For over a thousand years, people walked on a trail or network of trails known as The Way of Saint James. By mid-20th century, pilgrim traffic slowed down to a trickle. Roughly fifty years ago it began booming back, as part of a global uptick in pilgrimage across faith traditions.
Although The Way began as a religious pilgrimage, and continues to be a means of spiritual revitalization and restored perspective, for many it has become an act of ecotourism in communion with nature; a competitive athletic event; and/or a means of gathering knowledge about the social, cultural, religious and artistic significance of the villages through which they pass. And while a religious network of inns (Gites) exists to support pilgrims, these accept anyone arriving on foot. Some even accept those arriving with donkeys or horses.
I heard about The Way from a friend. She told me her husband had been trying to convince her to go for years and she could no longer say no. “We went for three weeks. Next summer we’ll pick up where we left off.” Whether or not pilgrims have religious motivations, they nearly always seek healing.
People start from all over Europe. In Germany, people walk on Jakobsweg. In France, it’s le chemin St. Jacques. Four paths cut across France. I took the greenest and most widely traveled route, the GR65, (aka; the via podiensis, the route from Le Puy), which receives pilgrims from Geneva to the east. Many pilgrims do like my friends; walk a stretch, return to their lives, pick up next time where they left off. I didn’t know but thought that might be what I was doing too.
I visited friends who live near the GR65 before I began. One insisted my walking The Way was imprudent: first, they said, I hadn’t prepared physically; second, my French was inadequate; third, I had no lodging reservations. I blew off the first: I’d been training all my life. I refuted the second: English is the EU’s common language and any two people who want to communicate can get around language differences. On reservations, I said I couldn’t predict how far I’d want or be able to walk from day to day. Millions before me had no capacity to make reservations and accepted “come what may.” I would too.
I kept wondering, were my friends correct? I had to stop asking questions. There wasn’t room for worry about arriving in time to hear the bell rung here or to be welcomed as a pilgrim there. I was walking to restore balance, not by ruminating, not by over-planning, but by surrendering to The Way itself and letting it work its wonders. Trusting that The Way will meet one’s needs part of being a pilgrim—by definition, a self-imposed exile.
The moment my feet touched down, I felt lighter. I took in a deep breath and let it go, slowly. It was an unusually warm October. I often went hours without seeing another soul.
The Benefits of Getting Lost
I knew that a white-over-red stripe painted on a tree, rock, fence, or the broad side of a barn meant, “Go this way.” It took me far too long to figure out that a red-and-white X means “Not this way” and a hooked white-over-red symbol means turn right or left depending on a hook’s direction. There were many times when a “Go this way” symbol wasn’t readily visible or suggested two different courses of action.
Even though getting lost means wasting footsteps relative to a goal, it has benefits by leading to discoveries. One day, before I knew I was lost, I saw my first porcupine in the wild. A couple of lost miles later, I came upon the 11th century chapel of St. Hiliarian. A cemetery abutted the chapel. Both were empty except for a woman who meditatively re-arranged flowers over an above-ground tomb in the cemetery.
Had I not gotten lost, I wouldn’t have come upon the magnificent partly Romanesque, partly Gothic chapel or learned that one of the best places to go when in need of safe drinking water (eau potable) is a cemetery abutting a church. Their water spigots were often worth the trip. One church’s water spigot, accessible to walkers without entering the cemetery yard, was an ornate dragon’s head and the water shooting from the dragon’s mouth was its fire.
Where Will I Stay Tonight?
While the route is largely set (with accepted variants), I refused to create the sort of itinerary I was accustomed to assembling for family vacations. Doing so threatened a sense of mystery. It violated the notion I was surrendering to The Way. Conceivably, I could have called ahead and made same-day reservations but I was never entirely sure how far I’d go that day. And since pilgrim traffic was slow, I figured I’d have little competition in finding a bed.
One early day, as the sun crested toward the horizon, I began doubting I’d arrive before dark at the convent where I hoped to spend the night. I came upon an old, stone-and-masonry shepherd’s shelter, evidently-abandoned. It had a dirt floor. A concrete bench had a rustic wood-slat top, which at first looked like a tolerable bed. I had a space blanket, but no sleeping bag. Then it struck me, the bench was habitable for vipers, who’ll come out to play after dark. I re-joined the lingering sunlight. After dark, a 500-year-old nun answered the convent door. After a multi-course dinner, I was escorted up to my 4th floor bedroom.
While correct about pilgrim traffic being light, I didn’t take into account that by mid-October most Gites close for the winter, greatly restricting options, especially for late arrivals. Arriving long after dark and finding all Gites had shuttered, I was once taken in by a priest who had retired for the night. After feeding me, he gave me a sheet of orange bubble wrap to buffer my hip bones against the kitchen floor. That’s a form that surrendering to The Way can sometimes take. A pilgrim from Geneva told me she and her horse were taken in by strangers.
I tried staying in dormitories. Being noisy and up-and-down throughout the night made me a poor bunkmate for the soundest of sleepers. I made a conscious decision to ask if I could pay for private or double rooms, which were scarce. The biggest problem with dorm rooms was that they weren’t designed to allow multiple people to charge cell phones and other electronic devices simultaneously. At one Gite with dorm space for 17, I was one of two lodgers. My bunkmate was a college student from Japan who was running a marathon along The Way every day. He’d already worn through a few toes on his toe-shoes. Because it was October, there were five staff and volunteers to support us two.
Staying Fed and Hydrated
Gites fed us complete, nourishing breakfasts and dinners. Where Gites left off, people living along the pilgrimage route picked up. Many left out drinks (water or tea) or fruit (apples, pears, plums) for pilgrims. And there was plenty of fallen fruit along The Way too.
Hydration was a different matter. It was easy to walk hours without seeing a source of eau potable. To avoid feeling weighed down, I carried relatively little water. Absent signs vouching for the potability of water, I assumed it wasn’t. It was ironic that cemeteries were the most reliable source of potable water.
Keeping One’s Footing
I didn’t know what to expect. One stretch required a two-hour downhill over rocks used to fill ravines created by rains. Using the walking sticks unconsciously to make adjustments, I satisfactorily adapted to the role of arthritic mountain goat. Some stretches of trail looked like stones placed by a performance artist to remind us this wasn’t supposed to be easy.
Chestnuts strewn nearly everywhere required improvising a new dance. I saw old men filling giant baskets with them. Two pilgrims I met emptied their backpacks, mailed their clothing and other possessions home, and re-filled their backpacks with their precious chestnut cargo.
Lions and Tigers and Bears
Guidebooks warned of aggressive dogs and suggested use of walking sticks against them. I was more concerned about feral cats. In reality, a single dog bonded me most closely to The Way. A kind-looking German shepherd named Zita led me up a long hill to the chapel of St. Roch and led me inside. Sitting in the third pew on the right, for three minutes she seemed to meditate. Afterward, I shared some Comte cheese and blueberries with her. I tried saying goodbye, but she wasn’t ready to part. Over the course of eleven hours, she shielded me from oncoming traffic, caused a charging cow to run off, and guided me through a dark forest. And, on a lighted, winding road where she was out of her element, I developed a protocol of saying, “Come here now,” and she stood by my side until I removed my “staff” and told her it was safe. I hated parting with Zita, but that was a condition of the priest’s taking me in for the night.
Human Contact
Along the GR65, long-horned, Aubrac cows provided frequent company and their bells a melodious accompaniment. However, there typically were few opportunities for human interaction except at Gites and in villages. Younger pilgrims confided they were going in circles—nothing stuck, they’d hit a wall, felt blocked, wanted to get their bearings, and sought guidance in careers, relationships, spirit. Older pilgrims said they searched for peace, hoped to gain control of a medical condition affecting themselves or a loved one, or sought guidance re-prioritizing now that work and family no longer sapped their energies. One retired policeman said he walking as a way of seeking forgiveness, “for all the unethical things I had to do.”
Once, a middle-aged woman in a red sweater ran up a hill, greeted me as a pilgrim, and with her arms reaching toward the sky announced, “Quel Dieu journée parfaite nous a donné!” (What a perfect day God has given us!) Ritually exchanging “Bonjour” and quick smiles with passing strangers often reinforced the sense of being cut off. I sometimes had to remind myself, I’m merely a pilgrim, by definition I’m only passing through. As my journey came to an end, I felt ready to become part of the last communities I visited. I talked with students, people on the street, and striking railroad workers about the looming national strike; in turn, they shared with me bread, cheese, and wine. At the end, I had a memorable conversation with two university-educated homeless women, mother and daughter, who after two hours said, “People stop and talk with us because they have need. What is your need?” (See Sisyphus Issue 6.1, Spring 2019 Wakefulness: Invitation to Witness.)
It was time to head home, but in my heart, I took the two homeless women, Zita, and The Way with me. Such surrender to place grows on you and calls you back.
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