Blessings

We couldn’t help a sense of triumph approaching Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The final few days were in the roundly green rounded hills of the French Basque country, where we lodged in gîtes d'étape like "real" pilgrims and ate our evening meals at long tables of people all heading in the same direction. Although those Pyrénées that we would have to cross were now in close focus, with a clear blue sky I felt that the enthusiasm and companionship of those whom we had come to know over the previous fortnight would surely float me up over the mountains without a care. But we had decided to bring forward our next visit home in order to have a clear run, later, at finishing the missing French section in the Massif Central. So rather than check into the hostel with the others we slept in crisp white sheets with a crisp white bathroom attached at the Hôtel des Pyrénées. And the next day we went home.

After deciding to go, the thought of home came in strongly and with it the urgent desire to see my parents. Traditionally, when a pilgrim set out for Santiago de Compostela or one of the other far-flung destinations, he or she would receive a blessing from their parish priest and be accompanied to the edge of the village by friend, relatives and neighbours. The pilgrim should also first have asked permission from their spouse or close family. Permission to be away for so long and to abandon their affairs to the care of others.

Before we set out I never got round to going to the local church, St George's in Queen's Square, to ask for a blessing. Too embarrassed, since I’ve only set foot there twice, although we're friendly with the staff. Nor did we ask permission of our families. We simply announced our intentions and basked in the interest it aroused. Once or twice during the year I have been to church services, some specifically for pilgrims where those continuing on their way are blessed and sent with prayers. I remember the glorious singing at the midday service in Vézelay. The hesitant manner of the village priest in the tiny hamlet of Las Cabanas as he washed the feet of all present and read out the names of those who had passed through in the previous week, so we could join him in praying for their success. I remember the happy timing of reaching the remarkable Romanesque church of Chamalières-sur-Loire just as one parishioner was clearing up after Mass. She welcomed us and wished us "bon chemin", then added a simple "the prayers of Chamalières will go with you."

Although by St Jean I had been enjoying myself, I have over the year grown wary of failing again. Being home had removed me from the place where I had to face that truth about myself. Then just before we left - bless those pilgrim gîtes d'étape - David was besieged by bed bugs and by the time we arrived in London he needed antibiotics, antihistamine and cortisone in multiple doses to offset his allergic reactions. So now it was David's morale that wavered and for a while he questioned whether to carry on. It wouldn't be me pulling out this time.

The latest newsletter from the Confraternity of St James was waiting for us in London with a book of reflections by twenty five pilgrims about the journey and what it meant to them. Given my thoughts, three articles struck me strongly. A pagan wrote of the pilgrimages undertaken by all faiths and of his own Camino as a way of keeping a connection with the earth. A Methodist minister said that he had been called to be a minister - which he found immensely difficult - but had by accident discovered his vocation as a pilgrim. The testing and times of reflection on the walk helped him deal with his ministry more clearly as a journey. In a third article a woman questioned what was a "real" pilgrim? She worried that she was distinctly unreal, staying in hotels and having her bags carried while walking only short stages each year. But her words revealed she clearly is a pilgrim, as real as any other, facing her own challenges and problems and learning how to deal with them; and growing in herself as a result.

But still there was a hole inside myself and I knew that I needed to see my parents and to receive in some sense a blessing from them. It was a very flying visit, and beautifully exclusive. Talking about the year, I realised how much I would let other people down, not just myself, if I didn’t finish what we had started. I also realised that I can do it. Probably. When it came time to leave I asked Mum and Dad to pray for me to help me over the mountains still to come. The request took them by surprise but they responded instantly and, I think, with pleasure, in a group hug that left us each wiping away an embarrassed tear and laughing sheepishly.

18th July 2008