I am somewhere in no-man’s land where the beginning has become too distant and the mid-point somewhere unimaginable. Questions that try to place me plague me: where is the sea; my bed for the night? How far is that? That once deep well of inner resources (aka ‘resilience’)? Today’s end? The sun, and rural idylls, the luxuriance of spring?
The end, where is that? Is it now, and tomorrow, and next week?
So you get the picture – early exuberance plus great paths plus fabulous landscapes plus innocence equals a happy walker. Add in a few kilometres more, a twist of thwarting, an ache and pain or two and here I am: trudging with weight and rain and roads and what day is this, and where should we be, and and and….which equals a mills and boon of tortured journeying all to end up at the same place – the end of the day.
An early start, a well timed second breakfast, arriving where we want to be with time enough to doze and explore, to shop and wash for tomorrow, to plan the next stage in the campaign, to reflect upon the day, to argue that the hare was the real winner because he packed a snooze into a busy day. This is the plan.
A stay in a spa and wellness centre (discounts for peregrinos), seemed like a great idea, but a slippery slimy floor amidst the turkish bath, hot tub, pool and quasi oriental candle lit wierdness, all set a bus ride from the nearest town in a semi suburban newly built enclave, equalled a not so relaxing experience and instead gave the next day a feeling of penitent trudging. Oh, how the old pilgrims must be smiling.
I realise I like to walk because my destination is chosen, the unrelenting menu of decision making sidestepped. A problem with choice is that once you’ve placed your bets, the dice are tumbling, and before they show their faces, you turn them over and over and over in your mind. But, of course, choice is everywhere, in everything. What indeed have I chosen?
