My Camino E-Book

Monique Teggelove

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 294

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

When Monique took her first steps on the Camino Frances, the ancient pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela, in April 2007, she had no idea what was awaiting her, and that was probably a good thing. It became an intensive walk through the outside world to the inner world. A journey through the landscapes of fear, addiction, recognition, spirituality and love. Amazing people crossed her path and intense experiences offered the opportunity to grow and to break new grounds in life. In My Camino she takes you to the way of Saint James, where you become a part of her experiences, sorrow, pain, fear, pleasure and joy.

Leseprobe

It’s not where you end up,

it’s who you become along the way.

To

Gea

my Camino mom in heaven

and to

my Lion King

Contents

Preface

The Mysteries of the Pyrenees

Guardian Angels

Rest and Food in Pamplona

A Special Meeting

Staying Alive

Swinging Back and Forth Between Fear and Faith

Connected Hearts

Rebuilding

Santo Domingo de la Calzada’s Legend

Rain, Mud and Butterflies

Reunion in Burgos

A New Hiking Buddy

Reunited

A Rainy Queen’s Day

The Secret Garden and the Equator

A Long Day on the Meseta

The Why of the Way of St. James

Beyond Leon

And Then There were Three

Coo Coo

Unexpected Reunion

De Camino Duro

Over the Top

Nighttime Adventures in Portomarin

Passing my Limits

Happiness

A One of a Kind Birthday

To Finisterre

Nothing Will Ever Lessen my Love

Finisterre

The End of the World

See You

Back to the Camino

Prologue

Acknowledgements

Nice to Know

Tips to Travel Light

Before and After the Journey

Information

Short List of Spanish Words

Preface

When I first set out on the Camino in 2007, it was - even though I enjoy writing - not with the intention to write a book about it. A joke “and I will be writing a book,” started to live its own life. From that moment on I have often heard my walking buddies state: “Monique will be writing a book about the Camino.” I usually smiled, not even giving a reply. My little notebook was nothing more and nothing less than a tool to help me integrate and process my experiences. Many emotions and experiences were committed to paper. And some days so much would happen, that I found myself writing things down during every single break to be able to handle the overload of impressions.

Only after I returned from the Way of Saint James did it dawn on me that I would indeed be writing a book. Not a description of landscapes, churches, and cathedrals, nor a multitude of historical facts, but my story, my perception of the people and experiences that crossed my path, and, most importantly, my emotions.

This elusive book did not happen overnight. There was lots of work to be done before I was ready to open to the world, and to myself.

Time and again my inner voice demanded, was I really going to share all of this with the world? The answer was: Yes, I am!

Late 2007, in Canada, I began writing the first draft of this book in Dutch and it was like reliving the whole thirty-day trip through inner and outer worlds all over again, often with a shining heart and a big smile on my face, sometimes overwhelmed by emotions and with watery eyes. My nights were once again restless and, as before, four to five meals a day were needed to keep me going. This time no blisters and sore legs, but painful shoulders.

I started seeing many things from a different perspective and new insights surfaced. The amazing people I had crossed paths with, mirrored and confronted me. They gave me a chance to grow. Each of them in their own unique way, just by being who they were. All of them had played their role with a great deal of verve, and colored my Camino.

My trip turned into a journey through the landscapes of fear, addiction, recognition, joy, openness, and love. A lot of love. Drawers from the past were opened. I have cleaned them out, so the light could return.

The personalities you read in my story are described from my perspective; how I experienced them. Some of their names are real, others aren’t. I left the choice up to them or have chosen to change names myself.

When I returned from Canada in early 2008, I realized I was not yet done with the Way of Saint James. I had to go again. And even that turned out to be not the last time.

During multiple journeys, on several continents, including Antarctica, I have been working on this book. Many people have encouraged and supported me in this.

Non-Dutch speaking friends have frequently asked me if I would have my story translated into English. It took me a long time before I was ready to do so. It felt like the next huge leap. It felt like sharing all my inner struggles with the people I had met along the way.

It took me until early 2018 before I felt ready for this next step, and I soon realized that I would have to take on this job myself. I knew I would not be able to live with the idea of someone else possibly not using the right words in certain situations.

A computer crash half way through put the translation on hold until May 2020. During the worldwide crisis my inbox got emptier and the usually long lists of tasks for Papillon Reizen got shorter. With more spare time than usual I was able to indulge my love for reading again.

However, this was not something I had anticipated when traveling back to Mali in March, and my stock of non-read books soon came to an end. Eventually I found myself holding my own book and realized I had never read it as a book; as being the reader, rather than the writer. I started reading and shed a few tears over memories that had been put in a drawer when I started my Malian adventure.

I actually enjoyed reading my own book and was quite surprised to feel that way. It was a journey back in time, a journey back to my core. The time to finish the translation had arrived. Sending the first draft of this English version of for proof reading on May 13th, 2020 added another birthday milestone to my Camino adventures.

In September 2020 new layers of consciousness unveiled, allowing me to see deeper meanings of experiences encountered, people met, and most of all about my profound connection to lions.

My Ways of Saint James have been walked, they are part of me, forever.

I continue my journey on the Camino of Life, step by step.

And sometimes I silently whisper “Nothing will ever lessen my love.”

Monique Teggelove

Vierhouten, The Netherlands, September 2020

The Mysteries of the Pyrenees

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

—Mao Tse Tung

I have only just set my first hesitant steps into the still dark morning, when someone tells me that the pass over the Pyrenees has been closed. Strange that they didn’t mention it when I was at the pilgrims’ office yesterday to register and to collect the first stamp on my pilgrim’s passport. To be on the safe side I decide to go back to the office, only to be told the pass is open.

Luckily at that point I did not know that a pilgrim had frozen to death - after having sprained his ankle - and that the pass indeed had been closed for about a week. Even without that knowledge there is a kind of weird feeling in my empty stomach. What the hell am I doing here at 07:45 am with a backpack on my untrained back, wearing hiking boots that are not yet worn in? My legs have as much mountain experience as the average Dutch goat and I am facing a twenty-six kilometre stage through the Pyrenees. Common sense and emotions are battling, and it takes a while before I manage to surrender. Turning back is not an option. The inner knowing that I am in the right place at the right time is too strong. Even though I have no conscious knowing of the why.

Surrendering.

Fog is limiting visibility. Behind me St. Jean-Pied-de-Port has dissolved, as if it never really existed. The much-praised views are lost to me.

Roncesvalles is still a faraway destination. My world is limited to a circle of fifty meters around me, the nearby horizon, and the illusion that the top of the mountain is right there where my vision ends.

My painful steps upwards are not visible to others. No compassionate looks, no judgements on starting an eight hundred kilometre walk without proper training. I am alone on the Way of St. James. Alone with my thoughts. Like in life, all that is behind me has become a memory and a yet invisible future is ahead of me. All that is, is the here and now.

Fog, wind, and drizzle do not keep me from sitting down on a rock every now and then to eat some crackers and to allow my aching feet, legs and back a break. Fragments of conversations echo through the fog; other pilgrims enter my cosy little world. A busload of Germans with umbrellas, the Spanish men I shared the dorm with last night, people who were on the same train yesterday, a Dutch girl, who seems to be having an even tougher time than I am, and many others.

Contacts are mainly limited to a friendly greeting or a short conversation. I need all my energy for my own journey, one step at a time. In between it all I enjoy the peaceful feeling that washes over me.

Today the Way of Saint James is mine.

Enjoying a sunbeam that made its way through the clouds and fog, I notice two men descending the mountain. Gone is the peace in my inner world. In one fell swoop I am totally aware of my outer surroundings. One of the men is beaming pure light. His medium length dark blond locks are dancing around his head to the rhythm of his springy steps. He is breathtakingly beautiful. Mesmerized, I observe the scene from my rock seat. Did my mouth drop open with surprise or am I just imagining it? A cheerful greeting comes my way and somehow I manage to respond. My goodness, what will they think about me? If only the slightest of my thoughts were expressed on my face, they would be having a good laugh by now.

A multitude of thoughts is flashing through my head: he is too young for you, you don’t like long-haired men, what a snob, for goodness’ sake who would even consider walking the Camino in a jacket and trousers?

And most of all: you just don’t go for someone you don’t even know.

Welcome to the Camino.

By the time I have snapped out of my reverie and continued my way, the fog is back and even more dense than before. It is cold and dewdrops freeze on my arms. It becomes challenging to locate the arrows marking the route. Sometimes I just trust and follow the sounds of other, invisible, pilgrims. The two men appear again and are taking a break at a well. In less than an hour the ‘young God’ of my vision has disappeared. Life has left its marks on his face. Brought down to earth with a bump I greet the men, continuing my way without pausing, even forgetting that my water bottle is almost empty. I have a hard time believing what I just saw. What I saw before, was just as real as this. Or not? Am I hallucinating already? Did I drink enough water today? Is this stage too much for me? Is the lack of preparation breaking me on day one? No, I am telling myself, there is nothing wrong with me. My body is doing well given the circumstances, as is my mental condition, and I have seen, what I have seen.

The Spring sun has not yet melted all of winter’s snow. The route downhill goes straight through a field of snow. At my first step in the snow I sink to my knee. At the second step I slide and not too gently I land on my bum. Usually I would probably have a good laugh at myself, if only it weren’t for the two men arriving from behind and this all happening right in front of their eyes. I instantly decide to take a break and let them pass so I can walk my own walk again. More cheerful greetings come my way and the no-more-young-God thanks me with a bright smile for being such a great guide. I am more than happy to pass the guiding on to him and only start moving again when they are far out of sight.

At some point today I have, without noticing it, crossed from France into Spain. Passing this invisible border, the clouds, drizzle and fog have made way for beautiful blue skies. The sun is warming the earth and feeding me with new energy. Butterflies pop up out of nowhere and flutter along the path as if they are accompanying me on this special journey. Spain is welcoming me.

It is only half past two when I arrive in Roncesvalles and sit down for a cup of tea and a bun. The stage that I wasn’t looking forward to, lays behind me and there are still a lot of hours of daylight ahead of me. The idea of spending the night in a pilgrim’s hostel with a hundred beds is not very appealing. I need no more motivation to walk a couple of more kilometres. Friedrich from Germany, who joined me in the bar for a cup of coffee, also decides to move on, and before I truly realize it, he has attached himself to me. It does not take long, before I get the impression that Friedrich is playing up to me. He doesn’t seem to miss out on any opportunity to tell me how much he loves to travel, that his schedule is very flexible and that time is available, as long as he’s back in Germany for Pentecost. I gave honest answers to his questions about my life, which has been far from average since I quit my job a year and a half ago and started traveling around the world. I had guessed it would be a challenge to walk the first half of the Camino alone, but I had not anticipated the challenge to start on the first day. It is an interesting situation, that I need to get myself out of as soon as possible.

The hotel in the next village is closed, nor does the second village offer any places to stay. The long day starts to take its toll, and the only option seems to be to walk on to the next village. When Friedrich announces that he would like to visit the supermarket I grab my chance and tell him that I will continue at my own pace. I thank him for his company, say goodbye and sprint off. All of a sudden Friedrich seems to have forgotten his plans to put on his jacket and do some grocery shopping and sets off in pursuit. I lose most of my lead when taking the wrong path at a three-forked road. Well-mannered, I point the right direction to Friedrich and speed up again. The sound of Friedrich’s walking sticks slowly fades away and finally can no longer be heard.

When I cautiously look behind Friedrich is no more in sight. Relieved, happy, and pleased I look at the sheepdog, walking next to me, wagging its tail. Where did she come from? I enjoy her company and she leads my thoughts away from my sore muscles.

The friendly older Spanish lady in the hotel in Biskaret is pleasantly surprised when I ask her for a room in Spanish. The amount of twenty-six euros does for a room with a bath. What a gift on this day. While I am taking a nice warm bath, I can still hear the dog, cheerfully barking and wonder if she will find her way back home. Just for now no aching muscles, no tired body, just time to enjoy and muse.

I was thin as a rake, late February in Copenhagen, when I realised that I would be walking the pilgrim’s trail to Santiago the Compostela.

Both physically and emotionally I was far from being in top form and yet none of the formerly convincing arguments against walking the Way of Saint James turned out to be valid anymore. After years of resistance I surrendered to the Call of the Camino. Almost two years ago I had decided it was time to sell my condo and I knew exactly why.

I wanted more room: a house with a garden with privacy and freedom.

Simple. Instead, I got the whole world. The first interested buyer bought my condo, but I did not manage to find my new home. Instead I quit my job, packed whatever I really wanted to keep in boxes and put the daily necessities in a backpack. I set out on lots of trips, the next even more surprising than the last. Frequently I wondered: Why? Why am I supposed to do this? If I had known beforehand about the challenges I would encounter, I might have considered to not sell my condo. Looking back on all the experiences and challenges I would not have liked to miss out on any of them. Not for all the gold in the world.

It is through them that I became the person I am now. And maybe it is best that I do not know what is ahead.

Usually my journeys are not marked by excessive preparations, and this one is no exception. My new hiking boots have walked no more than sixty kilometres and the same can be said about me. The so-called ideal luggage list for this trip - found on the internet - has been drastically shortened, simply because taking all of it would not only lead to exceeding the perfect ten percent of my bodyweight, but also the proposed maximum of fifteen percent. No good dress for the evenings and no four pairs of socks. Seven point seven kilos was the unrelenting verdict of the scale when checking in at Schiphol airport yesterday. I only exceeded the ideal by thirty percent.

My journey started with a delayed departure from Schiphol and an equally delayed arrival at Paris Charles de Gaulle, where the automatic doors to the arrival hall closed with a gentle swishing sound right before me. The stream of travelers came to a standstill in the glass cage between the airplane and the arrival hall.

“Happens every week,” was the comforting comment of a fellow traveler.

When they open, as unexpectedly as they had closed, the remaining time to catch my connecting flight from Orly has been shortened by ten minutes. I had trusted to find my backpack on the belt, but it is not yet there. By the time my twenty-eight litres backpack arrives, the shuttlebus has left.

“Sixteen euro” is the lady’s reply, when I ask where and when to find the next shuttlebus.

“Sixteen euro?” I ask in surprise and with disbelief.

“Yes,” she replies with slight irritation seeping from her voice.

Thank you kindly for flying Air France. We very much appreciate your loyalty as a frequent flyer gold member and hope to welcome you on board again soon. We don’t promise anything!

Travel on April sixteenth and start walking on the seventeenth - out of the blue the insight was there and I never had doubted it. Until now.

The chances of catching my connecting flight are becoming smaller and smaller. I notice I am getting restless and realise that again, there is little I can do but surrender to whatever presents itself today. As usual the Universe will know what is best for me.

The sound of the shrieking brakes of an arriving bus startles me out of my musings and before the bus has come to an entire standstill, I am on my feet. The driver gets out of the bus, slams the door, orders us to wait and enters the building. Shortly she resurfaces with a cup of coffee. Still grumbling, she allows us to enter the bus.

Fitting her temper, her driving style is far from subtle and she even manages to miss the Orly exit. As soon as she notices, she doesn’t hesitate a single second, hits the brake, gears backward and gives full throttle. The honking of fellow road users is answered by a volley of curses through the open window and loud honking. It feels kind of surreal and I start laughing. With my thoughts I send her a huge dose of love, she looks like she might need it.

After another involuntary pause, caused by a tow truck blocking the road, we arrive at Orly airport. My flight to Pau is scheduled for departure in no more than twenty minutes. The woman at the Air France desk looks at me in despair, and then hastily prints me a boarding pass stating “hurry up.”

When, to my surprise, my backpack makes it to Pau, I can no more be upset for the rain that has welcomed me. The French railway company blows me away with their advanced ticketing machine, which even offers explanations in Dutch. My ticket is followed by an itinerary with schedule and train numbers. Many a railway company could take that as an example.

Changing trains in Bayonne, boarding the slow train to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, I feel like I am entering another world. The train is only one carriage with two compartments, both are filled with backpacks, hiking poles and people with faces full of expectation. A multitude of languages is spoken and many a traveler is flipping the pages of a hiking guide.

Most people seem to travel in pairs and groups, only a few of them travel alone, like the lady from Austria, who has her outbound flight from Santiago booked for May eleventh, challenging herself to walk an average of more than thirty kilometres a day. Rather she than me. I am planning on taking it easy. I have all the time in the world with no plans to return to the Camino, so I intend to enjoy all that I encounter along the way. I count on making it a six to seven-week trip, taking some quiet time every now and then. I have nothing to prove to anyone and the journey will under no circumstances become a bruising battle for my untrained body. If you would like to speak of any training, then mine consisted of a four-week stay with a friend in Germany. Relaxing, sleeping, rechargiing, and gaining weight were the most important ingredients of the training camp interspersed with some short walks.

At a pleasant pace we are chuffing towards St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, where a colorful parade gets off the train. Led by a couple of men, who seem to know their way around, they make their way at a brisk pace towards the centre of the village. I linger, take some photos of the railway station, not really having an idea about where to go. Also, I do not at all look forward to a night in a dorm.

By the time I arrive in the main street the parade is nowhere to be seen anymore. I put up at a hostel in a room with only six beds. That seems like a number I can deal with. Not quite used to it all I slide my backpack under the bed.

Armed with my hip-belt, filled with so-called valuables, I set out on a little exploration of the village. A nice cup of green tea in the local tearoom makes me dream away. While traveling in Peru last year no green tea turned out to be available and finally I saw no other option than asking a friend to send me an express parcel. Since then I have added a sufficient quantity of green tea to my packing list. My daily cup of green tea is assured. When leaving the tearoom the owner calls after me ”Buen Camino!” It naturally turns a big smile on my face and I thank him warmly. It finally starts to sink in: I have started my Camino. Yes, the start has been made. The first day of walking is done. My rumbling stomach reminds me of the human need for food, which does not disappear during a nice hot bath.

Venturing out in search of food, I find several other pilgrims in the bar across the street. Five more Dutch, one Belgian, an Englishman and a Danish girl have chosen to spend the night in Biskaret. After some efforts towards the waitress, she surrenders and promises me that I will be served a meal as well, even though she’s of the stubborn opinion that I would have had to order it hours ago. She makes it quite clear though that there are no meal options and that I will not be sharing the table with the others. I am put on a separate one. Not that there is no room on the other table, but it has been set for six and that is final. She is willing to serve me a meal, on her terms. I cannot really be bothered. I just want to eat, everything else is of minor consequence. Even though I’m quite comfortable on my one-person table, the others continue to find it an awkward situation. Especially Ulla, the Danish girl. She turns around multiple times making sure that I am really doing well.

By the time my stiff joints have carried me up the stairs to my room, I expect to sleep, like I’ve never slept before. Thirty nine kilometres and a multitude of impressions. And this is only day one.

Guardian Angels

Just as you are about to give up, take one step forward and then another.

—Mandi Upward

The night slowly passed by. Trembling and painful muscles seemed to lead a life of their own, keeping me awake. The few times that I fell asleep, I was awoken by my own groaning. My body hurts. The muscles in my back, legs and groins are clearly present.

A new day on the Camino has arrived. After a slow, painful start, and a breakfast consisting of no more than a few slices of toasted baguette with butter, I start walking. It is of course better than no breakfast at all, but it hardly provides a base.

With every step I take, my muscles seem to loosen up a bit. The sun is shining brightly, and the walk takes me through cosy villages and beautiful nature. I am having a good time and I even manage to forget about my painful body every now and then.

Facing a memorial, for a Japanese guy, who died on the Camino, the Dutch/Belgian foursome that I met in the bar yesterday, are enjoying a break. We chat, take some pictures and I am given some helpful tips on how to adjust the settings of my backpack for more comfort.

The monument, one of the many that I will see during the trip, makes me aware of the fact that not everybody setting out on the Camino makes it to Santiago de Compostela.

The memories of Friedrich on my heels, and the weariness of my body have led my thoughts away from the young God beaming pure light, transforming into a man marked by life within less than an hour.

Not for long. Today again the men show up from behind, and instantly I know it will not be the last time I see them. When they overtake me I spontaneously extend my hand and surprise them by introducing myself: “Hi, my name is Monique.”

Ray (the young God) and Dave from Canada are brothers that do not at all have any visible resemblances. We more or less walk together to Larasoana, where the men intend to stay. They left early this morning from Roncesvalles, where the first alarms went off at 6 am, waking up everyone in the huge dorm. Ray’s backpack did not make the flight to France and will be delivered at the hostel in Larasoana today.

A man is making a phone call in front of the hostel and I hear myself saying: “That man has come to deliver your backpack.” Ray looks at me in surprise.

Dave urges his brother: “Didn’t you hear what Monique just said?”

Minutes later Ray is reunited with his backpack and I am probably the one, who is most surprised about my remark.

We don’t manage to find a meal in Larasoana and my stomach is rumbling by the time I say goodbye to the men. Noticing a sign saying there is a restaurant in a few kilometres I speed up. The disappointment experienced, when the restaurant turns out to be closed, is hard to express with words. I sit down on the empty terrace and treat myself to a lunch of cereal bars from my emergency stock. It does not take me long before I can laugh about the situation. Eating some of my emergency stock means that my backpack will be a little bit lighter. A thought that even crossed my mind this morning when I put toothpaste on my brush. It turns a smile on my face.

Getting back up on my feet after the break, even when it is in the warmth of the sun, is not easy at all. Lactic acid seems to have grabbed its chance to settle into my muscles, and it takes some time to get me going. The fifteen kilometre stage from Larasoana to Pamplona is in my guidebook referred to as an easy stage. It is beautiful, but at least hilly.

Do I experience it as hard because of having stretched my limit yesterday? Or would moderate have been a better description?

Whatever the answer is, I am having a hard time. I am dragging myself along, stop at every single well to drink water, decide not to sit down by way of precaution and finally surrender to sitting down on a bench in a village. The couple on the next bench does not seem to be doing much better than I. None of us are very talkative. Sometimes a simple look says more than a thousand words. The flowers on the other side of the street resemble a Dutch flag. My heart shines and this unexpected greeting gives me just enough energy to get up and continue.

Crying would probably offer some sort of relief, but it certainly would not change anything about the climb ahead. I decide it is not worth the effort. I stumble on until a nice big rock calls me: rest here, rest here. I do not need any more encouragement. I unclip my backpack and lie down on the rock, which warms my back, while the sun touches my face. A woman stumbling along tells me that the pain will only last for a week. I am wondering whether she is trying to cheer me up or to encourage herself. I just feel like sleeping. Sleep until I wake up naturally and suiting the word to the action, I close my eyes.

The sound of footsteps approaching, come with a cry: “What are you doing here?” Ray and Dave look down upon me in surprise and are laughing. “You could have joined us for a glass of wine and we would have walked together.”

“But you had no intention at all to continue,” I blurt out, while they help me back on my feet. We pick up Ulla and Nicole from Germany along the way, and as a fivesome we arrive in Trinidad de Arre’s hostel. One thing I know for sure: I will not walk more than the remaining five kilometres to Pamplona tomorrow. My body deserves some rest!

A hot shower makes me thoroughly appreciate today’s hostel. A great alternative for a hotel. Sometimes little is needed to make a person happy. A stroll through town brings us to a restaurant, where I enjoy my first decent meal of the day, taken with a glass of tasty Spanish wine. For a couple of years already my body does not bear alcoholic beverages, meaning that I will be tipsy after one glass and even less clear after a second glass. On the Camino everything is different.

In the hostel’s kitchen an Australian pilgrim tells about a German man, who had walked the impressive distance of fifty kilometres yesterday.

Late in the evening he had arrived in a pilgrim’s accommodation, wrecked. He had been walking with a Dutch lady, and when in the late afternoon they had arrived in a hostel there had only been one bed available, which the Dutch had taken mercilessly. My mouth has dropped open and I feel like telling that the story is not true, when I realise that maybe I am not the only Dutch who had been walking with a German man yesterday afternoon. I allow my mind the win over my intuition and do not say a word, even though I am pretty sure it is Friedrich, who changed the story to his own liking.

Rest and Food in Pamplona

Thoughts are like boomerangs.

(If you don’t catch their return they hit you in the head.)

— Eileen Caddy

To Pamplona and no further. My body kindly reminds me about it after a night with little sleep. Just in case I might have had forgotten about it.

It is 8 am when I step out of the door, accompanied by Ray and Dave.

The morning is wrapped in a mysterious mist. I have difficulty keeping up with the men. It is the knowing that rest draws nearer with every step I take, which gives me just enough energy to hang in until Pamplona with its old city walls looming up. It is gorgeous to enter the old city full of atmosphere, a true fortress, known around the world for its annual event, when bulls are chased through the city’s streets.

Before saying goodbyes, we sit down in a coffee bar. Ray is quiet and introverted, withdrawing from the conversation as much as possible.

Something about him touches me deeply and I have no clue what it is.

It is the second time in two days that I say goodbye to the men. I know I will see them again. We are not yet done with one another.

There is a click, a wordless bond, which I do not understand and maybe that is for the better.

The pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela is not just a long-distance trail. It is a centuries old route, taken by many believers and nonbelievers. Penance, reflection, physical challenge; everyone has their own reason to follow up on the Call of the Camino. The route takes you along powerful, energetic ley lines, parallel to the Milky Way.

Emotions, experiences and growth, everything is being magnified.

The Camino provides, bringing onto your path, whatever is in order for you, making it a truly unique experience for everyone.