Walking to the End of the Earth: Sarria to Santiago de Compostela to Finisterra

¡Hola! I am here, at the end of the known world, in Finisterre, and I will try to tell you how I came to be here since I last emailed... We enjoyed visiting the medieval market and sampling street food at the fiesta in Sarria on the evening of June 23rd, but I had to turn in at my albergue at 11pm before the huge bonfire was lit or the Galacian music had begun. The next day I set off through the Galacian forest with the throngs of new pilgrims who had joined at Sarria to walk the last 100 km, far enough to earn the Compostela document in Santiago. Most of them had no backpack, or only a very small one, their gear being transported by support car, and they tended to have a very different attitude toward the Camino as those from overseas often claimed to be doing it for a vacacion or an athletic experience, and those from Spain were often doing it to improve their resume or for a weekend outing with friends or family. However, I learned from my experience in St.-Jean Pied de Port, which had been similar, not to judge them and to have compassion and comraderie for and with them. Johann (Washington, DC), Mario (Mexico), Justin (Nova Scotia), Joe (Boston), Florian (Lyon, France), Miguel and Emmanual (Portugal) and I passed the 100 km to Santiago mark with great jubilation. That afternoon Joe, Justin, Johann, Florian and I left the camino and walked through forest out to the middle of a field fallow with soft green grass to sleep for the night. We meditated on the beauty of the scene all afternoon - the fields and forests over rolling hills and the distant village of Gonzar - and a wise letter from Johann's girlfriend that he read for us kindeled a deep conversation about community and God as we sat in a circle and broke bread for dinner. The sun set in the clear sky and the stars unveiled themselves slowly until the entire sky had exploded with them. We had a jolly game of cards by the light of our headlamps, then lay in wonder of the starry field in our sleeping bags. I slept wonderfully, and when I awoke I poked my head out of the sleeping bag to look at the stars again and instead found the sun rising and Joe and Justin packed and ready to go. I walked through lovely forests to Casanova that day, meeting with Florian and Johann again on the way. Stopping in Palace do Rei Florian and I encountered one of the Irish women who I had met in O Ceibrero when they had started just before Sarria, and he and I felt very uncomfortable with the heaps of praise that she lay at our feet for the distance we had walked. I tried to explain that all pilgrims have made great accomplishments, that distance was all relative, and that starting places in today's world have become fairly arbitrary, but she insisted on calling us her heros and on taking our picture without standing with us. People walking only the last 100 km responded after asking where I had started walking with "why in God's name did you start in TOULOUSE?!" and, although I could explain the logistical, symbolic, historical and geographical reasons, I tried to explain that it really doesn't matter where we start from because we all start from our home and the Camino guides us from there. There was no food when we arrived in Casanova, so Daniel, Nathan (Texas), Geena (Australia), Gordon (Scotland), Johann and I strolled back through the last kilometer of lovely forest without our backpacks to buy sandwiches at the bar for everyone back at the albergue, and the bartender kept us delighted with free tapas while we waited for the huge order. The next day we walked through the scortching heat until we reached the river crossed by a medieval bridge with the original pilgrim hostal which had been renovated on the other side, and we could walk no further. We checked in then jumped in the cold flowing river for the afternoon. The day before Santiago in Arca O Pino the next evening I was just walking up from the albergue when I saw Joe and Justin, who we all thought had already arrived in Santiago ahead of us, walking into town. Justin had been sick, and Mario had wanted to walk ahead, so they had walked a short day and fallen behind us. "You saw Justin?" Florian said when he heard, "and Joe? You've been eating mushrooms." The whole crew of us had dinner together, Miguel subtly cheering for Portugal as the football game played on the TV in the restaurant full of Spainish as the two countries played eachother to go to the finals. That night Florian, Daniel, Nathan, Geena, Justin, Joe and I got up at 2 am to begin our last 20 km into Santiago. We walked through the dark forest by the light of our headlamps, startled once by the bright green eyes of what turned out to be a friendly dog, until the sky paled into the morning at Monte de Gozo. I let the others go ahead and walked slowly into the loud suburbs, feeling the aches of 1200 km, tired and flea-bitten from the blanket I had used in the last albergue, but calm as well, with the whole trip scrolling through my mind. I entered the Old Town and the crosses on top of the cathedral spires came into view above the rooftops and I was overwhelmed with emotion. I walked slowly, feeling my heart pounding as I held my staff to my chest, and followed the scallop shells through the winding streets. As I emerged into the plaza in front of the cathedral I realized that I was arriving in the place that I had been focusing on for years, and that my life had led to this moment, and I was literally brought to my knees on the cobbels. The bells of the cathedral struck 8, and they had struck 8:15 before I could even raise my head from my fetal kneel and be humbled again by the utter magnificence of the Baroque fascade and the unbelievability of being before it. Eventually I walked slowly to the back of the plaza where my friends waited and hugged them, seeing the God that is in each one. We entered into the Romanesque interior, empty in the morning, and the stark and austere huge barrel vault of the aisle inspired more awe than the magnificence of Burgos and Leon combined. I descended into the crypt bellow the altar and encountered an apostle of Christ, the ultimate focal point of over 1000 years of prayer and pilgrimage in a little box of radiant silver. I then climbed into the huge Baroque altarpiece and embraced the central figure of the apostle, his robe of silver studded with gems... We then arrived in the pilgrim office and waited in line for about five minutes to receive our Compostellae, the latin certificate confirming that we had completed the pilgrimage, and by the time we had got it the lineup filled the courtyard. We then all sat together in the main aisle of the cathedral - Florian, Joe, Justin, Geena, Nathan, Daniel, Gordon, Johann, Miguel - and Mario, who had arrived the day before, greeted us before going to don his priests robes for the pilgrim mass. The organs blared their magnificent song above us, intwined with the perfect voice of a nun and a thousand pilgrims, and Mario read the gospel. Amazed at our good fortune, a pilgrim having paid for it to be swung each day of the week, the Botafumeiro which was usually only used on significant feast days was lowered and lit. The organ played gloriously as the cloud of white smoke rose from the huge incense burner and it lept into the air and began swinging. Back and forth it swung until it seemed to be in danger of coliding with the ceiling of the vault, trailing smoke like a silver comet. When it finally came to rest above the altar and a priest caught it in mid-flight and spun to break its momentum and the organ blasted a grand finalle we burst into aplause. I caught a glimpse of one Englishman I'd met who'd been complaining that he haden't had any very powerful experiences on the Camino, and he had tears streaming down his cheeks. We all went out for tapas for lunch, and that evening met for drinks to celebrate the 50th birthday of Dave, from England. Justin, Joe and I sat in the park near our albergue and watched the setting sun illuminate the facade of the cathedral which dominated the entire city, and every time I looked up at the spires I could not help but to shake my head in disbelief... I fell asleep, still watching the lit spires from my bedside window in the albergue, but rose to the unpleasant news that there were bedbugs there. We put everything that had been in contact with the beds through the dryer and sprayed our backpacks until we were fairly sure we were safe. I went to the pilgrim mass again, then got lunch and headed out of town again toward Finisterre, the ultimate end of the road. I topped the first big rise and bid farewell to the cathedral then walked on. It felt like my first day out of Toulouse, walking almost alone with a new goal on a new path - my feet even began hurting the same, even after 1200 km - but I knew now that Santiago was the true end and the goal. The next two days were the two longest of the camino, 33 and 34 km, and I was limping with wounds that I had never had in my previous fifty days of walking, but the land was beautiful, the company was wonderful, and as I neared the coast I anticipated the sight of the sea. Yesterday, July 1st, three days out of Santiago, I saw it, misty and obscured, and I adorned my backpack, staff, hat and necklace with wildflowers as I descended down towards it. The road descended steeply and I arrived finally at the beach of white fine sand. I removed my boots and rolled up my pants and walked the rest of the way, the Atlantic bathing my wounded and wary feet, and I picked up scallop shells from the sand. After checking into an albergue and eating a seafood paella I began the 4 km walk out to the tip of the cape, the furthest West point in Europe, the Celtic End of the Earth. I reached the waymarker reading 0,0 km at the lighthouse as the sun descended into the veiling mist. I descended the ragged cliff-face, amongst the harths where pilgrims had burned their travel-worn clothes, toward the roaring sea, and the wall of sharp black rock hid me from the rest of the Earth, leaving me alone with the vast Atlantic... When I climbed back up to where Aaron, Joe, Florian and Justin were perched on a rockey pinacle we set our socks on fire, gagging at the sweat-smoke. "That's the pilgrim menu for you," I said, getting everyone laughing. We held hands in a circle around the flames which symbolized the end of our pilgrimage and each said a prayer, thanking our Gods for the love and friendship that we had found, the protection and perfection that we had been granted, for the questions that we had answered and those that we had come to ask, and we hugged eachother, our new lifelong friends. Today Joe caught the bus to Madrid, and tomorrow I will continue walking north along the coast to Muxia to end my pilgrimage alone and contimplate it in solitude. I will then return by bus to Santiago, from where I will fly on the evening of the 5th to Barcelona to see Gaudi's architecture, then to Madrid for my flight back to Montreal and bus to Ottawa. Mom has recently been chosen to work in Beijing for a month, and I will be looking for work in Ottawa for the next months. Leaving this lifestyle will be strange. I am accustomed to waking in a dormatory of bustling pilgrims, sitting up in bed and packing my stuff, walking, stopping, showering, living out of a backpack, cooking, eating communally, and sleeping. I don't know what lays ahead, but I know it will be a continuing adventure. ¡Buen Camino! Bradley Finisterre, Galacia, Spain

Learning How To Walk: Santo Domingo de la Calzada to Sarria

Caminante Caminante, son tus huellas el camino, y nada más; caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino, y al volver la vista atrás se ve la senda que nunca se ha de pisar. Caminante, no hay camino, sino estelas en la mar. Walker, the way is your tracks And nothing more. Walker, there is no way The way is made by walking. By walking you make a path And turning, you look back At a way you will never tread again Walker, there is no road Only wakes upon the sea. Antonio Marciado ¡Hola! After writing to you last from Santo Domingo de la Calzada Mario, Joe, Justin, Florian, Jurgen and I continued on with Bijan and Isabel from the US to the little town of Belorado. We passed the first albergue with the atmosphere of a tourist resort to the place run by a kind volunteer hospitalero. He was skeptical that the ruins on the hill above the village were those of a castle, as guidebooks liked to claim, and upon learning that I had studied archaeology he sent me up to investigate for him. I climbed up the hill behind the old church with huge stork nests in the belfrey with Kyle, from Arkansas, to have a look at the site. It was very interesting, constructed of the vernacular style of round cobbles embedded in mortar and encorperated into the natural rock formation. I figured it might have been a defensive feature as it appeared to have a human dug moat on the side that lacked a natural slope and a 180 degree view of the countryside, but it was neither large nor well engineered or situated and had nothing strategic to defend. That evening I worked around a group of five Portuguese bikers who eminated an aura of agression and disrespect, as I attempted to make pasta for Florian, Joe and I, but after I had convinced them to let me use the only pot after they were finished cooking we had a nice meal in the garden. The next morning the same bikers got up before dawn and talked, laughed and farted loudly and turned on the bright lights, waking up everyone else. We were all somewhat resentful of them, but they taught us to be conscious of our interactions with our fellow pilgrims, and I wished them a buen camino as they sped past us on the road. We walked up and down hills, through forest, and past lines of windmills, and the presence of the highway not far away got Florian thinking and discussing with me. The highway, he proposed, was a symbol of modern society, fast, loud, invasive, unobserving, and unconscious, while the camino that we walked upon represented an alternative based on faith, generosity, flexibility and connectedness with the world around us. He observed that of our group of friends we had walked the longest, and yet we trailed the furthest in the rear, walking the slowest. We paused at San Juan de Ortega to visit the cathedral with the relic of another Saint who had worked in the 11th Century to improve the Way for pilgrims, then, enjoying the walk, continued on to Ages. Seeing that the others were getting tired I stopped with them there, but I lay in my bed in the little town and cursed my stupidity for not having continued the short distance to Atapuerca, perhaps the most important archaeological and biological anthropology site in Europe. The next morning my heart broke a little as I walked past the closed information centre and up the rugged and ancient slope past the barbed wire of the military zone which barred my entry to the shrubbed landscape which enshrined the site, only 3 km away. Dark and bruding clouds raced across the sky, like in a paleontology documentary, and a feirce wind tore against me, carrying heavy raindrops. I dug a stone from the ancient ground and laid it at the foot of the cross at the summit and descended into Burgos´ industrial area with Isabel and Bijan, the saintly catholics resciting the rosary into the gale. We walked past the airport and along the six-lane highway through Burgos´ industrial area and commercial suburbs, sickened after the tranquility of the rural countryside, and were releaved to finally arrive in the old town. We lined up with the other pilgrims to check into the albergue in the renovated 18th Century building, and I was stunned as I turned around and was caught off guard by the sight of the cathedral. I stood transfixed by the stone lace of the crowning spires, alive with carvings. When I entered the cathedral after it re-opened after siesta I was as dumbfounded as Mario and Jurgen who I saw inside, their jaws hanging. I walked through the medieval Gothic, Renaissance, Rococo, Baroque, and Classic ambulatory chapels adorned with tombs, paintings, carvings and decoration of as many eras. The transcept spire was a vision of heaven, the distant crystal skylight exploding light down upon the carvings that circled up towards it. My jaw hanging and neck aching from staring upward, I continued into the apse chapel, known as the cathedral within the cathedral, to find the floral crystal skylight there which was as achingly beautiful as the transcept one was awe-inspiring. My stunned senses were somewhat soothed in the cloister, softly illuminated in stained glass. After leaving the cathedral, feeling like I´d been beaten into a state of tranquility, I joined the others for drinks and paella to bid farewell to Jurgen, the pleasant German IT law professional who had been walking with us for some time but now had to catch a train to return to Starsburg the next evening. He had not initially intended to finish the Camino in the one time, but now he was sad to be leaving and we were sad to be loosing him. Afterward Mario, Joe and I went to the pilgrims blessing in a chapel of the cathedral before bed. I was awoken, probably around 3 am, by loud revelry in the streets on the morning of Corpus Christi, and the next morning as Jurgen and I prominaded the town waiting for the Museum of Human Evolution to open the entire city was dead silent and abandoned apart from ourselves and the pidgeons. The Museum never did open: when we, along with several others waiting outside, pointed to the sign which stated that it was open on fiestas the woman inside promptly removed it. Instead I bid a last farewell to Jurgen and headed to the monastary where a crowd was gathering and huge manikins of warriors and queens were waiting for the procession. I heard mass with the archbishop, crammed in the standing room behind the choir, and was rather surprized that there was not enough bread and wine to give everyone communion, leaving some very disappointed faces on the day of remembering Christ´s body. The procession left the monastery, with the huge manikins in the vanguard followed by dancing boys and knights in Renaissance garb, the clergy in their white robes, a military band, and the rear was taken up by a show of martial force by a regiment of goose-stepping soldiers. I found Isabel and Bijan as I waded through the crowd toward the park where the festivities were continuing, and we wandered around enjoying tapas, ice cream, traditional dancing, and tortillas baked in ovens and paella stirred with oar-like spoons in massive dishes. Eventually, as the days pilgrims were arriving, we fled the haze of cottontree dust and cooking smoke and set out on the Camino. The road was beautiful with flowers, flattening into the meseta, and after about 20 km the ground dropped away suddenly into a bowl which held the little town of Hornillos del Camino. There Isabel and Bijan continued on and I remained, sitting in the dying rays of the sun at the foot of the church wall with all the other pilgrims, including Florian, Ned - a UVic prof! - and a classical guitar-playing German. I slept in the village gymnasium, the albergue being full, and although it was a large space with few sleepers it also had good acoustics and one snorer. The next day Florian and I walked with Flavia, an Italian, to the ruins of the convent of San Anton. The ancient gothic ribs rose broken toward the sky, home to birds and a little albergue that had been built into the side of one of the walls. We wandered, astounded by the mystical fantasy of the place, and Florian found a guitar sitting on the albergue table and asked me to play songs that I had written. We played together a bit, and the hospitalero came over and offered us wine and began to play Spanish songs. The pilgrims from Barcelona, Belas and Mariam, arrived with their guitar and shakers and soon a crowd began to grow, singing and clapping along. One could not have imagined a better setting for a concert! After a great time we filtered away, and I remained to draw the ruins in my journal before continuing on. I entered the town of Castrojeritz, approaching the Romanesque church which stood by the road overlooked by the ruins of a castle which was perched on a steep hill that jutted up from the flat valley. I cooked dinner for Florian, Kyle and I that night, and the next morning Florian and I climbed out of the little valley and along the plateau, a flat table of land that rose to meet the flat table of cloud above. The earth plunged away bellow us as we reached the edge of the plateau where the wind slammed into our chests as hard as the sight of the view... The meseta, the flat plain of northern Spain, stretched before us, the horison fading into the depths of the distance, and the wind raced across it from the Atlantic to meet us. We cried "Ultreia!" and descended into the flatness singing Every Valley from Handel´s Messiah. We held out our arms and let the wind carress them, as though we were flying, and leaned into the unrelenting gale. We spent the night in Fromista, playing guitar in the albergue garden with Belas, Mariam, Ned, Flavia, and Leana, and visited the Romanesque church which sparked some anger by charging an entry fee which is common in Spain but which we felt was wrong. The following day we continued to Carrion de los Condes where Flavia cooked Italian pasta, Ned a great potato dish and greek salad, and we played guitar and sang long into the evening. The next day was a long expanse of unbroken meseta, and I sat down on the road, the distant pilgrims disapearing behind my lowered horison, and meditated upon the flat place where red earth met blue sky. I sat there, like the many beetles upon the flowers, until Belas passed and said "He must have run out of chocolate" (I had explained my chocolate addiction to him, saying that it was the fuel that allowed me to walk) and I burst out laughing. We parted ways in the next town as Florian and I continued on to Terradillos de los Templarios, an old Templar stronghold where there was one bed remaining in the albergue and I happily slept on the floor. I walked out of the village the next morning as the sun rose over it, gilding the fields, and Florian caught up with me as I explored the next village of subterranean hill-homes and adobe buildings. We meditated together, and I continued to meditate as I walked into Sahagun. There the bull pens were errected in the streets for the evening´s fiesta, and a very kind hostess served us deliscious pastries at the cafe. I crossed the busy highway to take an alternate route along the route of the 2000 year old Roman road, and caught up with Gordon, Geena, Daniel, Nathan and Kyle with whom I walked and discussed politics, anthropology and our society´s fate. In Calzadilla de los Hermanillos the cheerful service of the dwarf at the store more than made up for the quality of his bread, which Florian the Frenchman rapped with his knuckle and said "Oh no......" We had a great dinner, cooked by Zeb and Lindsay, a couple from Chicago on honeymoon, and were joined by our very jubilant hospitalero. The following day was 25 km of flat nothingness, uninterupted by villages or any other distractions and I walked through all of it in meditation, saving me the boring slog that other pilgrims reported to have experienced. In Mansilla de los Mulas, a little town still protected by a deteriorating 11th Century wall with Arab crenelations, Gordon from Scotland made a big spicy chili for Nathan and Daniel of Texas, Geena of Australia, and Florian and I. Afterward we sat in the courtyard, calmed by minimalist guitar and singing from three Japanese women, and shared drawings, poems, music and writing. I walked onto Leon the next morning, while many took the bus to avoid the walk along the highway and through suburbs of warehouses... Releaved to be arriving in the Old City, out of the noise and commercialism of the new town surrounding it, I checked into the Benedictine convent where I met Florian, Justin and other friends. Florian and I ate a great reunion lunch with Justin, who had continued walking with Joe and Mario when they had gone on ahead from Burgos and was now taking a rest day while they were up north where Mario was performing a wedding. After the meal of calamarie with its ink on rice, cod with peas and asperagus, and cheesecake I went to the great cathedral of Leon. Although the aisle of piercing pillars of stained glass did not inspire the same awe in me as Burgos' cathedral had, the relative purity of the Gothic form held an elegance second to none. After a day of prominading the town I went to the nun's evening prayer, before which a kindly old sister prepped us. "¿Todos peregrinos?" ("Is everyone here a pilgrim?") she asked us all. "Si," ("Yes") everyone replied. "¿Caminantes?" ("Walkers?") "Si." "¿Turismos?" ("Tourists?") Gordon was the only one who said "Si," and everyone else laughed. When the sisters blessed us after the evening of prayer, telling us with staggering heartfelt sincerity, as they did every single evening of the year, that their community was praying for us, we were all humbled by their care and dedication. The following morning I stayed in Leon to visit the pantheon of the basilica of San Isidoro, the Romanesque tomb whose low vaulted ceilings were vibrant with frescos sheltering the sarcophogi of dozens of kings, queens, princes and princesses of Leon, the 11th to 13th Century Emporors of Christian Spain. I then continued back into the plains beyond the suburbs of Leon to Vilar de Manzarife where I stayed at the Refugio del Jesus, a place with messages and drawings left by pilgrims on all the walls, and played guitar with Florian and Aaron of Australia (who put Florian and I to shame with his skill and knowledge) for Geena, Gordon, Daniel and Nathan. The next day Aaron and I walked across the plain until we encountered Florian walking with Miguel and Emmanual of Portugal who were singing movie soundtracks and possing their long shaddows with broad-brimmed hats on the earth path like cowboys from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Pausing by a cross in the shade we met a German woman whose calm reminded me of the purpose of the Camino. We walked with her for a distance until we met Gordon resting under a contorted tree, and the woman took a thumbpiano mounted on a rawhide-stretched frame from her bag and began to play. Her pure voice soothed the crystaline notes as they drifted up into the wind-rippled trees, and we were all astounded. The last notes had faded away and the trees had murmured a long conversation before we rose and continued on our way. We climbed up to a windy and barren plateau where a barefoot man sat behind a windbreak next to a lone compound and offered us organic food and drink, and he was anticipating the German woman's coming. She went with him behind the wind break and sang for him. We strained to hear the music through the wind, but recognized that it was not for our ears and continued on, the mysterious wind-swept notes beautifying the bleak plain... We tired quickly as we finally decended into Astorga, and we had a meal in the Plaza Mayor with Florian, Justin, Miguel, Emmanuel, Danial, Nathan and Geena, entertained by Miguel's torrents of Portuguese swear words as Portugal played Holland in the football game on the restaurant TV. For breakfast the next morning in the chocolate-manufacturing city I had chocolate con churros and a neopolitan: stunning! Justin's boots had been stolen and he was running around in borrowed shoes trying to find the culprit, and Florian had the worst blisters and the poorest moral he had had since Lyon. I left the little city past the Episcopal Palace, Gaudi's masterpiece of gothic-influenced architecture next to the romanesque/gothic/baroque cathedral. The German woman arrived in a little village as I was finishing snacking on some tapas there, and I steepeled my hands before her and said "Thank you for your music yesterday. It helped me to see God." The power of her uncontrolled weeping upon hearing the last words continued to stun me as I walked on, and I stopped only to write a short poem about the road and the feelings of that day. Today two roads ran together One white, one red Unintwined. There is a scripture inscribed In the stone of the Earth, Unremembered. Un-noticed, but remaining, Indecipherable, but on the verge Of being Understood With time. The albergue in Rabinal del Camino was a beautifully renovated old building next to a Benedictine monastery, run by the English Confraternity of Saint James. We were welcomed in perfect English - and Florian in perfect French - and tea and biscuits. Mario and Joe arrived to excited greetings, and they shared stories of the great time they'd had at the wedding. We all ate a meal together before going to evening prayer in the austere church where the German woman sang again. Afterward I meditated on the spectacular sky - pink and purple in the setting sun with a distant vertical rainbow - and upon the quartz stone, smooth and round from rolling upon the BC beach where I had found it, which I would lay at the foot of the Cruz de Ferro the next day. When I arrived there, silent amid the crowds of loud pilgrims and bikers and the refreshment vans which had come to commercialize the place, I sat and waited for all of the other pilgrims to clear. When they finally did I climbed the huge cairn, walking upon the prayers of one thousand years of pilgrims, and lay my stone touching the wooden pillar of the iron cross continued on without a backward glance. Suddenly I was in the mountains, descending through the beautiful landscape without ever having climbed into it, marvelling at every view... In Monlinaseca I checked into the albergue - a church that had been converted with a nautical design - and had dinner next to the Roman bridge with Dave, Andy, Florian, Justin, Joe and Mario. The following day I walked through Ponferada, past its Templar castle, through a little village where a man gave me a handful of some of the best cherries I've ever eaten, and found Joe, Mario, Florian and Justin just as they and I were about to stop in a park for lunch. We reached the albergue where we hoped to stay just as it began raining, but it was all reserved so we continued walking. Finally we arrived in Villafranca at the end of a 31 km day, its ancient monuments misty in the mountain valley. The mountain views were stunning the next morning as we climbed through forests to La Faba where Aaron, Justin, Florian and I stayed, and arriving in the little stone albergue next to the church in the tiny village felt like coming home. I made a pasta for dinner which all of the guys were very happy with, and Florian, the Lyonese from the gastronomic capital of France, gave me the ultimate cooking compliment: "I am sure," he said, thumb to forefinger, "that in a past life you were French!" As I sat playing guitar after eating the German hospitalera came running over and told me to come to play in the church for the evening prayer. The priest told me in a panic that it was his first day in the parish and he had come on a moment´s notice as the regular priest was dealing with a medical emergency. I told him I was glad I wasn't the only one improvising. I played the music for the prayers, and afterward one of my own songs. The next day I continued the climb into the province of Galacia and the town of O Cebriero as a mountain mist crawled over the crest and was discipated by the morning sun. I encountered the priest again, standing on the Camino in his black Franciscan robes chatting with the pilgrims in each of his eight languages, and he greeted me jubilently. "My musician!" After the gorgeous walk through forest and little stone towns I arrvied in Triacastela in time to get the second to last bed in the town which marked my 43rd day and 1010th kilometer of walking since Toulouse. Today, June 23rd, I walked through the forest and tiny slate villages to Sarria, via Samos, one of Spain's oldest monasteries. I planned to avoid this town where hundreds of pilgrims begin for the sake of obtaining the Compostellae in Santiago - a document prooving that a pilgrim has walked 100 km - but there is a fiesta here this evening so I have compromised. It is difficult to comprehend that there are only five days left to Santiago de Compostela, followed by another five to Muxia and Finisterra. I am enjoying the walk so thoroughly that I have slowed to a crawl and am taking all of the long-cuts that I can find, but I think I am also at peace with the idea of completion. I am still - kind of - contemplating plans for my return after the pilgrimage involving flying out from Madrid on July 9th and the posibility of a visit to Barcelona or Toledo, but that will largely wait until my return from Finisterra... I hope that you are all very well! Ultreia! Bradley Sarria, Galacia, Spain

Learning How To Walk: St.-Jean Pied de Port to Santo Domingo de la Calzada

¡Hola! Today I have reached my half-way point, kilometer wise, from Toulouse to Santiago (554 km, which means a lot of things, but most importantly that I have to buy drinks for the other pilgrims tonight...)! Since I last wrote to you the Camino has changed drastically as I have entered Spain and joined the much more populous Camino Frances. I spent a rest day in St.-Jean Pied de Port, chatting with Alaxandre the Basque philosopher as we meandered around the citadel, sat in little coffee shops, and ate lunch in his 500 year-old home (next to the 600 year-old cathedral) which had been in his family for nearly as long. It was an interesting experience sitting and watching all of the pilgrims leave the town in the cloudy morning, leaving me behind. St.-Jean was a bit of a shocking experience: hundreds of pilgrims milled through the little town which was filled with a commercialism of pilgrim pariphinalia and romanticism that was quite at odds with the experience that I had been having on the Chemin d´Arles and the Voie Piemont. Giles, the French man that I had walked the Voie Piemont with, bid me farewell and got on a train to continue on the Camino del Norte on the northern coast of Spain to flee the pilgrim crowds. I was skeptical for the first time that so many people were propelled by deep motivation, and didn´t know how to react to so many people of so many ages and nationalities when for the past two weeks I had gotten used to walking virtually alone or with French people in their 60's. The next morning I set off early in the morning, passing masses of fellow pilgrims, and the route almost immediately began slopping upward towards the Pass of Roncanvaux over the Pyrenees. The day was clear and the views were breathtaking. Although the way was steadily steep and arduous, it was much easier than I had expected following four days on the hilly Voie Piemont. The majority of the other pilgrims, however, were walking this long and difficult step as their first day from St.-Jean, and many were having difficulty. The skepticism that I had felt earlier in the day which - I hate to admit it now - had even led me to hope that the climb would filter out the less passionate ones, quickly transformed into compassion as I saw the pain and dispair on the faces of my fellow pilgrims, and I began the next stage of my journey which has been a communal one. Walking alone or with more experienced pilgrims in France I had prayed a lot for myself - something which I generally don't like to do - but now I was compelled to pray for and think of my fellow pilgrims and pay much less mind to my own hopes and needs. I paused at a rock outcrop topped by a Marian shrine over a cliff of magnificent views, continued past a herd of cattle being directed by a fast-running little boy with a long stick, drank from the fountain of Roland where Charlemagne's finest cavalier was killed by the Basques, crossed the boarder into Navarre - Spain - marked by a stone stele, and reached the summit of the pass at over 1700 m above sea level. Near there I met a group of French pilgrims who had walked the Chemin de Puy with a 23 year-old named Florien who had not seen any other youths since he had walked from his home in Lyon and readily befriended me. We descended through the cathedral-like beech trees into Spain singing pilgrim songs and soon reached the ancient pilgrim complex of Rancesvalles. We checked into the huge hostel with 200 spaces, corraled into line to pay and have our credencials stamped before going up to the huge modern dormitories - completely different from the soothing hospitality of France - before going to have a drink and getting harrassed by Florien's companions for not having gone to the cathedral first. The cathedral was stunning in its darkness slashed by stained glass, and as I knelt alone before the statue of Santiago his soft eyes stared firmly but gently into my own, completely understanding of all that I had been through to visit him, and calmly expectant that I would continue. I played cards with other pilgrims outside before being called back to the cathedral by a clarion of bells to recieve the pilgrim's blessing. Upon entering the church the organ blasted out its glorious song and the priests marched down the aisle, singing. My senses were stunned by the music, the architecture, the incense, the rythmic Spanish of the mass, and the comraderie of shaking hands with the people which I had previously been skeptical of, even if I was one of the several who did not go up to recieve communion. Afterward I went for dinner with Florian, Jurgen (from Germany), and Justin (from Nova Scotia, Canada). The next morning I continued on to Larrasoña, having been woken at 5:40 am by bustling bodieas, passing the road sign reading "Santiago de Compostella: 790 km," and several pilgrim crosses through the forest. In the little village Florian and I cooked a vegetarian dinner while the others ate at the restaurant. The next day Florien and I walked with Geena, a young woman from Australia, to the city of Pamplona. We parted with her on a medieval bridge and continued to the 16th Century fortifications and into the beautiful city, its narrow allys walled by colourful 4 to 6 story buildings. As Florien, Justin, Dave (a British pilgrim) and I sat in the grand plaza, resting from our walk, a police helecopter began hovering overhead, a sound like an explosion was heard, and protestors streamed into the plaza. It was a protest against what I understand to be significant cuts to public education, although I have not seen any media since I've been here, and I was shocked by the heavy police presence at a protest filled with little children. After checking into the modern refugio in the huge Classical building next to the cathedral I prommenaded the fortifications, the Bull Ring with its bust of Earnest Hemingway, and the amazing streets and plazas vibrant with people. Mario, the generous Mexican Jesuit priest, treated Florien and I to lunch with him and his companion, Joe from Boston and friends Paco and Paco from Valencia, Spain; Sergi from Barcelona, Samuel from Bilbao, and Justin. We had a great meal, laughing at the large owner of the restaurant whose body language and manner was hilarious until I heard the translation of his racist and sexist jokes... That evening I visited the cathderal and citadel, enjoyed amazing tapas, and marvelled at the vibrancy of the beautiful public space. Streets were filled with people, standing and sitting everywhere and laughing, playing and eating from the variety of surrounding businesses. I hypothesized on the spot that this was due to a number of factors, including the fact that streets here in the inner city are for people, not cars; there is high residential density and mixed use, causing streets to become the equivalent of people's public, rather than private, backyards; the climate which promotes outdoor activities in the late afternoon and encourages shops to have siestas and stay open late; the fact that space is multigenerational and accessible by car, bike, foot or public transport; and the sheer quality of the public space. I also noticed that schools are often in the cultural centre of town or have schoolyards designed like public plazas, enculturating children and youth with the concept of public space as the primary forum to socialize. The next morning I headed out of town walking quickly up the ridge to the Alto de Pardon, having the pleasant surprise of passing three women from my home town of Victoria, a man from Toronto, and Mies, the woman from Holland and the first pilgrim that I ever met in Toulouse. I paused at the Alto de Pardon with its row of windmills and metal silouettes of passing pilgrims, and met Florian, Justin and Jurgen (whose ankles were causing him a great deal of grief) there. We watched the massive condors soar along the ridge, then continued down the other side to Puenta la Reina. There I visited the Romanesque church with quantz windows and a Y-shaped crucifix, and the Cathedral of Santiago before having a lunch of tapas with Los Pacos, Mario, Joe, Justin, Jurgen, Florien, and Sergi who informed me in great detail about the various tapas and nodded approvingly at my enjoyment. The next table over was occupied by jubilent Basques, singing and dancing to an accordion and speaking in their native language except to socialize with Sergi who they welcomed warmly as a Catalan who shared their political situation as an indigenous minority. As we strolled back toward the albergue I stopped in my tracks before rushing to greet the three men walking in the other direction: it was Jean, Rene and George, who I had walked with on the Chemin d'Arles!!! They had reached Puenta la Reina, the joining point of the Chemin d'Arles with the Camino Frances, that day! They were not continuing, however, this being the end of their annual step toward Santiago. After a lengthly conversation with them, and introducing them to my new friends, Florian - who spoke enough English for me not to use my French much with him - told me accusingly that he didn't know that I spoke so much of his language! I cooked a stir fry for our group that evening, which was rather nerve-racking because none of the people around me had ever heard of a stir fry and because I had no oil to fry with, but thanks to critical but helpful advice from three Italians it was proclaimed a success... The next day our fellowship of Spanish, Catalan, Mexican, Amarican, French and Canadian pilgrims continued to Estella, a town of magnificent cathedrals perched on rockey outcrops, and early the following morning we continued for the long step to Torres del Rio. By the end of the long day, which was over 40 degrees Celsius, we all laughed as Mario the Jesuit stumbled a few painful steps and muttered "Oh fuck." In Torres del Rio Mario celebrated mass for all of the pilgrims who sat arround the walls of the little octagonal 900 year-old Templar church. It was almost commical as we crowded around the altar to see the limping priest raise up the cookies that were all he had to improvise the eucharist with, but the power was palpabal as he transformed them into the body of Christ. We had a great dinner afterwards and laughed as the young landlords identified "Justin from Canada" as Justin Beiber, and the tall lanckey Florian with a large brown beard as Jesus! We also learned, with shock, that two pilgrims had died in the heat of that day, one cyclist who had gone over his handlebars and one athletic Korean walker with a large sack. We've passed several pilgrim memorials along the Way and they are incredibly humbling, serving as momentos of our mortality. The next day our fellowship spreadout over the road as some of us hobbled behind and I walked up ahead with Los Pacos, the oldest and fastest of our group, and chatted in broken Spanish and English with the moustached men and whistled arias from Carmen all the way to Logroño. The city was full of bachlor partiers, and all of the several cathedrals were alive with loud weddings. This was the final stop on Francisco Paco's annual pilgrimage, and we all went out for lunch with him to bid him farewell. From Logroño we continued to the little village of Ventosa where we stayed in a private albergue with calligraphy on the walls and Corelli violin concerti on the radio, and I cooked omlettes for our fellowship for dinner. Being Sunday, Mario held a service of discussion and prayer in the dinning room of the albergue. The next day, today, we have walked the 31 km here to Santo Domingo de la Calzada, where the tomb of Santo Domingo who built infrastructure for the Camino in the 11th Century is located in the cathedral. Tomorrow I intend to continue to Belorado and onward. I am certainly learning community on this part of the Camino, to give and accept from others gracefully and to care for eachother, but I will have to remember flexibility at the same time. I am having a very different, but still marvellous experience, and thinking of you all lots. Internet is expensive here so, again, don't worry if you don't hear from me for awhile. All the best!!! Ultreia! Bradley Santo Domingo de la Calzada, La Rioja, Spain

Learning How To Walk: Toulouse to St.-Jean Pied de Port

Hello again, The old Chinese proverb says that a journey of a thousand miles (or in my case, 1200 km) begins with a single step, and my first "step", as a day's walk is called on the Chemin, was an interesting one... I followed the sign indicating "Le Chemin de St.-Jacques" across Pont Neuf, Toulouse's medieval bridge, on May 10th and followed the waymarkers for the route along a lovely path through the town, along the river, through forests, and past an 2nd Century Roman amphetheater, thoroughly enjoying the long walk. Imagine my surprise when, after many hours of walking, I topped a rise along the riverside and saw, laid out gloriously before me, the spires and bridges of the beautiful town of... Toulouse! I have no idea how, but I had somewhere joined the route into Toulouse and walked in a huge circle! I groaned, then laughed a bit at myself and went on to have lunch in the town before trying again. I walked back to the roundabout where colourfully dressed and loudly singing Roma women of all ages were washing the windshields of (unwilling) drivers at the red light and I boarded a bus to Colomiers to make up some lost time. From Colomiers I made the short walk to Pibrac to visit the imposing 20th Century structure of the Basilique Ste.-Germaine, then went to a phone booth to call the gite (pilgrim inn) in the village of Leguevin. Standing in the booth I turned around and saw two broadly grinning pilgrims festooned in symbols of St. James waving at me from outside the door. They told me they had been to Santiago and were now walking to Rome, asked me directions to the Basilica, and advised my route to Leguevin. I limped into the village with several blisters from my unexpectedly long walk and found the Maison St.-Jacques on the main street of the little village where I spent the night alone. The next day, which was very hot, I made the 30 km step to the Gite de Giscarro. I began through farmer's fields, some tilled golden and bare, some green with barley, some yellow with canola, and some fallow with the bright yellows and pastels of wildflowers, the long line of snowcapped Pyrenees crossing the horison in the distance. As the forest came near I saw an older couple sitting at the base of the waymarker with wodden walking sticks who rose and joined me as I walked. They had walked to Santiago in 2006 and were eager to share advice and chat. The forest gave way to a road which passed along the crest of a ridge with vast fields falling away on either side and bounding away over hills in the distance, the furrows glistening like Emily Carr's skies to the pinpoints of church spires marking villages on the horison. I parted with the couple, and the man thrust his hand in the air declaring "Bye bye! Buen camino! Bonne route!" and I descended the ridge into the little medieval town of L'Isle Jourdain. As I sat eating a pancetta and brie baguette sandwich in the park a man walked by and asked if I was a walker, and proudly listed off all of the places he had been, Istanbul and the like. I continued on the road which was alternately rutted tracks, paved road, ancient packed rubble paths, earth baked an cracked by the sun spangled with flower pettles like a wedding aisle, or thick with mud marked by pilgrim's boots, bike tires, horseshoes, and paws and cloven deer and wild pig hoofs. The songs of colourful birds filled the air, and that of church bells as I approached villages. A solitary figure with a large white moustache and blue-overalled belly greeted me at the corner of a field at the top of a rise, leaning on his cane and critically observing his neighbour plow his field, greeted me cheerily and told me it was 1 km to the gite and wished ma a bonne route. The gite, set back from the path amongst the fields, was a beautiful timber-framed earth and rubble house, and when I greeted the patron at work in his barn, he told me his English was better than his French. Hia name was Andreas from Germany, and he and his wife Penny, from Toulouse had met on the camino and started the beautiful little gite. After spening the night in an alcove of the dormitory I set out again, the air pleasantly cool with mist, and bought food for lunch and dinner in the tiny ridge-top medieval village of Gimont with a 14th Century church. Outside of Gimont I took a wrong turn, and returned to the misleading waymarker to stare at it until a window behind me opened an a woman popped her head out. She asked if I was a pilgrim of St.-Jacques, and directed me to go straight past the chappel of the cloister to find the route again. Further along my feet began to hurt quite bad, and I spied a long stick leaning against a cement bridge. I shortened it to length and found that it releaved a lot of strain as a walking stick, and have used it since. At last I arrived at the Gite La Motte, near an 18th Century chateau and an 11th Century church. If the previous gite was beautiful, this one was gorgeous, built of sun-baked brick and timber-frame with a cob oven, tile floors, and an enterance dome and reading alcove with a mosaic of a bare foot on the floor. As I was cooking pasta for dinner in the kitchen another pilgrim arrived, Luc from Marsaille. He took a private room and left the next morning as I was putting on my shoes. The next day I walked to the city of Auch, pausing to eat a lunch of croissaunts at the foot of the ruins of a hilltop medieval watchtower overlooking the Renaissance chateau and church spire of the minute village of Montegut. I passed through Montegut as the church bells began ringing and people of all ages poured out of it, including many old men with medals, uniforms and moustaches. Finding my way again after the route was obscured by a new highway, I walked over two hills to see the town of Auch spread out bellow me. I approached the huge gothic cathedral and medieval bridge along the river and crossed the bridge and climbed up to the cathedral through the narrow allies. It was Mother's Day, and I searched for an internet cafe or a place to buy a phone card to contact Mom, but it was Sunday and everything in town was closed. As I approached the cathedral, the gothic body worn with age but the twin turrets restored in a classical style, the sound of organ and baroque voices eminated from the stone. I entered the magnificent structure and circumambulated the aisles of stained glass windows and statues as the organist, tenor, counter-tenor and baritone rehearsed Marc-Antoine Charpentier and a contemporary piece which made the organ sound intreaguingly like a piece of industrial machinery for a concert that evening. I walked down the ally next to the cathedral of 14th Century timber-framed buildings to the Presbytery and entered through the gate and cortyard surrounded by four stories of shuttered windows. A woman sat patiently at a desk in the foyer of the 18th Century building and led me up the flights of wide spiraling stairs to the pilgrim dormatory with a breathtaking view of the Old Town and the cathedral. I attended the baroque concert that evening, had dinner with Luc, who was also staying at the Presbytery, and fell asleep in bed looking at the cathedrals illuminated turrets. The next day I walked through the ancient streets and caught up to another pilgrim at the enterence of the forest. It turned out she was not only Canadian, but a fellow British Columbian from Nelson! She was not walking to Santiago, but had come to scatter her parents' ashes in their homes of London and Paris, to visit a feudal agricultural community in the Pyrenees, and to celebrate her 60th birthday. She said her name was Clodette, and asked if we could walk together because a truck with two men in it had passed her several times giving her strange looks. We walked, and eventually descended into the moated and formerly walled village of Barran. We visited the church with its rare helictically spiralled spire, and stood in awe at the rows upon rows of white crosses of the village's dead from the First World War. The local gite was closed, but we stayed the night with a hilarious couple who had enthusiastically volunteered to host pilgrims in their 250 year-old home, Madeline and Jean-Michael, and a German pilgrim who had walked to Santiago seven times on various routes and was now stuck here with a strained tendon. In the morning I ate a large breakfast and Clodette and I bid farewell to our hosts and continued on to Montisquoiou. We accidentally took a very long, though beautiful, route and had to join the road to ensure our arrival in Montisquoiou, and Clodette hitch-hiked. Just before the village I passed one of the many gates marked "Attention au chien", this one open, and shortly after heard a loud snarling growl at my heels. I instinctively spun around, planted my feet, and leveled my staff in a pike stance, and let out a shout. Had the closer of the two big black guard dogs taken one more bound it would have had my staff down its throat, but hearing my bellow it spun around and retreated back to the gate. In Montesquiou we stayed in a hotel with a Swiss pilgrim on his second walk who had walked all the way from Montegut in the same day, what I had done in two and a half! We had a huge four course meal together and went to bed. The next day I headed off alone through the gate in the medieval fortifications and down through the village's gardens and along a beautiful trail past the ruins of a castle to Marciac meeting two pilgrims from Nice, Bruno and Jean-Luc, along the way. We stayed in an old timber frame gite next to the gothic cathedral, and I played guitar with the owner's Parisian son in the garden. Marciac is known as the Jazz capital of Europe for hosting a huge international annual festival, which our hosts are prime organizers of. The next morning I continued to Moubourget with Bruno and Jean-Luc, blessed with a magnificent view of the Pyrenees. It had been several days since I had been able to see them, and their shadowy bulk was now visible. Moubourget was the last stop of the annual steps toward Santiago that Bruno and Jean-Luc were undertaking, so they invited me for a drink and I bid them farewell as they drove back to Nice. No sooner had they left than a sudden and heavy rain shower began and I took shelter in the gite. I walked the next day to the tiny village of Anoye with Patrick, from Marsailles, and we shared a huge meal cooked on the solitary double-burner with another group of pilgrims from around France. I continued with Patrick the next day to Morlaas, then continued with George, Rene, Jean, and Claudette of the other pilgrim group. We toured the bakeries and butcheries and converged on a bus shelter to assemble and devour a very fresh lunch before visiting the cathedral, its Romanesque portal crawling with musical kings and torturing demons. We walked through the rain, turtle-like with our grey-green ponchos pulled over our backpacks, through forests and past cats nestled in deep window sills to the hippodrome of the city of Pau where we became lost and eventually found the gite. We were rewarded by a magnificent meal, beginning with a Basque patte, followed by the most exquisite of duck and ham garbures, which was in turn followed by a salad and a perfect combination of goat cheese and black cherry jam in the Basque tradition, with strawberries and cream for dessert... Manifique! The next morning we dried our shoes with hair-driers and I set out again with Jean, Rene and George, the three rough-hewn but incredibly good-natured faces which had weathered up to seven years of pilgrimage on up to three different routes. We walked to Lacommand, the medieval commanderie of the Knights Hospitaller. We stayed in the original pilgrim dormatory attached to the church and commanderie, next to the Hospitaller cemetary, with Giles, a cheerful fourty-year-old Toulousaine acupuncture doctor practicing near Carcassonne, and Meis, the Dutch woman who was the first pilgrim I had met I had met in Toulouse. The rain and the wind heavy the next day, Rene, George, Jean and I walked along the road rather than the muddy and dangerous chemin to Oloron Ste.-Marie. We topped the final hill and the city exploded magnificently bellow us: the cathedral spires, the turrets, the medieval bridges spanning the convergence of two mighty rivers, all set against a backdrop of the Pyrenees, guarding the pass of Somport into Spain. Oloron was a crossroads for me, the place where I finally had to decide whether to take the Col du Somport and continue on the Chemin d'Arles which I had been so thoroughly enjoying, or to continue west in France to St.-Jean-Pied-de-Port and cross the Pyrenees at the Pass of Roncanvaux. The wonderful time I had been having in France and the light snow that was falling in the Col du Somport convinced me to continue on the Voie du Piemont to St.-Jean and join the Camino Frances there. The next morning I bid farewell to my friends continuing over Somport, including a 21 year-old who had bicycled from his home in Belgium. Before leaving I visited the moorish-influenced gothic cathedral of Notre Dame in its shades of grey, the dark and grounded sanctuary of the Romanesque St.-Croix, its flagstones inscribed with the names of the 18th Century deceased and resonating with barely audible Gregorian chant, and the sprawling gothic magnificence of l'Eglise Ste.-Marie. In l'Eglise Ste.-Mairie, as I slowly circumambulated the side-chapels on my blistered feet, the darkness pierced by spires of stained-glass light, I was clubbed by a sense of overwhelm. I was suddenly severely humbled by what I already knew: that I know virtually nothing, that I have been virtually nowhere, that there is so much to learn, experience, do and see, so many places to go. I was overwhelmed by the desire to learn everything there was to learn, to visit every place and experience each one fully, and I was overwhelmed by the knowledge that I would never be able to satisfy that painful desire. As I slowly recovered, leaning on my staff in the darkness, I realized with horror that at some point I would have to leave the peace of that sanctuary and re-enter the city and the world. I fortified my courage and did so, like plunging into icy water, and I walked. Departing the city, I walked next to a fast-flowing stream, and I realized that we pilgrims are like the water. We run in channels dug by a thousand years of foot and hoof, we are propelled by the energy of a thousand years of prayers and dreams. We get caught in back-eddies, we encounter barriers and experience turbulence, but ultimately we continue on our way, our streams joining into rivers and infallibly reaching the sea... That day I walked to l'Hospital St.-Blaise, an 11th Century church beautiful with very heavy moorish influences, and I spent the night in the little gite with Giles and Frances and Monique, two French women in their 70s who, despite being devotedly catholic, seemed to talk about nothing but food. The next day I continued with Giles in the morning as the mist rose silently from the forested hills. "Wow!" Giles pronounced emphatically at the beautiful sight, "Superb!" I enjoyed learning a lot of French adjectives to that effect from him, and listening to his incredibly musical whistling and singing as we passed over extraordinary mountain vistas, serenaded by cow bells, (and slogging through hoof-churned muck) for the next three days. In the town of Mouleon I visited the powerful 15th Century castle, and from there we continued to St.-Just Ibarre, Giles stopping to chat to the Basque characters of the countryside: a farm family of which only one member spoke French, the others only Basque; a woman who gave us water, her toothless face all wrinkles, alone in a house while her family was out in the fields; a strong little man who had walked from his home to Santiago and was eager to give me plenty of advice... We were greeted by a cheerful elderly woman at the gite next to the church across the medieval bridge. As I sat outside writing my journal and watching the swallows swirl in the sunset a little boy "vroom-vroom"-ing on his bike with his dog stopped and asked me if I was writing a book, and wished me "bonne courage" after a short conversation. From St.-Just Ibarre Giles and I continued to St.-Jean Pied de Port, immediately noticing a huge increase of pilgrims as we converged with the Chemin de Puy, and entered with great gusto through the Port St.-Jacques into the medieval walled city. The pilgrim's office was churning with people, most of them just getting their new credential, while I was given my 19th stamp. I toured the medieval fortifications and the 18th Century revamped citadel, marveling at the seemingly impervious defensive engineering. The eight pilgrims and our hosts sang grace together before a wonderful dinner. After dinner three of us - Alexandre, a Basque Roman Catholic philosopher, Hans, a Dutch agnostic capitalist private equity consultant, and myself, a "spiritual" Canadian social democrat anthropology student - strolled and conversed along the riverside through the medieval town as swallows flitted about us in the magnificently setting sun. Alaxandre, our pipe-smoking guide, had received his doctorate in Toronto and was the grandson of one of the primary Basque leaders in and after the Second World War. Today I am resting in St.-Jean before crossing the Pyrenees tomorrow, so I finally have time to get you caught up on everything! Sorry this is so long and unedited... I don't know when I'll next have the chance to write, or even see a computer, but if you need to get in touch with me for something important send me an email with the word "urgent" in the subject line, or if you'd just like to be in touch put the word "camino" in the subject line and I'll hope to get back to you soon. Right now I've got over 350 unread emails, and I don't know when I'll have the chance to look at them... I hope that all is well with all of you, and I am so greatful for everyones well-wishes and support. When I feel weak I think of all of you, and all of the strangers who have wished me a "bonne route" and "bonne courage," and know that those wishes give me strength. Tomorrow: the Pyrenees and Spain! Ultreia! Bradley St.-Jean-Pied-de-Port, Pays Basque, France

Learning How to Walk: Arrival in Toulouse

Hello again! I don't know how often I will be emailing on this trip, but I am today because I know there are some of you who would appreciate knowing that I have arrived safely in Toulouse. I was so tired when I arrived last night that I could very well have been dreaming, but I didn't want to pinch myself lest I were to wake up! It is so beautiful here, I need to keep reminding myself that I have to move along or I could be happily stuck for a long time... I know it is the common experience of arrival for me, it is like teenage love, but that doesn't make it any less honest. Mom, Dad and I got up in Montreal at 7 am on May 7th and walked all over the city all day, visiting a craperie, several cathedrals including the phonomenal Oritoie St.-Joseph, climbing Mount Royal, feeding squirrels, etc. before driving to the airport at 8 pm. After a 16.5 hour flight, which left at 10pm, I had a 5 hour stop over in Heathrow and a 3 hour flight to Blagnac Airport near Toulouse. Being the centre of a huge Aeronautics industry, Blagnac Airport was small but of beautiful modern architecture of curving coloured glass and natural wood. My passport stamped, I donned my backpack and walked toward town. Immediately I knew I was somewhere amazing. Bike and walking paths followed all of the roads, cooled by trees as they passed through suburbs of wooden-shuttered houses with tile roofs. I got lost on several occasions, following the beautiful River Touche under a medieval bridge whose keystone bore the age-worn arms of Toulouse, the equal armedv pointed cross with a pearl at each point, instead of the River Garrone, and not minding the backtrack when I met a some little girls, with their mother and their terrified little dog, who told me I was going in the wrong direction. I followed the canal into town, walking under several 18th Century bridges, some carved in glorious classical reliefs, and was astounded as the city came into view on both sides of the Garrone with age-spanning architecture rising around me. Happily hopelessly lost again among the labyrinth of narrow allies, but beginning to become anxious as I knew the time I had booked to arrive at my auberge on L'Rue d'Embarthe had passed and it was getting late, I asked a young woman if she could give me directions. It turned out that she was going to visit her friend across the very street from my auberge and was able to walk me strait there! "You're very lucky," she said, switching to broken English, "L'Rue Embarthe is not a well known street. Are you going to Santiago de Compostele?" I was surprised, because I was sure she had not seen the scallop on the back of my backpack, until I realized that the only place that a sweaty foreigner was likely to be going on L'Rue Embarthe was the pilgrim auberge. "There are several people in my family who have walked to Compostele," she explained. She wished me luck and a good walk at the gate of the auberge, and I buzzed the intercom on the gate. Clements, the owner of the auberge, leaned out the window of the third and highest floor of the wall and invited me to come up and register. I appologized profusely for being so late, explaining that I had been lost, but he waved it off with his hand and a smile. Having been welcomed to my room, I walked to the nearest intersection of three allies which looked like the set for the street scene of an opera, perhaps Rigoletto, in search of food. In the middle of the inset square was a classical fountain, and it was boardered by small restaurants and cafes beneith two to three stories of appartments, whose shutters began to close as the light fadded. Being the home of France's second largest university, the city seemed to be populated with youth who sat in groups about the square laughing, smoking, playing flemenco guitar and singing mock-operatically. A bearded man, his black hair tied tightly back in a bun, pressented me with two placards of menus, pearched on unoccupied chairs for me to peruse. I ordered an oeff coconeil aux soumon, an egg baked in a shallow earthen dish over salmon and cheese, seasoned with herbs, next to a salade with a lovely vinagrette, French bread, and a wineglass of water filled from an elegant glass bottle which had once delivered milk to someone's doorstep. Today I have visited L'Basilique St.-Sernin, the huge 1000 year old Romanesque cathedral - the largest of all its type, which still houses relics of Ste. Cesilia, patron saint of music, and St. Francis, among others, and where my pilgrim's credencial was stamped by a bespecled gentleman who told me that I was the 74th pilgrim to pass his way this month, a substantial number - the 13th Century cloister of Les Jacobins - whose ribbed ceiling is held distantly aloft by a single row of mammoth columns and soaring stained glass windows, and which houses a relic of Thomas Acquinas - the Capitol of Midi-Pyrénée - where a large open market was held - and I have walked all over Old Town. I am observing the culture and beginning to understand how to behave within it. My limited French has served me much better than I had feared, and all but two of the many conversations that I have had so far have been in that language. I have my route set for the town of Léguvin for tomorrow, advised by the gentleman at the Basilique. Now my time is up on this computer and I am glad that I have been able to navigate my way around a French keyboard sufficiently to write this! We will be in touch again! Your friend, Bradley Toulouse, Midi-Pyrénée, France

Learning How To Walk: Part I

May 5th, 2012 "For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so, Then people long on pilgrimage to go, And palmers to be seeking foreign strands, To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands." - Geoffery Chaucer, late 14th Century "I hope to discover the way of the ancient traveller, to understand distance and how it feels to cross it when stripped of modern modes of transport. I want to travel, but I don't want to come to take travel for granted. I want to allow the world to flow organically around me, and to allow myself to flow organically through the world. .... I'm sure that the most precious gifts will be unasked for and unexpected." - 2010 journal entry I'm back on the road again, this time literally and with no vessel but my own body. As some of you are aware, I will be departing from Montreal to Toulouse, France, on Monday to begin my pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. I have talked with a few of you about this, but many of you may be completely unaware of my plans. Therefore, I'm sending this letter out to my usual mailing list and to new friends that I have made since my latest travels to tell you of my plans. If you would not like to receive these letters please send me an email saying so and I will not take any offence. For those of you who are new to my newsletter list, keeping in touch with my family and friends around the world is something that I have tried to do consistently since I was ten years old when my family and I set out on my first major trip on our 40' sailing vessel Silent Sound. If you're interested, you can find an archive of these letters from my Pacific, Canada, and Tanzania trips on my blog at bradleyclements.blogspot.com. Europe is a place that has fascinated me all of my life, and even though I have loved and cherished every place that I have had the incredible fortune to go I have often felt a strange attraction to Europe: the strongest homesickness that I've ever felt has been for a place that I have never been. Even as the origin of some of the things which I resent most (global colonialism) I still feel a loving connection to much of Europe and its heritage. But despite having always wanted to go to “Europe," I have never had a clear vision of precisely where or why to go. Until six or seven years ago, shortly after returning from our Pacific trip, when I first heard of the Camino de Santiago. This occurred with the music of Oliver Schroer on CBC, from his solo violin and ambient sound album recorded in chapels along the Way. It was several months later that I heard another fleeting mention on CBC, and eventually I found books and started reading. I read of mystics, movie stars, evangelical preachers, anthropologists, chefs, authors and musicians and their resent experiences upon the revitalized route, and I read of queens, kings, popes, peasants, poets, knights, diplomats, and the many others who travelled it during its heyday between the 10th and the 16th Centuries. By two years ago I knew that this was how I would come to Europe, at least for the first time, but when? At that time I was just beginning my Associate Degree in Anthropology at Camosun College in Victoria, BC. I was loving the immersion in my favourite academic fields with a course load of over 100% and the intensive community involvement that accompanied my election to the College's Education Council and later to the Executive Committee of the Student Society, but I felt that after two years I would need a rest academically to attend to my spirituality and the restless “travel bug” which had been too patient. I decided that I would go upon my graduation from Camosun, before continuing my studies at UBC. The Camino is a pilgrimage route to the relic of St. James (also known as Saint-Jacques, Santiago, and Xacobus) which has been walked by Catholics since the miraculous discovery in of the relic in 813 AD. The route was also followed by pre-Christian Celts to Cabo Finisterre which was the Westernmost point of the traditional Celtic world, the “End of the Earth” from which stretched the uncrossed Atlantic. It was in the same Pyreneean pass that the Camino Frances climbs that Roland saw his demise in the rearguard of Charlemagne's army in the Battle of Roncesvalles, which I read of in the 11th Century The Song of Roland when I was around 13. Unlike other Christian pilgrimages, the primary part of the Camino is the journey, not the destination. The majority of pilgrims still take the journey by foot, and some by bike or horse. Of the many routes to Santiago de Compostela from all over the continent – Portugal, Madrid, England, Paris, Rome, Belgium, Germany, even as far away as Moscow – I will be beginning halfway along the Chemin d'Arles in Toulouse, Midi-Pyrénée, France. Toulouse was a pilgrim destination in its own right contemporaneously with Santiago de Compostela, housing many relics in the huge Romanesque Basilique Saint-Sernin which was built upon the same plan as the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. This route will take me through the foothills of the French Pyrenees for about two weeks through Gascony and Aquitaine to St.-Jean-Pied-de-Port, where the Camino Frances begins. The Camino Frances travels for about 800 kilometers across the Pyrenees and the Spanish foothills and Meseta through Navarre, La Rioja, Castile and Galicia, and the towns of Roncesvalles, Pamplona, Burgos, Léon, and Astorga to Santiago. From there I intend to continue for another week to the original destination, Finisterre, before flying back to Montreal from Madrid. I completed my Associate Degree in Anthropology from Camosun this April, ending my last semester again on the honour roll after my exams in Cultural Anthropology, Archaeology, Atmosphere and Biosphere, Social Systems and the Environment, and Geography of Cities. The semester had also been full of the constant, fascinating and dynamic activism and advocacy work in my role on the Student Society's Executive; coaching some amazing young archers with Helena, the international level coach who I've had the honour of working with for the past five years; following the NDP leadership race (supporting Nathan Cullen but very satisfied with Thomas Mulcair); going to a variety of rallies, especially concerning the Northern Gateway Pipeline; and enjoying great food, company and conversation with Bill and Maureen and friends, whose home I had the pleasure of staying in. At the end of the semester came the difficulty of parting with many amazing people. My professors who had truly engaged me and gone above and beyond with their care for their students and their passion for their subjects. My classmates who so often amazed me with their friendship, interests, intelligence, and community involvement. My extraordinarily inspiring colleagues at the Student Society, elected students and staff bonded by many challenges, common passions, good humour and lots of hard work. The Committees and Councils that I had sat with and befriended. The many local community organizations and leaders who I had worked with, especially the local BC NDP politicians. And of course my extended adoptive family, Bill, Maureen, Dylan, Robyn, Derek, Joanne, Sean, Jesus, Ashlee, Barry, Carmen, and friends who humbled me with their friendship and hospitality, and who I enjoyed many hours of good food, conversations, music, guitar playing, political debating, and joking. After reducing most of my worldly possessions down to two suitcases and two backpacks, Bill drove me to the airport at 5 in the morning on April 25th and I flew to Ottawa via Calgary and Toronto. Dad greeted me at the airport with Max, the dog, and took me home to Mom, Harry, and Clouseau, the cat. I have been here in Ottawa for two weeks now, sorting out my gear, equipping myself, exercising my languages and my legs, and dealing with remaining obligations. Tomorrow Mom, Dad and I are driving to Montreal where we will visit Silent Sound, who was sailed over the Northwest Passage and then purchased by a Montreal family: a fitting beginning to a trip, perhaps, by paying homage to the vessel which carried me on my first. I will fly out from Montreal's Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport on Monday evening for a long stop over in Heathrow, London, and arriving in Blagnac airport in Toulouse Tuesday afternoon. After a day in the city, I walk. Having been raised on the move, the feeling of departure is natural to me – I have few of the emotions that many expect me to have. I am certainly excited to be doing something which I have been irresistibly called to. I am certainly frightened to be travelling alone extensively for the first time in my life. But ultimately I am calm. Perhaps because I have been preparing myself for this moment for years, perhaps because movement has been so integral to my life, perhaps because the full reality of what is happening has not fully settled upon me, or perhaps because there feels to be a certain inevitability to this trip, I do not know. Different from other trips I have done which have been with my family or to volunteer, this trip is quite personal, just as my spirituality has been quite personal. This trip is a spiritual journey, something of which there is little casual dialogue in today's society, and I have little framework to analyze it or to formulate expectations around it. Despite this, I do intend to share this experience with any of you who would like to be a part of it. This is a journey that we can take together, if you like. "...he saw two brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him." - Matthew, 4:21-22 I have been called, so now I will walk !Via con Dios! Bradley Clements Ottawa, Ontario

2011 Newsletter

January 6th, 2012
Happy New Year!

Although this last year hasn’t seen anywhere near the amount of water under the keel as you'll have come to expect from previous newsletters, it has been an amazing and busy one with some unexpected twists! I should warn you that it's also been a very political and spiritual year for me – as strange as that might sound – and I hope that you don't mind me expressing some personal feelings regarding that in this letter which I hope won't be offensive to anyone.

After returning from visiting family in Princeton and the Sunshine Coast this time last year, I returned to Camosun College for a busy and fascinating semester of Literature, Art History, Religions of the West, Anthropology of Women, and Ecosystems and Human Activity. When nominations for the Camosun College Student Society and Education Council began I considered seeking nomination, but it wasn't until several friends and class mates urged me to run that I was nominated as a representative of the Student Society on the Education Council, the organization which authorizes curriculum. I was uncontested and acclaimed to the position but campaigned hard none the less for a group of candidates which I was supporting, many of whom were elected. This was only the very beginning of a political semester as it was shortly afterward that the Conservative Party of Canada, our minority government, faced the first Canadian vote of non-confidence in response to their lack of action or reliable information on Canada's economic state, scheduling a federal election in the Spring. I volunteered for our local NDP candidate Randall Garrison's campaign, and at the College to engage students to vote, and when the news started coming in on the evening of election day I was as shocked as much of the country. The Conservatives, under their ultra-right-wing leader Steven Harper, had been re-elected, this time with a majority government. However, the NDP – the progressive party which I have come to support for their concern for equality, the environment, and peace – became the official opposition for the first time in history under the leadership of Jack Layton. When the CBC stopped covering the election for the night, our riding of Esquimalt/Juan de Fuca remained the last undecided riding as the results were so close, and the next day we learned that Randall Garrison was elected over the Conservative candidate by a 500 vote margin. As anticipated, the rest of the year has been filled with cuts to social programs, discriminatory politics, undermining of labour unions, pulling out of the Kyoto Protocol, scrapping registration of fire-arms, and similar regressive policies which the Conservatives have been shamelessly passing.

I finished the busy Winter semester on the Dean's Honour Roll and began an archaeological field course on the same day as my last exam was scheduled, leaving no Spring break except for a fascinating new course! The small class took a field trip to Dionesio Point on Galiano Island, the site of a 2000 year old village. We camped at a site where we had potluck meals and practiced tree-ring boring and identification of human and animal skeletal remains, among other things, and from where we hiked to the archaeological site. The hike was through lush bush and along the side of towering and beautifully sculpted limestone cliffs. A pod of orcas came close in to one of the points to greet us as we rounded it. When we reached the site of the Winter village on a protected canoe beach we surveyed the hillside of deep depressions left by the pits of the bighouses which had once inhabited the now-forested shore. Returning to Victoria we began work on our main project of surveying and compiling an inventory of archaeological remains in the site of a 500 year old burial ground, in co-operation with the local First Nations, municipality, and a UVic PhD student who is BC's burial cairn specialist. By the end of the project we had documented a huge number of cairns, some of them unique in the entire record, and we finished with a First Nations ceremony to cleanse ourselves of spirits which may have clung to us during our time at the site. Also in the Spring semester I took an Advanced English Composition course, which included the reading and writing of many inspiring essays.

Finally, after two semesters of straight classes, I took the Summer off to travel around the province with my family, and I met Mom, Dad and Harry as they flew into Vancouver Airport from Ottawa. Mom had recently returned from a work exchange in Abu Dhabi, and it had been a full year since I'd seen them in person when I left Ottawa in August 2010. We rented a car and drove to the stunningly forested hillside property of Dad's former metal-etching boss, Rudy in Deep Cove. The next day we visited with Aunty Henrietta and twenty other family members in Burnaby, and explored the Museum of Anthropology and UBC campus where I am considering studying after I graduate from Camosun. We visited Dad's childhood friend, Jerry, for a Greek lunch en route to Harrison Hot Springs where Uncle Randy and Aunty Sandy were managing an RV Park. We then continued up to Princeton to visit Grumpa and Nana where we flew model biplanes over the beautiful fields of wildflowers with Grumpa and went to the United church to listen to Nana play the organ.

We drove back to Victoria where we stayed with Bill and Maureen, and Mom, Dad and Harry visited their many local friends and family while I taught a week of daily summer archery classes. We continued up the Island to Cowichan Bay where Uncle John was farming, and took a day trip on the family's classic little wooden power boat, the Carlisle. We picked up Dad's art school friend Margie in Fullford Harbour on Saltspring Island and anchored off Russel Island to re-visit the Island which Grumpa and Nana were once caretakers of. Back on the road, we visited Aunty Bobby and her dashounds at their new home and continued on to Qualicum Bay where our long-time friends Pat and Beverly made us a phenomenal dinner and allowed me to salivate over their 19th Century volumes on Gothic architecture, its design and construction. From there we ferried back over to the mainland coast where we met Uncle Rick, five-year-old cousin Alice, Aunty Lisa, and her boss' family in Lund to catch the ferry to Savary Island. We enjoyed biking, swimming, and organizing and volunteering for the Island's Fun Triathlon which Aunty Lisa's boss was the head organizer of and whose lovely cedar cabin we stayed in. Harry and Uncle Rick joined a team to participate in the Triathlon for the biking and running portions on the dirt roads and trails which wound through the forest, and we prepared the track and greeted the runners at the finish line with barbequed pizza and prizes. The days after the race were more leisurely, and we took them to explore the island further, visit local artists – including some of Dad's former colleagues from the Victoria College of Art – and walk the abstract sand of the beaches which appeared to blow to the horizon...

After a timeless stay we were back on the coast where we checked out Uncle Rick and Aunty Lisa's recently completed cottage in Lund and continued down to the property that they are caretaking in Bargain Harbour on the Sunshine Coast. During our time on the Coast we went to visit Edith Iglower, former author and journalist for the New Yorker and long-time friend of Uncle John (who had brought the Carlisle up from Cowichan to her dock). On a sunny day with only a small following swell we powered down to Buccaneer Bay with Alice, Gran and her dog Max on the Carlisle where we rowed ashore and swam on the warm, sandy beach. A few days later we had a brisk sail up to Nelson Island on Uncle Rick's ketch, the Orythia, where we met Uncle John and his friend Champak on the Carlisle and rafted to an abandoned log boom. I stayed my last night on the coast with my family at Gran's place in the Robert's Creek cooperative housing development where we had our ritual dinner at my favorite restaurant in BC, the Gumboot Cafe. The next morning I bid everyone farewell and commuted back to Victoria by ferry, public bus and skytrain to teach another week of archery.

After I left Mom, Dad and Harry took Gran to visit Edith and Aunty Shendra, two of her good friends, but during the visiting Gran – who had been her usual intrepid self as a hostess and through the day long sail that we'd done just days before – was extremely tired and incomprehensible. Shortly after Mom, Dad and Harry had to catch their flight back to Ottawa she dozed at the wheel of her car and had an accident. No one was hurt, but she lost her license and her doctor realized that one of her heart valves was contracted and that she needed to have surgery for a replacement valve. There was new, less invasive method which was suggested, but because it was a technique still in its infancy the surgeons were wary to try it on someone of Gran's age. She stayed over a month in hospital, in and out of emergency, and I went up to visit her. I came straight to her hospital from the ferry and talked and read with her before going to her place for the night. It was past midnight when the sound of the telephone awoke me and Uncle Ian's voice from Vancouver came on the answering machine, urging me to answer, but I couldn't get out of bed and down the steep, dark stairs in time. Fortunately a second call came soon after, from Gran's daughter-in-law, Rosemary in Powell River. She told me that Gran was having an emergency and that I needed to get to the hospital fast. I called a taxi and they said they'd meet me at the corner store in 15 minutes. As soon as I arrived at the store, however, beneath an infinite sky of stars, the last bus of the night, bound strait for the hospital, rounded the corner. With a prayer of apology to the late-night taxi driver, I flagged down the bus and was soon at Gran's bedside in the emergency ward. She was sleeping, breathing unevenly, and the doctor told me they'd nearly had to put her on life support but that she was now stable and recovering. Calls came in, telling of the many prayers and prayer groups who were at work across the province. When Gran awoke a look of sheer joy crossed her face as she saw me and she squeezed my hand. I stayed with her for a long while, exchanging a few words, until the nurse suggested that we both needed rest and that it was safe for me to go. Over the next few days I visited Gran, sometimes with Uncle John and Gran's friend and neighbor Sally, and she ranged from being festive, thoughtful and talkative to tired and confused. Aunty Mary flew up from Victoria and came to visit Gran with Uncle John and I on my last day there. Gran was well and she told us of her first exposure to the Quaker religion, one of the primary spiritualities in her life, and an emotional and previously secret account of her childhood of being discriminated against on her London school grounds due to her family's Jewish faith. After an amazing time of stories, forgiveness, jokes, and spiritual ceremony, Aunty Mary asked Gran – who had lived a life of charity, health, physical activity, and spirituality – how many more years she wanted to live. “Well!” Gran huffed, “that's putting it rather bluntly, isn't it!” But then she stopped and thought for a moment and said calmly, “I have come to complete peace with the idea of death.”

I flew back to Nanimo on a floatplane Beaver with Aunty Mary and we drove home from there. Close to the beginning of the semester I received a call from Mom giving the shocking news that Gran had passed away. Uncle John was with her to the end, and he and Champak had seen her off with drumming and ceremony.

As a board member of the Student Society (CCSS) I was a volunteer at the Camfest celebrations, welcoming students to the sunny September campus for the start of classes. I spent the semester studying, among many other things, cross-cultural mis-communication in Linguistic Anthropology, nuclear reactions in Physics, the measurement and identification of hominin skulls in Biological Anthropology, the spacial diffusion of religion in Human Geography, and the mechanics of mega-thrust earthquakes in Lithosphere and Hydrosphere. I averaged at least one protest rally per week for the first month or so, and attended many throughout the semester: the DOTS march from the Royal Jubilee hospital to the Legislature for more comprehensive mental healthcare, a Yard Sale on the lawn of the Legislature to protest cuts to Post Secondary Education and Adult Basic Education, a rally at the Vancouver Art Gallery and Cohen Commission to protect wild salmon from open-net fish farms in BC, the Red Umbrella Rally standing up against violence to sex workers, Rock for Reproductive Justice, and many others. I participated in the first day, and many others, at Occupy Victoria, one of the many global protests against inequality this fall, which resulted in the biggest rally in the history of our city and probably the most long-lived. I also attended a Canadian Federation of Students BC skill-building workshop with other members of the CCSS at the UBC Okanogan campus, where I learned a lot, met many key players of BC's Student Movement, and joined the picket line of the Canadian Postal Worker's locked out union; and later the semi-annual general meeting at Vancouver Island University which was even more educational and inspiring.

I traveled back to the Sunshine Coast for Gran's memorial on Thanksgiving Day. Mom and Dad and so many other friends and family from across North America had come, each life profoundly touched by Gran's inextinguishable love and servitude. Uncle John took a leading role in organizing the profound and interactive memorial, and Mom, cousin Allie and I baked a huge amount of desserts for the reception. The hall filled with Gran's friends and family in a deep U shape around a central performing area capped by a display of photographs, paintings, and meaningful belongings from Gran's life. We all watched and listened to the words, songs and prayers of the Sechelt Nation elder who welcomed us, the ministers of various churches and members of other spiritual groups, family, friends, and the united voices of all of the choirs in which Gran had sung. After this moving experience, the family went down to the sea to spread some of the ashes. The dusk was still, bright with the sun's departure, and the pale smooth ripples of the Strait of Georgia blended into the high, feathered clouds of the calm sky without distinction. John and I drummed with the seabird's quiet motet as we each cast flowers and ashes which drifted in peaceful procession to the East. The next day we buried some more ashes at Gran's former home and spiritual retreat of Mountain Song. We enjoyed a Thanksgiving dinner of Cornish game hens at the Gumboot Cafe, thankful to Gran for bringing the extended family together once again, from as far-flung places as Los Angeles and Ottawa.

As soon as I returned to school after this reverent Thanksgiving break it was another election time for me. I had decided to run for an executive position on the CCSS after my interesting and engaging time as the EdCo representative, and I was in competition with two experienced and worthy candidates. I had laryngitis and five exams over the three week campaign period, but by campaigning hard and receiving the huge help, support and advice of so many fellow students and friends – especially Bill, Maureen, Dylan, and Alexah – I won the position by a good margin. The other election results were also very favorable. In my position as Lansdowne Campus Executive I have had the pleasure of working on such projects as working with the College Sustainability Council to offer more fair trade products on campus, helping campus clubs to excel, encouraging students to vote in municipal elections, working towards the use of preferential ballots in CCSS elections and decision making, helping to organize a December 6th Vigil in memory of the Montreal Masacre and in reminder of the need to take action against violence against women, and much more. I am currently co-organizing events to welcome students back to campus for the Winter 2012 semester and our local protest against raising tuition fees as part of a nation-wide Day of Action on February 1st. I encourage you, if you live near a Canadian post-secondary institution which is staging a protest, to join us in demanding a more fair, sustainable society.

On December 3rd, Gran's birthday, I went to the Vancouver Friend's meeting for a Quaker memorial of Gran. Uncle John, Sally, Gran's former boss Fran, and many of Gran's Quaker friends were there to contemplate in silence and speak through inspiration. The following weekend I went back to Vancouver with a jubilant group of progressive students for the 50th Anniversary Convention of the BC NDP. It was an inspiring weekend of conversing, listening to speeches, history and poetry, and voting and having our say on our party's platform and policies, all immersed in the hope and vision of a diversity of progressive people. Most exciting was the fact that the Federal leadership candidates were all present and hopeful of winning our votes. I visited many – although not as many as I would have liked – meet and greets, hospitality suites and pub nights with various candidates and had the opportunity to chat with others at the convention. All nine candidates participated in a town hall forum, answering questions and vying for our support. Ultimately – although proud of the performance, background and values of all the candidates – I decided to support Nathan Cullen as my first choice based on his stellar participation in the debate, my engaging personal conversations with him, his outstanding track record of standing up for the environment, his obvious electability, and my research into his policy visions.

After all of my exams were over I ended my first semester off of the Honour Roll due to a C+ in the intensive – and first – Physics course which I had taken which had included a three hour cumulative exam worth 50% of my grade, despite having achieved A+ in all my other courses. I caught an overnight bus to Princeton for Christmas, where a big hug from Grumpa greeted me as I descended out of the bus into the cold and snow-laden pioneer town. We drove to the little house with the string of Christmas lights and a little decorated pine tree from up the hill where Nana greeted us at 5 in the morning and we all went to bed for a few hours. I had, as usual, a lovely and relaxing stay, playing crib with Nana and having long talks over long walks with Grumpa around the airport on the white trails which stretched toward the distant rolling hills and mountains like a brush-stroke through smoke-plumes of long, unburied grass in a Zen winter landscape. On Christmas Eve Nana put the turkey in the oven and I went with her to the snow-enshrined church, leaving Grumpa, grateful of the excuse, home to baste the bird. Nana played the organ for the service of carols which ended with a candle-lit chorus of “Silent Night.” We returned home in Nana's friend's classic old car on a route scenic with lights to a wonderful dinner, and put presents under the tree to exchange the next morning. The day after Boxing Day I caught the bus, train and ferry to the Sunshine Coast through Vancouver, and Uncle John met me as I disembarked from the ferry in Langdale. We drove to his place through the dark and blinding rain and built a fire in the little cabin on the wooded stream bank. We reminisced over photos and documents that he'd found in Gran's house, talked of politics and religion, and visited with Champak, Aunty Shendra, Uncle Rick and Alice. On New Year's Eve we met Aunty Mary and her pilot boyfriend, Kent, who had flown over from Victoria, at Hale's place for a marvelous dinner and visit.

As 2011 passed in the procession of years, I reviewed what I anticipate 2012 to bring. My intention is to continue to work hard at what will be an extremely busy and inspiring semester as I work to serve the students of Camosun and leave a lasting legacy for them during the rest of my term on the Student Society while I study Archeology, Social Systems and the Environment, Cultural Anthropology, Geography of Cities, and Atmosphere and Biosphere. After that I will have graduated from Camosun with an Associate of Arts degree in Anthropology, and will return to Ottawa to prepare for my next adventure. This, I have decided, will be something which I have waited very long to do: the age-old pilgrimage across northern Spain to Santiago de Compostela. This is a journey which has called to me since I first heard of its existence, an 800 kilometer walk from the French side of the Pyrenees to Santiago where the relic of the Apostle James has been visited for twelve hundred years, then on to Finisterre, “The End of the Earth,” which has been a destination of pilgrims since the religion of the ancient Celts worshiped Europe. To give you some idea of the feelings, more than the expectations, that I have for this trip, I'd recommend this clip which I have watched hundreds of times over the past few years: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDOTJHbwRj4. I am hoping to leave my time in Europe as open to exploration as my bank account will allow, then return back to Ottawa to work until I can afford to transfer to UBC or UVic to complete my bachelor’s degree in Anthropology.

On the morning of 2012 we rose and bid Uncle John goodbye, and Hale drove Kent, Mary and I out to the airport. The former pilot and air mechanic observed the Cessna that Kent was borrowing, and soon we were waving goodbye to him as he grew smaller and smaller bellow us, standing next to his 1975 Mercedes Volkswagon. We flew out over the pink and gold Salish Sea, the texture of opaque glass, toward the silk screened Gulf Islands beneath the strong and distant mountains, enrobed in snow. It felt, as we flew into the New Year, that we were half way between the veil of the pink sea and the veil of the silken clouds, each broken by pin-pricks of magnificently blinding gold which told of the sacred mysteries of the profound depth and eternal height between which we were suspended with immaculate balance....

May 2012 bring peace and beauty to you and yours.


Bradley Clements
Victoria, BC