I woke up this morning ready to be done with pilgrimmage. I was sick of sleeping in bunk beds, sick of smelling and having sore feet. I wanted to go home.
Then about 2.5km in, I stopped for second breakfast in a tiny mountain village. It was still cool and misty, and the sun was coming up over the hills. Galician folk music was playing in the background and halfway through my first coffee, a farmer walked past with his herd of cattle, then the cafe owner came out after them to pick up the manure. These small villages are unreal. (Or maybe it's our malls and parking lots that are unreal.) At any rate, drinking my cafe con leche and looking out over the mountains that I'd climbed with my own two feet, the Toucan, and mouldy church basements, and Clergy St. crazies and irony and even Judith Butler seemed like worlds away.
I'm 142km away, but I never want this to end.
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3 comments:
We did send a poet. Love you, Rachel.
Yeah... I know those kind of villages and those kind of days. Magic. Magic that lives on in your heart. Love your blog.. it makes me laugh!
As I was walking north on the Via de la Plata I spoke with my son who was walking the Camino Frances and told me, "I am walking a little slower and shorter distances now, for I do not want this to end".
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