Regardless of loss

I did not see those words, "regardless of loss," until late in the day as I approached Peronne, but the phrase felt like the chill I had been feeling since I started out that morning. In Bapaume, the only tabac open early for a cup of coffee had been the one near the bus depot and opposite a gas station. I had dressed in my everyday hiking gear but the chill wind was too much for me to take. I grabbed my rain pants and headed to the WC to do a quick change. No rain was expected but I needed the rainwear to cut the wind. I added another two layers to the long sleeve hiking shirt I was wearing. My only hope for real warmth was to down some coffee and get walking. Neither helped. 

I told Patrick that I was missing not having met other pilgrims, and how walking the Via Francigena on my own would have been difficult. The Camino Frances doesn't present that particular challenge. There are tons of other pilgrims there, though it is easy to be alone in one's thoughts whenever one wishes and sometimes to be alone in body as well. Patrick is good company and a good friend, but we both miss being part of a community of walkers as we were in Spain. 

It wasn't just the just the chill and the low, slate-grey overcast, nor the aloneness. In the parts of France we had been walking through since Calais, there is a consistent narrative, towns and villages built and destroyed, rebuilt and destroyed again. The story there is written in conflicts with the English or Spaniards, with Flanders or Burgandy. To be sure, the two world wars also took a major toll. Even more recently, the destruction is economic and technological in origin. It is a region dotted by huge piles-become-hills and ridge-lines of coal mine tailings, now grown over with brush and trees to the point that they look like a part of the natural landscape.

From the time I left Arras, however, and especially as I walked from Bapaume to Perrone, the insanity of the Great War presented itself more acutely. You should be warned that my factual knowledge of WWI is limited. But this blog is about how I feel, and the few facts I have were engaged, that day, by that emptiness in the gut I got as I passed sign after sign —"South African Cemetery," "Australian Cemetery," "Manchester Cemetery." There are large national cemeteries in the area, but these burial grounds are smaller, at least the ones I saw are, memorials to a few dozen men, more personal, more heart churning than thousands upon thousands of white slabs or crosses. The small rectangularized arrows printed in neat sans serif, off white on green background, melded with the landscape in the same way those piles of tailings did, far too natural for my sensibilities.

Then I came to a sign, black on white, a German cemetery. The letters just felt harsher. That is not to say the German war dead do not deserve the same respect as the French and Commonwealth soldiers. Most, like their Ally counterparts, were not war makers, just more meat for the grinder. That sign, especially situated in front of the junked mechanical icon, that descendant on a different branch of the evolutionary tree from the Wotan A7V that saw action in 1918, a few dozen as armored fighting vehicles, several dozen more as troop carriers, was in no way natural.

On this part of the front, the region of the Somme, between 1914 and 1918, the German line advanced a mere 25 kilometers as measured by my thumbnail on a map I found a day or so later. How many bodies per kilometer, I wonder, in the taking and the losing.

My thoughts were lost in loss as I came upon two Aussies and a Brit walking the fields, tracing the movements in the Battle of Mount Saint Quentin, in the larger battle for Peronne. We chatted a bit. Not much about the war, but our conversation was quiet, respectful of where we were and what happened there. Not 100 meters after I left them, I came across a printed panel describing the action that took place there and the orders that had come down to take that strategic high ground overlooking Perronne, "regardless of loss."

I guess there are two ways to take that statement. A combat unit told that the only recourse for failure was death might not waver in the battle. They might understand the importance of their mission and vie more courageously for success. But that day, all I could think of was the other interpretation. What futility to know that if you were the last man standing you had better not stand for long despite the impossibility of odds. What hubris, to stand at the big chess board, moving men like game pieces, sacrificing pawns for a grander strategy. As it turns out, the Aussies won an important victory that day. As I understand it, they took the high ground and fought off German counterattacks. There were heroic actions by individuals, but there were also losses. 

The chill did not leave me all day.

Comments welcome at garyontheway@gmail.com

Omnes viae romam perducunt

I was amped coming out of Canterbury, disappointment over the lost miles evaporated, the only residue being what I noted in my journal, more intense and personal than what was posted on my blog. 

After Canterbury, I wanted to post something really upbeat and I owe it to some friends, who you will meet shortly, to do just that. But the mood turned a couple of days ago and I need to get that off my chest as well. So here is a quick summary of what went on in between. 

The first signs for Via Francigena reinforced my excitement. No longer heading to Canterbury - been there, done that. We are going to Rome. 

We take a path into Dover that avoids the muddied fields made squiggy under foot (real Brit-speak I picked up in Oxford a few years ago) by a sudden afternoon  downpour and enter Dover beside it's great fort overlooking the city. After descending to the city, we turn left and track beside white chalk cliffs fronted by transient hotels and boarding houses. Not surprising. The ferry terminal is just to the right. For some, their first footsteps in Britain are to a home in these ramshackles.  

The ferry is late due to bad weather over the channeI. I do not love boats of any kind, and the slight roll I feel as I walk across the cabin is not reassuring. Nor is there much to see in the haze that could distract me. But as we approach port, the sun peaks his nose, as Patrick would say, and voila!, France.

Our particular road to Rome takes us on an excursion to Dunkerque. Beatrice and Paul, who I met on the Camino Frances, meet the ferry. I introduce them to Patrick, and they open their home to us.

I met Beatrice and Paul early in my walk from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Compostela. They had already been walking a month. I did not know them but I shared some wine with them. Not so unusual on the Camino. I didn't see them again until a few days before my arrival in Compostela. At first, we did not recall having met earlier, though Paul, who has an excellent memory, eventually recalled the shared Rioja. For reasons of some walking slower and some faster, I had separated from the little community I was part of during my transit as they had from theirs. In this hostel, three days from our objective, we were each cooking our dinner and were left to eat alone. On a very small three sided table attached to a wall, we crowded together and ate, made conversation, and filled an emptiness we each were feeling. I shared an orange. Beatrice tells me she recalls that moment to this day.  Every time she eats an orange, she says, it tastes sweeter for that experience. She was a teacher, and is a sweet and giving person, as is Paul, who dedicated his career to people with mental disabilities. Now, in retirement, he is a rather accomplished artist. I cannot say enough good things about these two fine people.

Sunday afternoon, after a tour of the city, a visit to the cathedral to get our credentials stamped, and lunch cooked by Beatrice, they drive us back to Calais, near to where they picked us up. 

We begin our march through France from in front of Rodin's Burghers of Calais in situ. I enjoyed the next few days, the small country roads, the fields, and the vistas, not very different from what we experienced in England. Each gîte or chambre  d'hôte was unique and hospitable, but I want to end this post with our stay in Wisques at the little guesthouse outside the walls of the Abbey Notre Dame.

At the citadel-like abbey, home to a sisterhood of just 16, the last novice took her vows 15 years ago - religion, it seems, is no longer a growth business in France. But this Abbey holds a wonderful surprise outside its walls, a guesthouse that is every American's idea of France, presided over by the ebullient Sister Lucie, 50 years a resident at the abbey. Without her habit, she'd be mistaken for a most charming hostess of a country B&B. 

I've stayed in a number of abbeys, monasteries and parish houses during my walks and I am always struck by the obvious lack of funds these institutions must deal with. 

But in Sister Lucie's capable hands, the worn furnishings become a chic aesthetic.

Simple and comfortable, I was so taken by it that I must share more than my usual number of photos. 

The pleasant, flower emblazoned environment, was all the more special for what was to come. 

Soon after leaving, the weather turned chill and gloomy, as did my mood.  I stepped from spring to winter, for on this part of the road to Rome, ghosts stalk the wilds. I entered the region of the Somme. 

Constant Canterbury Part 2

Friday morning. An hour's walk to the train and a half hour later I am walking again. Skipping those miles gnaws at me. It's a pleasant enough walk - apple trees in bloom, wooded paths. Pleasant, it seems, just won't cut it today.

I pass the Blean, a large clearing in the woods that slopes up and to the right of me. It looks like nothing now, but two thousand years ago there was a Roman encampment and wooden fortification here. It is believed that it was erected by Caesar's legions as they made their way to the Thames. Interesting. 

We enter the outskirts of Canterbury and, though we have not walked the entirety of the Pilgrim's Way, I insist on entering on that route, avoiding several shorter alternatives. As we come to a crossroads where we must turn right, I am intrigued by the sight of a very old graveyard and church. I wander in and discover a treasure.

It is St. Dunstan's, where in 1174 Henry II removed his shoes, put on a rough woolen pilgrim's shirt, and walked barefoot to Canterbury cathedral in atonement for the murder of Thomas Becket, and where In 1577 Margaret Roper, daughter of Sir Thomas More, was interred along with the head of her father which she had rescued forty-two years before from a pike on which it was impaled outside the Tower of London on orders of Henry VIII. I've read about these events, seen dramas about them. As I stand in the Roper chapel, I see it peopled, not empty. I am ready to experience Canterbury. 

Exiting the church, a block or two ahead of me, a twin-towered fortified gate marks the entrance to Canterbury high street. Minus the modern infrastructure and it isn't hard to see what Chaucer's pilgrims might have seen. Vendor's stands fill the street, obscuring many of the building fronts. Street performers and hawkers, crowds of people sampling wares create a sense of hectic activity. The Wife of Bath would have been in her element. 

I've seen sights like this before but in Canterbury, today, it was special.

A left turn takes me to the cathedral precinct where, after waiting on a line to gain paid admission, I explain that I am only seeking a pilgrim's stamp for my credentials.

The magic words have been uttered. Patrick and I are whisked to a welcome center, no admission required. A young woman, Sarah, notes our packs. "I can tell you've been walking. Where did you start?" I show her our stamped credentials. "And how far are you going?" Holding my forearms out and perpendicular to my body, raising and lowering them slightly, "all the way," I say. Sarah squeals in an exclamative question, "To Rome?!" We nod.

Moments later, our credentials stamped, new ones bearing "peligrino francigeno" are issued, we are invited to attend Evensong, whisked to the cathedral for an admission-free tour, and introduced to a chaplain for a blessing. We wait for the reverend to climb down from the pulpit. He is a slight man but his grey hair, black robes and calm demeanor give him stature beyond the physical. 

"Reverend," I say, "I am not of your faith but I would appreciate your good wishes." He asks me what my faith is and what I believe. We speak for a while, and I tell him why I walk these millennia old paths, what I get out of them. He begins his blessing. He speaks of ancient covenants and promises fulfilled in modern times, of survival in the face of adversity, and of personal understandings yet to be gained. He speaks to me in English and in Hebrew, and I am touched by these accommodations.

What I find constant in Canterbury is its history and its sincere welcome. In the face of that, what are a few miles one way or the other?

Comments welcome at garyontheway@gmail.com

Constant Canterbury Part 1

I've struggled over the last few days. What shall I say about the walk? There's been some rain and lots of mud. There's been beautiful panoramas but little variance. I've met people I'd like to tell you about and perhaps I eventually will.

I am now fourteen days into the walk, more than 200 miles and a channel crossing under my belt. I've already been walking in France for four days. Nothing seemed to rise to the level of blog-worthiness until about six days ago, the day before we entered Canterbury. It wasn't something I could easily write about until now because I am dead tired at the end of the day and I needed some time to understand how I am feeling about things. But I am ready now. 

So I will start with Constant. Every long walk has ups and downs and not just topographic. You deal with it. Sometimes, however, one of those downs threatens the walk itself. So it was in 2012, two days before Leon on the Camino Frances. My blisters had gotten so bad that my boots would no longer fit. I had lost one toenail and another was half ripped off. I could not walk. I could not go on. I was devastated. 

In the hostel that night, I met a Frenchman of African origin. He was a tall, robust man in his mid-sixties looking like fifty. His name was Constant. We spoke for a long time about the Camino. About the experience.  About the lessons one takes away. Finally, Constant looked at me with great seriousness and calmness. "Gary," he said, "disappointment is also a lesson of the Camino."

That didn't save the Camino for me. What saved it was my raison d'être telling me not to come home, to find a hotel room with a bathtub, and to spend the next two days soaking my foot.

That did the trick. On the third day, I walked just five miles, on the next ten. By the fifth day I was doing a slow fifteen, and with the swelling of my foot abating and the second toenail off (surprisingly a lost toenail is much less a problem than one in the process of being lost), I was back on the Camino.

That conversation with Constant, though, came back to me when Patrick and I finally had to face the one thing that threatened to destroy the enjoyment of this trip, and I remembered to accept  disappointment as a lesson, something to be embraced. 

Lodging has been the bane of this hike. The North Downs Way passes through or near few towns with any lodging. Where rooms exist they have been booked. I've spent hours every evening on the internet and the phone attempting to find rooms even if it meant taking a train to a bigger town or city and training back to our stopping point to pick the walk up where we left off. I've been so stressed that the enjoyment and benefits of the day's walks seemed to have evaporated. Everything was out of balance.

We were due to arrive in Canterbury on Saturday. On Thursday we figured we ought to find a place there and for an interim location the night before. No suitable accommodations were available. We'd have to spend hours at the task. I could not deal with it another time.

Finally, I offered the only solution that might bring things back in balance: train ahead by one day's distance and walk to Canterbury from that point, arriving on Friday when lodging was available. 

I was sorely disappointed not to walk the entire distance between Winchester and Canterbury, though we'd still be doing 144 of the 160 miles. Most of you will say this is a minor blip, something that will be lost in the context of a 1,400 mile walk. But for me, having set my sights on walking the entire distance, this was a big disappointment. 

For those who have not felt disappointment of this sort, I must tell you it is not an emotional thing. It is deeply physical. You feel it in the pit of your stomach or high up in your chest. It hurts. It pervades your thoughts. Everything which would otherwise be an excitement is degraded by the fact of having had to give up on an important part of the achievement. I know several good friends who would counsel that this is not failure, but it sure feels like it to me. It's how I am put together. 

This was the correct decision. It eliminated the stress but I still had to deal with the disappointment. Pilgrimage of this sort, though, is a long journey and opportunities to balance the disappointment do arise. Something always seems to come along which pays you back many fold.

And so it did as I arrived in Canterbury.

Comments welcome at: garyontheway@gmail.com 

Imperfection

Sometimes, the best of times, I find myself in a walking meditation. There is no control over what thoughts will emerge or what connections will occur, but the thoughts I have at these times are almost always important.

Today I thought of a good friend, newly made, who offered this wisdom when he read that I intended to blog: "perfection is an illusion." He knew I would try to write perfect posts and advised instead that I write from the heart.

Neurons flashed. Links were made. I was back at Winchester cathedral, my mind's eye on the floor tiles I had photographed the day before my walk began. They caught my attention then. Now I know why. Their beauty is in their imperfection.

I doubt these tiles are original. If they were, they would be 922 years old. Perhaps they are centuries old replacements, or recent replicas marred to look like those they replaced. What would those tiles tell me if they were perfect? Nothing. They would not tell me of the worshippers, penitents, tourists, and pilgrims, families and solo travelers, wanderers and wonderers, many thousands of them scuffing their way across those tiles or their predecessors in situ, over many hundreds of years. They would not tell me of marriages and births celebrated, or of the deceased remembered. The imperfections give these tiles character, tell of their history, and mark them unique. They are special because they are imperfect.

Everyone and everything each of us holds dearest in this world is imperfect in some way. They are what they are to us because of their imperfections, and often, the imperfections themselves are what we cherish most.

Thank you my friend for reminding me. 

Comments  welcome at garyontheway@gmail.com

A day of firsts

Today in Guildford, I woke up to rain. It was my first but it wasn't the only first. I had my first great coffee (at Cafe Nero, the best, their advert claims, this side of Milan), first climb of any significance, first mud, and first blister. Patrick and I trudged up Pewley Hill to the North Downs Way (NDW), viewing rolling hills draped in fog. 

Up to St. Martha's-on-the-hill, where the verger gave us the local history of dukes and the villages they relocated for their convenience, of brick-built Norman churches torn down and reconstructed in stone, as the duke thought a proper Norman church should be. He showed us the grave of Irving Bloomingdale of NY department store fame, who loved the place, and who was buried there when he died nearby, "though there are two stories about his death," the verger gossiped. 

He described how the Pilgrim's Way is a "bit of Romantic fantasy," whereas  the NDW, called by locals the Harrow Way or the Old Way, is Neolithic, and part of the migratory route from the continent that brought human settlement to Britain across the land bridge that would later become the English Channel at the end of the Ice Age. The Way went on to the Southwest, the opposite direction of my travel, past a Stonehenge yet to be built. Those migrants did not create the road - it was an animal track long before humans ever used it. 

The English do love their rain. Katey was a check-in point for an orienteering exercise, and I met many, many pups (my term for any dog that does not attempt to make a meal of me) giving their symbionts their required exercise. One lovely young springer was accompanied by a butterfly-observing woman who kindly gave me and Patrick directions to Dorking after we'd left the NDW to find rooms for the night. 

I met only one other pilgrim along the route, but he was taking his time, enjoying the English weather. 

Comments are welcome at garyonthe @gmail.com

The journey begins

My good friend, Patrick, who I met on the Camino Frances in 2012, flew to London to join me on my adventure. We trained it down to Winchester and headed to the cathedral to obtain our credentials, the booklet in which one accumulates stamps from churches, places of lodging, and villages along the trail. 

The verger was surprised and delighted to meet two pilgrims walking to Rome. He arranged our credentials and wished us a blessed journey. Whatever one's beliefs, the good wishes of others are always welcome.

After our stay at the well-worn Ranelegh guesthouse, Thursday morning dawned bright and dry, not a cloud to mar the cerulean sky, despite rain having been forecast. A bracing 3 degrees Centigrade, 37 Fahrenheit.

We walked along wooded footpaths and through wetlands and meadows. We were greeted by nearly newborn lambs, four pigs named Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme (yes, really - there was a sign), and an octet of gambolling young cows that seemed to play a game of tag with us, romping ahead some 20 meters until we caught up with them, repeating their game some four or five times. 

It all seemed quite idyllic until we realized that the GPS track we were using had been constructed, not by walking, but on a map, using many long straight lines. Our path, instead, zigzagged, increasing our distance to a leg-straining 26 miles, eight more than planned. We arrived in Alton, of Jane Austen fame, dragging our sorry selves to a shower, a juicy hamburger, and a couple of welcoming beds. What a pleasure to be on the trail again with aching feet, a sore back, and nothing on my mind outside the cast of my own shadow.