The devil came too

I’ve never before considered myself badly menstrual. A few hours of stomach ache that a couple of pain killers and a snooze will deal with; a morning of taciturnity and bumping my head on cupboards, and that’s it. But this year has revealed the devil that lurks inside. I suppose it’s the sheer physicality of the undertaking that brings bodily drama to the fore. I’ve said before that this long walk is much more a study in the physical than the spiritual. And I’ve come to see that for a walking woman, her body is in a much more direct relationship than for a man. Forget all that stuff about women being naturally more of the mind, more spiritual or intellectual. Ok, so that comes too, but our bodies have a way of bringing our minds right back into the realm of the physical – and with a bump. It’s no wonder ancient superstitions link the monthly cycle and labour pains with the devil.

A body stripped down and balancing daily muscle fatigue, heat, thirst, hunger, beating sun or shivering rain does not conserve energy to plump the buffers of civilised constraint. We walk gently and steadily, enjoying the views and laughing with new-made friends and then – POW! – the cycle turns. The world and I turn black. I curse the bed I sleep on and the floorboards under my feet. I curse the green grass and the stony track, the mud of the forests. I spit hatred on David and his guilt for the walk and I remain silent to the comments of our companions. I glare at the road as if glaring would flatten the descents and the rises and suck the moisture from the sky. For in the devil-drawn blackness of my mood I alone have called down the night-long rage of thunder and torrents from a previously clear sky. It swirls around us in our wood-cabin bedroom and sends the farm dogs howling to the safety of their master.

Nothing will appease me or my devil. The walk must end now; never will I tolerate such an undertaking again. I avert my eyes from the black-shadowed mountains in the distance, knowing that to acknowledge them will spread depression and suicide across the land. David has learned not to speak to me, to let me stalk into the distance without a thought for him. I walk until I get there, wherever there is, ignoring the scene.

And then it is over. The devil bleeds away and the morning sun rises cloudless. I smile and David smiles back. Flowers again dare to blossom in the verges and birds to try out a song or two in my presence. The Pyrenees shassey their silver shoulders and coyly smooth their pale green skirts around us. It may only be the seductive, treacherous face of the serpent – but it is a lot easier to live with.

7th July 2008