Determination v. Flexibility.

The balance between determination and flexibility is hard to achieve. I am determined to reach Finisterre, but I think I have to be flexible and take Finny home first. Very few of the accommodation options in Spain permit you to stay with a dog. Putting up and taking down a tent in the rain, and sharing it with a wet dog, is pretty miserable. I was planning to return by train, but dogs aren't allowed on Spanish trains. The title 'With Finny to Finisterre' may now be out; 'To Finisterre, without Finny'? More of a meditation on change and loss...

300 word Christmas Special: 'It's all good'.

I have always been a bit dismissive of the Pyrenees, but that was a mistake. They lie before me now, as serrated and snow-covered a sierra as one could wish for. 

Everything I have written on this blog is true, but it is only part of the story. Readers who are sensitive to 'over-sharing' may want to stop here. So what have I edited out? That I have been suffering from athlete's foot (a fungal infection between the toes), and also from hemorrhoids (a real pain in the ass). I am sorry if your sensibilities are offended, but it's foolish to be embarrassed by, or about, bodily (mal)functions - we're as uptight about them as the Victorians were about sex. 

Happily, both conditions can be treated with topical creams. The one for hemorrhoids - well, the English equivalent - is called 'Anusole', pronounced A (as in apple) - New - Sole. A dear friend told me that he initially mispronounced it Anus Olé; I love this image of a cheerfully delusional cream-qua-matador, jauntily tipping a sombrero at a somber op-popo-nent. 

What else have I edited out? Perhaps that, at the end of a long day, when Finny scents another dog 100m away and tugs repeatedly on the lead and yanks my aching shoulder, I really want to hit him with my pilgrim's staff? I don't, but I want to. 

Athlete's foot, hemorrhoids, flashes of anger directed at a pet... it's not 'all good', as some pseudo-spiritual people piously intone. Nor is it all bad; in itself, it just is, and we attribute certain judgements. Wouldn't it be better simply to recognise these things for what they are - a part of what it is to be human - and, if possible, to look for the humour in it all?

The Pyrenees. 

(Lauzerte - Espalais/Auvillar) All Things Will Pass.

The lesson that I am constantly being taught is that all things will pass. The freezing days have passed, giving way to balmy breezes from the gentle South. The tiresomely meandering route through muddy, gloopy fields has passed, replaced by a straight path beside a canal lined with magnificent plane trees. My ankles no longer ache, but that will pass too, and new ailments will arise. After a few petulant days, Finny is now in high spirits and even went for a swim in the canal; but that too will pass, as will he, as will you, as will I.

In pictures.

The dog days of summer seem a long time ago.

Canis canus.

The countryside is crisscrossed by innumerable ancient stone walls...

...and dotted with attractive stone shepherds' huts, and Neolithic dolmens.

'La tristeza es la lluvia en un tejado de zinc' - sadness is (the sound of) rain on a tin roof - Mario Benedetti.

'La miseria es tener los pies fríos y mojados' - misery is having cold wet feet. 

The lost domain.

A few days ago I saw a dead cat on the road, its face smashed in, and I felt... nothing. Well, a momentary flicker of pity, and some revulsion. By contrast - and I don't mean to sentimentalise - I remember finding a squashed hedgehog as a boy, and being inconsolable. That openness of heart represents, for me, the lost domain of childhood; perhaps it is also what the mysterious estate was for Le Grand Meaulnes, or the special summer session for Gene and Phineas in A Separate Peace. Why do we have to lose that openness, and can it be regained?

Is this sexist?

Men lead with rucksacks, women follow with perky boobs.

Annoying things.

This is not very Zen, but here is a list of things that annoy me: 

French breakfasts  (yesterday's baguette and jam) - how did Napoleon's army ever get as far as Russia? 

Enticing signs for gîtes/ B&Bs that have closed, forcing frosty nights outdoors. 

The French for a pilgrim's stamp - 'tampon'.

Goretex - it never truly keeps you dry.

Pretty but ghostlike villages whose houses are all shuttered up because they are summer holiday homes (more saddening than annoying).

Shops that close from 12 - 3 (the siesta is fine in sweltering Andalusia, but here?).

Locked churches. 

People who complain too much.

Trying days.

Back in Beirut, I used to dream about tiring days of physical activity with my friend Phineas, about not knowing where I would sleep, and about a distant but realisable goal (Finisterre). Well, I now understand the old adage, be careful what you wish for (...). The physical aches have lost their pleasant novelty, and so often my mind races ahead and fixates on the distance still to go, or starts to make anxiety-inducing plans for the future; anything approaching a peaceful state of beneficent mindfulness is lost, and there's a whole lot of dukka. These are the trying days.

Mythic motifs, merging time periods.

I was told that pilgrims could receive a blessing after morning mass in the cathedral at Puy. I walked there before dawn through foggy winding streets, without people or cars. It could have been the year 1250. I'd forgotten how bizarre holy communion is, but was oddly moved by the blessing itself. Then a day walking through the area terrorised by the 'Beast of Gévaudan' between 1764 and 1767. There are still over 100 wolves in the wild here. And toadstools everywhere - the original shamanic hallucinogen (apparently) - eating them might really merge time periods, but so far I have not indulged. 

'La Bête de Gévaudan'

Amanita Muscaria in the woods.

Finny the party pooper.

Finny is becoming an increasingly good walking companion - he knows the daily drill, rarely pulls on the lead, and is often off it altogether. However, I do blame him for sabotaging my date with a hotel receptionist in Brienz (CH). I met her for a drink after work, then we took Finny for a walk by the lake. The moonlight was twinkling on the water and casting its silvery spell when Finny stopped to lay a hypnotically steaming turd on the promenade, which I had to bag. A real buzzkill, and not the behaviour I expect of him at such times. 

Blessed be the cheese-makers...

Yesterday I was enjoying a sunny breakfast when an older Frenchman, a bohemian - white pony tail, beret, cardigan - stopped to talk to me. He came out of the café again a short while later to offer me a slice of local cheese. He said it was alive - I assumed in the sense that yogurt and yeast are alive. I ate a bit - inoffensive. Then I noticed that the rind was moving in the sun - it was covered in tiny pullulating grubs, the size of sand grains. It's called 'fromage aux artisons' and the grubs give it flavour, apparently. The French!

Le Puy-en-Velay.

I have arrived in Le Puy, with its spectacular chapel perched on a cliff. This is my halfway point, and I will celebrate with a few extra posts. I am relieved to be out of Isère - heavy industry, breeze block houses, nuclear power plant and vinagery Rhône wines. Haute-Loire (Auvergne) is far preferable. Over these past few cloudless days I have followed dappled fairytale pathways up to the highest point (Rafay, 1276m), then down over gentle hills punctured by the rocky outcrops of ancient volcanos. Here are solid houses of authoritative rocks, slate roofs, and faded blue-grey shutters. Pleasing.

World Cup blues.

The department of Isère feels remote - there are days without cafés or shops. The weather has been beautiful - misty mornings and moody sunsets. I was feeling pretty upbeat, until I watched the rugby World Cup final; now I just wish I were Richie McCaw. I was ruminating on this in the woods today when thumping music alerted me to the remnants of a Halloween rave: a few wide-eyed celebrants recovering in an abandoned house from the night before. They offered me a beer and I joined them, briefly. I completely forgot about wanting to be Richie McCaw, until now.

I have arrived in Geneva...

...and will cross into France today. I am now exactly a third of the way. That is a sobering thought and I try not to dwell on it, but to remind myself that all medieval pilgrims would have had to walk to Santiago and then back. In my first blog post, I wrote that I hoped this walk would make the world feel big again; well, it has certainly done that. But my progress is speeding up, partly because I have overcome my anxiety and am back to sleeping outside, and can therefore make use of early mornings and late evenings.

First light snow.

The major way in which this journey differs from what I had imagined is in how rarely I now sleep outside. Nights out are not restful - it's cold, the inside of the bivvy bag gets wet, there are people and cars, and I always feel like I'm trespassing - it's not like in the mountains. But the cost of nights in b&bs and hotels is adding up. Two days ago it snowed for the first time. I was happy, even after 6 hours - it made this feel more like an adventure, and less like a long and expensive dog walk.

Landscape, erotica, pornography.

It is easy to appreciate the beauty of nature in sunshine, but a finer sensibility is required in mist and rain. The colours of blooms and leaves can be more intense when seen from up close - whether because they do not have to compete with bright sunlight, or because plants are happier in the rain, I don't know. Landscape and sky are softer - appropriate subjects for the pale ink brush of Zen. There are parallels with the difference between erotica and pornography: misty landscapes, like erotica, work by hints and suggestions, while in sunshine, as in pornography, everything is revealed.

Wattwil - Neuhaus - Rapperswil - Einsiedeln - Schwyz - Sachseln - Brienz - Interlaken.

The week did not start well - constant rain, a swollen ankle, jet lag and a general malaise. I had to wear flip flops for a few days and was sliding around like Withnail with his feet in plastic bags, and scarcely more cheerful. But then you can't have high points without low points. Things have picked up again now - clear skies and beautiful autumnal foliage, what the Japanese call 'kōyō'. This evening I watched the sun set on the Eiger; despite the immense distance still ahead, I feel I have made some progress since l left Salzburg back in August.

Brienz

Kōyō

The Eiger

Japanese diversion.

No posts for a while, owing to the fact that my route took a diversion via Japan, on a holiday that I had planned a long time ago. If the relish of life derives from contrast, then I am fortunate indeed: the Grand Hyatt in Tokyo, and the hot spring resorts of Hokkaido, could not contrast more with damp nights spent under hedges in Switzerland. And the polite and supremely respectful Japanese are the polar opposite of the rambunctious but often rather unaware Lebanese. But today I pick Finny up from his Swiss kennel and continue the walk to Santiago.

Appenzellerland requires another post...

...because it is so lovely, like a childhood dream vision - soft kind hills, smiling houses, and a tremendous sense of luminous space. In the past I always thought that the naive art associated with this region was a painterly affectation, but I think I get it now: the landscape requires it. 

Herbal lore and plant remedies are still widely practised, and traditions are conscientiously observed - men wear large gold earrings and the cows process through the streets in finery on their way down from summer pastures. It is a special place, perhaps partly because ski tourism has not contaminated it.

This morning's procession.

A live shamanic tradition.

Appenzeller paintings.

Shamanic 'Silvesterchläusli' figures in winter landscape. 

Bludenz - Rankweil - Appenzell (CH).

Last Sunday I was at my brother's wedding in Dorset. It was a magnificent occasion on every level, but I won't write more about it since it does not fit into this narrative. 

So far I have been wearing sandals - good pilgrim style, they dry fast when it rains, and obviate the need for washing socks. But the thick skin on my heals started to crack, so now I'm wearing trainers. I also ditched my tent/ sleeping bag/ cooking equipment - a lighter rucksack makes all the difference towards the end of the day. And I have finally crossed into Switzerland. 

Last days in Austria (and the last days of summer?).

Leaving the Inn valley

Sculpture in the woods

Perfect clarity and liquid light

Mr. Finn feeling the heat

A good place to camp...

...is surprisingly hard to find. The Inn valley is very agricultural and I often felt that I was trespassing. Finny took his guard duties seriously, and the amount of dog-walkers, joggers, and cyclists meant that we rarely had a restful night. Things are better here in the mountains - these photos are of a good camp, on sacred ground. Perfect weather today as we crossed the Arlberg Pass. Intense light too, and many seeds carried on the breeze by their parachutes of shining fluff. Sometimes two bump into each other and get stuck together - not a bad metaphor for love, really.

Taking advantage of a rainy rest day for an extra post.

The pleasure of walking is of course its slowness. I have been able to hear accents change from Salzburgerish to Bavarian to Tyrolean, I have observed different customs (like the huge plywood cutouts of storks on the fronts of buildings in the Tyrol, announcing the arrival of a newborn), and I have taken time to explore the old centre of Innsbruck - a little gem. But above all there have been moments when the questions (what am I doing with my life?) cease, the objects around me take on greater clarity and plasticity, and the term 'suchness' begins to make sense. (100)

In Innsbruck.

There are two cross-cultural religious recommendations that resonate with me: fasting, and pilgrimage. Fasting, as well as being physically healthy (http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/magazine/article4530742.ece), is a training of one's ability to tolerate discomfort - possibly the most valuable training there is. A pilgrimage, or a long walk (a recent sign informed me that I still have 2688km to go) is more complex. It is bringing home to me that the journey is more important than the destination, perhaps even is the destination. The parallels with life are obvious, but it is good to feel these things through your body, and be reminded of them constantly. (100, excluding link)

P.P.S... e basta.

I am tempted to delete my original post. Finny is in much better spirits today - it's cooler, and we have had two friendly canine encounters which have built up his confidence. But more importantly, we walked past a family whose two young children were fighting and screaming. The boy was particularly snot-nosed and spiteful-looking, and he kept attacking his sister with a stick. Both parents had that harried, bleary-eyed, slightly pudgy look that is so common. I am sure this is not what they had planned for their Sunday outing, and so much more is at stake. (100)

Troubles with Finn.

Strange how the best laid plans will come undone just where you least expect it. The one thing I was certain of was that Finny would have a blast on this trip, but that isn't the case. He is out of sorts, sitting down in the shade and refusing to move, and growling and snapping at other dogs, whereas in Beirut he was the most gentle and diffident of animals. Maybe it's the heat, or the move, or simply adolescence. But it brings up solid meditative material - my own relationship with frustration, and change, and the things I can't control. (100)

P.S. I realise I have written two posts in quick succession, but I didn't write one last Sunday, and I want to make the most of having a charged phone and a wifi connection.

Salzburg to St. Johann in Tirol.

Four days in, but it feels a lot longer than that. That is partly because the preparation was a journey in itself - I had to move out of my apartment in Beirut, sell a car and a motorbike (tricky, owing to Lebanese bureaucracy), then I flew back to London with Finny (also tricky), before driving to Austria. Since then we have been walking through picture perfect Bavarian & Tyrolean villages, in the dog days of summer. As in the early days of a meditation retreat (n=1), I have found myself surprisingly emotional, tearing up at odd moments - an interesting phenomenon. (100)

The plan.

I am planning to walk 2500km with my dog from Salzburg in Austria to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Why? Firstly, to celebrate my escape from the structure and routine of a full-time teaching job. Secondly, because the world seems to have contracted recently, and I would like it to feel big again. Thirdly, because I think it will be interesting to cut out the noise by going offline for 6 months (except for this post, once a week). But mostly because it’s just what I feel like doing, and I am lucky to have the freedom to do it. (100)