Fatherly Advice

Finding computers has proved difficult.  In the blog I am not quite in Logrono, but in real life we are in Carrion De Los Condos.  I will include a record of the events between Logorono and Burgos at a later date,  During this period I was sent to Coventry, had a rant against globalisation, played with a woman from Germany, and hung out with a very charming Italian pilot.

Sitting in the square in Burgos, I look up at the the cathedral and notice a couple of storks arriving to lay down the foundations of their new home.  Each is carrying a large twig to place upon the tower.  The first stork places it on the site of the new nest.  Unfortunately the second stork drops it and it falls into the square below.  (I´m assuming it is the male as it is the sort of thing that I would do)

Rather than castigate her mate, the female gives her mate a stork kiss and is forgiven for his clumbsiness

I am waiting for Tom to arrive from Bilboa.  When he does enter the square, I shout out his name very loudly, run up to him and give him a hug.

Later when we start walking 10km to the next alburge.  I give my son some fatherly advice.

"You are a pilgrim on the road to Santiago and you are not here to follow in the footsteps of a typical British tourist"

I notice he is not wearing a cap or sunscreen

"The shade and water are your friends and a tan is not necessary"

Tom mentions that he has seen wine for less than 1 Euro in the supermarket

"Walking in the sun with a hangover is no fun"

We later have a conversation with two Austrians who have difficulty understanding the scouse version of English.

"Always try and respect your fellow travellers.  When you wake up in the morning leave the dorm quitely and try to avoid making jokes about others"

Later that evening I go to the local bar, get pissed, return to the dorm noisely, and lie on my side so my sunburnt legs don´t touch the bed

Walking with Friends

Los Arcos to Vijana

Today I walked with Birgette with people hadpassed away, who were too old to walk the Camino and those who had not yet found the time to walk.

We walked with a wonderful teacher and mentor from Montana who would send at least 15 birthday cards a week to former students.

We were joined by asick young danish woman, who would soon find the strength to walk alongside her great friend and step mother.

We welcomed a kind and thoughtful young Cambridge scholar, who had managed to find the strength to recover from her illness and continue her studies.

We said hello to a beautiful and courageous family doctor from Yorkshire, who refused to sit on the fence and always did her best both for her children and her patients

Next came a kind generous old woma,who could make the best black pudding in West Jutland and would always offer food to any vagabond who knocked on her door.

Along the way we bowed to the first Poet Laurette of Birmingham, five wonderful youmg people who were  crossing the threshhold of adulthood, an Icelandic wild horse and a dog that looked a bit like a dingo.

Two Great North American Writers

The first thing I did this morning was to ask Aoife if she was aware of the Road Less Taken by Robert Frost.  I was almost certain she would be faniliar with the poem, and if she wasn´t, I was certain she would welcome the introduction.

After Aoife had presented me with onion, she told me that she had a frustrating day, as she was unable to walk following an accident.  She told me that she wished to train to be an Astrophysicist, but also enjoyed writing.  I asked her to write a poem in the time it took me to go outside and smoke a ciggie.

And she wrote like a demon about her walk to Estrella with her grandfather Jack.  I am limitedto one hour in the internet cafe, so I´m unable to transscribe the whole poem.  i will certainly do this at some later point.

"My granfather walking a lively old bird watcher, Walking the Camino with his little grandaughter"

"together we are quite a sight, the oldest and the youngest, the loudest and the quietest, the fittest and the least prepared"

"Grandfather stopped, as always alert on an ancient bridge to admire a Griffin Vulture, while I stand bored with my arms folded"

Later, on the way into Los Arcos, I encounter the strange sight of Jack and and his son Kurt.  Jack is cycling to Santiago as his son runs alongside him.  We all stay in the same alburge.  At three in the morning, Jack goes downsstairs and sits in the kitchen.  I join him and we chat about his life in Montana and Seattle, about his relationship with his son, and his wife Karen who recently passed away.

I am inspired to write the first poem I´ve written for 40 years

A father riding alongside his son on a pushbike
Their mode of travel deternined by the length of a US vacation
They move together in tandem and harmony
On a journey that is driven by love and faith

I return to bed and two hours later I rejoin Jack, he tells me that he has for the first time expressed his feelings in his note book.

Flying Like an Eagle

Puenta de Reina to Estrella

In the middle of the night, I fell out of bed and somehow managed to karate chop the unfortunate Wolfgang across the throat.  He wasn´t happy but in the morning, he accepted my apology with good humour.

When we arrined in Lorca, I remembered that Estrella was just around the corner and only a couple of kilometres away at most

I remembered incorrectly and it was in fact 7.5 km.  This was the hardest part of the camino so far.  Not only was it further than expected we were to walk through the not so beautiful village of Villatuerta, alongside a motorway and through an industrial estate.

I felt tired and my rucksack seemed to have gained an extra 12 kg, I noticed the pains in my feet, and I no longer was able to walk in harmony alongside Birgette.  She suddenly stopped and pointed out an eagle, soaring in the sky high above us.  We watched it fly past and Birgette sang Fly like an Eagle. My pack felt lighter, the tension in my shoulders disappeared and we able to walk together in tandem.

I was later to learn from Jack an expert ornothogolist from Canada that the bird was probably a Griffin Vulture.

I was slightly frustrated, as I had been unable to find an onion with which to cook the evening meal.  But, Iwas confident that i would meet a wonderful person who would present me with a lovely fresh onion.

The first person I met in Estrella was delghtful young woman called Aoife.  I introduced myself and we chatted about walking with her grandfather, Canadian food and her trip to visit ´her people¨ in Ireland. Within a minute, she was able to present me a lovely fresh onion.  I had told Birgette that i intended to marry the person who gave me the onion, but i don´t think I would have made Aoife happy.

And later she wrote me a fabulous poem.

Storm Trooper Bikers and Cherry Trees

Pamplona to Puenta la Reina

Sitting beneath an ancient pilgrim, I thought about my morning walk out of Pamplona.  I had gone for a coffee with Marcus and  learnt that he would be unable to walk today.  I was sad, as was looking forward to spending the time with him.  I enjoyed meeting Nat and Kurian on the road.  Within an hour I learnt that far too many serial killers had originated from Wisconsin, that Madison had the most restaurants per head of population of any city in the USA and that not everyone from the Mid West didn´t own a passport.  Nat is one of the bravest pilgrims I have met, his determination to reach Santiago will enable him to overcome a number of physical problems.

Lying under that tree, the chitter chatter of song birds was brutally interupted a noisy column of masked storm trooper motorcyclists who headed off down the Camino.

Bastards

They were soon followed by a middle aged couple. I noticed that the man invited the woman to smell the plants and pointed at something up in a tree.  I´m not sure if this was a first date or if they had been undertaking this walk for years. The bikers were soon forgotten

I later climbed a hill with Birgitte, a horse loving, singing dancing woman from the forests of North Jutland.  On our descent we agreed that I would teach her Spanish and in return she would sing.  When we pased a copse of cherry trees she sang Nor Kirseertaesne Blowstrer, a Danish song about the blosooming cherry tree and it´s tales of secret treasure.  In return Birgette learnt how to count to three and the Spanish for drinkable water.

Later I found a lost paisley scarf on the way and jointly we decided that it belonged to a beautiful singing dancing, cooking, warm hearted woman from a small middle European country.  In order to express her gratitiude for finding the scarf she would invite me to her town.  When i arrived at the railway station, i was instructed to follow a trail of yellow chalk drawn arrows that would lead me to her door.

A Dickhead and a Bottler

Today was much harder than I imagined.  At the EasyJet check-in at Manchester Airport, our Tom´s pasport was regarded as invalid due to water damage.  He had to return to Liverpool to get replacement passport, as I made the flight alone to Bilboa.

We were both excited about walking beside one another, jointly producing the blog and meeting the challenges together.  We were both keen to use the time on the camino to reflect on the nature of our relationship and of finding ways of repairing the damage. I knew Tom was angry with me for not spending much time with him when he was an adolscent.  Three years ago he  posted a message on my Facebook wall stating that I was a shit father for not spending time with him: In the 30 minutes we had left before I had to get on the plane we needed to cram in many of the things we intended to say to one another on the camino.

"You are a dickhead and a bottler" was thrown at me.

I normally get angry whan I get called a dickhead.  In this case it was justified.  He did go on to say that he recognised that that was in the past and that we needed to move forwards.  i admired him for being to that, as I have a tendency to hold on to slights, insults and percieved injustices for far too long.

Tom and myself had had a disagreement on the train to the airport but we both listened to the other and were quickly and respectably able to put it behind us.

I know will make a good pilgrim. Last night in the airport he managed to keep up and contribute to a conversation with Catherine from Athens.  She loved speaking English and wanted to practice her English.  I´m generally quite accomodating when people want to this.  But the hours between 12.00 and 3.00am are not the best to explain irregular verbs or sub plot to Wuthering Heights.  Whenever i stepped outside for a ciggie Tom would maintain the conversation.

Catherine told me that she had been staying with her friend in Widnes.  I asked her if she had visited Liverpool.  She hadn´t and had spent an entire fortnight staying at her friends.  The only book, play or song that i am aware of that came out of Widnes is Homeward Bound. Paul Simon was there for less than half an hour and was inspired to write a piece that expresses his desire to get away

Tom would have loved Bilboa.  The previous evening Athletic Bilboa had defeated the mighty manchester United in the Europa League.  It was if the city was waking up after the best ever party, nearly every house was festooned in red and white stripped flags, the chatter in the bar related to the previous nights match and the woman in the Tourist Information gave me a beautiful big smile when I enquired about last night.

"It was the best party ever"

I´ve been to the big week in Bilboa and i know that they know how to party.

Tom is a Liverpool supporter, and it may not be that mature to take delight in the misfortune of others, but he would have loved to have been there.

I realised to today how much I loved my son.  And I look forward to the time when he can come out to Spain and continue our Camino

Come Fly with Me

Tomorrow I will travel to Spain.  The last time I flew to Bilboa from Manchester was the best flight I have ever been and I got stuck in Brussels Airport for more than eight hours

In 1999 I booked a Sabina flight from Manchester to Bilboa via Brussels for myself and my then six year old twins Holly and Patrick.  The flight was delayed leaving Manchester because of NATO exercises over the North Sea and as a consequence, we missed the connecting flight.

I went to the Sabina desk and they issued me with some vouchers for a restaurant back in Terminal 1 which is where we arrived.  In order to return I had to pass by some Belgian Bureaucrat who in informed that

“According EU Regulation 65783452/4F it is not possible to transfer back to a terminal that you earlier arrived at and you will have to remain in Terminal 2”. 

I then marched into one of those 1^st Class Lounges you see at airports, and in a rather manner I demanded that the Sabina representative at the desk should do something about it.  In a very calm way she suggested that I should sit down and she would sort something out for me.

I was taken to heaven, or the closest place to heaven you can get within an airport.  I was asks to sit down in room that that contained the Bang Olufsen TV set I had ever seen and suggested that the children watch CBBC, she brought in sandwiches that tasted as if they were prepared by some Michelin Star chef, and I was informed that I could help myself to anything from the bar.  I have never seen a bar like it, and I have seen quite a few bars.  It contained well over a hundred different bottles of Belgian beer and  wines that they sell at Morrissons

Later a group of bankers, who had just flown in from New York asked me if I would mind changing the channel from Jackonory to Bloomberg.  Suddenly, the Sabina Lady appears and informs the group of bankers that the children have had a long day are happy watching the TV.  This was better than Storming of the Winter Palace and the Paris Commune and was all being conducted by a representative of the Belgian National Airline and Leon, Che or Fidel.

At this point I wanted to marry this woman and would have been prepared to move to Ostend in order to spend the rest of life with her.  I wouldn’t have that surprised if she had agreed.

I vowed that if possible I would always fly with Sabina.  Sadly they went out of business two years later.

Ich bin ein Morgenmuffel

I can only construct one sentence in German that makes any sense. This is disappointing as I studied German for two years at school, my father has been married for over 30 years to Reinhild and I had a very fulfilling relationship with a beautiful, intelligent and compassionate woman from a small town in Germany.

“Ich bin ein Morgenmuffel”

Which translated into English means?

“I am a grumpy, sullen and cantankerous person in the morning”

Anyone who has the dubious pleasure of sharing a bed with me will know that I am certainly not a Morgenmuffel.  Even if I have stayed up until 2 am and drunk more than my fair share 7 year old Havana rum to celebrate my arrival in Wanganui from Heathrow via LA, I will wake up before 6.00am feeling fully energised.  I will bang around the kitchen making coffee, turn on the light in order to search for a cigarette and suggest to my partner that we should drive to the nearest mountain, climb it, have an intense conversation with some random stranger, then find a local vineyard and sample a at least five different types of wine before having a relaxing breakfast of eggs Florentine at The Purple Carrot Café.

The only reason that I studied German was because my mother believed that one would go a long way in life if you could speak more than one language.  She badgered the school into allowing me to join the German class. 

Normally the ‘O’ Level German class at Kings School Pontefract was reserved for those who had shown an aptitude for French. In French, I could tell people how old I was, count to twelve and inform them that my hobbies included rugby, tennis and the weekend.  They didn’t, but it is not difficult to translate those words from French to English.  I was no French scholar and completely out of my depth.

On about week three I was introduced to the word Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung.  At the time I had slight impediment an struggled  to correctly pronounce words of more than two sylabals in my mother tongye.  Whilst, the rest of the class were learning the dative of relatively straghtforward German irregular verbs, I sat at the back of the class looking at pictures of the Muller family shopping in Essen, catching the train to Wuppertal, or holidaying on some island in the North Sea.  I like to think that in the 400 year history of my school, I was the only person to achieve grade U at German O Level.

I’ve been fortunate enough to be the first man in the world to watch the sunrise on Valentines Day on a deserted beach in NZ, whilst in the company of a sexy stunning Kiwi farmgirl., to be taught the basics of the tango in a poorly Beunes Aries night club by a dark and mystereous Argentinian womam, and to witness the sun setting behind the Taj Mahal, whilst in the company of Miss Liverpool University 1981, who was looking for a way out of our relationship

However

I can think of nothing better than slowly waking up next to a German woman (who is neither a goat nor a cow), being presented with a simple breakfast of freshly baked bread and cold Landjäger before taking a leisurely stroll to the German National Museum of Clock making. 

And I am not being ironic as I love being in Germany.

PS I also love the German word ohrwurm and today’s ohrwurm is unfortunately

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8smO4VS9134

PPS I apologise to anyone in Germany if in the title of this post, if I have used the feminine plural dative rather than the masculine singular present.

Hana, Kip and Brian

Please click on the link below

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dp-9C3FDaRY

That instruction was primarily aimed at my father Brian Lewis, who I know will be reading this, but hasn’t yet quite fully understood the potential of modern technology.

After reading my piece on suicidal thoughts he sent me an email in which he states

“I am aware of the problems and understand them as far as it is possible to understand them. I have never thought that your life was other than valuable for although you are one of my own and therefore prejudiced, totally admirable”.

And he later writes

“You are a natural teacher and your job is to work with the poor in spirit and the dispossessed for not to do so is a waste”

My father is a wise and eloquent man who has devoted much of his life to putting in the thought, effort and encouragement to help others make a close inspection of that beautiful fresco high up in an Italian church.  He will also provide the tools to help you to see this more clearly.  The aspect of his work that I admire the most is that he will often do this in a clever and imaginative way.

There are thousands of people from communities such as: Rothwell, Pontefract, Birmingham, Gujarat and beyond, who have benefited from spending time with Brian Lewis.

http://www.pontefractpress.com/

I recently read that

“Nobody gets to Santiago without the help of some other”

That can include: providing a much needed back rub, offering words of encouragement to a tired, injured pilgrim as they struggle to make the final 50 metres to the summit of O Cebriero, or buying a lunch for a financially challenged traveller.

Furthermore, I have yet to meet somebody on the way who has not in someway assisted another traveller to reach Santiago.

I decided to undertake this journey to Santiago just over a month ago.  In a relatively short period I have received: messages of love and support from friends and strangers, much needed financial assistance, the inspiration to write a blog, constructive criticism on my writing, recommendations of books, advice on blisters and much more.

I have not yet stepped out of my front door and I could spend much of the next hour individually listing those people who have so far helped me and I would still omit somebody. 

It feels good to be Hana, to be the beneficiary of an act of love and it also feels good to be Kip to provide the way and means to help another person get to a beautiful place that appears to be impossible to get to.

Dear Mr Cameron

As I walked to the supermarket this morning, I passed a poster which stated “Dear Mr Cameron, You are making a big mistake with the NHS.  Please listen to us.”  I found this inspiring

I returned home and wrote a letter to my family doctor, thanking him for the service he has provided over the past few years.  In this version of the letter I’ve expanded a little on what I did state in the letter.

Dear Doctor

I want to thank you for the support that you have given me over the past few years.  You have always given me the time to express my thoughts and feelings about my condition and you have always listened to me.  You managed to persuade me to take medication, not by adopting an attitude of ‘doctors knows best’ but by presenting the facts to me and allowing me to make my own choices.  When you referred me to a psychiatrist and for counselling you helped me understand the process and you discussed with me the outcomes of the assessment . 

I remember you advising me to go put of the surgery and turn right and take a walk along the Rivlin Valley.  On that occasion, I chose to turn left and return home to sit and stare at the bedroom wall for the remainder of the day.  However, a week or so later I did make the decision to walk towards Mallin Bridge and later this week I will walk 800km towards Santiago.

My mother was a Family Doctor who was very proud to work within in National Health Service in general practice in Pontefract.  She was principled woman, who refused to sit on the fence and was well known for speaking her mind in order to get best care for her patients.  There were many a consultant at Pinderfields and St James who had messages left at their golf clubs, questioning what they were doing with regard to her patients.  I was brought up to question authority, but I trust your judgement and I won’t do that.  My mother is no longer here, but I am sure she would have approved of the way you have met my medical needs.

Thank you 

Best wishes
John

I know a bit about the way health care is delivered in the US, and I know enough to be certain that you would not benefit from  the quality of service that I recieved within the NHS.

"I'll Even Shave Your Pubes for a Tenner"

If you are ever in Sheffield and require a haircut, I suggest that you pay a visit to get the tram to Hillsborough, and go to Dave’s Barber’s Shop on Holme Lane.  It appears to be traditional barber’s shop in many ways with a shop front that hasn’t changed since about 1969, black and white lino flooring and no sign of any hair care products.

There are copies of The Sun and Daily Mail, but I understand from Chris the barber that these are obligatory reading in barber’s shops and if he was to buy The Guardian, many of his customers would head off to the unisex salon on Middlewood Road.

I’ve sat and watched Chris cut hair and he is able to engage in conversation about the weather, holidays and football in a friendly and knowledgable manner.  Furthermore he is able to remove unwanted middle aged aural hair in a way that makes the customer feel comfortable

“I can give you a shave; in fact I’ll even shave your pubes for a tenner”

And no offence appeared to be taken when I suggested

“and he will give you a blowjob for fifteen”

I like Dave’s because I get good quality haircut for £5.  However the reason I love going there is because he chooses to play BBC Radio 6 on the wireless and during the course of a haircut we discuss music in a way that you don’t expect.  Not only do I get a haircut, I get an album review.

I met Dean in there today.  I told Dean about my walk to Santiago and he told me about his hitch hiking road trip to the outskirts of Belgrade, where he got arrested for vagrancy and decided to abandon his journey to Turkey and returned to France.  I like the company who can tell a good story.

As I was leaving, Dean informed me that “Gentlemen exchange cards” and presented me with his card.  I am no gentleman and I have no card, but I did promise to email him a link to the blog.  Dean is a Dry Stone Waller who is Peak Park approved.  I’ve got no idea how competent he is at Dry Stone Walling, but on the basis of the conversation we had this afternoon, I would be happy to recommend him

If you go to a salon on West Street you may get a marginally better haircut and be presented with some very expensive hair care products, but you will pay at least five times as much and the quality of conversation will be infinitely less enjoyable.

Restoring the Balance

 

Last week I went on walk two of my children Patrick and Holly.  We walked from Sheffield Railway Station to the Rutland Arms.  Those of you that know Sheffield will possibly know that isn’t a great distance.  And for those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of visiting this wonderful city can log into Google Maps and discover that is a journey of 498 feet.

On the way we passed the Showcase Cinema, where on Orange Wednesdays Holly and myself often go and watch a film.  She no longer wishes to introduce me to the current offering from America’s latest teenage matinee idol, but wishes to see foreign language adaptations of the lesser known works of Shakespeare. This isn’t because particularly pretentious as she is one of the most down to earth women I know and loves engaging in the conversation this inspires.

One of the things that I love about Sheffield is that somebody at the local council decided that it was a good thing to put poetry on the sides of buildings.  You can walk round a corner and be introduced to a poem by the likes of Harold Pinter, Jarvis Cocker or Andrew Motion.  I would prefer my council invest in poetry than enter into some twinning venture with a small town in Italian Tyrol.  I don’t like Andrew Motion’s poem on the side of Sheffield Hallam University, but I’m pleased someone decided to put it there.

Holly reminds Patrick “You could have gone to that University, if you had of got the required grades”.  He missed out on a place at Hallam, but gained a place at Leeds.  Holly accepted a place at the University of Sheffield to study Sociology.  I’m not sure about the quality pf the teaching of Sociology at Sheffield University or Geography at Hallam, but I know that her decision to study in sunny Yorkshire was influenced by a desire to be close to me.

Over the past few years I have not been a model father and I have chosen to wallow for long periods in self pity, rather than spend time with my children.  I am very fortunate in that they have chosen to present me with the opportunity to spend time with them.

We chose The Rutland because it is an Old Man’s pub that sells a wide selection of beer, comfortable seats, and is conducive to having a conversation. Rather than a pub on West Street, that sells one brand of lager and a selection of cheap cooking vodkas, where it is impossible to find a seat and you struggle to hear anything other than some loud crap music. 

I’ve recently spent a great deal of time with Holly and she impresses me in so many ways.  She is energetic, clever and witty, understanding and empathy come very easily to her, she rarely sits on the fence and her arguments are often intellegently well thought out, and she can prepare a risotto in a way that is well beyond her years,.

Patrick recently presented me with a bowl of pasta over which he had poured a tin Sainbury's pasta sauce and regarded it as haute cuisine.  In the Rutland, it was Patrick that surprised me.  He was confident and spoke with authority on number of topics, he demonstrated that he had got principals in refusing to take up the opportunity of working at Olympic Games, and displayed a kind gentile nature.

At the end of the evening I walked Patrick to the railway station, I gave him a big hug like I’ve never hugged him before and told him “today I recognised that you are no longer a boy but a clever, kind, gentle, thoughtful, handsome young man and I love you”

Compared to an 800km stroll across Spain we undertook a very short walk along the streets of Sheffield, but we managed to travel such long way.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4r_HWWQyCs

A Wonderful Sunrise over Stannage Edge

I am not unaccustomed to lying awake at 4.00am and being swamped with serious thoughts of taking my own live.  Sleep doesn’t come easy and my thoughts become sharply focussed on the failure to develop a career, financial worries, the fear of rejection, awareness of my declining physical health and feeling all alone. I desperately seek relief from this pain.  Relief is a feeling and you have to be alive to feel it.

I want to reassure anyone who knows me and is inclined to dash to the phone to call me, that the fact that I am prepared to write openly about this, indicates that I am not about to throw myself in front of the next express to St Pancras.  I understand that it is a fact the people most determined to take their own lives will not speak of it to anyone.

I remember a group of people sitting around my kitchen table and gossiping about the bizarre behaviour of one of their friends.  He had done something foolish, had possibly felt ashamed and had withdrawn socially.  A few weeks later, he took his own life.  I was in a pub and some of the people who had earlier sat at my table joined me.  A woman who was clearly very upset stated that she had wished the unfortunate young man had chosen to speak to her before taking his own live.

I’ve lay awake at night and considered suicide.  It’s not easy to pick up the phone and call someone.  You don’t want to appear weak or flawed and you don’t want your call to be perceived as a pathetic attempt at attention seeking.  You want just want somebody to understand and acknowledge that you have more pain than you can cope with right now.

Some people react badly to suicidal feelings, possibly because they feel angry, frightened, ashamed, confused or guilty.  I have received such a phone call and I know it is not a comfortable place to be.

My strategy for dealing with suicidal thoughts is to get outside and to walk.  For me, it is harder to contemplate throwing myself off nearest tower block when I am watching a wonderful sunrise over Stannage Edge rather staring blankly at my bedroom wall.   

Dos Vagabundos

In the past 40 years, I’ve only ever sang once in public and that was to audience of one.

When I was seven, Mrs Lehman announced to the whole class that “I have been teaching for almost 40 years, and John Lewis has the worst singing voice that I’ve ever heard”.  She suggested to me that it would be better if I mimed whilst the rest of the class sang. We Plough the Fields and Scatter.

And I did as she suggested.

Furthermore, I’ve carried on through life often mouthing the words but not singing with the choir, sitting on the fence and not expressing how I feel. 

 I recall having dinner with a woman who sang a beautiful sweet-sounding version of  Amazing Grace especially for me.  When she asked me sing back to her I could feel my mouth going dry, me stomach tightening and feel my heart rate increase.  This lead to feelings of frustration and anger and Monica acknowledged this and tried to reassure me.

“The birds in the forest all have different singing voices and it would be a dull place if they all sounded the same”

I cannot blame insensitive comments of an elderly primary school teacher for my anxiety disorder.

The only time I ever sang was on the Camino de Santiago.  It was a very wet Saturday morning and I was just outside Melide with Pilar Fernandez Alonso. We were discussing favourite scenes from films.  She described a scene she loved where a man is at a typewriter and a woman is sat on the fire escape outside the window with a guitar and  she sings.

 “But I can’t remember the song”

I stopped, turned, looked her in the eye and sang

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7SI7N22k_A

The Naughtiest Boy in Holland

Just outside   Murias de Rechivaldo I met the naughtiest boy in Holland.  I’m not sure if he was the most badly behaved young person from the Netherlands, but that is how he described himself.  He was undertaking the walk to Santiago with a mentor, as part a Dutch mentoring programme that aimed to challenge difficult behaviour amongst adolescents.  I was impressed that not only had he walked almost 600km but had spent much of that time camping out, rather than staying in alberge.

I was impressed and wanted to spend a bit of time with both of them, so I invited them to join me for a coke.  We later were joined by a middle aged couple from New Zealand.  This was the first occaision that  I disclosed to strangers that I had a mental health condition.  I had been reluctant to disclose to friends, family and work colleagues that I was struggling to cope with my mental health and was aware of the stigma attached to it.  As a consequence I spent far too much time trying to mask from others that I was unwell.  But I felt safe to disclose, to a boy who had a string of criminal convictions that even shocked me, his mentor and a couple from somewhere on the South Island.

I was listened to and I didn’t feel like I had been judged at all and the conversation moved on to blisters, how much weight we each carrying and amusing incidents that had happened along the way..  The Dutch pair made their excuses and moved on, leaving me with the Kiwi couple.  The woman thanked me being open and honest about my condition and then told me that John Kirwan had disclosed his condition during a Rugby commentary live on Radio New Zealand.  I was aware of who he was and could speculate as to his status in NZ.  Kirwan used to score tries for fun in the late 1980’s and played an instrumental part in the All Blacks winning. The 1989 Rugby World Cup.  His status in NZ is at similar level to that of Bobby Moore in England, Diego Maradona in Argentina and Michael Roos in Estonia.

I am sure that David Beckham and the Duchess of Wessex speak publicly about their respective roles as UNICEF ambassador and patron of Wessex Heartbeat Trust.  However, in my view a celebrity who is able to speak from personal experience about their condition is able to convey a much more message.

Later I spent I spent a fair bit of time in NZ and I believe that there is a much more enlightened view of mental illness than in the UK.  You frequently see adverts on the TV about mental health and I always got the feeling that mental health wasn’t viewed as being a taboo subject.

Later I passed the Dutch boy and his mentor who were sat by a stream eating lunch.  They asked me to joined them and the boy thanked me for sharing my story with him.

Dirty Old Towns

I met my love by the gas works wall
Dreamed a dream by the old canal
I kissed my girl by the factory wall
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

Clouds are drifting across the moon
Cats are prowling on their beat
Spring's a girl from the streets at night
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

I heard a siren from the docks
Saw a train set the night on fire
I smelled the spring on the smoky wind
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

I'm gonna make me a big sharp axe
Shining steel tempered in the fire
I'll chop you down like an old dead tree
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

I met my love by the gas works wall
Dreamed a dream by the old canal
I kissed my girl by the factory wall
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

Most people associate Dirty Old Town with either The Pogues or the Dubliners and therefore assume the song is about the song with Cork, Belfast or Derry. It was in fact written by Salford born radical, folk singer, writer, playwright, rambler Ewan MacColl, the husband of Peggy Seeger and the father of Kirsty MacColl.  This evokes an image of grim, dark, noisy industrial landscape that is coloured by the hope of discovering love and recognising a need to forge the tools for rebellion.

I’ve always loved the dirty old towns of the North of England.  Cities such as Liverpool, Manchester, Huddersfield, Sheffield and Bolton are all cities that I love for a multitude of reasons.  Almost all are easily accessible to the stunning, bleak, wet and windy landscapes of the Pennines, they all have great, grand 19^th century municipal buildings, are often inhabited by many warm friendly generous people, have a long proud tradition of dissent and heaps of great music, art and literature has originated from this region.

The North of England is not only the birthplace of the Beatles, the cradle of Industrial Revolution, the home of the School of Science, the place where the Bronte’s lived and died...  There is currently a debate going on in England regarding the definition of national identity.  The Scots, Irish, and Welsh often have little difficulty in identifying with a nation.  I don’t struggle to identify with a region that extends from the Scottish border down to somewhere just south of Dronfield and Runcorn.

I don’t hate anywhere else in England, Waterloo Sunset is one of the finest songs ever written, I enjoy a stroll along the Jurassic Coast and the folk of Somerset have always treated me with respect.  It is just that I love the North of England

I can imagine kissing my girl by the gas works wall rather than at the golf club ball and she is more likely be called Betty Arkwright than Miranda Cholmondey-Featherstone-Carter- Windsor.

Older Elvis and War and Peace

Sometimes, it is worth going up to stranger in a pub who you happen to be observing, as your companion is at the bar buying the next round and asking the stranger whether or not they are having a conversation with their friend about an older Elvis performing in Las Vegas. As this what her body language suggested. She was in fact having a conversation about ACDC, but she didn’t tell me to mind my own business..

It is worth taking that punt because you may up end up within days, being presented with a copy of War and Peace and the desire to get round and start reading it.

It is also worth chatting to people who are selling the Big Issue, complementing someone on their shoes and giving someone a hug and reminding them that you love them

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBmAPYkPeYU

The Kindness of Strangers

One aspect of the Camino that I love is that strangers will often wish you ‘Buen Camino’.  You can be walking through downtown Pamplona early on Wednesday morning and a complete stranger, who walking in the opposite direction on their way into work, will look you in the eye as you pass and wish you ‘Buen Camino’.  I’ve lived in places in the UK where neighbours who have lived near me for years and I see just about everyday will struggle to acknowledge a greeting from me.  Furthermore, I live in Sheffield, which within the UK, has a reputation for being a city that is inhabited by warm friendly people.

I don’t think that anyone gets to Santiago without the help of others.  This can range from somebody noticing that I’m having difficulty finding a lighter from depths of my rucksack and offering me a light to someone who walks beside me a listens quietly and attentively to me as I explain the difficulties and frustrations of managing mental health problem.  In my experience on the Camino similar things happen frequently on any given day.  I suspect in regard to showing kindness to strangers, that people behave differently on the streets of Leon, the bars of Santa Domingo de la Calzada and the footpaths of Galicia than they do back home on the streets of San Francisco, gastropubs of Norfolk and the tracks of the Black Forest.

Since I decided to undertake this venture, I have been overwhelmed by the messages of love and encouragement and of the financial support that I have received from others.  People who I barely know, but I am aware that they are struggling to make ends meet have sent me money to help me along the way.  I’ve received a significant number of messages of support from others.  These messages have boosted my level of self esteem and helped me in my determination to overcome the physical and psychological barriers of getting to Santiago.

Burt, Butch and Bolvian Bankrobbing

I’ve loved listening to Burt Bacharach ever since I first saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I love that scene where Butch turns up at Katharine Ross’s place and takes her for a ride a bike to BJ Thomas’s version of Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head.  By the way, as an adolescent, the thing that impressed me most about Virginia Haworth was her ability to recite the whole of the Bolivian bank robbing scene without having learnt any Spanish at school..

There is much of the Bacharach/David substantial back catalogue, that I absolutely adore and during my first spell of depression I would spend a great deal of time listening to Burt Bacharach’s Greatest Hits.  On that album there are songs that lend themselves perfectly to feelings of sadness and melancholia.  However there was one song that I couldn’t bear listening to.  I would always skip track 9, Jimmy Radcliffe’s version of There Goes a Forgotten Man.  It’s not a bad song, but I couldn’t bear listening to it because it resonated so much with the way I felt.

http://bacharachonline.com/phpBB3/viewforum.php?f=1

I never was Jennie’s guy and a stranger didn’t come along one night and steal my love away.  However, I did feel that I was walking alone, I did believe that former friends would turn away when I passed by and I did suppose that they were pitying me. 

I no longer feel angry about this.  To a certain extent I can understand why people wouldn’t invite me social events, why phone calls that were made after months of silence were ignored or why people would make excuses before dashing away following a chance encounter in the supermarket.  I accept that people don’t want to spend a great deal of time with someone who is sad, bitter, self pitying and often drunk.  Partly as a consequence of this I would spend too much of my time in the company of others who were sad, bitter, self pitying and often drunk.  I do recognise that there were many people who did offer me friendship and support and I spurned that because I struggled to acknowledge that I was depressed.

Often, one of the consequences of depression is that it does result in social isolation.  I suspect it is more difficult to bounce back from depression when you feel alone and you struggle to establish and maintain friendships.  My circumstances in relation to social isolation are not completely desperate, in that there are a number of people who have been wonderful in terms of the love and support they have offered. 

There are occasions when I feel incredibly sad but I don’t feel bitter, I can easily snap out of feelings of self pity and I struggle to recall the last time I was drunk

Van Gogh's Ear for Music

Most of the time I’m fairly opinionated and try and try avoid sitting on the fence.  Exceptions to this include: the theist/atheist debate where I adopt the position of being an agnostic, the monarchy argument where I am happy to have Queen Elizabeth II as my head of state, but intend to man the republican barricades on the accession of King Charles III, and I can’t decide whether or not it is a good thing to take an ipod on my month long stroll through the Spanish countryside.

Listening to beautiful pieces of classical or ambient music that can lead to feeling calm and relaxed and can ultimately help to induce sleep.  One of the symptoms of my condition is that I find it difficult to get to sleep.  I’ve slept in dormitories with a large number of middle aged men and it isn’t always a good experience when you are trying to get to sleep. There is wide range of music from artists as diverse as Brian Eno, Mozart, and Nouvelle Vague to be soothing and pacifying and this is often the prelude to deep sleep.

Whilst out walking there have been times when I have been out walking and faced the prospect of having to climb a very steep hill and I will select a She Bangs the Drum by The Stone Roses that will induce a rush of adrenalin, which will greatly assist me in getting to the top of that hill.

Furthermore, I believe that listening to music can help to enhance the understanding and appreciation of a particular landscape.  For instance whenever I am in Spain, I love listening to Miles Davis’s Sketches of Spain.  I prefer listening to it on a warm summers day atop a hill in Andalusia, rather when IM marching around Sheffield city centre.

Finally I love having the opportunity to share music that I like with people and conversely there have been many occasions when out on a walk, people have introduced me to new piece of music

However

I frequently use public transport and one thing that annoys me is when my travelling companions listen to music on an ipod through cheap earphones that can be from the other end of the tram.  I’m sure Dizzee Rascal didn’t record Stand up Tall to be played through cheap earphones and listened to by everyone on the upper deck of the 82 bus.

If you are constantly listening to music through earplugs, you can become detached from what is going on around you.  For me one of joys of walk is hearing the birds sing, the noise of the wind, and the sound of silence.  Furthermore you become detached from the people around you.  It is more difficult to engage with a stranger who is walking in the opposite direction when they are focussed on the music they are listening to.

When I walked along the Camino in 2005, I remember a woman singing Amazing Grace just before we sat down for dinner at Itero del Castillo.  It was one of the most beautiful and uplifting moments of the whole walk.

I will take an ipod with me, but will listen to it sparingly

Lets go to The Lonely Rough Guide to Upper Saxony

As a rule, I think the burning of books is a bad thing and in most circumstances I would be inclined to stick my head above the parapet and voice my objections.  The one exception to this rule, are guide books.  My local library has shelves upon shelves of the likes of The Lonely Rough Guide to Upper Saxony, and Lets Go Caravanning in the East Riding of Yorkshire and not a single edition of a novel by the likes of Peter Carey, John Kennedy Toole, or Isabel Allende.  I accept that many people I know who use my lihad in New Zealand  times |i to rself headfirst from a very high bridge attached to rubber bandpen to be stood on top of very acbrary don’t share my taste in literature, but they tend to go on day trips to Cleethorpes rather than visit the superb wineries of Mendoza.

I’ve done a bit of travelling and it always amazes me how reliant my fellow travellers are on these books.  With possible exception of a change of clean underwear and a toothbrush, they are regarded as the most essential requirement of the independent traveller.

In my experience as soon as a restaurant gets listed in the Lonely Planet you are no longer greeted by the gracious host Antonio in a manner that a major Hollywood star would expect, and shown to table with magnificent views of the Monte de Santa Maria Novella and sold seafood that fancy LA restaurants can only dream of serving for less than the price of a pint of milk.  You are now expected to wait for half an hour, whilst Paulo who is on the Italian equivalent of an Italian work experience programme, finishes texting his mates, before showing you to a table in a very small room, which was formally Antonio’s grandmothers lavatory, where you are served food that wouldn’t be out of place in a Burger King Happy Meal for the price of what is the GDP of medium sized African country.

Furthermore, these places are jammed packed with other independent tourists.  If I wanted to spend time I could the train down to St Pancras and go and hang out in some bar in Camden rather than jetting off around the world.

In my view, much of the advice given to travelers is not sound.  I accept that walking around the Vatican City topless or setting up a heroin export business in Bangkok is possibly going to get you into trouble.  I remember reading in one of these guidebooks, that you should not under any circumstances consider hitch hiking in New Zealand.  You may be offered a lift by a group of young men echo are off their heads on some from amphetamine where all the ‘healthy’ chemicals have been removed or by a German tourist drives like Michael Schumacher and is unsure which side of road to travel on.  This book contained a list of must do things in NZ, which included ‘doing’ the Tongariro and bungee jumping in Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateapokaiwhenuakitanatahu.  I suspect that the probability of something unfortunate happening to you are far greater if you happen to be stood on top of very active volcano or if you throw yourself headfirst from a very high bridge attached only to rubber band.  Some of the best times |I had in New Zealand were when I was hitching.  I got put up for the night, taken to deserted beaches that were completely off the radar of the guide books and was taught how to fish.

I love books and would hate to see them replaced by Kindles, however when it comes to these guidebooks I would rather consult one of the many travel blogs or checkout an online issue of the local newspaper.  The best people to get under the skin of place are those who actually live there.  And then you could always then spend the money you have saved by purchasing novel.  In my view investing £10 in Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s Shadow of the Wind or Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia is a much better investment than spending £20 on the Lonely Rough Guide to Barcelona

Finally, if you are walking 800km of the Camino de Santiago you don’t need to be carrying something that weighs slightly less than your average sized brick