Italy 2017

Crianlarich, United Kingdom

We decided that the unfriendly people must be the English and those from the continent. Not a greeting, head nod, grin – nothing. And yet the Scots cannot be friendly enough! They are helpful, take their time, greet with a big smile and are genuinely just extremely pleasant, which makes such a difference! The man at the university guiding the traffic is such a prime example of this – his genuine kindness in helping us in the righ direction makes me even prouder to be part of this university, even though I have never set foot on campus. This morning we wake up a wee bit later – at 06h30. We decide to pack up and drive to a quiet spot to start digging into our Waitrose supply like two naughty boys. There are Hobnobbs, Nairn digestives, McVites (with dark chocolate), oak smoked bacon, free range eggs, a chuunk of Stilton and best of all – Branston Pickle. The Keltie Bridge Campsite is certainly not what it seems on the website, yet it was only a stop over as we could not stick our heads out of the van for the pouring rain! We venture off to Callander and drive along Lake Venachar to Inversnaid on Loch Lomond. These are the roads that nightmares are made of – single track, winding along the loch with cars coming at you at a staggering speed. I am the driver – the only way I could survive the control freak in me. The road actually ends at Inversnaid – a dramatic stop on the Loch Lomond, near where the infamous Rob Roy was laid to rest. Here I learn what a Hill Billy is – thought they were those strange middle America people…. They are actually shaggy feral goats left behind when the Crofters were cleared from the land in the 18th century. The poor Crofters were chased from their land to make place for sheep. Now that was a dumb idea and caused a major hickup in Scottish history. Thanks to Rob Roy some asses got kicked. (I will have to read up on history to make sure I give a better slightly more accurate historic account…). One needs to be a poet to describe the dramatic landscape of the Scottish Highlands – there is no way to do it any justice from a mere mortal. Poet and priest Gerald Manly Hopkins wrote about Inversnaid: “What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and wilderness? Let them be left, Oh let them be left, wilderness and wet, Long live weeds and wilderness yet.” It is still wild, and wetter than today the Priest Hopkins could not have wished for. Bar the odd (really odd) hotel there and here, it is wilderness. Pristine unspoilt green wilderness, water gushing down karbonkel hills meeting silver shores of glistening Loch and Lake. Ferns exploding in shades of green under magical ancient trees and silver skies. We have to backtrack on the same route to get us to the southern tip of Loch Lomond so that we can drive up the western shore. We now have a wonderful view from the opposite side of Inversnaid. Hours later we find a quiet spot, on the side of the lake, to tackle our breakfast. Pan toasted bagels with cream cheese and ham, then with mature cheddar from Mull and hickory smoked ham, mine with lashings (love that word because it indicates how much of the stuff I lash on) of Branston Pickle. And tea – the best tea in the world made by HRH. No one can make tea like Victor. Perfect! Our journey continues along Loch Lomond into the Highlands. It mostly pours with rain. Then the sun would burst through the clouds, desperately trying to convince holiday makers that it is actually high summer! The glistening on new green of raindrops, waterfalls cascading over wet rocks and a heavenly brightness last for all of ten minutes before the clouds draw in front of the sun again and it starts pouring. After a number of u-turns (one campsite wanted to charge us 45 pounds for a stand!) we find a campsite on the shores of Loch Linnhe. Literally on the shore overlooking the Loch gently lapsing the shore. Paradise. We set up camp, tackle a gin with elderflower tonic and we are in heaven. A perfect end to a perfect day.

Callander, United Kingdom

We eventually get the train to Uphall, having halled up and down between platform 10 and 13 three times. We get off at Uphall – a station in the middle of nowhere. With nothing. We walk towards what looks like a little town, my suitcase doing its own jigg in any direction but forward. It is raining. I did not bring my rain jacket. We stop at a little cafe to ask for help. The shop attendant said that someone came in to ask about this Motorhome rental place last week as well. My phone is dead so I cannot get the full address. It is raining. She calls a cab who knows where the place is, and ten minutes later a very friendly man pics us up in his cab. Off we go! We are second in line at the rental place, and James and Gerald are both extremely friendly. We sign loads of documents, as per usual I cannot get myself to read the small print. The motorhome is perfect for the two us – we even score a decent teapot in the process. (Thanks to regulations they are not allowed to stock glass – but we are welcome to take the teapot and glasses should we wish to do so. After about 90 minutes we are packed and ready to go. We set off towards Stirling with a GPS and no idea where we are going to spend the night. The GPS guides us towards Doune, a small little village just north of Stirling. A campsite off the beaten track beckons us, and we are met by an extremely friendly man at the reception office. We get a stand outside the walled area of the campsite – a new ecxperience for us having to connect an electricl cable, draw out the awning and set up camp. It does feel a bit like school holidays for us, but judging by the average age of the people in the campsite is is pensioner’s discount time, out of season. We will not discuss the weather. It rains. All the time. The site is lush green with a symphony of birds and excited rabbits bobbing up and down with white fluffy tales. The site is extremely well organised and very clean. We unpack, have a glass of wine and decide to go in search of food to Dounne. The fact that it is still broad daylight is very disconcertingm, becauase as we get to the little restaurant in the village, we are told that the kitchen has already closed. To me it feels like midday… To park the Motorhome is not easy – so we have to turn around and venture into the little village of Dounne. Apparently there is an Italian restaurant. Come to Scotland and have Italian food. Well, seeing that the village has already gone to bed (it is not after 20h00 – still broad daylight but everyone seems to have retired for the nigh) we go in search of food. Any food. We stumble acroos the “wee little corner” – literally a tiny little corner eatery with six tables squashed into a space that should not have more than four tables. Cosy, to say the least, you can hear your neighbour chew his pasta. (Yes, real Italian pasta should be should when al dente). The lady of the house wears red rimmed round glasses with thick lenses, oozing charm and warmth. We huddle and squeeze into the tiniest little table right under the hot pass of the kitchen. Family business, husband (red skin, socks and sandles, sweat dripping) is the chef. According to Wife they were closed for the summer (how weird to close at the busiest time of the year) and were on their way to mainland Europe for holiday when she realised that she had a made a booking for this evening, more than a year ago! So, they opened the restaurant for the evening, having had to cancel flights, do extensive shopping for one night and make new plans. In spite of what could only have been one major domestic fiasco, they all seemed completely at ease. Husband sweating, son being sous chef and two youngsters (one serving one doing dishes) helping out. Wife is warm and friendly, making sure that everything runs perfectly smooth. She keeps an eye on everything. When an American couple comes in and the husband oversteps the line with his familiarity charming up the locals, she looks at him over the thck glasses and sternly tells him “I am busy with another table”. Watching this operation in action from very close proximity is a treat – like a well oiled machine things happen. Hot plates are put under the pass just in time for sizzling veal to be dropped from a pan, juices gently drizzled over. Potatoes oven grilled in small, thinbased round pans come gold and glistening from the oven. Beetroot hot and steamy give colour. We order to Porcini Ravioli – which comes plain, drizzled with exquisite olive oil, not trimmings to detract from the subtle flavours. We order tomato, onion and chilli salad, with chilli on the side. When the son forgets to keep the chilli aside, the Dad orders him to make me a seperate salad – the most beautiful sweet cherry tomatoes offset with crisp red onions, chopped Italian parsley and again a gently olive oil. The crispiness of the salad perfectly contrasts the softness of the ravioli. A match made in southern Italy. Paired witn a bottle of Chilean wine and rosemary bread fresh from the oven, we are in food heaven. Our first night in the Motorhome is blissful, even though we really miss our two pillows each. Thanks to the fact that it gets light just after 04h00 in the morning, we wake up at 04h45. We were too late to buy milk last night so the coffee has to be black. The campsite is really beautiful, and yet the fellow campers are very door. (We did notice that the average age of camper is way above ours). Our friendly gestures of greeting are met with stoney faces, not even a nod. We decided that the campers must be English. Hard as we try, we cannot get a friendly greeting out of one person! Just after 09h00 we set off to Stirling – I have to see someone at the university and we decide to get there early in order to find good parking and find our way around all the formalities of getting tickets, robes and finding the venue. Stirling University it set amongst the most beautiful scenary – lush green forests with a glistening loch, ducks, swans and geese rounding off the academic life. We have breakfast at a small cafeteria before I head off to my appointment and Victor sets out to explore. It is hard to beleive that today is the culmination of four years of studying, that I succeeded, that I am here to receive my degree in person. My meeting is with Ashley, a PhD student who did research in Bolivia ammongst indigenous women, exploring their experience and interpretation of new laws on discrimination against women. After our meeting I am more nervous than evey about attempting a PhD… We get dressed in our mobile home and set off for the ceremony. I have never seen so many young girls wearing shoes that they simply cannot set one foot in front of the other. I have glimpses of them falling flat on their faces during the ceremony. Men (well, very young boys) looking very dapper in their kilts. More girlsd squeezed into dresses that make them look terribly uncomfortable, not to mention akward, trying to pull down the too short hems, keep upright on their heels and pull their stomachs in at the same time. No mean feat… After almost 45 minutes of waiting for one student (who in the end did not arrive) the ceremony is ready to start. We are marched into the Sports Centre by brass band, sounding decidedly German to me, followed by the academic procession to Gaudiamus Igitur.The univeristy is twp years my junior, but has built a solid reputation in especially Social Work and Criminology, which I find very impressive. It is good to meet others who suffered with me and to be acknowledged for our hard work. I honestly never thought I would make it. Our day draws to a close with some serious Waitrose shopping and getting lost trying to find our campsite for the night. (Not having a phone that can connect to the internet is a pain. Not having had the time to do more proper homework before we left comes at a price…) It is still raining. Soft, gentle, heartwarming rain in the height of the Scottish summer.

Doune, United Kingdom

So as fate would have it we do not wake up before the alarm – every morning so far I was awake before 5. Not this morning – I want to cry when the alarm goes off. And it is raining outside. And light already. We grab the last things, stuff them into suitcases that cannot close and plastic bags that threaten to tear the minute we are out the door. Of course Mr. Wise bought a top hat. Paid too much for it – and now I have to schlep it with me for the next two weeks. Why o why…? It is bright, broad daylight at 5h45 when we stumble to the underground. Some people are only coming back home at this hour – clearly having had a very long and good night out. Everything works according to plan – well, sort of. We get to Liverpool Street station on time, and take the express train to Stansted. We arrive in good time and ask advice from a young man with pants that are too tight and a three day old beard that is very carefully cultivated. He tells us to stand in a specific line, which we duly do. We wait. And we wait. The line does not move. Eventually we realise that we are in the wrong queue – this one is for people who already have boarding passes. By now I realise that we are in the wrong line, and that time is running out. We ask someone else who tell us that we are in the wrong queue. We now join another line where people are really upset – some screaming, crying, having fights with partners. Mothers with small children are walking away from angry husbands. This is like Dante’s inferno – we are not the only ones who have not read the small print on the website. A woman with hair tight back so tight that she could hardly blink her eyes are on crowd control duty. She has a shrill, shrieking voice in which she screams at the crowd, telling them constantly that she is only one person. Flights have been missed, connecting flights gone, and people are really getting more and more angry. We wait. Deep breaths. It is now clear that Rynair is in total chaos. Eventually the one with the tight hair calls those flying to Edinburgh – we huddle like scared sheep not knowing what our fate will be. We are told to go to a counter where the attendant is even more flustered than the wannabe passengers. She tells us to just stand back, she cannot concentrate with us in front of her. She is confused. She does not know what she is doing. The tight hair tells her to get with it. Electricity between the two *****es. People are trying to jump the queue, others trying to get the attention of tight hair who is not pale in the face, with red blotches flaming up her neck. Eyes watery because she cannot blink. And then the good news: because we did not check in online, we need to pay another 90 pounds each, That is exactly double the price of our tickets. By this time, we are so irate and thinking that we are now too late for our flight. A young man next to us missed his flight and has to buy a new ticket. He does not have the money to do so – my heart breaks for him. The *****es behind the counter tell he to move away from the counter – his pleading is not going to help. Boarding pass in hand, we make a runner for the gate. At the security gates there is another major pile up. Boots (bike lace up hiking boots) must come off, belt, everything through the scanner. Of course my bag is stopped and searched. Ipad not allowed, so back through the scanner. Each item must go in a seperate container. And then we run again – backpack, camera, bloody tophat do not make for sprinting! The path to the gates wind through a shopping mall the size of Canal Walk, with hundreds of tourists meandering at a leisurely pace browsing through the passages. We run as if our lives depend on it. (Well more like someone at Ryanair’s life depended on it!) By this time I am swearing, sweating and can hardly breath. It feels as if it is mile away! And when we get to the gate, the flight is delayed. And not for us I would have you know. Can this day get any worse? Eventually we get on the stupid plane and I am ready to hit someone very hard. In Edinburgh we decide to go into the city and have breakfast. It is now raining. High summer in Scotland. We have a reasonably decent breakfast at the train station and take a walk down Princes Street when we see an exhibition of Impressionist paintings and decide to pop in (out of the rain). Daubigny, Van Gogh, Monet. Just what my soul needed – I decide there and then I need a sketchpad, pencils and some pastels, which Victor buys me as a graduation gift. At the closing down sale of BHS we buy two fleecy blankets, knowing that we are going to freeze our asses off. Now we need to take a train to Uphall, an industrial park outside of Edinburgh where we need to pick up the Motorhome. In all the chaos the handle that I use to pull my suitcase broke. So now I have to drag the suitcase with one arm of the handle. Of course it insists going in a different direction to which I am going, bumping into other people or going in front of my legs making me trip over my own suitcase. Like a spastic half drunk person I walk after the suitcase instead of pulling the suitcase behind me. We are told to go to gate 13. At gate 13 a red headed Scotsman (who else) tells us that our train leaves from platform 10 (in 7 minutes), which is on the other side of the station. Across a bridge. The escalator is out of order. We take the lift, waddling with suitcase that has a total mind of its own, across the bridge, down the other side. No says the lady in a the green official jacket, we leave from platform 13. I do not use the P word as I am very tempted to do for the 40th time today, but turn around, fall over my suitcase and straddle off to platform 13 again. Over the bridge, down the lift, across the wobbly sidewalk where my suitcase does a sort of Elvis style shake rattle role dance, back to Platform 13. The same man is there. He looks us up and down, points at the board and insists that we are leaving from Platform 10. I will end the blog here for today…

London, United Kingdom

London het my nog altyd aan ‘n ou “courtesan” – een soos Violetta van La Traviata. Nie ‘n prostituut nie, eerder ‘n “Dame met kamelias”, met ryk kliente. Effens afgeleef, bietjie galoptering (die irriterende hoesie wat Violetta het en tog sing sy hogere C’s asof daar met haar niks verkeerd is nie. Sy ken van ‘n front voorhou (in London se geval is dit meestal ‘n koue front…). Maar sy is sag, innemend, effens afgeleef, diep plooie van jare se rook, min slaap en baie drank. Nou as London ‘n courtesan is, is Camden Town die binnelies – donker en sweterig, sien maar min die lig, en daar is puisies. (Ok ek sal nie verder borduur nie). Soveel snert wat mense kan verkoop is seker wat die Chinese ekonomie aan die gang hou. Westerlinge is vasgevang in ‘n patologie van snert koop. Ek sien altyd by die kunstefees as die tannies in vervoering vir hulle die hoede koop – en ek weet voor my siel daai hoed gaan nooit weer die sonskyn sien nie. So koop toeriste snert wat op iemand se kaggel beland, en die Chinese ekonomie floreer. Donker stegies met tattoo winkels waar hulle ook gate in die mees ondenkbare plekke in jou lyf skiet. En dan sit hulle goed daarin om die gate oop te hou. En eendag as jy baie oud is hang die lelle want die goed val uit. Neuse en wenkbroue en lippe en ore en voorkoppe pronk met silwer gereedskap wat deur gate skroef. Op prentjies het al ook in die nedergedeeltes gesien hoe dinge pryk met silwerstokkies en klokkies en ringe. Die Camden. Dan is daar kos. Baie Chinese kos (hulle produseer nie net plastiek nie). Van die kere wat ek wel al daarvan ge-eet het het ek altyd gewonder of ek nie in die donker gaan gloei na die oordosis MSG nie. Die kleure van die kos hou seer sekerlik direk verband met die hoeveelheid chemikaliee – want geen natuurlike kos kan ooit so oranje wees nie… Maar, dit is heerlik! Vir iemand soos ek wat vrek oor gemorskos is dit ‘n paradys. Soetsuur hoender (ek glo en bid dit is hoender) wat taai is van soet met suur pynappelstukke wat sekerlik in Suid Afrika gegroei is te oordeel aan hoe suur hulle is! Beef met tamaryn wat nagswart in groot woks le en prut, prawns wat pienk glimmer met crisp grasuie. En tonne rys of noedels te kies en te keur. En – dit is spot goedkoop. Ons dam die vis en tjips stalletjie by. When in Rome.. Hoe op aarde die mense vis so krakend kry wat so stoomsag binne in is, sal net hulle weet. Die skepsel met tjips sit my ore aan – ek kan wragtag later net nie alles opeet nie. Vol olie tot agter my ore, afgesluk met Fanta (dit breek die olierigheid) takel ons die mark. My Ouma het gese van Ant Frieda se winkel op Ouplaas waar ons groot geword het “daar kan jy van ‘n gebruikte FL tot ‘n dooie poliesman koop”. Nou ja – watter nut enige van daardie twee artikels sou he sal ek nie weet nie. Maar dat in Camden se mark ‘n verskeidenheid is, is nie te redeneer oor nie. Ons val vas by die “vintage” klere, manelpakke en kilts, keile, pelsjasse wat ‘n woud vol wild sou wees. Tweed baadjies en fluweel, hoede en handskoene. ‘N Fees van stories. Die vol lengte leer jas wat my oog steel is vol karakter – tot ek hoor dit kom uit die Tweede Wereldoorlog. Skielik is die sin vir ou klere uit my gemoed. Ons stap aan. London kreun onder toeriste. En selfiestokkie. Doodmoeg kom val ons in die woonstel neer – hygend die vier stelle trappe op. Mens maar vakansie is uitputtend. Ons dag begin vanoggend by Kew Gardens. Die tuine is begin in 1840 en het die wereld se grootste versameling plante met 30 000 spesies. Van Bokbaai vygies tot eksotiese orgidiee – die wereld in een tuin. Danksy die onophoudelike reen is dit ‘n palet van wellustige groene wat geen kunstenaar kon uitdink nie. Die saligheid van soveel kleure en verskeidenheid van soveel plante trek mens dieper in die wonder van menswees in. En dan is daar die byekorf, ‘n metaal installasie wat ‘n byekorf repliseer. Gebou soos die struktuur van ‘n heuningkoek is dit gekoppel aan werklike byekorf in een van die privaat dele van die tuin. Honderde liggies weerspieel die aktiwiteit van die bye in die werklike korf – hoe meer die bye by, hoe helderder brand die liggies. Die zoem van die bye (en die lekker truksvye – NEE) word gedupliseer in klassieke musiek. Hoe meer die bye in die korf kommunikeer met klank, hoe harder die musiek. (Die musiek word in C majeur gespeel, wat ook die vibrasie van die bye is). Nou ja die wat wonder oor die wonder van lewe, gaan Kew toe. Gaan staan stil voor die wonder van hierdie ding wat ons Lewe noem, gaan kyk hoe klein jy is, hoe min jy weet, en hoe die mensdom eintlik ‘n niksnut is in die groter wonder van die natuur.

London, United Kingdom

London is nat en grou. Hoog somer. Mens kan maar net wonder of die Engelse nie regtig ‘n kompleks het oor hulle weerpatroon nie. (En na Brexit is ek seker dit sou nie hulle enigste kompleks wees nie). Ek verstrengel my in die koerante – en voel weereens die verlies aan goeie joernalistiek in Suid Afrika. Hier gee die koerant ‘n wye spektrum van opinies – na bladsy tien kry mens die idee dat jy wel ‘n beter verstaan en opinie van die hele debakel kan vorm. Dit was duidelik nie die geval met die gepeupel nie – die hoeveelheid onkunde en emosie waarmee gestem is hou direk verband met totale onkunde (of dalk onvermoe) om die situasie ten volle te verstaan. Die ondertoon van rassisme en xenofobia is niks nuuts op hierdie eiland nie… Maar ja, geskiedenis herhaal en herhaal. Ons leer nie. En tog het niks in London verander nie. Kensington Tuine is groen, met hordes kindertjies wat leer sokker speel, bederfde vetgevoerde honde (wat dikwels net soos hulle eienaars lyk), drawwers met deurskynende wit bene en tekkies wat te groot lyk vir hulle voete. En nog honde en nog drawwers. Bedelaars en Gypsies en Straatmense. En duiwe. Veral baie duiwe. In Soho loop ons vas in ‘n skare Pride ondersteuners. Die reenboog beslis die beste weerspieeling van hierdie bont klomp. Dit dans en drink en mors. Maar nou ja – elke vuilgoed drom loop oor so daar is seker nie veel van ‘n keuse nie. Na sewe jaar by Africa Burn is ek hiper bewus van MOOP (matter out of place) en kan ek nie help wonder wat deur mens se kop gaan as jy nolenswolens (weet of dit ‘n woord is nie, maar het dit jare gelede by Retseh la Grange geleer) ‘n bottel of blik of papier of plastieksak op die grond neergooi. Dalk is dit juis ‘n teken dat daar nie veel deur jou kop kan gaan nie… Gay Pride gaan my verby. So hard as wat ek probeer verstaan hoekom mense dit nodig ag om te paradeer in stilettos met bikinis en lang kleurvolle wimpers, so min verstaan ek dit regtig. Almal weet van ons. Die Vader weet ons gaan genoeg tekere dat niemand ons kan miskyk nie. En ja ons het nou gekry wat die straight mense het. Meestal. Kan ons nie nou maar ophou om ‘n bleddie spektakel van onsself te maak nie? Asseblief? ‘N Kuier by ou Kaapse vriende is soos om daardie trui (die een wat jou lewensmaat baie diep agter in die linnekas weggesteek het) wat jou Ma dertig jaar terug gebrei het weer te ontdek. Die snoesigheid van onthou en ontdek wat lankal van vergeet is. En lag oor die tyd wat so verby gegaan het en ons eintlik nie ‘n dag ouer voel nie. Van sit en kuier op die kombuisvloer en ‘n geborgenheid voel van bekendheid. Die Sondag middagete rek lank uit oor ‘n baie spesiale quiche en slaai en stroopsoet bessies met meringue en roomys. En natuurlik wyn en koffie en nog lag en kuier. Dit is wel ‘n cliche, maar daar is vriende met wie mens jare nie kontak het nie (amper twintig jaar) en oombliklik weer optel waar jy laas gelos het. Vanoggend reen dit ‘n regte Kaapse winterreen in London. Dis nou sesuur met die wakkerword omdat dit so oneindig vroeg lig is (en laat donker word). Vandag is dit die National Portrait Gallery – die een plek wat ek nooit mag mis in London nie. Die BP 2016 uitstalling is soos altyd ‘n reis na diep emosie, vasgevang in bo-menslike kuns, detail wat hoendervleis en spatare en plooie en sproete nie ontsien nie. Patos vermeng in kleur op doek, geskilder met insig dieper as wat die sitter self kon verwoord. Ons eie Shany van den Berg uit die Paarl pronk hier in ‘n selfportret – ‘n blik deur ronde brilglase wat deur jou kyk. Die gallery se kommentaar is “Peering at us into the light, out of the dark, there’s a really strong use of chiaroscuro. I wouldn’t mess with this woman”. Die kontras tussen lig en skadu (chiaroscuro) bring die karakter van een van ons land se voorste kunstenaars hier in London na vore. ‘N Vrou met wie jy nie moet mors nie. Maar meer dan dit, ‘n vrou wat nie een duit hoef terug te staan vir die beste in die kunswereld nie. Trots Suid Afrikaans staan ek lank stil, buig my hoof in ootmoed voor hierdie formidabele werk. Die werk wat my in my spore stop en letterlik in ‘n sekonde weemoedig maak, is die van Bo Wang. Die kind is in 1981 gebore, en skilder sy Ouma in haar sterwens hospitaalbed. Bo erken dat hy soms ‘n moeilike verhouding met sy Ouma gehad het. Hier, sterwend en nie meer langer in staat om te praat nie, van hy haar lewe vas met soveel deernis dat sy nie ‘n woord hoef te praat nie. Die kleinkind skilder elkeen van ons se Ouma – plaaskuiers en beskuit en kaneelpannekoek en moerkoffie. Al sy Ouma uit die Ooste, is sy die Oerouma wat elke kleinkind se kindwees verteenwoordig. Sagtheid en verstaan en warmte. Selfs in haar sterwensuur. En die kind is 35 jaar oud. En weer het ek hoop vir die mensdom en weet ek dat ons hier is om een rede, en een rede alleen. Ons moet hierdie wereld ‘n beter plek maak, want daar is soveel talent en mooi en deernis en goedheid wat in hierdie vertrek saamgevat is dat daar ‘n dieper rede vir hierwees moet wees. Sela.

London, United Kingdom

Die vakansie breek sonder seremonie aan, daar was nog nie eens tyd om opgewonde te raak nie. Tussen die laaste boodskappe vir huis oppassers en kuiermense uitsorteer en vir Katriena instruksies los (onder andere dat sy asseblef ne moet kraam terwyl ons weg is nie), gou die baard laat tem, kantoor toe gaan om laaste detail te druk en groet is ons op die lughawe en is dit tyd om aan boord te gaan. Air Ethiopia – en al die nodige voorbehoude teenoor ‘n lugredery van ‘n Afrikaland skop in. “Die vlug gaan seker laat wees”. “Ek wonder of daar entertainment aan boord is”. Mooi mense met olyfvelle, amandel oe en sensuele lippe bedien bedees kos en drankies. Daar is meer beenspasie as gewoonlik – en alles moontlike toekomstige tekortkominge is by voorbaat vergewe. Twaalf ure op ‘n vliegtuig sonder beenspasie kan vergelyk word met ‘n nagmaalpreek op Heidelberg in kinderjare. Sit van boud tot boud, tel al die orrelpype, probeer om nie nog ‘n keer in jou neus te krap nie. Die bekramptheid van sit met jou kniee langs jou ore, ‘n onderbroek wat in die sag van jou binneboud invreet, droee lug wat jou neusgate laat toeslaan, jou ore geblok en bure wat poep en nies en proes. En die trollie wat net nie by jou uitkom nie. Want iemand moet ‘n spesiale ete kry en soek nog iets wat natuurlik nie op die trollie is nie. Die ure sleepvoet verby, onderbreek deur ‘n vliegtuigete. ‘n Stereotipe vliegtuigete. Vis, met ‘n kerrierige sousie wat reeds gestol het. Met rys en brokkoli. Genadiglik kruip daar die altyd welkome kasie en beskuitjies weg onder die foeliebakkie met die grillerige vis. (Ek kan nie help om te wonder wanneer die vis gaargemaak is nie..). Afgesluk met rooiwyn is die kasie en beskuitjies ‘n noenmaal. (Ek hou daarvan om die hele kasie, wat altyd redelik dik is, tussen twee beskuitjies te sit en dan so te hap dat die beskuitjies verkrummel tussen die sagte kaas. Nie baie gesofistikeerd nie, maar dis my vliegtuig partytrick). Nie lees of musiek of die sogenaamde “inflight entertainment” kry dit reg om my aandag vir langer as ‘n halfuur te hou nie. Ek haat lang vlugte.

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Cape Town, South Africa

The mountain, the sea, our dogs, garden, house, bed, pillows. Ceramics, Nespresso, sleeping late, my clothes (I have such a lot!). Wearing shoes, the smell of clean laundry, the quiet at night, whole wheat toast with avocado pear, soaking in a hot (clean) bath, thick freshly laundered towels, double ply toilet paper, a cup of decent tea. Fresh flowers in the house, Swartkat cuddling up for a chin scratch. The South Easter, chatting to my Mom, a thick rump done medium rare with mustard sauce, full-bodied red wine, lamb with rosemary, sun-dried tomatoes and olives. Sea Point promenade, flopping on the couch, sleeping with the doors open and the sea breeze coming into the room, seeing my friends. To speak Afrikaans, laugh, to think back. These are but a few of the things that make being back so special. So many people ask me “how does it feel to be back?”. I have no idea. I do miss the walking – sitting is very difficult. I miss the solitude. “Has anything changed?”. I don’t know – you tell me? I am not quite sure what people expect to see or hear or find – a new me? It will need more than 617 kilometers to change my personality. Walking on the promenade I cannot help to hear snippets of conversation as people walk past me. These are a few I heard this week: “she should really stop taking that medication”. “If you sell that farm, you are never ever going to be able to buy something like that again, stick it out, things will change”. “She is not happy, everyone knows that”. “Trust your gut, that is all you can do” – and so on and so forth. I watch the stress, the anxiety, and I want to go to everyone and tell them to just keep on walking. A lot further – like 600 kilometers and your conversation will change. That high pitch in your voice, the neck muscles pulling like that, the edge in your body language. It will change. The question is, will it last? What would I like to have happened, seeing that I had no preconcieved ideas about the journey. What would I like to happen now? Nothing. Having experienced what I did was enough. I do feel a very deep sense of calm, I even tried it out in the afternoon traffic! May that last forever! THe unpacking has left a lot of space – the secret now I suppose would be how to fill that space. Or how to NOT fill that space. How to be mindful of what I take on board. Mindful. If I can keep being mindful I would be eternally grateful.

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Santiago de Compostela, Spain

The last day in Santiago, and the start of the long journey home. Tonight I fly from Santiago to Barcelona, tomorrow from there to Istanbul and then Cape Town. I used to love flying – now it seems that as I grow older I dread it more and more. Not because I am scared or anything, I just find it so unbelievably uncomfortable. Regardless of what I try, how I sit, how much I drink or not, I cannot get a comfortable position in which I can sit for longer than ten minutes. I must be a nightmare to sit next to.

My sneakers. I am actually scared of them at this point. Today I thought that I should not go too close to the beautiful silver coffin of St, James – the smell of my shoes might actually wake him from the dead! I tried some essential oil, which I think made it worse. And since it rained the entire day today, non stop, they are now wet again and smelling even worse. (There was a guy in the hostel with me in Oudtshoorn whose shoes could wake the dead. We shared a room. I remember in the midst of summer when the temperature in Oudtshoorn could rise to a magnificent 49 degrees, how the smell of opening his cupboard could launch you out of the room, jet propelled by a higher force over which you had not control. As much as we wanted to just lay on the bed to escape the heat, you would rather scorch to death in the blazing sun than having to be in the room when he opened his cupboard.)

Last night Mauritz, Ina and I went back to the wonderful tapas bar, stuffed our faces, drank a bottle of Cava (and some more) and just enjoyed each others’ company. As I walked to my convent yesterday, it was pouring with rain, the square in front of the Cathedral was completely deserted. One lone Pilgrim arrived. He was so lost, he just stood there in the rain, looking up at the steeple of the Cathedral, leaning on his walking sticks. The next thing, he actually went down on his knees and just started crying. My heart really broke for him. And again appreciated the wonderful company of Mauritz and Ina who have done the Caminho a few times before, so knew what to expect (and what not) and were incredibly kind and gentle to me arriving there for the first time. Mauritz and I share many similar feelings and thoughts around the church.

I think we finished our walk just in time – the weather has turned. All of a sudden the greyness of winter has set in. The buildings seem heavier with the rain soaking into their stone. Water runs down the streets, people dodging umbrellas (I wonder how many eyes are poked out each year by umbrellas) trying to get inside as quickly as possible. Only the smokers linger outside.

My day is spent loitering, again hanging from bar to coffee shop to restaurant. I cannot resist the temptation to go back to our tapas bar – their camembert covered in almond chips, tempura prawns, Russian salad and fish croquettes call me from afar. The place has a fantastic atmosphere, the waiters are so alive and friendly, welcoming everyone like long lost friends when they walk in. The service is exceptional, and it is obvious that Pilgrims have heard about the place. I hang at the bar like an old local, pretending that I do this every day for lunch. (If we had something like this in Cape Town I would be there every day for lunch). All their food is out on display – you choose what you want from the display, depending if it needs warming (or deep frying as my choice) they send it upstairs in a dumb waiter, minutes later it comes back piping hot, garnished deliciousness.

I then head back to Cafe Casino, where we went for our first drinks after being chased out of the Cathedral because of our backpacks. Old world elegance – today Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” welcomes me as I walk in. The hot chocolate is such a soothing, comforting break from the wet day outside. I see Pilgrims come in on wobbly legs, flopping down in the comfortable chairs – half an hour later they cannot get out of the chairs when the muscles have settled into a painful spasm. I see grown men cry when they phone home to tell their partners “I made it”. Youngsters texting wildly trying to share the magic of the moment.

So what is this moment?

Airports – Barcelona and Istanbul

I eventually get to my hotel – which is “near the airport” according to the Internet and yet takes about fifteen minutes by bus. A typical airport hotel – it has about as much ambiance as an hospital emergency waiting room. People come, people go. The room is large but stuffy, and with my compatriot Sketchers, I have to open the windows, which lets in the world of pollution of both stale air and noise. Well, it is that or death by fumigation. I end up locking them in the bathroom, deciding that I will sacrifice comfort and decency and actually fly home wearing my crocks. (Pity there is not a function that one could type a whisper – I would have whispered the word crocks). The breakfast is served with blatant irritation by waiters who look as if they are doing a national service instead of working in a hotel. When I ask one for a spoon to eat my yogurt, I am told ” it is there on the buffet” with a totally unimpressed nudge of her head in the direction of the buffet. The test to see if anything about the Caminho has infiltrated my personality is right here – I am tempted to slap her against the head. Instead I get up, take a deep breath and fetch the spoon, thinking of the Dalai Lama.

Barcelona airport. Madness, total, utter madness. People running to catch planes, frenetically shopping for those gifts they forgot to buy Granny and the neighbour who looked after the cat, fights after long holidays that wrecked the nerves of couples who never spend this much time together, cool people looking as if they stepped out of a Vogue fashion shoot. And then there is the rest of us. I close my eyes and think of the “Variante Espiritual”. How did I end up here?

Thanks to a good seat on the flight, I can stretch my (very weary) legs. I think my legs actually missed the walking, so I was super aware of how stiff they were. Somehow the service on the Turkish Airlines flight is chaotic – or is it just my imagination after being alone, quiet and peaceful for so long? I decided to do the ultimate escapist thing, and bought the Dragon Tattoo follow up, I don’t care if it is good or not, I just need a thick book to escape with for the next twenty four hours. It works – I immediately fall into the intrigue of Blomkvist and Salander, lapping up every word. (And noticing how many spelling mistakes there are in the book!).

The airport in Istanbul is even more of a shock to my system – I did not notice the last time I was there that it was so big, maybe because we did not have to spend 8 hours there, I have a coffee, a beer, and then suddenly thought if I don’t get out of this building, I will go mad. I decide to actually take the risk to go into Istanbul by Metro. I quickly do the self-service visa, free of charge from a vending machine (now I ask you…), hop on the Metro and off again in Taksim Square. By now it is 20h00, and I have to back at the airport at 00h00. Well, talk about heaving masses – Taksim Square is like an ant’s nest. There is a wave of people going up and down the road from Taksim that you cannot believe. What a time warp – from Santiago to Istanbul. The difference, the feeling of being on another planet, being confronted by the super friendly Turks, tourists, vendors, and people trying to sell just about anything short of their mother-in-law to you. (I am sure you can buy a pf few those too..) The Turkish delight shops, chestnuts being roasted, Turkish tea served at tiny little doll’s house tables on the side walks, Turkish men looking everyone up and down. And more people and shops and cats – I love the way the cats are part of the heaving masses. Big, fat, healthy looking cats that swirl their way through human legs like masterful swirling dervishes.

I go into one of the side streets to escape the masses, and sit down for a beer. Efes – which is actually a very nice beer! ABBA is blaring Mama Mia, follo
wed by Boy George. A touch of madness, that is what I think Istanbul represents for me. The madness of two countries in one city, the contrasts, the beautiful Bosphorus. Again, a city with a river for a heart, pumping life blood deep into the heart of East and West.

The journey back to reality is long and uncomfortable. Nothing more, nothing less.

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Santiago de Compostela, Spain

Morning arrives unannounced – the thick walls of the convent and the exhaustion work together to provide a good night’s sleep. Maybe also the quietude of the convent – years of silent prayers and hail Marys. Or perhaps the stillness deep inside my soul – who knows?

It is raining. A soft, gentle, constant wet. My shoes are still totally drenched, so I will have to venture out in my shower shoes (aka Crocs) that are actually (hideously ugly) sandals. With socks. I have one dry pair that are not barking at me yet. At this point, I am not only sick of the two sets of clothes (one pair of trousers that now hang like a sack on me), but everything is dirty, musty and smelly. In fact, the T-shirts actually feel sticky. A clean body in dirty clothes is not a good feeling. Oh well – so be it!

Just around the corner from the convent is a small, quaint bakery – obviously someone who loves baking opened her own shop. Good coffee, a croissant and I am ready for my day of walking. Alas. There is no walking today. I am moving to another convent (my skill at time management, getting dates right and directions are all equally challenged, hence the moving to another convent. I will not bore the reader with detail).

Santiago is wet, but alive. Handsome, healthy looking students rushing to class, mothers with toddlers in hand off to the creche, important fathers looking serious on their way to the office. And many, many pilgrims beaming from ear to ear. Old, young, from every nation on earth roam the streets, supposedly also not knowing what to do with themselves.

I find my new convent – right next to the cathedral. (Uhm – not without some effort I have to add. I can spot a spelling mistake in a fifty page document at first sight. I cannot spot a convent the size of Table Mountain right next to the major cathedral. Suppose I did not expect that to be my hotel for the night!)

So – what to do? I have no desire to do anything touristy. Yet I feel that I might regret it later when someone says “did you see THAT?”. I have seen more beauty than I can actually comprehend. I am petrified that I might actually forget some of it – so for now, the inbox is full. I am happy to sit, drink coffee, hot chocolate, eat churros. Lots of churros because I am not going to find that at home. So – I head off to the beautiful Cafe Casino and order exactly that: hot chocolate! It comes with three little pig’s ears that dunk perfectly into the thick, creamy, lava-like, sweet hot chocolate. (I think I heard the angels sing…). And I just sit – may favourite pastime. Just watching people come and go, eaves dropping on conversation that I do not understand, making up my own stories of love affairs and scaly business deals. It is obviously a very popular place for Pilgrims – must be the sophistication, soft arm chairs and beautiful music. (Not to mention the very handsome waitron…). May this day last forever…

Somewhere during the day, this piece of writing by Whitman crosses my path. It is a long read, but worth it.

BY WALT WHITMAN

1
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)

2
You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here,
I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial,
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas’d, the illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar’s tramp, the drunkard’s stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person’s carriage, the fop, the eloping couple,

The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town,
They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted,
None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me.

3
You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me.

You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!
You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!

You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs!
You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!
You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!
You doors and ascending steps! you arches!
You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings!
From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me,
From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.

4
The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me?
Do you say Venture not—if you leave me you are lost?
Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me?

O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you,
You express me better than I can express myself,
You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.

5
From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,
Listening to others, considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me,
I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you,
I will recruit for myself and you as I go,
I will scatter myself among men and women as I go,
I will toss a new gladness and roughness among them,
Whoever denies me it shall not trouble me,
Whoever accepts me he or she shall be blessed and shall bless me.

6
Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear it would not amaze me,
Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d it would not astonish me.

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,
It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Here a great personal deed has room,
(Such a deed seizes upon the hearts of the whole race of men,
Its effusion of streng
th and will overwhelms law and mocks all authority and all argument against it.)

Here is the test of wisdom,
Wisdom is not finally tested in schools,
Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it to another not having it,
Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,
Applies to all stages and objects and qualities and is content,
Is the certainty of the reality and immortality of things, and the excellence of things;
Something there is in the float of the sight of things that provokes it out of the soul.

Now I re-examine philosophies and religions,
They may prove well in lecture-rooms, yet not prove at all under the spacious clouds and along the landscape and flowing currents.

Here is realization,
Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him,
The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Only the kernel of every object nourishes;
Where is he who tears off the husks for you and me?
Where is he that undoes stratagems and envelopes for you and me?

Here is adhesiveness, it is not previously fashion’d, it is apropos;
Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?
Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?

7
Here is the efflux of the soul,
The efflux of the soul comes from within through embower’d gates, ever provoking questions,
These yearnings why are they? these thoughts in the darkness why are they?
Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?
Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees and always drop fruit as I pass;)
What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?
What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?
What with some fisherman drawing his seine by the shore as I walk by and pause?
What gives me to be free to a woman’s and man’s good-will? what gives them to be free to mine?

8
The efflux of the soul is happiness, here is happiness,
I think it pervades the open air, waiting at all times,
Now it flows unto us, we are rightly charged.

Here rises the fluid and attaching character,
The fluid and attaching character is the freshness and sweetness of man and woman,
(The herbs of the morning sprout no fresher and sweeter every day out of the roots of themselves, than it sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.)

Toward the fluid and attaching character exudes the sweat of the love of young and old,
From it falls distill’d the charm that mocks beauty and attainments,
Toward it heaves the shuddering longing ache of contact.

9
Allons! whoever you are come travel with me!
Traveling with me you find what never tires.

The earth never tires,
The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,
Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d,
I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.

Allons! we must not stop here,
However sweet these laid-up stores, however convenient this dwelling we cannot remain here,
However shelter’d this port and however calm these waters we must not anchor here,
However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us we are permitted to receive it but a little while.

10
Allons! the inducements shall be greater,
We will sail pathless and wild seas,
We will go where winds blow, waves dash, and the Yankee clipper speeds by under full sail.

Allons! with power, liberty, the earth, the elements,
Health, defiance, gayety, self-esteem, curiosity;
Allons! from all formules!
From your formules, O bat-eyed and materialistic priests.

The stale cadaver blocks up the passage—the burial waits no longer.

Allons! yet take warning!
He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,
None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,
Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,
Only those may come who come in sweet and determin’d bodies,
No diseas’d person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.

(I and mine do not convince by arguments, similes, rhymes,
We convince by our presence.)

11
Listen! I will be honest with you,
I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,
What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.

12
Allons! after the great Companions, and to belong to them!
They too are on the road—they are the swift and majestic men—they are the greatest women,
Enjoyers of calms of seas and storms of seas,
Sailors of many a ship, walkers of many a mile of land,
Habituès of many distant countries, habituès of far-distant dwellings,
Trusters of men and women, observers of cities, solitary toilers,
Pausers and contemplators of tufts, blossoms, shells of the shore,
Dancers at wedding-dances, kissers of brides, tender helpers of children, bearers of children,
Soldiers of revolts, standers by gaping graves, lowerers-down of coffins,
Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,
Journeyers as with companions, namely their own diverse phases,
Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days,
Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain’d manhood,
Journeyers with their womanhood, ample, unsurpass’d, content,
Journeyers with their own sublime old age of manhood or womanhood,
Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe,
Old age, flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

13
Allons! to that which is endless as it was beginningless,
To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights,
To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to,
Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys,
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,
To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you, however long but it stretches and waits for you,
To see no being, not God’s or any, but you also go thither,
To see no possession but you may possess it, enjoying all without labor or purchase, abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it,
To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s elegant villa, and the chaste blessings of the well-married couple, and the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens,
To take to your use out of the compact cities as you pass through,
To carry buildings and streets with you afterward wherever you go,
To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them, to gather the love out of their hearts,
To take your lovers on the road with you, for all that you leave them behind you,
To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls.

All parts away for the progress of souls,
All religion, all
solid things, arts, governments—all that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession of souls along the grand roads of the universe.

Of the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and sustenance.

Forever alive, forever forward,
Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,
Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,
They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,
But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!
You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house, though you built it, or though it has been built for you.

Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!
It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

Behold through you as bad as the rest,
Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,
Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash’d and trimm’d faces,
Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,
Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,
Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors,
In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly,
Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere,
Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,
Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,
Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,
Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.

14
Allons! through struggles and wars!
The goal that was named cannot be countermanded.

Have the past struggles succeeded?
What has succeeded? yourself? your nation? Nature?
Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.

My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,
He going with me must go well arm’d,
He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.

15
Allons! the road is before us!
It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!

Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen’d!
Let the tools remain in the workshop! let the money remain unearn’d!
Let the school stand! mind not the cry of the teacher!
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit! let the lawyer plead in the court, and the judge expound the law.

Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

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Santiago de Compostela, Spain and Canary Islands

I am not taking any chances of missing this boat to Padron, so at 11h00 (for the 13h30 departure) I take up a window seat in the pub across from the harbour. The barman told me that the boat will depart from right across the way. Of course, silly me ran to the huge catamaran thinking that it should be this fabulous boat that would take us up the river. Lo and behold – the crew laughed at me and said no, it is not this one!

So with my first beer I got two pieces of warm fritatta. With the second one, a little mysterious bowl of something with spaghetti. From my cheffing days, I have always been slightly weary when it contains curry or spaghetti. Anyway, we have a saying in our family “honger het nie houdings nie” (when you are hungry you are not picky). Just after twelve, two other pilgrims stumble in with huge backpacks. They come straight to my table and tells me that the captain of the boat has just been to the youth hostel looking for me! For me? What/how does he know about me? And in this instant a friendship develops – Ina and Mauritz from Germany. They get a table, order beers and I am astounded to hear that they had just run the 25 km from Armateira, because they were scared of missing the boat! As they walked into Vilanova, a car stopped and asked them if they were planning on taking boat. Confirming this, the driver of the car told them that it is his boat, and that he is looking for the South African (!) and then he will depart. So – quick messages via the barman, and the next thing the captain comes into the bar, saying we have to leave NOW!

Ina and Mauritz had just ordered food (starving after their marathon that I have no idea how they did it). The skipper showed no mercy – come, or stay! As we left the bar, it started raining. Hard. There was another Spanish couple on the boat with us – who I then found out had stayed in the Morse code convent! Yes, there was place to stay after all (they tell me) and the nun told them I was just too difficult to understand, so she told me they had no place. That REALLY ****** me off! Lying bloody nun! Anyway, before I could properly sit down, the little motorboat took off at the speed of a racing boat. And within seconds, the weather changed dramatically! It was now a torrential storm, with this little boat breaking the waves in the open sea. Just as well I had quickly changed into my rain gear, because not only did it rain like crazy, but the waves were crashing into the boat, we were soaked within seconds. Somehow, Ina, Mauritz and I thought this was the funniest thing ever. At one point, I opened my umbrella because we were getting so wet, which of course was right in the line of sight of the skipper, which had the three of us totally wetting ourselves. (Pun intended). This trip was an hour long!

By the time we came to Padron, it felt as if I was actually dragged behind the boat rather than sitting in it. Mauritz was incredibly funny, a real Monty Python character, making me laugh like a three year old child. Arriving in Padron, we were so wet and cold that we could hardly walk. Thankfully there was a pub within two minutes walk, and we descended on it like vultures. Red wine and schnapps thawed us, and we decided to walk to the hotel that Ina had booked. Of course, at this point we have had too much wine, and were really just totally silly. Until we realised that we had no idea where we were going, got a cab and was driven to the hotel. WHAT a find – the most beautiful little country hotel, warm, cosy rooms and a wonderful big fire! The others at the inn looked at as with utter amazement – partly because we were so wet and partly because we could not stop laughing! We had a shower, and then settled next to the fire with some more wonderful red wine and really great food that the owner brought for us. And the rest is history.

I woke up at the usual time, and it was pouring with rain! At 08h30 we settled into a breakfast fit for a king. Nespresso and all. I set off at 10h00 on the dot, Ina and Mauritz were to meet me in Santiago. The day started with a rainbow on the horizon – and that was about the last piece of beauty. The road was long and boring, too much tar road, cars whizzing past and nothing to feast the eye. After about seven kilometers, Ina and Mauritz caught up with me. I was really in two minds about having company, as I felt that I should walk alone the last day, as I had done for the past 30 or more days. And yet, I was happy to be with them. The road was tedious to say the least, and they are really great company, making me laugh all the time! So we walked together, and stopped for a bocadilla along the way (those huge sandwiches). It was so good to just spend the last hours with nice people. And then we were in Santiago.

I had no expectation of what it would be like to walk into Santiago, was not expecting a red carpet or church bells ringing. In spite of that, it could not have been a bigger anti climax. The cathedral is covered in scaffolding, it was pouring with rain, and there we stood in the middle of the square – the only three pilgrims in sight! We took some pictures, and went into the cathedral – only to be chased out by one of the officials. No backpacks allowed. Now please excuse my language – but WHAT THE ****! We have just walked more than 600 kilometers with these backpacks to get to the cathedral in Santiago, and now you are not allowed in with your backpack. And there is nowhere to leave it. I turned around gently and walked out – thinking to myself “just be the Dalai Lama, for once”. We duly walked away from the square, and Mauritz took us to a wonderful old colonial bar, magnificent wood panelling and art nouveau stained glass doors and windows, attractive waiters and glorious classical music playing. We ordered gin and tonic, and suddenly it all made sense. It is done.

We decided that we will go back after checking into our hotels, and do the evening mass. So a rush across town in the most torrential rain, quick shower and back again to be in time for the mass. I realised again – this is not the reason why I did this walk. It was not about St James or a shell or a pilgrimage, it was something so deeply personal that I do not need to participate in (what was for me) empty rituals. I had my rituals all along the journey, my mass was in the forest, my singing the birds and fellow travelers the cats and dogs and horses and goats. My church the trees. For once, it was not about the destination. It was truly about the journey, every step of every day. And it was good.

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