SANTIAGO TALES
A journey in search of love
Beth is a woman whose life is falling apart; there are problems with her marriage, her career is in the doldrums and her health is not good. When she discovers her husband has been leading a double life she realises she has to get away from the cosy village life where everyone knows your business and spend some time alone. She decides to do something she has never done before. She embarks on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.
As Beth walks the five hundred miles across the north of Spain she is tested both physically and emotionally. She reaches the depths of despair and feels like giving up but then she meets other pilgrims—a soldier injured in Afghanistan, a woman who is looking for her lost son, a devout nun, a widower who thinks his life is over and many others—and each one has a tale to tell. Everyone has a secret in their life.
When she arrives in Santiago de Compostela, five weeks later, she realises that the journey has changed her in a way she never expected.
‘Joan Fallon's new book, Santiago Tales, lets you walk 790 kilometres in the shoes of a modern-day pilgrim on the ancient Way of St. James across northern Spain. Her book illuminates the entire experience, from bedbugs and blisters to the camaraderie of the hostels and long days of solitude and contemplation. A must read for anyone considering walking the Camino, or for armchair travellers who want to immerse themselves in the 1000-year-old traditions of this spiritual journey.’ Karen McCann, author of ‘Dancing in the Fountain’
Available in paperback from most on-line bookstores and as an ebook from:
www.amazon.co.uk
www.amazon.com
Click here for a PREVIEW
A journey in search of love
Beth is a woman whose life is falling apart; there are problems with her marriage, her career is in the doldrums and her health is not good. When she discovers her husband has been leading a double life she realises she has to get away from the cosy village life where everyone knows your business and spend some time alone. She decides to do something she has never done before. She embarks on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.
As Beth walks the five hundred miles across the north of Spain she is tested both physically and emotionally. She reaches the depths of despair and feels like giving up but then she meets other pilgrims—a soldier injured in Afghanistan, a woman who is looking for her lost son, a devout nun, a widower who thinks his life is over and many others—and each one has a tale to tell. Everyone has a secret in their life.
When she arrives in Santiago de Compostela, five weeks later, she realises that the journey has changed her in a way she never expected.
‘Joan Fallon's new book, Santiago Tales, lets you walk 790 kilometres in the shoes of a modern-day pilgrim on the ancient Way of St. James across northern Spain. Her book illuminates the entire experience, from bedbugs and blisters to the camaraderie of the hostels and long days of solitude and contemplation. A must read for anyone considering walking the Camino, or for armchair travellers who want to immerse themselves in the 1000-year-old traditions of this spiritual journey.’ Karen McCann, author of ‘Dancing in the Fountain’
Available in paperback from most on-line bookstores and as an ebook from:
www.amazon.co.uk
www.amazon.com
Click here for a PREVIEW
|
SPANISH VERSION
|
Read an extract
Chapter 1
For a moment Beth thinks she is back in the hospital, the bed is hard and there is that constant undercurrent of people murmuring and the noise of doors opening and slamming shut. She opens her eyes, and blinks, trying to take in the surroundings.
No, not the hospital, now it comes back to her. She is in Spain and she is on her own; for the first time in her life she is travelling alone. There is no Joe to accompany her, to laugh and joke and make the journey easier. Where is he today, she wonders. What is he doing? A wave of bitterness hits her and she can feel the bile churn in her stomach. He is probably busy with the bloody Test Match, as usual.
She sits up and looks around her. The room is spartan, clean and freshly painted; the floor is tiled in black and white squares. She is on the bottom bunk of one of two sets of bunk-beds that are cordoned off from the rest of the accommodation by a couple of partitions, one on each side. The man in the bed next to her is already up and dressed; he is lacing his boots, carefully winding the cord around his ankle and tying it in a double knot.
‘Hi, hope I didn’t disturb you,’ he says with a lazy smile. ‘I want to get off early, before the hordes.’
He has an American drawl.
She realises it is barely dawn, yet, just out of sight, people are already moving, stretching, coughing and making those early morning sounds that are so universal.
‘Not really. It sounds as though everyone is already awake so I might as well get up as well,’ she replies.
‘You’ll see, it’s better to get on the road at first light; it’s cooler for a start.’
‘I’m not tempted to lie in, anyway,’ she tells him. ‘This bed is as hard as a board.’
‘Not exactly the Ritz, is it,’ he says.
She watches him stuff his sheet and pillowcase into his rucksack, roll up his sleeping bag and strap it on top, then hitch the whole pack onto his back.
‘Buen camino,’ he says and is gone.
‘Buen camino, have a good walk,’ she hopes that will be true. Right now she has doubts about the wisdom of her actions. It had all seemed so straightforward when she was planning it at home. She and Joe were experienced walkers; besides walking the length and breadth of England over the years, they had spent hiking holidays in the Pyrenees, gone hill climbing in Wales and, before she became sick, had been considering walking in Nepal. So the Camino de Santiago had seemed just another trip, no more difficult than any other. The only difference is that now she is doing it on her own.
She has been meticulous in her preparation, building up the strength in her legs by walking ten kilometres a day and occasionally fitting in a longer walk of thirty kilometres. Sometimes she drove over to Exmoor and walked across the moor; on other days she walked along the coastal path or took the country lanes into Barnstaple. She feels ready for whatever this trip could throw at her. But there was one aspect to which she has not given much consideration: the fact that she might wake up in a room full of complete strangers.
She sits up and looks around her. The room is spartan, clean and freshly painted; the floor is tiled in black and white squares. She is on the bottom bunk of one of two sets of bunk-beds that are cordoned off from the rest of the accommodation by a couple of partitions, one on each side. The man in the bed next to her is already up and dressed; he is lacing his boots, carefully winding the cord around his ankle and tying it in a double knot.
‘Hi, hope I didn’t disturb you,’ he says with a lazy smile. ‘I want to get off early, before the hordes.’
He has an American drawl.
She realises it is barely dawn, yet, just out of sight, people are already moving, stretching, coughing and making those early morning sounds that are so universal.
‘Not really. It sounds as though everyone is already awake so I might as well get up as well,’ she replies.
‘You’ll see, it’s better to get on the road at first light; it’s cooler for a start.’
‘I’m not tempted to lie in, anyway,’ she tells him. ‘This bed is as hard as a board.’
‘Not exactly the Ritz, is it,’ he says.
She watches him stuff his sheet and pillowcase into his rucksack, roll up his sleeping bag and strap it on top, then hitch the whole pack onto his back.
‘Buen camino,’ he says and is gone.
‘Buen camino, have a good walk,’ she hopes that will be true. Right now she has doubts about the wisdom of her actions. It had all seemed so straightforward when she was planning it at home. She and Joe were experienced walkers; besides walking the length and breadth of England over the years, they had spent hiking holidays in the Pyrenees, gone hill climbing in Wales and, before she became sick, had been considering walking in Nepal. So the Camino de Santiago had seemed just another trip, no more difficult than any other. The only difference is that now she is doing it on her own.
She has been meticulous in her preparation, building up the strength in her legs by walking ten kilometres a day and occasionally fitting in a longer walk of thirty kilometres. Sometimes she drove over to Exmoor and walked across the moor; on other days she walked along the coastal path or took the country lanes into Barnstaple. She feels ready for whatever this trip could throw at her. But there was one aspect to which she has not given much consideration: the fact that she might wake up in a room full of complete strangers.
Read an extract
She stops and sits down by the edge of the path, dropping her rucksack beside her. Her shoulders ache and the straps of the rucksack are cutting into her skin. She rubs them gingerly.
There is no-one about, neither in front of her nor behind. She has been so absorbed in her own thoughts that she has not been watching for the waymarks. It is a lonely place, the Meseta and disorientating. She checks the map in her guidebook. Surely the sun should be over her left shoulder but, if anything, it is to her right. Has she taken a wrong turn? Surely not. She is puzzled. She is certain she has kept to the path. She looks around her; it is difficult to get her bearings. Everything looks the same, whichever way she turns; the scorched landscape never changes, it runs out to the horizon in every direction. The heat presses down, flattening her like a smoothing iron. She can hardly breathe; the air is so hot and dry it is searing her lungs. She feels that the blood in her veins is turning to vapour. Any minute now she will desiccate and drift away like the dry husks of corn that surround her. She drinks the last of her water and unlaces her boots. Her feet are swollen and bruised from the hard earth. She rubs them with some cream and replaces her socks but it is hard to get her boots on again. She tugs and tugs at them but her protesting feet refuse to be encased.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she swears aloud in exasperation. ‘Why on earth did I come on this God forsaken pilgrimage?’
Tears of self pity trickle down her cheeks. No movement stirs the still air; there is not the whisper of a breeze to relieve the heaviness. She looks up at the sky and sees a buzzard circling far above her. Or is it the vultures again? Maybe Fran was right. Maybe this one is waiting for her to die and then he can swoop down and strip the flesh from her bones. She shudders at the thought. Death seems to be forever present in this land. She should have listened to Dr Michael; she is not strong enough for this. She vows that if she ever makes it back to civilization, she will get the next bus out of here.
She pulls at the laces until they are completely slack and tries once more to put her boots back on. This time she succeeds. She stands up but her feet are painful. Well, painful or not, she cannot sit here in the middle of nowhere for ever. She has to decide which way to go. She scratches her leg. The bites hurt as well as itch. She wishes she had waited for Fran this morning but she had been in such a hurry to get away. Now she could do with some company, someone to talk to, someone to tell her which way to go.
Ahead of her she can see the crossing of two paths through the field of stubble. Is it just a break in the corn or is it a crossroads? She is not sure. She hesitates. In the distance she can just make out the shape of a tall figure, walking due west. She checks the sun again. Yes, if she follows him the sun will be over her left shoulder again; she should be back on track. She veers right and sets off after the ghostly figure. At first she quickens her pace, hoping to catch up with him, but every time she thinks she has him within shouting distance, he seems to speed up and she is left trailing behind once more.
He does not look like a farmer and there are no sign of sheep, so he cannot be a shepherd. She is sure that he is a pilgrim; she can see his staff, one of the old fashioned kind, long and with a hook at the end, nothing like her own walking poles, of shiny aluminium with their leather loops. He wears a wide brimmed hat and a cloak, or poncho, she cannot get close enough to tell which. Either way it seems strange in this heat. He must be roasting.
The sight of this strange figure in the distance is oddly comforting. She follows him for an hour and then discovers, to her delight, that she is back on the Camino. The usual blue and gold waymarks are there to direct her. She wants to cry with relief. The pilgrim must have quickened his pace because he is no longer in sight. After a while she comes to the Arroyo San Bol and sits down to rest by a stream. Here there is a patch of dense shade made by the overhanging branches of a small grove of poplar trees. It is wonderful to be out of the relentless sun for a while. She pulls out her guidebook and checks how far she has travelled; she cannot believe she has only come six kilometres since she started this morning. It is now obvious to her that she had wandered a long way off track. The burble of running water is cool, refreshing music to her ears and she stretches out in the shade and falls asleep.
There is no-one about, neither in front of her nor behind. She has been so absorbed in her own thoughts that she has not been watching for the waymarks. It is a lonely place, the Meseta and disorientating. She checks the map in her guidebook. Surely the sun should be over her left shoulder but, if anything, it is to her right. Has she taken a wrong turn? Surely not. She is puzzled. She is certain she has kept to the path. She looks around her; it is difficult to get her bearings. Everything looks the same, whichever way she turns; the scorched landscape never changes, it runs out to the horizon in every direction. The heat presses down, flattening her like a smoothing iron. She can hardly breathe; the air is so hot and dry it is searing her lungs. She feels that the blood in her veins is turning to vapour. Any minute now she will desiccate and drift away like the dry husks of corn that surround her. She drinks the last of her water and unlaces her boots. Her feet are swollen and bruised from the hard earth. She rubs them with some cream and replaces her socks but it is hard to get her boots on again. She tugs and tugs at them but her protesting feet refuse to be encased.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she swears aloud in exasperation. ‘Why on earth did I come on this God forsaken pilgrimage?’
Tears of self pity trickle down her cheeks. No movement stirs the still air; there is not the whisper of a breeze to relieve the heaviness. She looks up at the sky and sees a buzzard circling far above her. Or is it the vultures again? Maybe Fran was right. Maybe this one is waiting for her to die and then he can swoop down and strip the flesh from her bones. She shudders at the thought. Death seems to be forever present in this land. She should have listened to Dr Michael; she is not strong enough for this. She vows that if she ever makes it back to civilization, she will get the next bus out of here.
She pulls at the laces until they are completely slack and tries once more to put her boots back on. This time she succeeds. She stands up but her feet are painful. Well, painful or not, she cannot sit here in the middle of nowhere for ever. She has to decide which way to go. She scratches her leg. The bites hurt as well as itch. She wishes she had waited for Fran this morning but she had been in such a hurry to get away. Now she could do with some company, someone to talk to, someone to tell her which way to go.
Ahead of her she can see the crossing of two paths through the field of stubble. Is it just a break in the corn or is it a crossroads? She is not sure. She hesitates. In the distance she can just make out the shape of a tall figure, walking due west. She checks the sun again. Yes, if she follows him the sun will be over her left shoulder again; she should be back on track. She veers right and sets off after the ghostly figure. At first she quickens her pace, hoping to catch up with him, but every time she thinks she has him within shouting distance, he seems to speed up and she is left trailing behind once more.
He does not look like a farmer and there are no sign of sheep, so he cannot be a shepherd. She is sure that he is a pilgrim; she can see his staff, one of the old fashioned kind, long and with a hook at the end, nothing like her own walking poles, of shiny aluminium with their leather loops. He wears a wide brimmed hat and a cloak, or poncho, she cannot get close enough to tell which. Either way it seems strange in this heat. He must be roasting.
The sight of this strange figure in the distance is oddly comforting. She follows him for an hour and then discovers, to her delight, that she is back on the Camino. The usual blue and gold waymarks are there to direct her. She wants to cry with relief. The pilgrim must have quickened his pace because he is no longer in sight. After a while she comes to the Arroyo San Bol and sits down to rest by a stream. Here there is a patch of dense shade made by the overhanging branches of a small grove of poplar trees. It is wonderful to be out of the relentless sun for a while. She pulls out her guidebook and checks how far she has travelled; she cannot believe she has only come six kilometres since she started this morning. It is now obvious to her that she had wandered a long way off track. The burble of running water is cool, refreshing music to her ears and she stretches out in the shade and falls asleep.