gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
TV news at breakfast, in a small hotel up the Tejo River valley.
I'm about a week north of Lisbon.
14 year old Miriam Abu Khalil had been awake early. She had seen an aircraft drop a bomb on a one-story building. A yellow mushroom cloud arose.
“Like a winter fog,” she said. “People arrived to help the wounded. Children ran out to look. They breathed the gas and died.”
The Camino is a cocoon.
It shields us from the horrors of the outside world.
But this morning, here on the screen, they are strewn haphazardly across the bulky grey rubble, twisted awkwardly in their ugly peace. Trousered legs, dusty clothed torsos. Heads, some half-veiled, face-down or turned aside as if to deny recognition.
The children are purposefully indistinct. Here they lie in their stillness and death.
There is no shield today.
I’d had a late start. Walked about 12ks by 1pm.
Quite sufficient. I was gradually upping my daily distance and at the moment 15 -18ks was enough. Not that my average ks were intended to increase much further.
It was a fine sunny day and that meant, in the heat of the afternoon, I was going to have a long slow flat plod to end the day.
Time for a recuperative lunch stop. Keep your eyes open for a good spot Gerard, and, if you are lucky you’ll get a quiet snooze in the shade as well.
A T-junction in the near distance.
What takes my interest up the shank of the T, across the intersection, is an acre or so of thick long-ish grass, bordered by trees.
As I close I note a bushy tree covered in small white flowers. The sun is directly behind it providing a large patch of cool shade. It’s 20 metres back in off the road. So quite private then, with no likelihood of dust from passing cars, and, being slightly raised it would take advantage of the light breeze, and give a fine view over the surrounding flattish farmland bordering the River Tejo.
I cross the road and wade into the thick soft grass. After extracting my lunch ingredients, I place my pack against the tree trunk. I look about, happily noting how I am placed among the small white flowers. I settle down into the softness. Off with the boots and socks, wriggle my escaped toes in the grass, lean back against my pack.
Best picnic spot ever.
And lastly my orange. I weggie-fy it with my opinel knife on the upturned sole of a boot, suck then tear the juicy flesh off the skin with my teeth. Yum. That’s lunch done then. I lean my head back, tilt my hat down over my eyes.
The gentling peace of the countryside ensures I quietly, quickly, drift into the land of nod.
I awake with a start, then settle back.
No desperate hurry, but better start getting organised.
Socks and boots. I swing my pack on, and using my poles I pick my way unsteadily back along my trodden grass path to the roadside.
From behind, something grabs unexpectedly at my right leg.
It lets go and I stumble forward onto the roadway.
It grabs at me again. Again it lets go.
I stumble forward again, trying to regain my balance.
Now it grabs me firmly. Pulls my leg back and out from under me.
As I fall I fling the pacer poles away.
The weight of my pack helps propel me, face-first, down into the gravel.
I lie looking out to the left, see the approaching car. Too fast, too fast.
“So this is where it all ends,” I think with calm resignation, “on a country road in Portugal.”
The driver stamps on the brakes.
The wheels lock, the car careers towards me, the gravel roars in defiance.
The front of the car dips, then slowly turns side-on as it slides towards me, the steering wheel having been pulled to the left in a desperate avoidance attempt by the driver.
It drifts to a stop.
I lie looking up at the front passenger door.
“Die? Don’t be silly,” I’m thinking, “your whole life has to flash before your eyes if you are going to die. That never happened did it?”
It seems to take an age....until I hear the driver's door click open. A young woman approaches around the front of the car.
“Oh,oh!” she exclaims. She is very agitated. “I was talking to my friend on the phone. I told her I must stop immediately as somebody has fallen over. I said I would call her back!”
“Good idea.” That’s all I could think of to say in reply.
“You have barbed wire wrapped around your boot,” she says. “It must have been hidden in the long grass. I will first pull it off, then move you to the roadside.”
I am surprised by her good command of English.
She removes the barbed wire, but between us we are unable to get me back up on my feet. I finally roll over onto my stomach and utilise the car’s bumper and grill to drag myself upright.
I see two children in car seats strapped into the rear seat of the car. The younger looks at me glumly, uncomprehendingly. The older has a dummy in her mouth and sucks contentedly.
So, a young mother then, taking the kids somewhere.
I let go of the car and turn towards her.
“I hope I’m not holding you up from an important engagement.”
“No no! You must not worry about me! Childcare is closed for the holidays. I am going to visit a friend.”
As she takes another deep breath I turn back to look at the children.
The windscreen enlarges, morphs into a cloudy magnified fishbowl into which I peer.
In the distance, the grey rear seat has dissolved into rubble.
The children have spilt out of their seats onto it.
They lie awkwardly, bubbles foaming about their mouths.
A cold hand grasps my heart.
Again I stumble away, this time shivering in shock and fear.
In that way that young mothers have to quickly learn, she takes control of the situation, gently but firmly grasps my arm, leads me to the side of the road, sits me down.
“Deep breaths,” she says, “take deep breaths.”
I sit and wonder what's going on in my brain.
Whilst I recover she moves her car to the side of the road.
Now she approaches with a soft-sided bag.
Wet wipes. She cooly wipes blood from my forehead, the sides of my left arm and leg, cleans up a bit of gravel rash here and there.
Then a white cream from a little jar is spread over the injured areas.
Now a few little sticking plasters.
Never intended to help a big baby like me were they?
Nothing for my clutched heart tho.
After 10 minutes at ease it’s time to test myself out.
I can stand up now. I dust myself off, tuck my shirt in, pull my socks up.
Swing my pack on, a slug from the water bottle, where are my pacer poles?
Only a little stinging, no major hurt. I’m ok.
Just don’t look in that car Gerard.
After convincing her that I am quite capable of continuing, and profusely expressing my thanks, I walk carefully away. I feel her eyes on my back.
After about 50 metres I turn, don’t look in that car Gerard, and give her the thumbs up.
I waggle my fingers, indicating she should continue her journey.
I’m only vaguely, yet certainly aware that she does, as I see the car moving away in my peripheral vision as I look out across the fields.
The children still come, just to play, altho not so often now.
In the early days they would frighten me awake in the quiet and still of night.
Now pilgrims say they hear me speak to them in the dormitory darkness.
Regards
Gerard....I'm a Portugeezer
I'm about a week north of Lisbon.
14 year old Miriam Abu Khalil had been awake early. She had seen an aircraft drop a bomb on a one-story building. A yellow mushroom cloud arose.
“Like a winter fog,” she said. “People arrived to help the wounded. Children ran out to look. They breathed the gas and died.”
The Camino is a cocoon.
It shields us from the horrors of the outside world.
But this morning, here on the screen, they are strewn haphazardly across the bulky grey rubble, twisted awkwardly in their ugly peace. Trousered legs, dusty clothed torsos. Heads, some half-veiled, face-down or turned aside as if to deny recognition.
The children are purposefully indistinct. Here they lie in their stillness and death.
There is no shield today.
I’d had a late start. Walked about 12ks by 1pm.
Quite sufficient. I was gradually upping my daily distance and at the moment 15 -18ks was enough. Not that my average ks were intended to increase much further.
It was a fine sunny day and that meant, in the heat of the afternoon, I was going to have a long slow flat plod to end the day.
Time for a recuperative lunch stop. Keep your eyes open for a good spot Gerard, and, if you are lucky you’ll get a quiet snooze in the shade as well.
A T-junction in the near distance.
What takes my interest up the shank of the T, across the intersection, is an acre or so of thick long-ish grass, bordered by trees.
As I close I note a bushy tree covered in small white flowers. The sun is directly behind it providing a large patch of cool shade. It’s 20 metres back in off the road. So quite private then, with no likelihood of dust from passing cars, and, being slightly raised it would take advantage of the light breeze, and give a fine view over the surrounding flattish farmland bordering the River Tejo.
I cross the road and wade into the thick soft grass. After extracting my lunch ingredients, I place my pack against the tree trunk. I look about, happily noting how I am placed among the small white flowers. I settle down into the softness. Off with the boots and socks, wriggle my escaped toes in the grass, lean back against my pack.
Best picnic spot ever.
And lastly my orange. I weggie-fy it with my opinel knife on the upturned sole of a boot, suck then tear the juicy flesh off the skin with my teeth. Yum. That’s lunch done then. I lean my head back, tilt my hat down over my eyes.
The gentling peace of the countryside ensures I quietly, quickly, drift into the land of nod.
I awake with a start, then settle back.
No desperate hurry, but better start getting organised.
Socks and boots. I swing my pack on, and using my poles I pick my way unsteadily back along my trodden grass path to the roadside.
From behind, something grabs unexpectedly at my right leg.
It lets go and I stumble forward onto the roadway.
It grabs at me again. Again it lets go.
I stumble forward again, trying to regain my balance.
Now it grabs me firmly. Pulls my leg back and out from under me.
As I fall I fling the pacer poles away.
The weight of my pack helps propel me, face-first, down into the gravel.
I lie looking out to the left, see the approaching car. Too fast, too fast.
“So this is where it all ends,” I think with calm resignation, “on a country road in Portugal.”
The driver stamps on the brakes.
The wheels lock, the car careers towards me, the gravel roars in defiance.
The front of the car dips, then slowly turns side-on as it slides towards me, the steering wheel having been pulled to the left in a desperate avoidance attempt by the driver.
It drifts to a stop.
I lie looking up at the front passenger door.
“Die? Don’t be silly,” I’m thinking, “your whole life has to flash before your eyes if you are going to die. That never happened did it?”
It seems to take an age....until I hear the driver's door click open. A young woman approaches around the front of the car.
“Oh,oh!” she exclaims. She is very agitated. “I was talking to my friend on the phone. I told her I must stop immediately as somebody has fallen over. I said I would call her back!”
“Good idea.” That’s all I could think of to say in reply.
“You have barbed wire wrapped around your boot,” she says. “It must have been hidden in the long grass. I will first pull it off, then move you to the roadside.”
I am surprised by her good command of English.
She removes the barbed wire, but between us we are unable to get me back up on my feet. I finally roll over onto my stomach and utilise the car’s bumper and grill to drag myself upright.
I see two children in car seats strapped into the rear seat of the car. The younger looks at me glumly, uncomprehendingly. The older has a dummy in her mouth and sucks contentedly.
So, a young mother then, taking the kids somewhere.
I let go of the car and turn towards her.
“I hope I’m not holding you up from an important engagement.”
“No no! You must not worry about me! Childcare is closed for the holidays. I am going to visit a friend.”
As she takes another deep breath I turn back to look at the children.
The windscreen enlarges, morphs into a cloudy magnified fishbowl into which I peer.
In the distance, the grey rear seat has dissolved into rubble.
The children have spilt out of their seats onto it.
They lie awkwardly, bubbles foaming about their mouths.
A cold hand grasps my heart.
Again I stumble away, this time shivering in shock and fear.
In that way that young mothers have to quickly learn, she takes control of the situation, gently but firmly grasps my arm, leads me to the side of the road, sits me down.
“Deep breaths,” she says, “take deep breaths.”
I sit and wonder what's going on in my brain.
Whilst I recover she moves her car to the side of the road.
Now she approaches with a soft-sided bag.
Wet wipes. She cooly wipes blood from my forehead, the sides of my left arm and leg, cleans up a bit of gravel rash here and there.
Then a white cream from a little jar is spread over the injured areas.
Now a few little sticking plasters.
Never intended to help a big baby like me were they?
Nothing for my clutched heart tho.
After 10 minutes at ease it’s time to test myself out.
I can stand up now. I dust myself off, tuck my shirt in, pull my socks up.
Swing my pack on, a slug from the water bottle, where are my pacer poles?
Only a little stinging, no major hurt. I’m ok.
Just don’t look in that car Gerard.
After convincing her that I am quite capable of continuing, and profusely expressing my thanks, I walk carefully away. I feel her eyes on my back.
After about 50 metres I turn, don’t look in that car Gerard, and give her the thumbs up.
I waggle my fingers, indicating she should continue her journey.
I’m only vaguely, yet certainly aware that she does, as I see the car moving away in my peripheral vision as I look out across the fields.
The children still come, just to play, altho not so often now.
In the early days they would frighten me awake in the quiet and still of night.
Now pilgrims say they hear me speak to them in the dormitory darkness.
Regards
Gerard....I'm a Portugeezer
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