Purky
Intermittent Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- Reality is frequently inaccurate
Prompted by @Kanga's reaction in the "Celebs" on the Camino-thread, I thought back on some of the more notable human connections I made on the camino, but without the use of words. Kanga wrote "... the best moments I thought were when we're enjoying each other's company in an uncomplicated, unselfconscious, way", and my brain then added 'wordless' for some reason. My brain does that sometimes, nudge me like that. Maybe to make a point, or to ensure that I pay attention. Helpful, most of the time, and this time the occasion for this post.
So the 'wordless' cue took me back to two specific events. The first was in Les Landes, south of Bordeaux on the Vézelay Route. A feared region in the Middle Ages, because it was then a vast and soggy plain, and dangerous to boot because of thieves and robbers who preyed on pilgrims. Today Les Landes is very different: home to Europe's largest maritime-pine forest, green and succulent when I walked there in the spring. But the bleakness and the feeling of remoteness can still echo.
That was at least certainly the case on the sunday morning I walked there. I hadn't seen a single soul in hours, and when I traversed an overpass over the motorway I witnessed an awesome sight. Not a car to be seen or heard. It was dead quiet, almost to the point where it became eerie. I was alone on planet Earth.
And then I saw him, in the distance. A pilgrim on a bicycle, a shell dangling from his panniers, a bandana tied around his head, cycling towards me parallel to the highway. I stood and watched from above, not really thinking, mildly curious. Somehow he became aware of my presence, looked up while pedalling and his face broke open in a beautiful smile. He raised his hand, I raised mine and smiled back and I understood that this was a perfect moment: no words, but a world of meaning. He kept on pedalling wordlessly and I wasn't alone anymore.
The second event was a really heavy one. As I was approaching the Cruz de Ferro almost a month later, I was prepared to place a little pebble I had brought. Mostly out of a sense of form, I confess, because that is what you do at the Cruz de Ferro. But what I wasn't prepared for was the man I would encounter. The weird thing was that I knew something was about to happen when I saw him. A big guy, head shaven and strong looking. He and his wife or girlfriend stood out of the crowd gathered at the Cruz. Something was going on with those two, especially him, and they seemed more 'real' than the rest of the people there.
I had to walk past them to reach the cross and I did that slowly and gingerly. I still don't understand why my body already felt tense and in fight or flight-mode. I was hyper-aware, but it still came as a monumental shock: when I passed the man I got hit by his grief. There is no way I can explain it better. His grief, his heartbreak, was so immense and palpable that it literally slammed the breath out of me. I staggered along, around the mound of rocks and pebbles, and stood shaking by the fence on the other side, holding on to it for dear life. Otherwise I would have collapsed.
Writing this is strange. I remember it vividly, and to see it in writing the whole thing seems overly dramatic. But at the time I was dumbstruck, with tears running down my face, labored breathing, shaking all over and not a clue why this was happening to me. It wasn't my grief, but on another level it was very much my grief. Maybe I recognised something about him, the hard look on his face resembling mine when I hold my own emotions under tight control. It struck a chord, that much was sure.
I watched him place a stone at the foot of the cross while his wife/girlfriend stood back, wrapped up in her own pain. When he came down to her they hugged, and by that time I had recuperated just enough to do my own thing and get the hell out of there. But the placing of my stone had suddenly taken a whole new meaning, it wasn't about a sense of form anymore. When I rumbled down he stood at the bottom of the pile, like he was waiting for me. I looked him in the eye and he returned the gaze for what seemed like a long time. Both our faces still wet we nodded at each other, fully aware of something real but unspoken between us. And then, just like that, we went our separate ways. I almost ran to Acebo after all this but felt really good when I arrived in Ponferrada that afternoon. Like something wasn't weighing me down anymore.
With accounts like these there is always the danger of projection on the part of the narrator, especially when you try to capture the essence of the encounter into words from your own point of view. The other guy probably tells a different story. But somehow I feel that isn't the case with these two events. They both had a quality of deep connection about them, something which is very hard to describe because it is profoundly non-verbal. But they both were so fundamental to my camino that I decided they deserved a post of their own. Maybe you would like to add yours.
So the 'wordless' cue took me back to two specific events. The first was in Les Landes, south of Bordeaux on the Vézelay Route. A feared region in the Middle Ages, because it was then a vast and soggy plain, and dangerous to boot because of thieves and robbers who preyed on pilgrims. Today Les Landes is very different: home to Europe's largest maritime-pine forest, green and succulent when I walked there in the spring. But the bleakness and the feeling of remoteness can still echo.
That was at least certainly the case on the sunday morning I walked there. I hadn't seen a single soul in hours, and when I traversed an overpass over the motorway I witnessed an awesome sight. Not a car to be seen or heard. It was dead quiet, almost to the point where it became eerie. I was alone on planet Earth.
And then I saw him, in the distance. A pilgrim on a bicycle, a shell dangling from his panniers, a bandana tied around his head, cycling towards me parallel to the highway. I stood and watched from above, not really thinking, mildly curious. Somehow he became aware of my presence, looked up while pedalling and his face broke open in a beautiful smile. He raised his hand, I raised mine and smiled back and I understood that this was a perfect moment: no words, but a world of meaning. He kept on pedalling wordlessly and I wasn't alone anymore.
The second event was a really heavy one. As I was approaching the Cruz de Ferro almost a month later, I was prepared to place a little pebble I had brought. Mostly out of a sense of form, I confess, because that is what you do at the Cruz de Ferro. But what I wasn't prepared for was the man I would encounter. The weird thing was that I knew something was about to happen when I saw him. A big guy, head shaven and strong looking. He and his wife or girlfriend stood out of the crowd gathered at the Cruz. Something was going on with those two, especially him, and they seemed more 'real' than the rest of the people there.
I had to walk past them to reach the cross and I did that slowly and gingerly. I still don't understand why my body already felt tense and in fight or flight-mode. I was hyper-aware, but it still came as a monumental shock: when I passed the man I got hit by his grief. There is no way I can explain it better. His grief, his heartbreak, was so immense and palpable that it literally slammed the breath out of me. I staggered along, around the mound of rocks and pebbles, and stood shaking by the fence on the other side, holding on to it for dear life. Otherwise I would have collapsed.
Writing this is strange. I remember it vividly, and to see it in writing the whole thing seems overly dramatic. But at the time I was dumbstruck, with tears running down my face, labored breathing, shaking all over and not a clue why this was happening to me. It wasn't my grief, but on another level it was very much my grief. Maybe I recognised something about him, the hard look on his face resembling mine when I hold my own emotions under tight control. It struck a chord, that much was sure.
I watched him place a stone at the foot of the cross while his wife/girlfriend stood back, wrapped up in her own pain. When he came down to her they hugged, and by that time I had recuperated just enough to do my own thing and get the hell out of there. But the placing of my stone had suddenly taken a whole new meaning, it wasn't about a sense of form anymore. When I rumbled down he stood at the bottom of the pile, like he was waiting for me. I looked him in the eye and he returned the gaze for what seemed like a long time. Both our faces still wet we nodded at each other, fully aware of something real but unspoken between us. And then, just like that, we went our separate ways. I almost ran to Acebo after all this but felt really good when I arrived in Ponferrada that afternoon. Like something wasn't weighing me down anymore.
With accounts like these there is always the danger of projection on the part of the narrator, especially when you try to capture the essence of the encounter into words from your own point of view. The other guy probably tells a different story. But somehow I feel that isn't the case with these two events. They both had a quality of deep connection about them, something which is very hard to describe because it is profoundly non-verbal. But they both were so fundamental to my camino that I decided they deserved a post of their own. Maybe you would like to add yours.
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