“Where are we going, Mum?”

by Harry Gow (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Spain

“Where are we going, Mum?” After 19 hours by underground, coach, taxi, train and bus we arrived at St Jean Pied de Port, nestled in the shadow of the Pyrenees Mountains on the French side. With our credentials stamped, we began our journey over the Pyrenees and along the Camino de Santiago. Our unprepared and untrained selves were completely unaware of how starting our first 8 kilometres of the 800 kilometre walk in the Spanish midday heat would feel like the longest 8 kilometres of our whole lives. The first 4 kilometres took just over an hour, and thoroughly rid us of our breezy attitude, resulting in the next four kilometres taking two-and-a-half hours. When we finally reached somewhere we could stop for the night, exhausted and close to defeat, there was no help extended; in a salutary way we were made aware that we were ‘just another pilgrim’ on the road. That first day the Pyrenees seemed to slap us in our faces, spin us around, and laugh at our audacity for thinking we could just walk over them, and all we had to look forward to was the 6:30 rise and everything else the Camino had to throw at us. The first few days were some of the hardest. Though even with my brother becoming quite ill and my mother collecting every blister she could, we kept going, where giving up was not an option, unless you wanted to be stranded on a mountain side. And while I bounced all the way, I had much to learn. At the beginning I was selfish, walking too fast and not considering others. I wasn’t considering the moment; I was always thinking about the next place, and rushing to reach it. I wasn’t enjoying the journey, the precious time I had with my mother and brother, not appreciating each beautiful view or extraordinary person I met. Instead I was solely focused on the destination. It became clear to my mother this early on that she would continuously hear one question from me, her naïve 12-year-old son; “what is the next place like?”. To which I would always receive the expected answer of “I’m not sure”. It would later become clear to me, that this tunnel-vision on the next destination was stopping me from truly experiencing this journey, and the beauty of the unknown. Each day was a completely new adventure, walking across open fields flooded with golden sunflowers, or forests with towering, ancient trees against pastel skies, or entering the next town rich with culture and gracefully aged locals and seeing its beautifully, meticulously built Church hold a space like no other building. Each days’ struggles and hurdles were undoubtedly outweighed by its unpredictable beauty, and none of this was experienced alone. I could have never guessed how many different friendships we would have made, from people all over the world, of all ages, maybe walking for different reasons but ultimately all here together, experiencing the unknown, enjoying each step on new ground and embracing as much of the world we were in. My mother set us on this journey to give her sons something they would remember all their lives, and hoped that it would be a space in which we could choose what kind of men we wanted to be. It turned out to be exactly that, the very best thing that she could have ever given me. After 800 kilometres, I believe I chose, consciously or unconsciously, the kind of man I wanted to be, how I wanted to walk across this Earth in my life. Now as a 19-year-old, I take comfort in the unknown, understanding the unconventional beauty and endless possibilities the leap can have. The Camino de Santiago moulded me into the man I am today, and taught me things no classroom could. As I embark on my first solo-travels now into Bali, Indonesia, I welcome the unknown with excitement.