Category: Journeys

Sometimes surreal, even mystical events occur in our lives. It does not matter if you call them miracles, coincidences, or just episodes of sheer luck; whatever you call them, they can and will happen. While many have probably happened in my life, I hardly remember them because they did not affect me very much. However, there is one vivid event that will never leave my mind.

Every story and every journey should start right at the beginning. However, I feel like introducing this particular journey with one of the most mystical events of that entire pilgrimagem, and maybe of my entire life. It was so surreal and wonderful that I penned a poem to describe it.

If you don’t think that is weird, then you should know that I am an engineer by education and a planner by trade. I am not a poet by any means. I think the last poem I wrote was something silly when I was a kid and the last time I had thought up a poem was probably a dirty limerick or a stupid haiku. Prose does not come naturally to me.

I summarized my experience on paper, but could not convey all that I wished into the paragraphs. I told people about it, but nearly all of those who heard me could not truly appreciate what I had gone through.

One day I just took pen to paper and began writing. Soon it became a poem, and I fiddled with it many times before I felt it was decent enough to show somebody. I don’t actually know if it is any good, but here it is in all of its glory.

Ten Strangers

I once walked in the north of Spain,
On paths through mountains high.
Very soon it began to rain,
And I could not stay dry.

The ice-cold drops soaked through my clothes,
Freezing me to my core.
Since this was the path I had chose,
I carried on my chore.

With every little step I made,
Towards the mountaintop,
My heart grew more and more afraid,
But now I could not stop.

The road went on ever higher,
The air grew cold and grey.
What madness drove me like fire,
To walk on this dark day?

The fierce winds howled from every side,
As rain transformed to snow.
Under which the road would hide,
Masking the way to go.

At any time I could stumble,
Down the valley below.
Where body and soul would crumble,
Beneath the powdered snow.

At the peak of my hopelessness,
There loomed ahead of me:
Ten strangers, no more and no less,
Which no one else could see.

Black coats they wore, no hoods to shroud,
Their long dark flowing hair.
They all stood tall and strong and proud,
Amidst the swirling air.

Cautiously I had made my way,
Towards that forlorn group.
And then the sight I saw that day,
Would throw me in a loop.

For they were not people at all,
But horses wild and black.
And when I caused my eyes to fall,
I found the hidden track.

Lying under the snow I saw,
The dark road leading on.
That strange herd had started a thaw,
But now they all had gone.

No sooner had the horses fled,
The storm began anew.
And once more feelings of dread,
Within my heart had grew.

And though the way forward was lost,
With danger here once more;
Far, yet visible through the frost,
Ten spirits from before.

Joy and hope they had brought to me,
Both growing as I neared.
Soon I would finally be free,
Of this blizzard I feared.

At last I came within arm's reach,
Of the horse at the back.
After a word of silent speech,
It fled from false attack.

I raised my hand in disbelief,
To check if they were real.
That I did not learn, to my grief,
No chance for me to feel.

Once again the blizzard renewed
Its harsh assault with glee;
I felt wind like needles intrude,
Through coat and through me.

Before despair could fill my mind,
To me was given hope.
The Ten returned ere I went blind,
Over an edge or slope.

For the third time they guided me,
Away from doom and harm.
And to show respect to these free
Souls I raised not my arm.

Once again I approached close by,
And they left as before.
Up and away they seemed to fly,
Till I saw them no more.

When again they had fled, the sky cleared,
But just a little bit.
On brink of sight the path appeared,
As weather would permit.

Away from road the path did climb,
To the heavens above.
At least it was well-marked this time,
Which I was in need of.

I stepped off-road on well-worn tracks,
Glad I was not astray.
However I could not relax,
Further to go this day.

Though I struggled through knee-high drifts
Of snow from days gone by,
My mind went back to those great deeds
I saw with my own eye.

The sheer wonder of ten horses
Guiding me in a storm,
Holding fast against dire forces,
My mind could scarcely form.

Not only did they comfort me
Just by their being there,
They gave me the power to see
Through tempestuous air.

Memories of the Ten Strangers
Will be with me always,
For they saved me from great dangers,
And deserve so much praise.

Our Search for the Mystical

My journey through the northwest of Spain was full of adventures, wild weather phenomena, and unlikely encounters. However, the meeting with the horses was nearly beyond my comprehension, and certainly beyond my expectations. Whether they were there by coincidence or by divine providence, I cannot say for sure. I only know that I am thankful for their presence.

Mystical experiences were not really on my mind when I set out on this journey. I just wanted to go on a little adventure. But I think many people, myself included, sometimes hope that something happens to them (something positive, of course). It may not be a mystical experience they seek, but if they want to win the lottery, or find a good-looking partner, or travel to the most remote locales, then it could be that they want something beyond their current experiences, either real or imagined.

These to me could easily be mystical experiences. When these happen we can hardly believe that they happened, and that they happened to us. They fire up our emotions and stir our imaginations. We can barely believe our good fortune, and may even wonder if we deserve to enjoy these turn of events. These manifestations of our deepest wishes coming to life are beyond explanation, and our thoughts drift to supernatural or spiritual causes.

Of course there is a dark side to mysticism. The allure of realms beyond our own could swallow us entirely. We could rely on it too much, to the detriment of our other faculties and abilities. We could hope for things that may never happen, leaving us living in a state of limbo. And we might summon something that we did not want at all, like a demon instead of a genie.

A Story to Tell

I did not dwell on my mystical experience during my journey; I merely continued my walk through the mountains to the sea. However, by not seeking something beyond myself I was able to find things that I could not obtain in my everyday life, and I hope to tell you the tale.

Little by little I will tell the full tale of my first ever pilgrimage, and will be sure to include many pictures and maps. I don’t know how many hours I’ve spent on Google Map trying to find every street and unmarked dirt path I took to Santiago and beyond. I still can’t believe that I made that journey, even as I completed longer walks since then.

Come join me as I recount the deeds performed by this (self-proclaimed) average Canadian suburbanite man as he travelled from city to city in a foreign country with nothing but the shoes on his feet and the clothes on his back.

Some time after I returned from a journey in Spain (of which I will definitely talk about in the future), I wrote down everything I did there in as much detail as I could. After doing so I found that there was an incredible story to tell.

There was a problem, however. I did not know how to write a good story. I could hardly tell the story properly to my own family. The more I felt that this journey would be an awesome book, the further away that goal seemed to me.

To educate myself I bought a few books, including Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, The Americanization of Edward Bok by Edward Bok, and The Hero With a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell.

The first book includes “some instructions on writing and on life” as the author puts it. The second is an autobiography of the author, a Dutch boy who grew up in America in the late 19th century, became the editor of the Ladies’ Home Journal for 30 years, and coined the term “living room”. Why I thought this book would help me write better may become more evident later.

The last book compares mythologies and stories from all over the world, and the author describes the archetypal story behind them as “the hero’s journey. Though it was the most wordy out of the three books it also sparked an understanding of my own journey that has not left me to this day.

(An Amusing Aside)

While this little story has nothing to do with journeys or story writing, it did involve the book The Hero With a Thousand Faces (for reasons unconnected to the contents of the book itself).

I once went on a date with a girl whom I met on a matchmaking site. I don’t call them “dating” sites, since they don’t set up the dates for you. As an aside to an aside, I might pay for a service (once to try it out) that set you up on an actual date with a verified person.

Anyway, back on topic (sort of). The date was nothing special, and neither was she. However, she was just good looking enough and just interesting enough for me to keep the conversation going. At some point the topic of books came up, and this particular book was mentioned somehow. All of a sudden her face was filled with awe and wonder. She could not believe I had read the whole thing, and of my own volition!

Days afterwards she would periodically text how crazy and amazing it was that I had read the book. Considering she turned down my request for a second date, I have to wonder if I dodged a bullet here. I mean, if the most amazing thing about someone is that they read a book, then you probably don’t really care all that much about them.

The Hero’s Journey

Many stories follow the same general outline. It does not matter if they happen in space, like Star Wars, or a magical school like Hogwarts in the Harry Potter series. The hero can be a street urchin, like in Aladdin, a heroine like in Mulan, or entirely non-human, like in Kung Fu Panda. The stories can be older than dirt, like many cultural myths, or so new they are still in theatres.

These stories are told in sensational and entertaining ways. However, at the heart of each story is a mirror showing us our very human conditions. The mirror reflects our struggles and our successes, our trials and tribulations. We don’t need to be bitten by a radioactive spider to understand Peter Parker’s struggle to remain a regular high school kid while trying to beat up the bad guys as Spider-Man. No one needs to unplug us from the Matrix to feel Neo’s utter shock and disbelief when he uses his real eyes for the first time. Our own life journeys have prepared us for this understanding of being human.

Other websites describe the Hero’s Journey, or Monomyth as Campbell calls it, in much better detail than I care to do. Here is one of those sites. There are also handy diagrams describing the journey available online.

A Pilgrim’s Journey

I certainly do not think of myself as a hero by any means. However, whether I like it or not I was the protagonist of a journey that seemed to follow many of the stages described in the Monomyth.

My pilgrimage in Spain to Santiago de Compostela was quite the trip. Danger lurked behind every bush as I navigated the unknown. Strangers helped me along the way, on two legs and on four. I fought against the elements and against guardians, on two legs and on four. I found myself in pits of despair, both physical and spiritual. It seemed that I would never get out.

However, I transformed during my journey. I learned and adapted. A friendship developed in the wilderness between two pilgrims. Reassured about my faith and my purpose, I arrived at my destination a changed man. In fact, I went further than needed, and found peace at the end of the world. When I returned to society I found myself alone even amidst many people. My experience gave me a different view of both loneliness and good company. From a dark deep place I had brought back courage and self-reliance, treasures that I will never let go. Plus I now have a great story to tell everyone!

I never expected to do more than walk a lot and see a few interesting sights. Being tested in the manner of a hero was never on my radar. But it was one of the great adventures of my life which I will always keep close to my heart. The experience cannot be bought, and cannot be imitated. However, I am sure that we all have grand excursions in our own lives, and the ordeals we face therein have nurtured us and strengthened us.

The Primitive Way

This is not a call to return to nature, but the name of the route (actually one of the routes) that I took during my pilgrimage. The route is called the Camino Primitivo in Spanish.

In the next few posts I hope to present my story. Though some elements may seem embellished, everything is true. I hope you will join me on my quest to educate, entertain, and endear you to another world in the northwest of Spain.