In the distance we could see the pyrenees. One hundred and twenty kilometres away they defined the horizon. We decided to go. It was about time. With Spring upon us we set off. We carried a small tent but slept in the open air. Our feet were sore after a thirty kilometre walk. The next day we put plantain leaves in our socks to heal the chafed skin. It was surprisingly effective. We walked fifteen kilometres to a small town and decided to busk. I played the flute and Henry accompanied me with the mandolin. The few passersby were generous. A man stopped to chat. We explained we were on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela. He invited us to eat supper and stay at his house. The spirit of God was with us. We enjoyed a fine meal with wine and comfortable beds. In the morning we showered and a hearty breakfast was served. We thanked our generous host and put our legs back into action.
Henry talked a lot. How far we would make it was uncertain. It seemed his marriage had run its course. He was wondering what to do next. My wandering was aimless. He may return to London to seek work as a sound engineer. His wife Lesley had a connection and with Henry's amiable character, success was probable. I merely wished to pursue the pilgrim's path.
After a good day's walk we slept under the stars. The next day we veered slightly from the pilgrims route to visit a Franciscan monastery. I had enjoyed their hospitality before and found them very amenable. The younger monks worked normal jobs whilst still residing in cloisters. This gave them a healthy perspective. They were not dogmatic. We were required to help prepare the evening meal. We talked generally about our lives. Previously I had stayed a few days and felt I could have enrolled as a monk if I had wished. This time we stayed the night and continued our quest. In the evening we found a rural spot to light a fire and roast some sausages. The weather stayed fine and we lay down to sleep under the stars.
The walk became tough like a full time job. Stamina was required. Another religious community was on our route. This was a different kettle of fish. Highly evangelical and proclaiming themselves as "The community". They believed themselves to be the chosen people. All wore simple puritanical clothes and long hair tied back. They farmed the land and deliciously healthy food was served at communal meals. Prayers were held holding hands in large circles. We were asked to speak out. Henry extolled their hospitality and I worried he may be sucked in. After only one night it was already feeling difficult to leave. Our pilgrimage card was our saviour. I was relieved to be away and Henry regained his mind.
Wearily we plodded on. We fell into silence and covered some ground. Another comfortable night on the earth and we were in striking distance of the frontier. Only thirty kilometres and we would arrive at St Jean pied de port. Here at the border of Spain the pilgrimage route became official. We set off in a positive mood. Henry studied the map and we found the footpaths. A little before our destination we encountered a friendly young Frenchman called Fabrice. We paused to chat. He explained that his spacious house was by the pilgrimage route on the outskirts of town and we were welcome to stay there. Blessings were upon us. Soon we arrived and Fabrice prepared supper. He gave us a glass of wine and some hash to roll a reefer. His girlfriend came round and a pleasant evening of conversation ensued. We bedded down in the living room.
In the morning free from our luggage we wandered into the town to the pilgramage office to aquire our booklets to be stamped as we stayed at hostals on the route. With such a document we could make the bona fide pilgrimage to Santiago. Unfortunately the lady in charge seemed reluctant to give us our entitlement. She questioned our religious affiliations. She needed some proof we were genuine. We had not expected this problem and left bemused. As we took a tour around the town we encountered two young German sisters, Cloudy and Regina, with two white horses. They had travelled the Camino in reverse and just crossed into France. They were relaxing in a picturesque square. I was captivated. Off the pilgrimage route they were now ready to camp out. Henry was reluctant to get involved. Fabrice found us in the small town and proposed the horses could be tethered in the field behind his house and the girls could also stay in the house.
We all walked back. Fabrice was happy to have a houseful. After our arduous journeys we fell into a comfortable limbo. Henry decided to return to see his children and travel on to London in search of work. After helping with the care of the horses I teamed up with the girls to trek up the coast to Bordeaux. They had some paperwork to sort out and we hung around for a couple of days and then headed towards the coast. Each day we rose early to feed and water the horses. Sometimes we rode and sometimes we walked. When we walked the horses could pause and graze the verges but if we rode more alimentation was needed. We bought bags of barley and oats.
Each night we lit a fire and baked potatoes or made japatties. The rain held back and we each slept in our private sleeping bags. Cloudy's boyfriend came to visit from Hamburg and sang romantic Irish songs. The horses needed plenty of water and we would ask at houses if they could oblige. People were hospitable and invited us for meals. On a rainy day we were offered the comfort of a barn. I bedded down beside Regina. For consecutive nights we had slept beside each other. The open air had been fresh but the dark silent barn created a new intimacy. On the wooden floor I covered myself with my open sleeping bag. I cosied up to Regina. Very slowly I unzipped her sleeping bag and ingratiated myself into her curves.
We awoke refreshed. I went to feed and water the horses. A mare and a gelding made a cosy couple. Though maybe the gelding still had a little stallion left. He had kicked Regina in the head with his back legs. Never walk around the back end of a horse. It was only necessary to tether the mare for the gelding would not abandon his potential mate. He was a nervous character. I walked a little too close to his ass and he thrust his legs towards me. I leaped clear just in time. I took a large stick and swung it in his direction. He ran in circles around the mare as I pursued. Eventually we tired. He rolled onto the floor and showed me his belly. It seemed I had established dominance. I reported back to the girls and we continued through the vast pine forests. After two weeks we arrived at the residence of Hans, a German they knew from home. The ebullient fellow and his attractive French wife Françoise, were building a house. We helped out and joined the social scene. Were we adventurous travellers or members of the comfortable bourgeoisie? Françoise leant me her saxophone to go busking. At a party I got too drunk and passed out in a corner. The horses were pastured and we caught the train to Hamburg.
We arrived at the equanimous family home. I slept in a hideaway under the stairs and Regina sneaked in at night. Now it was time for the girls to return to their studies in Berlin. They would be busy but knew of a house in Pankow that was in dispute of ownership between the scientologists and a relation of theirs. Empty save for a piano I made myself at home. In the morning I tinkled on the ivories for a little while before heading out to busk. Once again I was on my own trip. Pankow was what used to be East Berlin. I strolled past the parkland where once had been the wall. Among the local populace the skinheads stood out. Perfectly attired with a uniform of tight jeans, knee high black Doctor Martin boots with red laces, a white three button shirt and a black bomber jacket they confidently strode. At first I seemed to forgo their attention but eventually two approached. They asked me what music I was playing. "Irish" was the answer. They approved and gave me a can of beer. I considered the implications and saved the reinheitsgebot for later. I was invited to play in a bar the next day. I returned to my stately home and made my bed on the floor. I meditated to pass my empty time in the empty house. I cooked beans for supper and slept a gentle sleep.
The underground system in Berlin had no barriers and one could enter and exit without impediment. I skipped the tube to Bornholmer straße. I busked on a leafy street and returned to Pankow to play in the bar at lunchtime. Their kind offer may have been an opportunity to work my way into a social circle but I merely played for an hour and took my meagre payment. My airy flat welcomed me. Later I ventured out for an early evening pitch. By the tube station was a comfortable spot. As I played my jigs a girl stopped to listen. She was Irish and liked my sound. We sang a song. I packed up and we went to a bar for a Guinness. We agreed that it would be cheaper to continue with a few tins in the park. We entered the netherworld and found a bench. We elected another ditty and harmonised. From the darkness appeared three characters. Two were dishevelled tramps but the other was a shining head. They complimented us on our melody and asked from where our travels had brought us. At first they congratulated our sense of adventure but soon an irksome resentment crept in. Why had they not been afforded such privilege? A bitter undercurrent stirred. We made our excuses and left. Umbrage hung in the air. A bottle whistled past my ear. I turned to look. The skinhead struck a cinematic pose. Legs astride, the chiaroscuro silhouette dared me to return. We quickened our pace away. He stood firm on his patch. I walked my companion home and found my way back to mine.
In the morning Regina came by to invite me to a critical mass demonstration where a large crowd of cyclists would converge on the city centre. I had no bicycle but her friend Gerhardt managed to put one together for me. As we cycled towards the focal point cyclists joined from all directions. The cars had no choice but to give way. The objective was achieved. In the evening a group gathered to watch a slideshow of our travels. I appeared in a silly hat and stated that my existence was not very different to a dog's.
We returned to the South of France and I travelled with the girls to the border of Spain. I wished them farewell and returned to Gascony. A bridge between two fields underneath a railway line became my home. Not far from Barbotan-les-thermes, where on a Monday there was a busy market. Only a day to go. I wandered into the town. All was serenely quiet on the Sunday. There was an entrance hall to the health spa where one could pick up a leaflet and sit down on a comfortable chair to peruse. I relaxed in the amenable environment. A dark curly haired girl approached me. It seemed I wasn't the usual clientele. We made small talk and she asked me if I knew where she might acquire a smoke of cannabis. I had a little stash in my rucksack. We arranged to meet later. I wandered back to my bridge where I had hidden my belongings in the bushes. I retrieved the weed and made my way back. I met up with Christina and we went to her flat to smoke a doobie. She had only been working at the Spa for two weeks. She had moved from Alsace. Her boyfriend was coming to visit next week. I would call round tommorow evening.
I arrived at the market for 9:30 and played my tunes. A smiley positive response and plenty of drops was my reward. I rolled my ten franc coins into tubes and exchanged them for notes. 500 francs was a good haul! I went for a snack in the park and later in the day called around to see Christina. She introduced me to her work companions and we passed a pleasant evening before I returned to my lonesome bridge.
I hitch-hiked around a few market towns and returned to my bridge the following Sunday. After another successful busk I called around to see Christina in the evening. She was impressed by my adventures. Her boyfriend was coming to visit the following day. She would like to introduce us. She invited me to stay the night. I retreated to my bridge.
I called around the next day to meet Jean. We drove to Vic Fezensac to score some weed. We parked and approached the town square slowly. The usual suspects were hanging around. We subtlety enquired if we could buy some shit. The dealer looked us up and down and decided we were cool. We handed over a hundred franc note and received a lump of squidgy black. We thanked him gratefully and wandered back to the car. Jean rolled one up and we cruised back to Barbotan. Christina was pleased to see us and we smoked another. Later I returned to my bridge. A chill autumn night was drawing in.
I awoke to a cool morning. I decided to take a tour North to Langon. An eccentric fellow owned a barn where he let wandering souls bed down. I had been to a party there but had yet to try busking the towns in the vicinity. I packed up and headed for the main road. The cars zoomed past without a care for the lonesome hitcher. Minutes stretched into hours. At last a decent motor stopped. What a relief! He explained he was heading all the way to Calais. I pondered for a moment and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. I would travel back to England.
I relaxed into the journey. He was going to visit family. I gazed out of the window as huge flat fields passed by. I was a happy passenger as I contemplated the comfort of home. By late afternoon we arrived at the ferry port. He wished me farewell and soon I was on the boat to Dover. The beautiful sea carried me to the White cliffs.
Late in the day I began to hitch. I got a ride to Cobham services. The day was darkening. Nearby was a lake surrounded by woodland. It was a pleasant spot for the night and I would be in the right place for an early start. A light drizzle came and went. The water soothed me to sleep.
I awakened to the strident call to arms of the song thrush. Time to get back to the flow of engine powered people. I wandered into the cafeteria and finished a plate of chips. By the petrol pumps I quickly picked up a lift. I allowed myself to be sucked into the metropolis and took the tube out to Edgeware road. Here I took the slip road onto the M1.
After a long wait a battered Cortina stopped. The driver sported an elaborate array of tattoos complimented by a selection of golden jewelry. - Jump in- he proffered. -Where are you going?- I asked. -Up North. Jump in!- I jumped in. He was heading the right direction. I enquired for more details. He intended to head straight up the A1(M) to Newcastle. I explained that we were on the M1. He looked bemused. He would have to cut across. We could look at the map when we stopped for petrol at the services. He seemed little concerned with my destination and was keen I should journey along with him. At the service station I made a polite escape. I watched him pull away and looked for a better lift.
A man was heading to Lancaster. I climbed in and explained I was going to Junction 32. He asked me where I was continuing after that. To Station Lane in Barton I explained. He would take the A6 from junction 32 and drop me there. Excellent! We cruised along at a good speed. From a loose end in France to nearly home was a quick turnaround. I was happy. We smoked cigarettes and chatted away the journey. I descended in my familiar neighborhood. Well manicured gardens and large detached houses. Down the lane, over the railway bridge and down the rugged track. The splendid isolation precluded invasion from undesirables. Slowly I kicked a stone along. Like my life it darted in unpredictable directions before being guided back to the not so straight and narrow. I imagined if I kicked it along for long enough it may turn into a diamond. As a child I had visited my friends in the housing estates of Broughton. Their lives were beautifully contained within human design. No rough edges to be seen. I had wished I could live there too. Now I realised there was no return from my liminal world. My lonesome freedom was my reward. Soon I would enter our beautiful house struggling to elevate the dwellers to a comfortable plain.
I passed the greenhouses and sewage works and turned the corner past the eccentric Blocksidges living in a herb drying shed. Through the narrow stone gate posts the great lawns beckoned me to my father's micro mansion. Who would be home to receive the prodigal son? The black BMW was parked on the gravel way. I crunched my way to the back door and let myself in. -Halloo!- I called. After a few moments I received a reply. My father greeted me heartily. He had been having his afternoon snooze while watching the cricket. We sat down to a cup of tea and philosophised. It was good to be home.