*Pic: The physical high point, at 854m, downhill from here to Santiago de Compostella
Lost in the morning fog
Life on the walk, German friends needing assistance
Farmer in the field cutting corn stalks
Spider webs in the mist
The road ahead, decisions cannot be made, it’s a journey not a race
The farming along the way, there are chestnuts everywhere
I think he was just going out there for an hour tour and thought better of it
Old markings from last century for the Camino
Old markings
Three snakes either side of a doorway
Amanita musceria, almost ate it … Alice was not around …
Just like Tassie, the locals do the same with their rubbish
15thC bridge
The road ahead …
The mist makes a beautiful mornings walk
From my bed in the hostel (Alberge)
Nasty windmills polluting the electrical lines
The best looking counter I have seen, better than a book burning
Spanish shoes …
Multi gracias a Tom Elliot …
As we head south towards the river of pilgrims knowing that any destination leads on to further roads and decisions … It becomes necessary to control events and manipulate outcomes. Gonzo our donkey is a faithless double spy, who will take off at any opportunity, hill or ditch. He serves us only because we push him and forcefully drag him through our nightmare. Others warn us he is not a good look, yet we cannot do without him carrying our emotional baggage.
The Generalissimo (ret) limps along, sadly a beaten soldier, an example of defeat, charisma in reverse. I have his uniform replaced with common clothing so that no-one can associate him with recent defeats. The two of them do not remind me of the entry into Jerusalem, no hosannas, crowds in ecstasy, that is time past. We move on, an ever-diminishing distance each day, now down to less than 25 km a day.
I attempted to desert but could only stay away one night. Wracked with guilt, my return forced a sardonic smile from the Generalissimo (ret) who ordered me to eat with him in the back of a sawdust restaurant … we ate into the oyster shells. He took me outside into the cold almost dead air and wandered through hostile streets past low-rent hostels and into familiar hostels.
I wanted to ask a question but the room was much too busy, congested with artistic pretension.
Outside the air was full of grit and grime and soot from the household fires and it crept over and into everything. Mixing with the smell of old water, this cold October made me want a rest. The staleness of the air and repeating actions like greeting people who expect my greeting is meaningless. Nothing happens, they ask but don’t listen, I in return ask but don’t listen.
I cannot make up my mind and I think of things to do, yet do nothing. I find solutions, ignore those then make a different decision using other reasoning for the same problems. What is wrong with me. I can do this all morning, while others have casual intelligent conversations which I listen to as they come and go.
I climb stairs to a party and indecision cripples me so I crawl back down the same way. I know people look at me, they see my worn clothes, my thinning hair, how skinny I am.
Nothing happens … my questions remain unanswered. I know these people; I have spent time with them drinking coffee. Yet I know nothing about them. I can recognise voices and songs on the other side of this seedy hotel.
These people judge me, put me in a place, pinned down, caught by their thoughts. But I, like them, know nothing … my life is spent, what can I say?
Some of the ladies are bare-armed, with shawls, I have tried to seduce them unsuccessfully but their scent and light down hair make me want to try again. I can’t raise the energy.
They are not interesting or interested in my rambles through the low noise of the lanes and who I see hanging out of windows and how we waste our time.
My significance is like a crayfish rushing about a kelp forest.
The days run into each other and I sleep in the afternoons. The routine of small parties and tea and cake does not change. I am too shy and unimposing to make changes … my words are not important.
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.
