A Flip-Flopping Peregrino On Camino

My friend sent a photograph of her amazing, knitted patchwork blanket, a gift for her grandson, the other day. I am in awe. You see, I started one too, years ago. On all our wanderings, I’d sit in the car and knit; I’ve made miles of strips and squares. They are haphazard, not all exactly square, with no rows counted and none of the colours, textures or threads matching or coordinating. Certainly not a masterpiece!

But, for the life of me, I can’t finish it. It’s so large it’s almost too heavy to lift and could comfortably cover two king-sized beds. I’ve managed to square three sides; I’ve sewn them up, but the bottom end is a nightmare—long strips, oddly shaped squares and a few patches that need lengthening.

Unlike her beautifully crafted masterpiece, an heirloom which her grandson will cherish and probably her son too, mine tells a story of struggle and imperfection, reminding me that progress, not perfection, matters-an important lesson in perseverance.

My struggle to finish the blanket reflects how I often face overwhelming challenges, yet I refuse to let defeat define me. It’s now tucked away, but I see it as a reminder that persistence matters, even when success seems out of reach.

Some parts of the Camino are too difficult to revisit, write about, or even talk about because they stirred deep emotional pain. I want to feel the emotional challenge of confronting these painful memories, so we know growth often involves facing our hardest moments.

Even if it kills me, I will finish our story. I want my audience to feel inspired by the importance of perseverance, personal growth, and reflection.

Preparation, they say, is half the battle won. Sometimes. I smile as I read blogs, Twitter posts, and spoilers written by aspiring journalists, writers, and hikers preparing for the Camino. Nothing can prepare one for the psychological Camino; the physical one, maybe.

In my Diary for this stage, I wrote, “Pre-menstrual – Not good!” We were on our way from Barcelos to Ponte de Lima. It was going to be long and difficult. I wasn’t pre-menstrual, thank goodness; that ship has sailed for me! My poor child suffers from it, and I know her pain. Pain intensifies when one’s hormones are out of kilter; I remember cringing when I had leg waxes or my eyebrows plucked back in the day. My skin was electrifyingly sensitive, as was my mood, and my tear glands became aqueducts. My good humour would turn devilishly blunt, unsympathetic, and often cruel. She has it all in her blood.

But enough about me. My companion, on the other hand, became sullen, quiet, and dismissive. With swinging bananas and breakfast hampers, we set off early. I knew I had to keep out of the line of fire for a day or two! An uninvited hormonal dragon had hatched. I would talk to the hand a lot!

By then, we knew we would have a long day; trusting our guidebook was pointless, so once we found our yellow arrows, we chucked it into the deepest recesses of my backpack and put our faith in the painter of the yellow markings and our fellow travellers along the way.

We'd just put one foot in front of the other and follow in the footsteps of hundreds of peregrinos who've done this before. We'd leave our footprints on the worn flagstones and make our own impression in the granite. Fortunately, we were never disappointed or lost.

The cool avenue of hundreds-of-years-old Plane trees was a fine welcome when we eventually traipsed into Ponte de Lima, hot and tired. Situated on the River Lima, Ponte de Lima is Portugal’s oldest city. Like the Romans, we would dip our toes into the Lima and forget all our memories.

We spent two nights there, enjoying the sluggish river’s listlessness as it meandered through vineyards and the city, making its way to the ocean. I walked with my camera, enjoying the amazing art dotted along my path, and took a stroll through some of the many gardens: the Roman Gardens, the Renaissance Gardens, the Baroque Gardens, parks, and a formal herb garden adjoining the Historic Cathedral. On bicycles, we criss-crossed the river over ancient bridges, enjoying another form of exercise as we rode along the Ecovia, a walking and cycling path. But I’d sit on one of the many benches under a Plane tree and watch locals promenade.

Our Guesthouse Mercearia da Vila was perfectly situated in the centre of town, near shops, eateries and the river. We were thoroughly spoilt by our hostess, who served a delicious breakfast each morning and baked the nicest, richest cakes and treats for us to enjoy. The building, still belonging to an old Ponte de Lima family, was once a grocery store. The family lived upstairs. In the dining room, ancient bottles of red wine from the region, toy motor cars and other memorabilia from a bygone age are on display. The owner, retired, still helps out at the hotel and served us breakfast on our last day.

My idea of the perfect pizza changed irrevocably here; the things we get delivered in cardboard boxes are not pizzas. What they are, I don’t know, because we enjoyed our first authentic Italian pizza in Portugal! Thin, with a crispy crust, a good swipe of Pomodoro with a delicate flavour, and a proper topping of Parma ham, mozzarella and field mushrooms, simple, understated yet flavoursome and delicious. We concluded that the flour used must be organic and stoneground, as we never suffered our usual bouts of indigestion. 

On our second evening, we dined out at Taverna Vaca Das Cordas, where we enjoyed an excellent meal in this cosy restaurant, surrounded by walls covered in old posters and photographs depicting the city's rich equestrian and bullfighting history. Interesting.

Before we set off for our next destination, we went to the grocery store around the corner to stock up on fruit and snacks. The old-fashioned shop reminded me so much of my childhood, when customers had to ask to see the goods they wanted to buy and wouldn't dare venture around the back of the counter. On the pavement, all the delicious summer fruits were on display; I would always look to see whether any produce was imported from South Africa. Sardines in olive oil are very popular, and the colourful wrappers make this simple tinned product look like an exotic gift. Local ladies still do embroidery, and it seems to be very much in vogue!

We were told it would be all uphill to Rubiaes. We were ready for almost anything. The landscape is beautiful as we make our way over ancient Roman cobblestones, flagstones, and paths.

I was not going to be outdone, so I decided to while away the hours listening to my music. My rendition of “Hello! It’s me” rang out in jubilation. BUT. It wasn’t long before the forest fairies decided they’d had enough of me and, without any ado, wiped every single song off my iPad. It was bizarre. How it happened baffled us, as I was not online, had full battery power, the iPad was safely stowed in the pack, and I was set to my personal library. I had spent hundreds of hours copying all my CDs onto my laptop and saving them in iTunes in the Cloud for this reason: to have my music library on my absolutely fabulous Apple iPod, iPad, and iPhone!

I could’ve committed seppuku or cried. Instead, I thought maybe I wasn’t meant to have a distraction. Maybe I was meant to listen to the voices in my heart. I did and realised I was carrying a lot of unnecessary baggage. Who on earth schlepps an iPad around the Camino! A better person might’ve tossed it then and there. I didn’t.

Lise had a bunch of swinging bananas and extra shoes dangling from her pack. My boots were swinging too, making it difficult to balance as they swung irritably like a metronome behind me. That was it. We’d had it with our boots. I had been walking in my flip-flops since Barcelos anyway, and I found I was coping a lot better.

It was as we were enjoying our last espresso and pastel de Nata before our long climb to Rubiaes that we unanimously decided to take off our boots. That’s right. This was not an easy decision for Lise; firstly, her hips were in agony, and she didn't know whether she would last in flip-flops with only one other pair of shoes as a backup. Secondly, the boots had a history; leaving them meant she was closing the door on a very important part of her life—no more pain, no more guilt, no more flogging that dead horse. We left them by the side of the road. Lise ceremoniously tied their laces together, and with a smile on our faces, we shrugged them off. They could become pot plant holders for all we cared.

Relief. A lightening of our spirits was what we felt. Not since that day have I had any regrets. I can count it as one of the most liberating events in my life. They were the last straw, and we had the courage, knowing they couldn’t be replaced, to walk away. We had every reason to be proud. We also ate all the bananas in one go.

With a lightness of being, we set off, giggling each time a Pilgrim passed us and commented on our footgear. Although we couldn’t understand German, French or Spanish, we knew they were discussing our weird ways and probably thought we would repent at leisure. We didn’t.

The moral of this story was: get rid of baggage, whether it’s emotional, spiritual, real or imagined. We are so inclined to keep things for various reasons. I keep things for sentimental, financial, guilty, and silly reasons. I hang on to things because I don’t want to disappoint my parents, friends or family. I have polished, cared for, filled and filed my drawers with things other people “discarded” and tossed my way unceremoniously.

I’ve even filed away my acrimonious divorce, though not very often anymore; at times, it still rears its ugly head in my heart and mind. But I am reminded of the liberation I felt then, when I was at my lowest, weakest and most vulnerable; I felt free, light and transparent. I was weak and strong at the same time.

Lise and I recounted this, and she realised it in her own life too. We may enjoy the freedom of weightlessness when we make the effort to unburden ourselves of those heavy, debilitating, bloody albatrosses around our necks. How often do we find “wisdom” and enlightenment at our weakest point? I am going to learn to crochet once I've finished my blanket. A colourful crocheted throw will look great on our bed.