflower and chickpea salad.
Oh, and lots of wine.

But more than an appetite for good food, my mum is ferociously loyal to family, a keen follower of tennis and has an intelligence that requires regular feeding. She devours a variety of books, has a fabulous memory for all things past (more details about my cousin's visit in 2008 than my cousin can recall), and has a deep knowledge of, to name a few, the Group of Seven, Roman history, silver hallmarks, geographical details from the large number of places she has visited, and religious information left over from a life that began with schooling at a convent in England.

She's an inspiration, really, and I can only hope that I am as nimble both intellectually and physically when I reach my ninth decade. Have I mentioned that we're going to Australia for a month at Christmas? One of the Airbnb hosts, learning of my mum's age, was concerned about the steps to the front door. I was able to reply in all honestly that I'd just been swimming in a lake with her, but left out information about the lack of clothing. As per usual.

At the end of the dinner, we had a pub quiz. I was the quiz master, and thoroughly enjoyed baffling people. The birthday girl's team won, and in spite of the complaints of unfair questions such as what a dog can't smell (they can smell everything) or whether hot or cold water freezes faster (turns out that the hot water theory I'd learned was incorrect according to my nephew who works on the Canadian space arm - so he'd know), the Baby Blues won fair and square.

From tomorrow I'm on my own for a five days up here. I may go a bit feral so that's why I thought it best to get this post out today.