Who would true Valour see
Let him come hither;
One here will Constant be,
Come Wind, come Weather.
There’s no Discouragement,
Shall make him once Relent,
His first avow’d Intent,
To be a Pilgrim.
– John Bunyan
I love France: the culture, the countryside, the architecture, the music, the food, the energy and enthusiasm of the people, the light, and the general enjoyment of life. Being at a transition moment in my professional life, and having the invitation to perform in France as a serendipitous synchronicity, I pulled out my trusty hiking boots and set off on my third excursion along the French version of the famed Camino, the Chemin de Saint-Jacques.
First walked by ninth century pilgrims, the Route enjoyed a Golden Age in the 12th and 13th centuries while a massive infrastructure of bridges, churches, and pilgrim hospitals (hostels, now gîtes) developed along the path. Medieval songs were created about the experience of walking a path that was simultaneously a sacred pilgrimage and a very earthy human journey, full of sensual delights and hardships. The history is rich; and you definitely can sense that as you participate in this route. A countless throng has walked these paths in the ensuing millennium. Walking it today feels like entering a river of history, knowing that innumerable lives have sought a time of reflection and change in the same place.
On this, my third walk along a portion of the Route, I chose the first week of October for this walk, wanting to avoid Europe’s new normal of insufferably hot summers. Pilgrims don’t pray for good weather; we pray for comfortable weather! There’s a difference. The land needs sun, wind, and rain. Who am I to request otherwise? However, suffering is optional, and relentless heat is not my cup of tea.
I also chose to walk this solo rather than in the company of family or friends. This is a time when I feel I’m moving towards what I actually came here on earth to do, namely to be a mystic and alchemist, and to use the vehicle of beauty to communicate transcendence. Solo walking gives me the monastic quiet that I like to reflect upon the past, ponder the future, and immerse myself into the culture I’m traversing.
Speaking of traversing, it is the practical matters which play the biggest part in walking the Chemin: one’s health and well-being. If you get sick, have physical issues from walking, whether that be sore muscles, blisters, or troubled joints, if you run out of money (or in the olden days, get robbed), if you have no place to rest for the night, if you get dehydrated from lack of water, if you lose energy from lack of food – any of these things can break an otherwise spiritual endeavor.
I realize this sounds morose, but my anxiousness was often coupled with a fear of death. What would happen if I were to conk out while walking? Not likely, I know; but nearing 69 years of age, I never take tomorrow as a given! I also have a congenital heart anomaly (a left ventricular myocardial bridge) which makes me feel uncomfortable when the heart beats hard from exercise and walking up steep hills. This creates a need for frequent stops in order for the heart to return to its normal beating, and it makes me self-conscious when I’m walking with others. Yet another reason to do this trip solo. (I was 52 when I learned of this anomaly, and only recently came to understand how it affects my ability to undertake vigorous cardiovascular exercise. No wonder I was a disaster at team sports all my life!)
One of the most striking aspects of walking the Chemin is how the hosts who run the guesthouses (gîtes) fully understand that this way of life only works, only functions, within community. They look out for the pilgrims, help us, encourage us, and console us. I would have felt bereft of life’s simple joys (food, shelter, friendship, smiles, warmth) had it not been for the well-worn welcome-mat that seems always to be out for people such as myself. The constant waves from people passing by in cars, the warmth and respect from shopkeepers, the smiles and conversations from other pilgrims, and the friendliness of the gîte hosts created a feeling of moving about through a host of angels. Fantastic. I set off on this pilgrimage craving solitude, yet found myself equally drawn to the warmth of the communities I encountered.
What does it mean to walk a pilgrim’s route when, today, anyone can get from A to B by driving or flying?
There’s kind of a collapsing of time and space that takes hold as one walks all day. The concept of having the goal of a final destination (Santiago de Compostela) becomes irrelevant, most especially in my case – since I have already driven a car along the Spanish side of the Camino, arrived in Santiago, and even played the organ in the famed Cathedral. In medieval times when foot travel or horse/mule travel was the only option available, the concept of walking, with the goal being to reach a particular destination, would have been normal. But in the 21st century, the paradigm for choosing to walk a route such as this has flipped everything 180°. The destination becomes irrelevant; it’s the journey that commands one’s attention. Passing by farmland, and eventually arriving in one small village after another changes one’s perspective.
At home, when I want to get anywhere, I get in my car or I take public transportation. The act of walking is reserved for respites in nature. For many of us in the Western world, walking is done for exercise, for stimulation (immersion in nature), or to travel short distances. But when you’re walking along the Chemin, going whole days without getting in a car, and encountering mostly other walkers, that flips the paradigm on its head. Concerns which rarely plague me in a normal day loom large on the trail. Every day, for example, I had to weigh the discrepancies between the painted trail markings along the Chemin, the official GR65 map, my Google Maps, and various travel guides. I always had to keep in mind whether I thought my pre-reserved gîte was slightly off the beaten path, and whether Google Maps was taking me directly to that place along a path or along a road (considerably less desirable). Two years ago, hiking in the Springtime, I searched for asphalt roads as much as possible, since the path was so riddled with slick mud that walking was hazardous and unenjoyable. This time, walking through countryside badly scorched by extreme heat and at least six weeks without rain, the situation was reversed; and it’s far easier for the leg and foot muscles to walk along a dry path than on a hard asphalt surface.
As a professional musician walking this route (and as I’ve learned, that combination is highly unusual), especially a classical musician attuned to the resonance of spaces, I sought out every church, chapel, and cathedral that I came within proximity of. There were three reasons for that: I reveled in the embrace that the ancient walls seemed to impart, the true meaning of “sanctuary.” I spent quiet time in prayer and meditation in each space, allowing the silence to penetrate. And I almost always sought out the possibility of playing the organ – if there was one (including spending several hours on silent keyboards because the organ could not be turned on). I was keenly aware that I had a difficult concert program a few days ahead of me and didn’t want to allow any slippage of technique to creep into my performance due to lack of time spent practicing. Inevitably I would discover a fellow pilgrim at my overnight gîte that had heard me practicing, and always expressed tremendous gratitude for how that enriched their experience. I love that. Giving as well as receiving while traveling is the secret to a rich and memorable experience.
In the city of Condom (no relation to the prophylactic by the same name, although cartoons of condoms seem to function as the city’s unofficial mascot), I was fortunate enough to develop a friendship with the assistant organist at the cathedral – who led me up a very long, narrow, and steep spiral staircase to the organ loft, where I spent two and a half wonderful hours making music in the cathedral’s vast acoustic. The next day was a Sunday. I attended Mass at the Cathedral (sadly extremely over-miked), and was very moved when all the pilgrims present were called up, at the end of the Mass for a special blessing. The warmth, care, and respect just kept pouring out, day after day.
My walk that afternoon took me to a tiny UNESCO village, called La Romieu. That night at the gîte, there were 13 men, and I was the youngest of the pilgrims! (It’s nice to feel young at age 68.) Most were from Belgium who have been sharing summer jaunts like this for many years. The next morning, the host and I played musical pans together (a first for me) – obviously a huge contrast to the cathedral organ in Condom, but equally as enjoyable. You never know what doors will open when you tell people you are a musician!
For me, travel is about exposure to beauty, openness to other ways of seeing the world, moving beyond my comfort zone, and, perhaps most of all, discovering the resonance of place. As I step more fully into the next chapter of my professional life, I know that the silence of the countryside, the sounds of ancient churches, and the kindness of strangers will continue to inform me for years to come.
I set out seeking solitude. What I found was connection.