it's my fourth day on the road and things are settling into a nice pace. I've met so many lovely people from everywhere and since the distances between towns kind of decide for you where you'll sleep, I often meet people again at night and we talk about the day and the road ahead.
I get up around 6:15 - I don't usually need my alarm, someone else often wakes up or it's just time. Trying not to disturb the other people in the room, I get dressed and head to the kitchen for whatever form breakfast takes that day, sometimes bread and jam, sometimes fruit, coffee or tea if possible. I pack up and head out by 7:30. It's light by then but the sun's not up. It's also usually COLD and misty. The other morning the mist was so thick I had to search for waymarks and couldn't see what was happening twenty metres away from me. I try and walk about 15kms before I stop for coffee and a sandwich. It's great to stop for a while and baguette with thick slabs of cheese or paté has never tasted so good. I'm back on the road in about twenty minutes and I walk on another 12 to 16kms to reach my rest stop for the night. I find shady spots along the way to take quick water breaks and fil up my bottles from the fountains in the tiny towns along the way (yes;,it's drinkable and safe). When I reach the town I find the Gite and see if there's space for me. No problems so far, thank god. I take off my shoes which simply the best feeling EVER on earth and shower, wash my clothes and wander around the town. Dinner is greqt fun, as all the pilgrims (many familiar faces) gqther together and pass around food and wine and chat in whatever language we share. It's not uncommon for the non-French among us to bumble along in french so as to be understood by the others. By 8:30 I'm tired and pretty much ready for bed, so after sorting out my stuff for the morning I crawl into bed and sleep like a log. At 6:15 it starts all over again.
PS Sorry for any strqnge typos, but French keyboards are different from English ones and it's really confusing!
Saturday 27 September 2008
Thursday 25 September 2008
The first day
I set out from Le Puy around 7:45 on Wednesday morning, excited and a little nervous about what lay ahead. My main concerns were 1) being lonely/alone and 2) not being able to find the way. After ten minutes I came across my first clear marking - two stripes, one red, one white - and from then on it was easy to follow them without needing to consult my guide book. About half an hour into the day, I was joined by a young French guy named Emmeric who lives in London. We walked along together, chatting until Jean-Luis from Canada caught us up and the three of us headed along some beautiful forest paths together. So much for those worries! The country is more beautiful than I can describe - ever-changing and all picture-perfect French. Sometimes I swear I've walked into a postcard. I walked 28kms yesterday and finally arrived at Monistrol D'Allier, tired but happy. I visited churches built high on tiny mountain peaks, picked a few blackberries from the hedges, came across two ladies doing tai chi in the forest - it's never dull on the road! I walk alone most of the time but everyone is friendly and welcoming and there's a natural bond between other pilgrims, regardless of language. no-one asks why I want to walk this far - they all understand. This is a beautiful way of life.
Tuesday 23 September 2008
a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step
I pushed open the red velvet-lined door of the cathedral and stepped inside, trying not to look too out of place with my huge backpack. There's something about churches - it never matters if you're a believer or not, but being in the darkened space quiets the soul. The nun in the sacristy gave me my pilgrim's passport with a blessing from the bishop of Le puy and I signed the registration book - I am now officially a pilgrim on the road to Santiago de Compostella. There are signs of the history of the Camino everywhere and I feel part of something greater. Tomorrow I set off on the first day, but really I've been walking to Santiago since I first conceived of the idea three and a half years ago. That's one long journey, my friends. Anyway, Le Puy is more beautiful than I can describe and it's also a good deal colder than I imagined! But life is good, the road awaits and I am just so happy to be here.
Sunday 14 September 2008
A Japanese Love Song
There isn't a man in the moon in Japan - there is a rabbit (or two, if you believe the McDonalds ad) making mochi. I could never see it, though I looked. Bright lights, tall buildings and hazy skies make it hard to find the moon some nights. But I kept looking...
Two years ago I arrived in summer and thought I'd dropped into the fires of hell, it was that hot. I didn't understand how anyone survived that weather once, let alone year after year. But as the typhoons rolled in and the heat broke, giving way to cooler nights and the first hints of autumn I forgot the awfulness and watched the trees along my street instead, wating for the yellow, red and gold. The wind that swept them along the street pulled winter in on it's coat tails and suddenly earmuffs didn't seem an unreasonable proposition. Then slowly, after what seemed an eternity swamped in coats and scarves and gloves, the trees along Meguro river exploded into bloom with cherry blossoms fat and fluffy as cotton wool and popcorn and I caught sakura fever and took 300 photos of flowers in two days. And then the rain came...
For two years the passing seasons have marked the passing of my time in Japan, and somehow now it's over although that first week seems like only yesterday. I can't quite comprehend that I've walked down my home street at night for the last time, that there'll be no more crazy coffees with Cal on our interminably long breaks, that the first time I sang "YMCA" with my workmates will also be the last. How do you begin to say good-bye to the place that you've made your home? I'll miss the leaves turning this year, I'll miss train chaos if it snows, I'll miss the best of the seafood, the new year temple visits, the craziness of bonenkai season when drunken office workers stumble out of the train to throw up on the platform or just fall asleep and forget to get off at their station. I said good-bye to all my workmates tonight but it honestly feels like I'll see them in a few days.
So to them, to my students and friends, to the 130 kindergarten children who each drew me a picture or wrote me a message for my last day, to the pickled vegetable man who's only English was "teacher", "holiday" and "celery" but whom I looked forward to seeing every week, to the old people who stared at my tattoos on the train, and to this country - often unfathomable but filled with more generosity and kindness than I've experienced anywhere else in the world - I say thank-you. Thank-you for making this an amazing journey, for the stories and the laughter, for the karaoke madness, for the food that I will miss SO much and for many more things that can't be put into words. Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.
As I was walking home tonight, I looked up. The autumn harvest moon was almost full and the night was clear. And there he was... a little rabbit, making mochi.
Two years ago I arrived in summer and thought I'd dropped into the fires of hell, it was that hot. I didn't understand how anyone survived that weather once, let alone year after year. But as the typhoons rolled in and the heat broke, giving way to cooler nights and the first hints of autumn I forgot the awfulness and watched the trees along my street instead, wating for the yellow, red and gold. The wind that swept them along the street pulled winter in on it's coat tails and suddenly earmuffs didn't seem an unreasonable proposition. Then slowly, after what seemed an eternity swamped in coats and scarves and gloves, the trees along Meguro river exploded into bloom with cherry blossoms fat and fluffy as cotton wool and popcorn and I caught sakura fever and took 300 photos of flowers in two days. And then the rain came...
For two years the passing seasons have marked the passing of my time in Japan, and somehow now it's over although that first week seems like only yesterday. I can't quite comprehend that I've walked down my home street at night for the last time, that there'll be no more crazy coffees with Cal on our interminably long breaks, that the first time I sang "YMCA" with my workmates will also be the last. How do you begin to say good-bye to the place that you've made your home? I'll miss the leaves turning this year, I'll miss train chaos if it snows, I'll miss the best of the seafood, the new year temple visits, the craziness of bonenkai season when drunken office workers stumble out of the train to throw up on the platform or just fall asleep and forget to get off at their station. I said good-bye to all my workmates tonight but it honestly feels like I'll see them in a few days.
So to them, to my students and friends, to the 130 kindergarten children who each drew me a picture or wrote me a message for my last day, to the pickled vegetable man who's only English was "teacher", "holiday" and "celery" but whom I looked forward to seeing every week, to the old people who stared at my tattoos on the train, and to this country - often unfathomable but filled with more generosity and kindness than I've experienced anywhere else in the world - I say thank-you. Thank-you for making this an amazing journey, for the stories and the laughter, for the karaoke madness, for the food that I will miss SO much and for many more things that can't be put into words. Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you.
As I was walking home tonight, I looked up. The autumn harvest moon was almost full and the night was clear. And there he was... a little rabbit, making mochi.
Tuesday 2 September 2008
Countdown thoughts
My last two weeks in Japan and summer has returned with a vengence today. It's hot and sticky and I'm dreading going into Shibya to sort out insurance and other details. But I have so few days left to be in amongst it all here I kind of treasure the chance to sweat it all the way to the station before being chilled to the bone by train air-con.
This place has become my home more completely than I ever believed possible. There are moments I suddenly remember that I don't look like everyone around me and the realisation surprises me - to forget that you are a foreigner in a foreign country is a wonderful thing. I no longer feel like I'm in a fishbowl.
I have been so frustrated by teaching lately - so ready to move on and begin my adventure - that I failed to see how precious this time has been. I taught my last class to a group of kids at an outservice the other day. Three kids, about eight years old, often difficult to teach but a lot of fun regardless. I wasn't in the mood for a kids class when I made my way through the Kamata streets but they were so much fun. At the end of the class the mothers gave me a present, and I got hugs and kisses from the two girls. One of them gave me a card that she'd written in Japanese. It said "I love Rosemary-sensei, and I will never forget you." I will never see those kids again.
It is very easy to slip into boredom and resentment when a job becomes routine, and there have been many times when it took everything I had to walk into the classroom with a smile on my face. But the gifts I received from my students - the stories, the confessions, the cultural lessons and the laughter - were far greater than any grammar point I successfully explained.I'm so grateful for those experiences now, even though I rarely appreciated them at the time.
So I'm counting down towards departure and in a flurry of packing and parties, but in the middle of it all I think I'm beginning to understand why I came here, why it was necessary, and how blessed I am for it all.
This place has become my home more completely than I ever believed possible. There are moments I suddenly remember that I don't look like everyone around me and the realisation surprises me - to forget that you are a foreigner in a foreign country is a wonderful thing. I no longer feel like I'm in a fishbowl.
I have been so frustrated by teaching lately - so ready to move on and begin my adventure - that I failed to see how precious this time has been. I taught my last class to a group of kids at an outservice the other day. Three kids, about eight years old, often difficult to teach but a lot of fun regardless. I wasn't in the mood for a kids class when I made my way through the Kamata streets but they were so much fun. At the end of the class the mothers gave me a present, and I got hugs and kisses from the two girls. One of them gave me a card that she'd written in Japanese. It said "I love Rosemary-sensei, and I will never forget you." I will never see those kids again.
It is very easy to slip into boredom and resentment when a job becomes routine, and there have been many times when it took everything I had to walk into the classroom with a smile on my face. But the gifts I received from my students - the stories, the confessions, the cultural lessons and the laughter - were far greater than any grammar point I successfully explained.I'm so grateful for those experiences now, even though I rarely appreciated them at the time.
So I'm counting down towards departure and in a flurry of packing and parties, but in the middle of it all I think I'm beginning to understand why I came here, why it was necessary, and how blessed I am for it all.
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