Beautiful walking
This mouse found it’s burrow about twenty metres from where my boots frightened it.
Village laneway in Galicia, only old people live here, no schools, no kids, tidy without a sound.
Gas lights designed in 1832, now electrical. The royal crown seven years into that reign.
Planning permission denied
Galicia and the walking trails of the Camino heading to the shell lower left, Santiago de Compostella
Cafe con leche
Not with a bang, the end of Camino el Norte and joining Camino Frances
Eucalyptus plantations on our Camino in Galicia
Camino Frances
Since joining the Camino Frances, we have seen more pilgrims in one day than in 17 days on the northern Camino
About noon, as the mist is lifting, Camino Frances
Baby, I’ve been watching you.
Watching every thing you do,
And I just can’t stop that feeling
Your slipping away from me …
Max Merrit sometime in the 70s.
The Generalissimo lacks motivation and not because he spends all day expelling gas. Loud, noisy, windy, he is jet propelled into the future by a stomach that is so repellent it has its own energy production.
Few people can manage time in his presence, most prefer to run away, fear in their eyes, pockets empty of coins and anything bright. They see Jabba the Hut, I see an apology.
Once again I have a secret mission, this time Gonzo accompanies me, I know he is a spy and a two timing donkey. The Generalissimo knows this but he is tired, doesn’t care and is worn out.
I have 60 km left to my original destination Santiago de Compostella and beyond that is the end of the world, Finisterre.
This is where I am heading to burn my possessions’ and change my own future and swim naked in the sea. By completing these traditions, I will be able to sit with others who have accomplished a Camino and be accepted into the fraternity of love that joins us. Secrets will be revealed and useless information about each other’s home addresses will be swapped.
No-one visits Tasmania without a reason.
There is a time to visit and a time for decision and revision, my mission is a journey of change that must be accepting of the Generalissimo’s conditions. His age and lack of reason, his infirmity and over consumption of beans. His wanderlust is no more, he cannot get into anyone’s pants or lead an army. This is the end at Finisterre, but first I have to find a path through the city and seek the certificates from the cathedral. I am tired, my feet hurt and I still have 60 kms to go.
The Alberges are full of subversives, silent lonely nationalities from Europe and South America. Those that recognize each other meet furtively in the bars in the surrounding area. The lonely sit by themselves near the kitchen.
During the nights woman and men suppress their gases into bleats but not their physical urges. These come as grunts and giggles and slapping sounds, the beds rock and roll, then a loud sigh and silence.
The nights are cheap in the Alberges some by donation, some free, some six euros ($10), sleeping is exhausting, I am intent on preserving my sanity, so have chosen the monasteries, they are quieter, food is delivered to the room, if desired and the sleeping is on good mattresses, clean sheets and undisturbed. That happiness costs three stars or more.
I am now closer to my journeys end. My patience is resolving, the Generalissimo can comprehend that he needs to press buttons on his mobile to make it work and that an ATM will not recognise him without a plastic card placed inside it, to turn it on.
A poetess siren joined us yesterday, a Californian, so we walked and talked and listened to Mozart and Shubert as we wandered aimlessly around for 22 kms. I could tell the lies she told were in her eyes.
Finally she found us lodgings but has promised to go on a complete blinder in Santiago and climb the outside of the Cathedral with us. The Generalissimo will not be allowed near the equipment, he will be hoisted up and down in a basket, sober or not.
It is an understanding that on the hill of joy overlooking Santiago we must shed ourselves of all the burdens we have. I shall probably abandon the Generalissimo to an asylum either political or mental, as long as they use electric shock therapy. Whether he will lead the Pilgrims on the long march to Finisterre is problematic, there are just too many … miracles are needed, fishes and loaves, wine and musical enticements. The Greeks are rebellious and the Dutch absent.
There is a German, called the man on time, he has booked every part of his journey, he leaves at 9 am every day, walks precisely to his next bed and drinks two beers. Today Oct 30th, his life fell apart, daylight saving ended in Spain. It was shattering over breakfast as he realized that 8 was 9 or ten.
So he waited, perplexed, his organised life, slipping away.
A methodical German is a wonder, this was not wonderful, sad and by himself, he tried to resolve time, but something had come loose from his body clock and tick was not tock.
To be continued…
*Greg James is a malcontent capitalist. He has employed (and fired) a lot of people and spawned many business opportunities for himself and others. Some have been wild successes and some abject failures. Greg refuses to accept that Tasmania is second rate, it is only the people who occupy it who are second rate. Greg is a self and state educated owner-operator. He has been Chairman and President of State and Federal organizations, has owned a gay bar, built a suburb and wasted his life hoping that others around him would see the light as he see it. His brain is addled, his motives suspect and age has caught up with a life well lived. He writes about himself in the third person.
