[Camino Poem 5] Inversnaid

What kind of poem do you need when you are sweating in thirty-five degree heat on a barren Spanish hillside? The answer, it turns out, is a poem about a wild river in the Scottish highlands.

At first, I was baffled by it. Even the word ‘burn’ had me undone (it is a Scots term for river). Later, I was re-assured to discover that several of Hopkins’ words are just made up (like twindles). A brae, in case you are wondering, is a hillside.

With time, I fell in love with the wild, wise rhythm of this, and learnt it by heart.

[Camino Poem No. 4] A Blessing

Remember the two Irish sisters from day two? Our paths kept crossing, and today I spoke with the elder sister as we walked. We talked of many things - how to deal with grief, the importance of hearing the stories of our relatives, the value of being gentle with ourselves.  

On parting, she gave me this advice - sometimes you have to be willing to let things die, in order for new life to arise (her outlook reminded me much of the Irish poet John O'Donohue). 

She also chose a poem for me. Number seven. 

[Camino Poem No. 3] The Journey

Day two of walking. My legs thought it was day two-hundred. I managed about twenty kilometres, mainly on rocky paths through mountain forests. By the time it was eleven am, the heat was stifling.

When I walked the route three years ago, I spent this second day in a deep and wonderful conversation with an Italian man. I could feel myself looking for him again, asking around each corner, ‘perhaps Francesco will be here?’. No Francesco, but I did have fun struggling to explain what gravy was to a curious Korean.

With walking done by midday, there were many hours to fill with writing, resting, and reflecting. I asked a Dutch woman in the albergue (hostel) to choose one of the forty remaining poems. ‘Number 10’, she offered.

[Camino Poem No. 2] Ode to Autumn

Starting in St. Jean Pied de Port, the first day of walking is a tough initiation. Twenty kilometers of relentless climbing through the Pyrenees before a short and steep descent into Roncesvalles, where cheerful Dutch volunteers offer welcome to the monastery-hostel.

It was beautiful. Rising out of the pre-dawn darkness, I turned to see great lakes of snow-white mist stretching to the horizon. The mountains were vast and green, and I loved the spaces between them. Gusts of wind balanced the August sun.

Halfway up the climb, I paused for lunch in a cafe with two Irish sisters in their 50s, who were beginning a week of walking together. After arriving at the monastery, I saw one of them again and asked if she would choose a poem. 'Twenty-seven', she said.

[Camino Poem No. 1] To the Virgins, to make much of Time

5am on Tuesday 23rd August. I've just arrived outside Southampton Airport. 

'I'm about to spend forty-two days walking across Spain, on the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route.', I explain to my cab driver. 'I have with me a book of forty-two poems. Each poem was recommended to me by a friend or family member. And every day, I want to ask someone that I meet to pick a poem at random, and that will be my poem for the day. Could you give me a number between one and forty-two?'.