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MR. JOHNSON GOES WALKING
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Going to Spain the hard way--on your feet
of TheColumnists.com
BORDEAUX
You can’t miss the bronze sculpture of the old man with tired feet. He is relaxing with his walking stick on a roadside near Bordeaux and he has a radiant look on his face. I was intrigued when I first spotted him.
A nun at the adjacent abbey told me he is a symbol of the pilgrims who do the grandest of the trans-European walks, the “Way of St. James,” or as it is known in French, “Le Chemin de St. Jacques de Compostelle.” His destination would be a town in northern Spain, Santiago de Compostelle, where a collection of human bones, reputed to be those of St. James the Apostle, are kept at the local cathedral.
Every year more than 100,000 people from throughout the world walk parts of these paths, especially the final 30 kilometers, to get some personal satisfaction or fulfill a spiritual need. Some just want to be alone. I decided to join the walk briefly to see what it was about.
People young and old from Asia, the United States, South America and all of Europe make the trip on foot, on bicycle or on horseback during the good weather. The current season comes to an end in a few weeks although the toughest of them will still be at it in winter.
Former French Prime Minister (now Bordeaux mayor) Alain Juppé did part of the trek during his August vacation. Perhaps he was atoning for financial misdeeds he committed when he was prime minister, which cost him a felony conviction and two years’ probation. Or maybe he liked the mountain scenery.
This arduous hike dates back to the Middle Ages when Catholics wanted to demonstrate their faith. Today it’s more sport, social and personal, as I discovered when I dropped in at the organizational headquarters at St. Jean Pied de Port in the Pyrenées near the Spanish border. This is one of the main way-stations en route to Spain.
The office was buzzing in seven languages as volunteers advised trekkers what to expect on the road. Some had already done parts of the pathways--one couple clocking 2,400 kilometers from northern Belgium and looking extremely ruddy.
The chief volunteer was advising walkers to carry enough food and water to get from one shelter to another, which are spaced about a day’s walk apart. “In Spain there is no water,” she said.
Each pilgrim is issued with a stamped credential that entitles him or her to low-cost accommodation and nourishment along the way. A few weeks ago, at the peak of the season, some 2,500 walkers were processed here.
“There are some real pilgrims and some not-so-real,” complained the volunteer. She was resentful that one man was making the trip the easy way, on a motorcycle. She also groused that the walk had become “consumerized,” as she put it. “Everybody wants something for nothing. Some Americans in here recently expected to be housed free. It’s wrong. We have no money.”
The local merchants have also lost their way, she said. They gouge pilgrims for overpriced hotel rooms and bad food.
Trying to think positively, my wife and I set out on the main path toward Spain and approached a fellow hiker, a Dutchman named Piet Commandeur. Piet and his wife, both already looking weatherbeaten, were about to tackle the last part of the hike, 785 kilometers (490 miles), roughly a four-week trek. I asked him why he was doing this, bracing myself for some worn-out homily about Jesus.
Piet held up his right hand and made a
thumb-and-index-finger measurement of half an inch. “Dis
much religion.” Then he spread his measure to the maximum:
“Dis much surprise and fun.” He didn’t speak much
English.
The surprises come from the spectacular 50-mile views across
lush valleys or simply the socializing along the way and at evening
mealtime. Some sleep outdoors under the stars in warm summer
weather. Barriers between people tend to fall away in the common
struggle to complete the walk. No doubt some of the guys hope
to meet girls.
The European paths originate in Holland, Belgium, Germany and Switzerland and join up with four main routes into St. Jean Pied de Port, a principal way station. From there, the final leg follows the Pyrénées across the north shore of Galicia to Santiago de Compostelle. The paths are signposted and labeled with the seashell logo of St. Jacques.
I next accosted a rather frail woman in her 50s--Elsa Ruff, from San Francisco. She hesitated to explain her motivation but eventually said she was still trying to recover from her son’s suicide three years ago. She had discovered that on long walks she had a sense that he was with her, talking to her.
She seemed too frail for this ordeal. I asked her if she was afraid of highway robbers. “I’m not afraid of anything now,” she said. “I lived in New York in the 1960s. I’ve been mugged by professionals”
My wife and I said goodbye to the hardy hikers and climbed into our Mini Cooper for the ride back to Bordeaux. I don’t really like walking.
©2007 by Michael Johnson. The photo is courtesy of the author. This column first posted Sept. 17, 2007.
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