This isn’t the first blog for this event but it is the first blog on an actual website I set up.
This is a blog about three mature and adventurous sisters, who really love each other, BTW, and are looking forward to traveling across the sea to Spain where they will embark on a 500 mile “camino” which loosely translates to path. Yes a 500 mile path from one side of Spain to the other. History will tell how much love is left when the last step is taken!
Often times while staying at an albergue in the middle of nowhere, with no sites of interest to explore, the only thing you can do is talk to the people there who are also in the middle of nowhere. After liver and lima beans, striking up conversations with perfect strangers rates right up there on my list of things I’d prefer to avoid, at all costs. Luckily for me my sister is cut from a different cloth. Within seconds of meeting someone she doesn’t know, she’s has told her life’s story, gotten their life’s story and they are now BFFs! Since we are chained together for this adventure, I sit, listen, take it all in and marvel at how she does it.
Once the dust had settled from being surprised that my sister also has the ability to teleport to different locations, the introduction to what would become the new normal for the next 6 weeks began. First, check in with the hospitalero, get your Pilgrim Passport stamped, receive your disposable sheet and pillowcase, find your pack, find your bed, unload what you need for the night, sign up for the Pilgrim dinner and get in line for a shower. Second, once that is all done, the rest of what’s left of the day is yours for the taking.
The large and beautiful deck of the albergue perched on the edge of the mountain afford incredible views. We spent the remainder of the afternoon under the large umbrellas drinking cold beverages, one after another and talking to other pilgrims we’d met along the way and some we would come to know. On that first day, little did we know, we would become acquainted a group of people who, at the end of our Camino, would become lifelong friends. We fondly called ourselves “The OG”, (original group or possibly Orisson group)
I am a firm believer you can sleep when you’re dead. Sleeping is much overrated in my opinion. Not so for the vast majority of pilgrims we met, including my sister. Because Orisson, France is closer to the equator than Maine, druring the summer the length of the day is longer in summer. It is still very light even at 10:00 pm. I was physically spent from the trudge up the mountain but I wasn’t sleepy. “When in Rome, do like the Romans” so despite the lack of dark, I headed to my bunk trying not to wake any of the other sleeping Pilgrims.
As you can see, these beds are designed for 7 year olds. I was always relegated to the top bunk. On these particular units the opening to the bed is small and one must hang on for dear life to either upper rail while swinging a leg (it didn’t matter which one) over said rail all the while not making any noise despite the swaying of the entire unit so as not to disturb the person already asleep. I don’t need to elaborate. As a general rule, many pilgrims are of an age that denotes experience. These beds, especially in the dark when Nature calls, can be like descending a very steep trail or mountain or staircase blindfolded. You really don’t want to turn on your flashlight in case you wake someone. The floor seems miles away. That is exactly what one of our bunkmates discovered in the middle of the night. A terrible whacking noise followed by a groan woke each and every one of us out of a dead sleep. Assistance was offered, ice was retrieved and the pilgrim seemed to be fine in the morning.
I’m happy the Pilgrim was not injured but I was happier that it wasn’t me.
The Michelin Guide is a small, concise booklet with lots of information but what it excels at is pictures! After planes, trains and busses the area we will walk on our first day shows a fairly significant elevation change. The albergue we will walk to is the second little yellow hut on this simple diagram. Easy-peasy, only 7.5 km (4.6 miles) and I’ve climbed Katahdin and Mount Washington (summer and winter) so I was going to bust this out.
Much discussion had taken place prior to our travels about comments noted on several Camino Facebook groups describing the first three days as rather challenging. We believed we were prepared.
Our first night in St. Jean Pied du Port at the Beilari, an albergue inside a charming 17th century building with our even more charming hosts Joseph and Jacline, was fabulous. This particular albergue is the bellwether we would measure all the remaining alburgues against. (More about that in a later post). The accommodations were clean and comfortable. We joined the other pilgrims staying there for the nightly Pilgrim Dinner. On the delightful, walled terrace a three-course, vegetarian meal was served. Our host spoke 5 languages and told stories to all the pilgrims switching seamlessly from one to another so everyone at the tables understood. The hosts even provide a bagged lunch (5 euro) for the next day to any pilgrim who requests one.
The Beilari is above average as alburgues go, a place for everything and everything in its place. Boots and packs stay downstairs on the terrace, your bag containing the necessities for the evening and morning is the only thing you can bring to the room. Disposable sheets and pillow sleeves (we did not encounter a single standard pillowcase anywhere on the Camino probably because Spanish pillows are long and narrow) are issued and the bathroom facilities are shared. The Beilari is situated in the middle of this charming town with parks and beautiful architecture within easy walking distance.
Early to bed (on the third floor) because in the morning we would actually begin our Camino. First order of business was to ship ahead to Santiago, our suitcase containing clean clothes and items we decided we didn’t need to bring in our packs. So with our bagged lunch carefully stowed in Val’s pack, we set off.
Our destination for this first day is a spot somewhere on the other side of the mountain seen in the top middle of this picture. The temperature was pleasant and the terrain seemed more than comfortable for walking. My pack was comfortably riding on my hips, shoulder straps were not pulling on my shoulders and my enthusiasm was the highest it would be for the remainder of the trip.
It didn’t take very long for the temperature and the terrain to climb to uncomfortable levels. The zig-zag switchbacks became gravel, then bigger stones and finally a combination of both. There were many pilgrims on the trail but it made for pleasant company. Groups and singles, some whizzing by as if they had an appointment to keep, other leisurely strolling as I passed them. Since I walk faster than Val, I was usually ahead but kept checking behind me to make sure I could see her hat. If I could find a tree and some shade, I would wait until she caught up, we’d have a drink of water and maybe a snack, then onward.
At some point a few hours into the walk, a medical helicopter flew overhead and then landed at a point beyond where I could see it. The trail had now become a shadeless series of switchbacks of orange gravel, stones and roots. The elevation had increased significantly and the temperature, according to my phone, was 94 degrees (34C). Walking had become a series of counting steps. 10, okay my next goal was 20 steps, rest, let’s do 30, rest… Val’s hat was no longer visible but the terrain made it difficult to see very far below me. I was on a roll and needed to find some shade.
Coming around a corner I saw the helicopter perched on probably the only flat place on the entire trail, fluorescent yellow and medical personnel milling about. (For some reason I didn’t think to take any photos because my mind was focused on finding some shade, oh and did I mention Val had all the food in her pack!) Coming down the trail in front of me was an all-terrain vehicle with a full compliment of paramedics and a person on a backboard strapped to the back. A pilgrim had succumbed to the heat and was going to be airlifted out. A curt reminder the trail is in command.
Back to counting steps, taking drinks of water and whining to myself about my pack all the while hoping against hope the albergue was just around the next corner. I found a large granite stone, in full sun, to sit on because I was unable to go another step further. I did notice a large group of trees ahead on the trail and convinced myself the oasis ahead was worth the struggle. No sign of Val despite stopping numerous times but I decided I would wait for her in the shade of the trees.
And there is the shade of the trees would be the first of my many Camino miracles. Three women, obviously walking together, invited me to sit and relax. I told them I was waiting for my sister to catch up. I removed my shoes and socks, had a drink of water and they offered me some food from their stash when I told them my sister had all the food in her pack. Looking back down the trail, I saw Val sitting on the very same granite I had only vacated a short time ago and was relieved to see she had made it to that point. We had a lovely conversation. It’s easy to communicate with Pilgrims as we all have one thing in common, our feet. Segues into other conversations come easily after comparing blisters and sock choices. I kept an eye out for Val, waiting for her to get up and when she finally did, I put on my shoes and socks but soon realized the woman who had been sitting wasn’t actually my sister! It was decided. I would make it to the albergue, leave my pack and head back down the trail to find her.
My new friends, Malu, Maya and Ruby, decided to walk with me until we reached the albergue. Several more hopeful curves, each lacking the structure we sought, but the camaraderie between us was like a good wind, pushing us to get there.
There is no way to adequately describe the emotion one feels when, after a serious endeavor, the prize is in sight. I suddenly had a spring in my step, my pack felt lighter and there would be food. A bit of fortification before I back tracked and tried to find my sister. (There is nothing I dislike more than moving in a backward direction, to say nothing of having the delight of climbing back up the trail).
I took off my pack and left it with the large pile of packs from other pilgrims. It seems counterintuitive to leave the entire contents of one’s life in a pile. The Camino provides and in this case, it provides honesty. No one bothers your pack.
I entered the albergue, it was cool and dark, with many pilgrims milling about. One pilgrim in particular seemed to think it was OK to approach me and hug me. The words “what the f*** are you doing here?” fell out of my mouth as my sister hugged me.
The Camino is not only a trail to walk but it is also utilized by cars, trucks, busses, scooters, bikes and all manner of mechanized vehicles. This particular part of the trail is surrounded by farms and farmers need to get to their fields which means sometimes you have to actually get off the trail to let them by. Val flagged down the driver of one such vehicle and without being able to speak French, communicated to him she needed a ride and would pay. As they drove by me on the trail, she said she didn’t know how to make him stop.
I think a simple slap to the back of the head would have sufficed.
Most of the time the story is told from “Once upon a Time”. This story starts with “The End”.
The “idea” and the reality of any endeavor are universes apart. A two-pound black box called an iPad was stored safely among the other, what I believed to be, necessary items in my pack. I was absolutely sure I couldn’t survive without any of it. The reality versus the necessity of said contents became painfully clear on day one. Six miles uphill in +90 degrees (we learned Celsius conversion very quickly) was a stark reminder of the adage “Less is more” (or lighter) in this case.
I will retrace my steps but this time it will be in digital and not physical form. In doing so, I may find a gem or two that I missed along the way. (while keeping my mind busy counting steps till the next rest so I could more easily ignore my feet whose constant chatter was most annoying)
Pronounced: al-berg-gay which translates as hostel, paradores, shelter, or lodging. Any way you pronounce it, it simply means to me a place to lay my head.
After waiting (and wading) through covid for two years, it is finally going to happen. In two weeks from today, I will be getting on a plane heading to an adventure that I can only imagine.
There have been so many decisions to be made, flights to be booked, equipment to be procured, reservations to be made and thanks to my fabulous Cruise Director Val, I haven’t had to do a single one. I’m, for once, just going to pay the bill and show up. (Is that what happens when you’re wealthy and have staff? I think I could embrace this lifestyle)
I’m a hearty Maine woman, with a strong constitution and back. There really is very little that scares me. To have so many unknowns ahead of me is more exciting than frightening and I’m not a worrier. I let my Cruise Director take care of that as well. That is until yesterday in my travels, I came across this delightful establishment in the nether reaches of rural Maine (I will refrain from naming the town lest I embarrass them) and suddenly there was a blinding light of epiphany: what if we end up in places like this after a long day’s journey. I don’t worry so much about the lack of paint, or window panes for that matter, or even a crooked sill here and there (after all, this is Maine and wonky sills are part of the charm) but I do think about bugs: biting, crawling, multi-legged, poisonous, bed!
So as the 1,209,600 seconds until flight time tick away, I shall use the glory of the internet to research insect repellents that are lightweight and won’t completely change my DNA.
Until I find that formula, I’ll ask for your good Karma.
In case you want to stay at the above forementioned Holiday Inn, please PM me!
Last week I attended a celebration of life of a woman who’s impact on the world was far reaching. She had the uncanny ability to always see the world in a golden light which she then shined on the rest of us. She was one of those rare people who fully understood the need to allow those under her command and care, autonomy. And in doing so she build an empire of loyal followers who could and would walk across fire for her.
I was blessed to call her friend and neighbor. In a tiny little village in the western part of Maine, where everyone knows your name and your business, we set about raising our families to the best of our abilities. We all shopped at the same stores, attended the same churches, we gathered on hot summer days for neighborhood block parties, sledded, skied, snowshoed and built magnificent dragon snow sculptures in our yards during the forever Maine winters.
Those seen in the picture above, in what was fondly known as “The Pleiades Gang”, were 7 exceptionally strong women from seven different paths in life with a common thread: We, together, can make things happen. A bright constellation of energies that knew no bounds. We did make things happen and at the helm, the one who knew how to keep us on the right path.
The strength represented in those seven smiling faces is the strength I will carry with me on my journey to Santiago.
The gang is now two less stars bright, yet they still shine down on us from their new home in the heavens. We have all taken divergent paths but what was apparent during the celebration of Charlene’s life is those unseen fibers, which bound us together all those years ago, are still there and possibly stronger than ever.
Looking at the sunrise this morning, I could almost imagine I was just waking from a trans-Atlantic overnight flight, lifting the little plastic cover on the window next to my seat and feeling butterflies about the soon to be landing in Spain to begin the Three Sisters Camino. My “flight” was long and boring but nevertheless, I felt hopeful that soon I would be standing at the “starting line” ready for the challenge ahead of me.
It’s been a long two years, Covid notwithstanding. Each and every day of masking and sanitizing, donning and doffing layers of PPEs, wondering if I will ever get rid of the red line around my nose and lips from the N95 mask. Not seeing the faces of my family, friends and patients, trying to read their expressions by looking at only their eyes. It’s been exhausting. Yet, there has been this small flame of intent that refused to be extinguished no matter the circumstances. Looking at the tote every day that contains my entire world for the Camino kept the fire burning.
Once again, I have tickets in “hand”, an itinerary and new hiking shoes. I’m still keeping my eye on the news and the latest Covid variant, B.1.1.529 that is jogging around western Europe. I have to tell myself little lies about this not negatively impacting my trip to keep the shadow of disappointment at bay.
So in 58 days, Goddess willing and the creek don’t rise, my sister and I will be on Spanish soil heading west until we reach Santiago.
Ninety-four degrees is similar to thirty below. Either way it’s just too miserable to be outside attempting any type of physical activity. It’s even too hot to drive to the beach.
This isn’t the type of weather I remember as a kid (that was a long time ago) and I am sure there were days of plus 90. High temperatures were expected in August, not June.
The 2020 world fiasco put The Camino on hold and we were hoping maybe 2021. Nope, not happening this year so onward to 2022. I may have mentioned the Camino is only a walk but that isn’t exactly accurate. My 2019 training regime worked well, I gained strength and stamina slowly, knowing it would serve me well. Covid, however, laughed in my face and said, “Not this time!”.
The summer has come and gone, the leaves are bright and beautiful, shades of reds, greens, yellows and orange illuminate the landscape. A segue into the dark and grey of late fall. Not to be deterred, I continue to train as my schedule allows. I presently have a friend who is on her Camino and although she is doing the northern route, which is described as more difficult than the route I will be taking, I can see I have much more work ahead.
Covid has now laid the ground work to making what should have been a simple here-to-there adventure a circuitous path. All international travel now requires copious amounts of paperwork and testing before one even sets foot in the airport. Vaccinations aside, masking and social distancing is still the rule in my life. I understand the need to track the movement of people across and around the globe but it still feels like prison or eight grade when you needed a hall pass to go to the bathroom.
So as we reach that point in the year when the clocks are turned back an hour, it is still dark when I go to work and will soon be dark when I leave, I am keeping my eye on the the prize: A Compostella for a job well done.
In the continuing tradition of getting out into Nature until the big aluminum bird takes us across the pond, we are not letting any moss (that’s another blog, stay tuned) grow under our feet. It never ceases to amaze me how much things change. This year’s sojourn to Cobscook Bay State Park is a perfect example.
Camping with my sisters has become an annual event. What started out as a way to prepare for our Camino has become tradition. Each trip to some distant geographic location, each campsite with its own pluses and minuses is pleasurable training for Spain and its unknowns, so in my 20 year old memory, I suggested Cobscook for a couple of reasons. It was reasonably priced (ya, in 1975) and the campsites were fantastic, at least that’s how I remember them. They are private and most have water views of the bay. Bonus feature ~ if you are a camper, you are allowed to dig a peck of clams!
Reality check: the website and written material is woefully inadequate when it comes to descriptive information about any of the campsites! Looking on the park map there are 101 tenting sites. Should be a simple choice and it was. Site number 62 on said map was located along the shore line and on its own peninsula. The potable water and potty symbols were close by. What’s not to like.
The trip into the park was “Alice In Wonderland~esque”. Everything looked the same and everything looked different. I think it was 1979 the last time I camped here. Check in was simple, signage appropriate and roads well marked. Number 62, here we come.
This is where it gets interesting. A large granite post in the middle of the road and two hand carts told us we wouldn’t be driving to the campsite. Instead of investigating the site, we loaded up the two carts and headed up the non-vehicular road. When I said “headed up” I meant it. The way to the site was up-hill and the site, although private, was a tri-level spot, mostly covered by exposed tree roots. The only flat spot on the site wasn’t large enough to accommodate the foot print of our tent, the picnic table was on the edge of the ankle breaking labyrinth of roots and the firepit was on level three about 20 feet away. Oh and did I mention the clam flats were 50 feet below the site without a single way to climb down.
While I made the trip back to check to see about getting a different site, my intrepid companion started bringing all the equipment back to the parking area. At least it was downhill.
While driving back to check-in, I scoped out other sites finding one that fit all of our needs, including easy access to the water. “Can we possibly change our site?”, I said to the young lady behind the counter, named Tabitha. “62 just won’t work for us but I did notice number 54 and wondered if we could have that one.”, pleading just a bit. Unfortunately it wasn’t available for the time we would be in the park but she told me 101 was, so back to pick up the gear and my navigator. When we drove to 101 it was apparent it was even worse than 62. Back to check-in, rather sheepishly, and after agreeing to let us drive around to see the sites that were available, Tabitha stopped changing the number on our admittance card. (We bought her chocolates from Monica’s as a thank you for putting up with us.)
Number 80 was a winner but in driving through the park with very little information, I suggested we co-author an in-depth guide to all the sites to include access, privacy, site layout, whether or not it had parking and most importantly of all ~ can you get to the clam flats from the site. I think those folks in Augusta would appreciate our efforts.
Lucky for us, someone else has done all the hard work, in that regard, when it comes to the Camino. We shouldn’t have any problems at all! (wink,wink)
Sometimes the journey begins, more or less, with a single step. In some cases it isn’t actually putting one foot in front of the other but a thing. In this instance, it just happens to be liverwurst.
My story of liverwurst and friendship begins over 30 years ago while working the night shift at the local hospital when it was still a small town hospital, standing on its own two feet, before it became “du rigor” to be part of some giant, faceless medical entity. It was the kind of place where the employees were all neighbors, our kids went to school together and it didn’t matter what part of the ladder of importance you were on in terms of the job you did inside those four walls, we were all equal.
Anyone who has ever worked the night shift knows, that group of folks becomes a second family to you. With less to attend to, unlike the day shift, there tends to be plenty of time to sit around and share stories. You learn things from the night crew that you might not have time for during the day. There is a chance to get to the “knitty-gritty” of the lives of your co-worker. That often includes food. The cafeteria is usually closed by the time we all are ready for dinner so most evening, we brought brown bag buffets. With your night time friends, you can sometimes be more open to sharing the occasional odd and wonderful palette that might often remain anonymous on day shift. In fact, you could consider some of the evening offerings as a charcuterie board of wonders.
Liverwurst is just one of the many choices we shared, but for one intrepid soul, it stayed on the “board” untouched. It does a person’s heart good to realize they are not alone in the culinary climate of delicacies and it opens up the world for a good dialogue based solely on the pale, brown slice on the plate. Like Moxie, there are two camps: either you love it or hate it. There is no medium ground when it comes to liverwurst or Moxie, for that matter.
So today, on the usual rainy Memoria Day, instead of torturing my family by insisting we go camping, even though we know it always rains on Memorial Day, I stayed home with my best liverwurst friend of over 30 years, planted the squash and pumpkin starts and had liverwurst and rhubarb crisp as a belated birthday celebration.
Covid-19 and the pandemic may have stymied the Camino de Santiago planned for 2020 and we’re giving it another year to be sure the damn virus is well contained before we attempt to walk 500 miles but you can be sure that liverwurst will continue to be front and center whenever my best bud and I get together until it’s time to pack the pack and begin that other journey.
"Holy" Sneakers 500 