Walking Into The Storm

by Silvia Schiavinato (Spain)

A leap into the unknown Spain

My friends say I bring the bad weather with me. And that morning, waking up by the south-western edge of the Pyrenees, I believed them. Heavy clouds were looming beyond the mountains, threatening to shatter the idyllic stillness of the village. But more importantly, my plans. “Is it going to be safe, in this weather?” I asked the grey-haired man at the information office. He shrugged, inhaling deeply and dramatically. As if I was the hundredth person that day to ask him the same question. And indeed, I probably was. Each year, over 20,000 pilgrims descend on Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to start the Camino Francés (the French Way), the most popular of all the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage routes. Many follow the routes to Santiago de Compostela as a form of spiritual path, others are just hiking enthusiasts. Whatever the reasons, getting from south-western France to far north-western Spain means covering a total of 799 kilometers - or 496 miles, on foot. “We’ll be closing the path in 30 minutes”, the man gave me a tired look. “Very bad forecasts. You can either set off right now or wait until tomorrow to see if the weather improves.” My head spun for a second. I had waited long enough during my six years in London. 2,190 days spent in a blur of lousy offices and cramped trains. Is that what life was supposed to look like? I needed to find out. Which is why I was to spend the next four weeks on a solitary walk to Santiago. “I’m setting off”, I announced marching towards the exit. But the man was already talking to someone else, indifferent. “French manners”, was my last thought as I started to walk. The path begins steep up quiet country lanes, twisting and turning through peaceful mountain meadows and picturesque, tiny villages. My feelings, however, were far from resembling inner peace. Fear had started to creep up at the first drops of rain, ten minutes into my walk. I stopped to put my jacket on, cursing the weather and myself for not listening to the ill-mannered local earlier. “Lovely day for a stroll, isn’t it?” An overly cheerful voice interrupted my mental breakdown. I turned, slightly annoyed, and there he was: a boyish-looking 60-year-old, with a sardonic smile and eyes that reminded me life was supposed to be fun. “I’ve been walking for two months, and I swear the weather has never looked this bad!”, he stared at the clouds and chuckled. “Two months?”, I replied in mild shock. “Damn right! I left my house in Paris one day and began to walk.” He smiled casually, like he was talking about a trip to the grocery shop. “Good luck, young lady!” He gave me a wink as he walked past me, eyes as lively as the sound of his steps. When he was gone, I stood transfixed. That man had been on the road much longer than I had, each storm he’d overcome was written on his face. But his spirit, unlike mine, was unburdened. At last, my thoughts went quiet and I surrendered to the rain, as there was nothing else to do but to walk through it. The rest of that day was pure hell. When I finally caught sight of the hostel in Roncesvalles, my first stop 26km later, I was soaked to the bone. He greeted me at the entrance, eyes looking tired, but still impossibly cheerful. “You made it through the worst part. From now on, it can only get better!” I was too exhausted to match his cheerfulness, but somehow knew he had a point. I woke up the next morning with an urge to run outside. Excitement for a new day, I reacquainted myself with a feeling I had forgotten about. Clothes still damp, but the storm had passed and I was waking up... alive. Gentle hills laid ahead of my path, scattered with forest trees growing dense and mysterious, whispering to me like sirens to Ulysses. But I had untied myself from the mast this time. So I picked up my backpack and started to walk.