The road goes ever on...

Last evening I finished re-reading Rachel Joyce's novel 'The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry'. It's a great story, dark at times, but the resolution brings solace. I recommend it.

A long time ago, (and yes, in a land far away) I walked the Via Dolorosa. More recently, I've walked parts of the Pilgrim Way in Kent, the Street of the Dead and the circular Island Pilgrimage on Iona, and the Sentier Cathar in southern France. The William and I regret that we never got over the border to walk the Camino de Santiago, but we do intend to walk at least some of the Tro Breizh.

I've just come in from a very wild - and rather short! - walk with Shadow. Winter in Brittany has not so far produced any crisp white stuff, just lots of rain and even more wind! Not entirely surprisingly, there are only rarely other people out and about. Which reminded me of the first time I visited the States: Austin, Texas, to be precise. When I announced my intention one day of walking into the centre of town for a browse around the shops, my hosts looked at me as if I'd gone mad. 'Nobody walks!' they said. And they were right; nobody, except me, did. But hey, I survived, and I've done lots of walking since then.

But I do sometimes wonder if we walkers are the exception rather than the rule. I don't mean hikers, with all the right gear, striding off into the distance; just ordinary people who like a bit of fresh air and daylight on their skin. What do you think?

Speaking of Iona - another wild and windy place, but full of beauty, and the sense of being at the edge of the world: here's a song I wrote after spending a week there.

The Back of the Ocean

Hear the sound of the wind as it flies across the water,

taste the salt from the spray as it blows into your mouth;

leave the ship at the jetty as you turn toward the village:

Don't look back, don't look back; 

walk the Street of the Dead that led them home.

And the sand is white on the shoreline,

and the stones lie smooth in your hand;

but the shadow falls on ancient walls,

and your soul is lost in this land.

Kneel at the table of the Lords of the island,

lay your tired head on the pillow made of clay;

feel the flutter of a bird as it rises from the shadow:

Don't look back, don't look back;

sing your song and fly out through the door.

And the sand is white on the shoreline,

and the stones lie smooth in your hand;

but the shadow falls on ancient walls

and your heart can't understand.

Hear the tread of the dead as they fly from the chapel,

taste the sand of despair as it rises from your mouth;

see the shell of your heart as it shatters on the altar:

Don't look back, don't look back;

cast your past into the foam...

So the dawn now is rising, a new path lies before you,

and the ferryman is waiting to take you far away;

the Lords of the island will wave you from the jetty:

Don't look back, don't look back;

Travel on, the road will lead you;

Don't look back, don't look back;

Travel on, the road will bring you home.