At a Different Pace

It started with a glass of wine — actually two glasses of wine. How many times in life has something begun with glasses of wine, or ended with two people, a quiet café, a small round table and wine, usually red. One way or another, I had been here before, but this time was different.

We all travel for different reasons. For some, it’s a bucket list; for others, a passion for a particular culture, or a vague childhood memory just waiting to be fulfilled. But for some of us, it’s simply what we do — every year, somewhere different. Paris is a thing, as is Rome, Bali, Tahiti and, of course, Venice. Some of us have a more — let’s call it — esoteric taste.

My wife and I had pretty much seen it all, sometimes more than once. We had stumbled our way around the markets of Marrakesh, climbed a pyramid or two, swum in just about every sea and ocean. But here we were, somewhere different, somewhere without a warm bed and definitely without a sunset cocktail.

It had been three months since I suggested Spain as a destination and a bit of a casual stroll — at least that’s what I called my idea of walking the Camino. Surely our strolling days were behind us, was her reply.

“Aren’t we getting a bit past thirty days of non-stop walking?”

“Not at all,” I laughed, “and besides, there will be wine and good food all along the way. It’s not like trekking in Nepal.”

“Yes, but we were younger then,” was her reply, and she went back to her book.

Nothing more was said for the next few weeks, but I started planning; it was my thing.

“So we are doing this?” she said, picking up the Camino guidebook I’d deliberately left on her bedside table. It was less a question and more an accusation.

“I thought we had agreed,” I replied.

“It would seem that we have,” was all she said, before opening the book.

And so, we planned and very casually trained — at least that’s what I called our after-dinner strolls.

We landed in Paris and, as usual with visits to Europe, spent a few nights in the glorious city. We trained hard with good food and even better wine. By the time we were on the TGV heading south, we were definitely at our peak fitness — that’s if we were training for a casual gourmet tour of southern France.

The first day of the rest of our lives began in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. It was early morning and, as we double-tied our boots and adjusted our packs, a little reality hit. Our packs were heavy, but we stretched our legs, loosened our backs and headed off.

The first day on any long hike is hard, but the Camino is rather perverse because the first day is the hardest of the whole walk. It’s a natural way of sorting out the serious from the half-hearted. We were serious.

At least we were for the first few hours. Packs become increasingly heavy as you walk, and conversation becomes less frequent. The hours passed slowly, an endless slog uphill. Water stops became more frequent.

Stopping and slipping off her pack with a sigh, my wife looked ahead at the rising pathway.

“I’m sick of climbing.”

“It could be worse,” I shrugged. “It could be raining.”

“At least I wouldn’t be so damned hot then,” was her reply.

“Lunch is calling in Borda,” I said encouragingly, helping her with the pack, but sensing I had not gained any points.

We continued on in silence.

We arrived later than expected, and lunch was less than average, but a couple of Brits were cooling their feet and offered a refreshingly cold beer.

“Ta much — I’ll return the favour tonight,” I said, taking a deep pull.

They were a married couple from London, and this was not their first Camino. Both were lean, weather-beaten, their packs half the size of ours. The woman offered my wife a few tips on repacking and some suggestions on what could be left behind.

Drinks done, goodbyes made with promises to meet up further along the path, maybe dinner together.

“That’s if we get to Roncesvalles tonight,” she said, waving goodbye.

“We have to,” I cautioned. “Once we leave here, there is no accommodation until then. It’s just mountains and the border crossing.”

She gave me a sideways glance as she headed off, quickening her pace.

“You didn’t tell me that,” she muttered. “You said it would be easy.”

“It will be, but not yet. We have to earn it first,” I replied, but I doubt she heard me; she’d pushed on ahead.

Her self-imposed lead did not last — it couldn’t. As I levelled up with her, I slowed my pace to walk beside her.

“Don’t,” she said between breaths. “Go on. I’ll meet you at the high point.”

“Okay, but just pace yourself,” I said lightly. “From there it’s all downhill.”

“I know,” was all she said.

As I waited at the top, I studied the view. Spain lay before me, and I could feel the excitement building. It was going to be a great adventure.

My wife reached the peak and barely acknowledged the vista before trudging on downwards.

We stumbled into Roncesvalles just before dark. It had been a long day. Our booked beds were comfortable enough, the food hearty, and the wine much better than expected. This was definitely going to be a fun hike.

We didn’t see the Brits, and my wife was more than quiet over dinner. To cheer her up, I suggested a small bar. It was quiet now, as many had already shuffled off to bed. We sat at a little table in the corner. She ran her index finger around the rim of her glass and studied the movement.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” she whispered.

I said nothing for a moment.

“It’s only the first day — it’ll be easier tomorrow,” I said with encouragement.

“I’m not talking about the Camino,” she replied. “I’m talking about us.”

I was a little confused, but tried to mollify her.

“We can pull it if you like,” I suggested. “Grab a ride to Pamplona and relax, maybe tackle a different section in a few days.”

“You just don’t get it,” she laughed, shaking her head. “I was watching you striding ahead of me today, fully in your own space — your so-called happy place — and I realised that we’ve been on different paths, at different paces, for years.”

“I thought you were enjoying yourself,” was all I could say.

“But have you ever actually asked me?” Her voice was quiet; there was no anger in it, just resolve. “I’ve realised I’ve known it for years, but you’re obviously clueless.”

I didn’t know exactly what she was saying, but I knew it was the end of something. They say you discover something about yourself walking the Camino, but they never tell you that someone else might do the discovering for you.