Back to the drawing board.

I used to draw a lot. Then I got disenchanted, because the results often fell short of what I had hoped for. I also compared my work to other people’s, which is a foolish thing to do, though hard to avoid. But in essence, I got distracted by concentrating on a perceived goal - the finished drawing - rather than on the process and the activity itself. When viewed in this light, then drawing, like so many other things, can be a form of meditation. I owe that insight (or reminder) to my friend, the excellent painter Tom Young.

 London.

 Le Roux, France.

    Drawing of a swimming Polar bear, a beautiful sculpture by Tanya Brett.

In the Ashram.

When I returned to the UK after the walk, at the end of January, I was on a high. I felt incredibly light, like nothing really mattered, but in a joyous and playful way, rather than a nihilistic one. Everything felt like a bonus, and my everyday interactions (with everyone - friends, taxi drivers, supermarket cashiers) reflected that. Then I started to work on the upkeep and maintenance of my parents' house, and my childhood home, in Sussex. It has started to look a bit sad and neglected in recent years, despite my mother's best efforts. My to-do list soon began to feel overwhelming, the cost of landscaping (both raw materials and labour) came as a shock after years abroad, and the days were cold, wet, and short. After 3 months, I was feeling more tired, flat and unenthused (about everything) than I ever have before. I had no desire to read and got into the habit of an escapist martini (or two) before dinner every night, passing out directly afterwards. Was it the weather? The physical labour? The to-do list? The challenges of coming home after years away? Or some vulgar virus? I went to see my GP, who did a blood test; nothing abnormal. With the growing suspicion that the malaise was primarily psychological, I consulted a friend and then booked a flight to India to spend a month at the Amritapuri ashram in Kerala, for £5 a day. I get a simple room, 3 vegetarian meals a day, access to various supposedly beneficent activities/ practices, as well as proximity to Amma herself, the 'hugging Saint' and, according to some, a divine incarnation... I arrived last week.

If you would like to read about the experience – and it has been life-changing - then please go to my normal webpage www.clausvonbohlen.com

The End (in 150 words).

Finally, I am in Finisterre. This was the end of the known world in ancient times, and it still has a ragged, liminal feel. It's three days' walk from Santiago, through misty eucalyptus forests where strips of torn bark lie strewn across the path. It also feels appropriate for me personally. Of the last eight years, I have spent four in America, and four in the Middle East, interspersed with a few summers of psychonauting; I feel that I have been exploring the limits of my own known world, and now the time has come for a period of consolidation. One day I would like to come back, throw my telephone into the ocean, and walk back to Austria, entirely unencumbered. When that day comes, there will be no blog to read, but I hope that you will still see fit to applaud me, clapping with one hand.

Eucalyptus forests.

Final stretch.

Finisterre.

The Cape - the end of the ancient world.

THE lesson (in 150 words).

I don't know what I was expecting from this final leg; not exactly fanfares and trumpets, but not far off. The reality has been very different. The stench of manure is ubiquitous in Galicia. Dwellings are astonishingly humble for a modern European country. The descent into Santiago was singularly disappointing. But THE lesson has been reinforced: this journey has been made worthwhile by the encounters, experiences and occasional moments of clarity along the way, not by the destination. Fixating on a destination is the same as fixating on the future - a pointless exercise. The future is a mental construct; we never experience it directly, and when it becomes the present, it is never how we imagined it. 'Our time is here, is now'; if we can't be happy in the present, we will never be happy. I still slip up most of the time, but at least I have become more aware of it.

Galician shepherd.

Descent into Santiago de Compostela.

The cathedral, mostly hidden by scaffolding.

Main entrance to the cathedral.

Human geography.

Between Salzburg and St. Jean Pied-de-Port (the French-Spanish border), I only met 5 other people walking to (or back from) Santiago. In Spain itself, that has changed considerably. I must confess that my heart does not leap for joy when I meet other pilgrims; I'd prefer to meet local people, but the locals often seem jaded. The vast majority of pilgrims here are, bizarrely, Korean. But I have recently been walking with a brilliant, though also rather fragile, Spanish-Iranian girl. I met her outside León, an incongruous figure in electric blue skiwear framed by an ocean of mud.

Physical geography.

From Castrojeríz I climbed up onto the meseta of Castile. On a beautiful frosty morning, on towards León, whose cathedral is immensely impressive. The outskirts, however, are another story. The village of Valverde, whose name appears in Unamuno's lyrical novella 'San Manuel Bueno, Mártir', could scarcely have been more disappointing. For two days, the Camino runs alongside the N-120 highway, with its thundering trucks. Then a climb up through hill country to the foggy, snow-covered villages either side of the Monte Irago pass. Down again, then up over O Cebreiro, and down once more into the rolling hills of Galicia. 

Climbing onto the meseta.

Frosty morning in Castile.

León cathedral.

Valverde - Miguel de Unamuno would turn in his grave.

The village of Foncebadón.

Pilgrim descending into Galicia.

The rain in Spain...

...does indeed fall mainly on the plain, currently in the form of stinging droplets driven by gale force winds. I have crossed La Rioja, which may bring to mind the cheerful wines of the sun-drenched south. But I found it very depressing - a poor, desolate and wind-swept region whose fields, reeking of nitrate fertilisers, alternate with strips of industrial wasteland. I passed through Cirueña, a ghost town of luxury apartments that have never been lived in, haunting reminders of the housing boom and the crisis. It felt truly post-apocalyptic - one of the saddest places I have ever been.

A boarded-up brothel beside the Camino.

Fields and industrial parks.

Tea with Wilfred.

Back on the road, and limped into Pamplona, after 46km. Was feeling quite pleased with myself, until I read Wilfred Thesiger's book about the Marsh Arabs; with no medical training, he performed thousands of circumcisions, and once removed a man's eyeball. But that's ok, they were giants in those days (though admittedly those days coincided with my own - as a teenager, I regularly had tea with Wilfred). Then, this morning, I read about Ricardo Abad, who completed 100 iron men* last year. And in 2012 he ran 500 marathons in 500 days. Take-away lesson? Best not to compare oneself to others.

* 1 iron man = 3.8k swim, 180k bike ride, 42k marathon run. 

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.