Dawn the next morning found an exodus of hundreds of pilgrims vacating Roncesvalles, en route to Larrasoña, some 27 kilometers away. Before entering the forested path out of Roncesvalles, several pilgrims posed for pictures beside a highway sign that indicated that our destination, Santiago de Compostela, was 790 kilometers away.
I had spent the night in a deep sleep, too tired to be bothered by the symphony of snorers around me. I awoke more or less rested, but my aching shoulders and feet told me that my body had a lot of adjusting to do. A half hour outside of Roncesvalles I stopped at a small roadside store and bought some provisions for the day. This was more complicated for me than it may sound, as I was still figuring out how to balance the amount of stuff I needed for the journey versus the amount of stuff I wanted to carry all day. I stopped outside the store and had a simple breakfast of yoghurt and fruit, slung my backpack on, and continued on my way.
The second day of the Camino is not like the trial-by-fire of first day. Having descended from 1400m to 1000m, the path on day two leads pilgrims on more merciful terrain through forest and over streams, interspersed with rolling hills and pasture, before descending a couple hundred metres into the small village of Zubiri.
As I had descended into Roncesvalles the day before, I had passed a man with a thick black beard in his thirties, looking somewhat fed-up whilst soaking his feet in a stream. I ended up catching up with the same man halfway through day two and found the reason for his overly sore feet: he had already been walking for a week, and his boots were falling apart. He was Scottish, and had started his pilgrimage in Lourdes.
We spent most of the day walking together, talking about everything from politics to theology, from Monty Python to our motivations for coming on the pilgrimage. At Zubiri I stopped for lunch and he continued on to Larrasoña. My leg was already giving me trouble, so after a meal of fish and potatoes at a random community centre, I went to the pharmacy in Zubiri to ask for some muscle cream, massacring much of the Spanish language in the process.
In Larrasoña I rejoined the Scot who, along with three or four dozen pilgrims, were waiting for the albergues (pilgrim hostels) to open. Everyone was sitting in a parking lot sunning themselves with their boots off, allowing the strain of the hike to melt away. Somewhere between where we had parted ways and this parking lot, the Scot had procured a large bottle of brown ale, and drank it in generous gulps as he introduced me to a half dozen pilgrims whose names I would never remember. Such is the nature of most relationships on the Camino.
In this way, I began to see the Camino like an accelerated version of life: on any given day you may meet 10 to 20 people who may be incredible individuals, who may say something insightful, or who may even have a large impact on you, but you both know that the next day they could be 20km ahead or behind you, slowed up with and injury, or heading to another town than you. I started to try to appreciate and be present in those moments with people I would meet, because in all likelihood, I would never see them again.
Transposed to life, we all meet many people over the years, and some are marked indelibly in your psyche, your heart, or your memory. Of course, attempting to maintain fully functional relationships with every amazing person you have ever met is impossible, and attempting to do so strains the quality and strength of your bonds with others who have taken their place in your day-to-day life. Inevitably, we must part ways with many people who have had great impacts on our lives. This does not make the impact they had on us any less significant, nor does it diminish their place in our lives any less special, but it is often a loss we feel to our core. Appreciating and loving the moments with important people in our lives is crucial, as is grieving the loss of such a relationship as they end, whether through death, distance, or growth. Clinging to stasis and to the past is no substitute for growth and renewed paths. Contentedness is only possible when we gracefully accept this natural movement through life, at peace, and in the hope that each person has some lasting indication or knowledge of the important role they have played in your life.
That night I hobbled down to a pub in flip flops, and aided the mending of my wounds with a pint of beer. I sat in the middle of discussion on world relations and the Irish economy, lead by two retired Irish couples, with occasional contributions from a couple from Vancouver, a few Ontarians, a French Canadian from Québec, and even a girl who had grown up in Tignish, PEI. Small world indeed.
Before dark, each pilgrim made their way back to their respective albergues and began their nightly routines before bed. Some read or talked for awhile, others showered and brushed their teeth. I patched up my feet and rubbed some muscle cream into my leg, and drifted off to sleep just as a massive thundershower erupted overhead.
