Camino del Norte

by Sam Heeremans –

Wanderer, there is no road
You make the road by walking.
– Antonio Machado

Gloomy days beget a little life reflection. I bought a pumpkin a few days ago for extra reflection vibes in my room. While I’ve just lit my candles, questioned myself twice whether to turn on the heat or not, and considered starting to search for my slippers, I realized I had finally liberated myself from my summerly need to be in action. While my stew is simmering on the stove, I can peacefully dwell on memories of springtime, Northern Spain, and walking the Camino del Norte.

As a just-graduated, unknowing anthropologist, I sought out a ritual that could provide me with meaning. Who am I? What should I do? Where to seek purpose? I felt a need to slow down, to silence the city noise that got into my body and brain. I felt the urge to walk, far and long. As I was fitting hiking shoes in a shop without an exact plan, a woman my age sat next to me. She shared that she was about to walk the Camino. My head was already in Kathmandu, but why go far if you can just step into a train, step out of it, and go?

As I started the preparation for the Camino, I slowly sank into my brain. As a detached thinking thing, I pottered around the house. I had too much time to prepare—no preoccupations of a job yet. It made me insecure; will my body be able to carry me? And what if it rains? And what if it rains? Help, what if it rains? Finally arriving in San Sebastián, my appetite and the city’s provision to meet it relaxed my brain a little and refocused my attention on my body. 

Irún, March 20th—the actual start. From now on, it is just me, my backpack, the road, and yes, my St. James scallop, the Catholic symbol of the Santiago de Compostela. San Tiago translates to Saint James, who is the saint of the Catholic Camino pilgrims. The lines on the scallop represent the various ways that one can reach the same destination: Santiago de Compostela, and apparently God, too. Attaching the scallop to my backpack felt weird, as I am not Catholic, let alone religious. However, my granddad carried one on his Santiago de Compostela. To feel him closer, I carried one in my backpack.

Initially, my first steps felt as empty as the scallop. I was woken up at 06:30 with traditional Catholic singing. As an established non-Catholic ‘I-am-not-a-morning-person,’ I was not entirely amused. Outside, it rained a little. So, what does one do when it rains? Put on a poncho and walk. Steadily, my sphere of influence became smaller and smaller. And the life to be experienced in front of me became all the more apparent.

Cliffs that dive into the Atlantic right under your feet. Walking upon the grey mud and sand layers that have built up over millions of years, called flysch, portraying themselves as pages of time written in stone, that are crashing into deep, twirling seawaters, does something with your self-perception. Adding up to not seeing a single soul for hours, only having a Spanish fuet and white bread in your bag, and just enough water to keep you sane until the next pueblito gives room for a little conversation with nature, yourself, and your bodily powers. There, with the sea on my right hand and the sun continuously on the left, as I can trust her on rising in the East and lowering in the West, the big question arose: do I have enough toilet paper in my bag?

All jokes aside, the pace of my footsteps felt like what my eyes needed to pour every experience I had on the road directly into my soul.

Maybe spirituality for me, a secularized being, has very little to do with godly St. James experiences. Although when I first saw the flysch, I was very certain something much bigger than me had worked on these formations, I also felt part of the surroundings by carefully placing one foot in front of the other, following the road in front of me. While reaching a peak, feeling the Atlantic wave at me from the other side, I felt my body entangle with my perception and nature itself altogether in that moment in time. After a few moments, I realized I was crying, as if my soul poured over the edge of my body.

It is not that I have the answers to the liminal question, ‘Who am I?’. However, sitting here in my autumn-ready, candle-lit room, I see that the nerves of the scallop did not directly bring me God. They did, however, bring me back into my body. To me, it does not become more spiritual than that.

Sam Heeremans is an alumnus Social and Cultural Anthropology