The smell of summer

Working at home during lockdown means I haven’t been commuting. At first it was not something I missed. Some mornings, I’ll admit, I’ve got out of bed at 8.57, gone down stairs to my coffee table desk and turned on the laptop still wearing my pajamas. It felt liberating but now I find myself struggling with the lack of accountability that comes with no physical presence in the office. I’m sitting, alone, for hours. It seems that everyone is reverting further and further in to the virtual world, client meetings became video calls, the video calls became phone calls, the phone calls are now, mostly, emails. I can go a whole day without speaking to anyone. It is becoming harder and harder to self motivate.

I needed to pick some papers up from the office last week. I could go in at any time but, in an attempt to restore some sense of routine, to start the working day with a brain that was more than three minutes awake, I left the house at 8am on Thursday to ‘commute’. It was a warm morning after a few days of rain and, as I walked along the old railway path, I was suddenly overwhelmed with nostalgia. A large patch of grass had recently been cut and a strong scent of school playing fields rose from the drying debris.

Smell is such a powerful sense; it has the ability to transport us, instantly, through time and space, and yet it is probably the one that is least considered. As a child I’m sure most people have pondered the question, ‘would it be worse to lose your hearing or your sight?’, but to lose your sense of smell? That never featured in our games of ‘would you rather’ and I’d bet it didn’t in yours.

In 2020, all thoughts return with a magnetic inevitability to Covid 19. Loss of smell, and taste, are now officially recognised in the UK, and many other countries, as symptoms and, as I filled my lungs deeply with memories of handstands, candy-stripped cotton dresses and the end of break whistle, I was also overcome with gratitude to have escaped the sickness so far. Right there in the middle of the path I stopped, closed my eyes, tilted back my head and spread my arms wide, absorbing the hot hug of the sun before walking on, up and out of the railway path and on to the street, where the growing heat was having a less poetic effect on the communal dustbins. I have never been so glad to smell rubbish.

With my ‘commute’, a weekend of DIY and some general wanderings, I completed a further two stages of my virtual Camino Primitivo, Lugo to Ferreira and Ferreira to Melide. Just 53km to go.

O Cadavo to Lugo – 100kms to go!

The weather has taken a turn since last week’s sunset musings. The temperature has fallen and so has the rain, but that doesn’t matter when you are travelling virtually and most of your steps are indoors. I am also back at my virtual office, spending my days on Zoom calls, sending emails and drafting documents from the coffee table in my living room. During my week off we made good progress on what will become our dining room and I am very much looking forward to having a proper table to work from, probably just in time to go back to the office for real!

I have accumulated a little over 30kms since I last wrote, 209.14kms in total. This brings me to the town of Lugo, 100kms away from Santiago and two thirds of the way through our journey. At my average rate of travel it will be four more weeks before my pilgrimage is over.

I have been feeling a little disconnected to the route, clocking up distance just by living and almost arbitrarily assigning it to stages of the Camino Primitivo. Following the success of watching YouTube videos of ‘real’ walkers, I decided to look and see what other inspiration I could find and came across a film called ‘The Way’ on Amazon Prime. Written and produced by Emilio Estevez, and staring his father Martin Sheen, the film follows a group of pilgrims who are walking the popular Camino Frances which starts just over the border in the French Pyrenees (hence the name) and at almost 800km is much longer than the Camino Primitivo. I won’t give anything away about the plot, in case you would like to watch it for yourself, but I must admit that I enjoyed seeing the landscape of northern Spain and the interiors of some of the Albergues (pilgrim hostels) more than the story. The plot itself is full of potential but for me the execution left a bit to be desired and some of the characters were poorly executed. Despite a claim not to carry any particular ideologies or messages, there were elements of the main female pilgrim’s back story and the conclusions that you were invited to draw about the reason for her journey, which personally made me uncomfortable in the way they were represented. That being said, overall the ‘The Way’ was an interesting, and at times funny, watch and it was perhaps naive of me to be surprised to find conservative Catholic undertones in a film about pilgrimage.

Berducedo to O Cádavo

I have made up some ground in the last week and have covered about 70kms, completing three more stages of my virtual Camino Primitivo: Berducedo to Grandas de Salime, onwards (and upwards if I were walking the route for real) to A Fonsagrada and then over the last high and steep stretch to O Cádavo.

The pick up in pace is partly thanks to the 13kms I covered walking to and from my office on Friday (read about that rather strange experience here https://virtualcamino.art.blog/2020/06/20/workplace-pompeii/) and party because I have taken this week off work. Since Saturday every day has been full of house renovation tasks, including 6 hours of floor sanding yesterday. I have DIY’d my way through those mountains and oh do I feel it!

Today has been a bit of a rest day and a hot one in my city. I am writing this in my back garden, watching the late evening sun of northerly midsummer dip below the rooftops and listening to the bedtime birdsong. Tonight’s performer is a blackbird who has become a bit of a resident fixture in the last few months. This week I have also noticed regular visits from one particular pigeon, identifiable because it only has one eye, and who is often accompanied by two crows. I have named him P’Odin. A good omen for a traveller.

Workplace Pompeii

Yesterday I went further than I have in a single day for more than a week. For the first time in three months I visited my office, a journey of a little over 5km each way. Use of public transport is still discouraged where possible and so I walked. It’s a route I began taking regularly back in March when the rumours of the severity, and contagious nature of covid-19, started to crystallize in to something of greater substance, when social distancing was an independent decision rather than government mandated.

On my way from suburbs to centre I pass by some of the city’s famous sights. The first landmark is Easter Road football stadium, which I reach shortly after emerging from the greenery of the old railway path. The motto of the club, and this part of town is ‘Persevere’ (read more about the significance of this mantra here). It is emblazoned on the stadium wall, the giant lettering loud in the empty street.

A little further, and over the brow of one of the city’s seven hills, is Holyrood Palace, the historic home of Scotland’s royalty; opposite, in stark contrast to the 16th century turrets and curlicues, is the opinion dividing modern architecture of the parliament buildings. Today the haar has descended, a cold, peculiarly Scottish mist, that rolls in from the sea after hot weather. It hangs heavy over the water features and formal gardens, shrouding Arthur’s Seat, the slumbering volcano at the city’s heart, hiding its peak from view.

Another kilometre down and I am in the bowels of the Cowgate. Once this was the drovers’ path in to the city. Now it is home to most of the big nightclubs, vaulted, subterranean spaces, built in to the very foundations of the bridges that soar, 40, maybe 50 metres above. The urban canyon opens out in to the Grassmarket. Usually a bustling tourist trap of overpriced pubs and tartan peddlers, it is eerily quiet. This is the first time I have been here since lockdown began. Some of the shops and restaurants have chosen to board their windows. It seems an unnecessary precaution. There are no signs of vandalism.

At the far end of the Grassmarket, my office almost in sight, the unmistakable rock topping castle dominates the skyline. 13 years ago this month, I got married in its gatehouse. My thoughts turn to friends and family whose weddings have been cancelled this year as a result of the virus. 2007 seems a very long time ago indeed.

And then I am here, at a place both alien and familiar, somewhere I have spent more time than anywhere else in the last decade. The first change is the large perspex screen at the foyer reception. The dry humour of the concierge is, however, the same.

Inside the signs are immediate. One person at a time in the lift. It’s eight flights but I opt for the stairs. The signs continue. Keep left. Stay 2 metres apart. Allow others to pass. I am the only person here but I’m British. I keep left.

I exit the stairwell at my floor, use the elbow operated hand sanitizer dispenser, take a deep breath, swipe my pass and open the door. I am greeted by a workplace Pompeii. Three months ago 300 people left this office in a hurry, 300 people assumed they’d hide at home for a few weeks and all this would pass. There are mugs and pens on the desks, jackets on the backs of chairs, formal shoes discarded haphazardly. It feels like the set of a disaster movie. It also feels like I’ve popped in at the weekend and everyone will be back on Monday.

I do what I came here for and then I leave. The walk home is slower. I’m carrying a rucksack and two bags of rescued possessions. A storm is threatening and as I get to the railway path the first drops begin to fall. I resist putting my coat on for as long as possible. I can’t remember the last time I was out in the rain.

Tineo to Berducedo

It has been a slow week. Not much writing, not much walking, but I’ve finally made it through the mountainous stages four and five of the Camino Primitivo. Just outside Borres the route temporarily splits. I chose the higher option which is the older and now no longer ‘official’ path. My guidebook, yes I bought a guidebook for a walk I’m not actually doing, recommends this route for the views and for the history as it passes the ruins of three traditional pilgrim hospitales (hostels). Although steeper than the alternative trail via Pola de Allande which my fellow travellers chose, the ridge line path is 4.5km shorter, so as I begin to descend in to Berducedo I am not too far behind.

It might be the change in altitude but my head is a little fuzzy. I read some survey results today which report that a lot of people in my profession are relishing working from home. They are finding a work/life balance that they didn’t have before, they’re working shorter hours, productivity and efficiency are up. They are spending more time with their family, exercising instead of commuting. I have always been good at keeping these parts of my life separate. I don’t work late, don’t read my emails on holiday and so, if anything, working from home has had the opposite effect for me, introducing a mingling of worlds which has left me feeling like I’m always at the office. It’s not that I’m working any more hours, it’s that there’s no separation. 9 to 5, Monday to Friday the coffee table in my livingroom is my desk. At 5.01, with only the shutting of a laptop to mark the moment, work becomes home and all the stresses of the day instantly melt away and an evening of relaxation immediately begins. But of course it doesn’t work like that. We need to be careful that we don’t mistake working from home for a holiday. I was no more having a break from work last week than I was hiking mountains. So, tomorrow, I am taking a day off and hopefully the air will clear and some good progress will be made along the trail.

Salas to Tineo

It took three days but by yesterday evening I had covered the distance from my campsite 6km outside of Salas to Tineo. The bulk of the journey was on Sunday with an 11km walk around my neighbourhood.

I live close to the docks in a part of the city with a long industrial history which means that the real scenery I passed was quite different to the woods, waterfalls and mountains of this stage of the Camino Primitivo.

I decided to explore a road that seemed to lead to the sea, by the local waste water processing plant. There are no houses here and the phrase ‘out of sight, out of mind’ could not be more fitting. Most of the sheds and warehouses are no longer used and in various stages of decay. An abandoned lot, it’s former purpose long forgotten, has been claimed as a track for dirt bikes and quads in an entirely unofficial capacity.

The dereliction and detritus alone was enough to make me feel like I was walking through the set of some post-apocalyptic film, an experience all the more surreal during a very real pandemic.

But there is a weird and poignant beauty to be found if you are open to seeing it. It’s there in the strand of pink tinsel caught in an unraveling fence of barbed wire, in the weathered signs and the rust patinated metal, in the disused railway tracks peaking from the undergrowth like the bones of a buried giant and in the rescued remnants of broken plastic heroes.

One piece of graffiti seemed to sum up the atmosphere perfectly. Exploring this discarded corner of the city was as successful an escape from reality as last week’s walk around the loch, perhaps more so. It certainly gave me much to contemplate and isn’t that the purpose of a pilgrimage after all?

I can sing a rainbow

Today, things did not go according to plan. Today I was going to be super efficient. I got up at 6.30 when my partner left for work. He is an engineer at a power station and so classed as an essential worker. I fought the urge to go back to bed, cleaned the kitchen, fed our pets and did 30 minutes of yoga, which sadly did not register as any distance on my step counter. By 9 I was ready at my laptop, full of intentions to cycle the 13km of today’s leg over lunch on my exercise bike. But it didn’t happen. Some stuff came up that had to be dealt with, some real life stuff which needed me to spend the day listening and affirming and advocating and eating chips and cheese for lunch rather than cycling. But it’s ok. Now is not a time to be hard on ourselves.

Apart from the obvious physical health impact of Covid-19, the pandemic is having a major effect on mental health. I, fortunately, have been ok so far, bar the expected stress and fatigue of an unprecedented situation, but many people I know are not well. For some it is a resurrection of past illness, for some it is completely new, for others a light has been shone on something that had been masked before and in the harsh new reality of social distancing can no longer be ignored.

There is no one right answer. What works for me might not work for you. That there is no guaranteed way to help is one of the things that means there’s still an awkwardness around mental health. We don’t want to talk about it. We don’t want to get it wrong so we do nothing at all. We put off the phone call. We stop inviting someone because they’ll say no anyway. We don’t ask for help for fear of what others will think. It’s time to stop being afraid. It’s time to start the conversation. I’ll go first.

When I’m trying to sleep but my brain is too active, busily dissecting the day or dwelling on things that are outside my control or that happened 20 year ago, I sing a song to myself. It goes like this:

Red and yellow and pink and green, orange and purple and blue, I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow too.

Listen with your eyes, listen with your eyes, and sing all the things you see. I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing along with me.

Red and yellow and …

Sometimes, when the words themselves are not enough of a distraction, I try really hard to picture an image for each colour, a different fruit or animal or object. 99.9% of the time it works. Perhaps its the hypnotic repetition or the simplicity of the words, perhaps its a resetting, like holding your breath to stop hiccuping. Most likely though it is because my mum used to sing that song to me at bedtime when I was very small.

If you live in the UK you have probably noticed the rainbows that people have been putting in their windows. To make and display one is a common home-school assignment. There are certainly a lot near me, all of the images in this post are from three nearby streets. But why rainbows? There are many reasons. They are simple and easy to draw; because they are colourful they are the ideal subject for a game of eye spy to distract children from the just plain weirdness of a socially distanced walk; they are inclusive, everybody knows what a rainbow is and community is of the utmost importance in a crisis; and of course they have, for a long time, been associated with the survival of a storm, a sign of better days to come. This evening I decided to take a quick walk to look at the rainbows, and, although the streets were empty as I hummed my rainbow song, it felt as though the neighbourhood sang along with me.

If you’re looking to start a conversation about mental health, either yours or someone else’s, then this link might be useful https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/coronavirus/

Escamplero to Salas via San Juan de Villapanada

With a 7km run on day 2, a 5km walk on day 3, plus some vigorous typing, trips to the kitchen and circuits of the garden, I made up enough distance to join my fellow travellers at San Juan de Villapanada on Wednesday evening for my first night in a virtual bed rather than a virtual field.

The intention for day 4 was to get as close to Salas as possible, which for me, realistically, would mean another virtual night under the stars. The weather has turned cooler and wetter so instead of a lunchtime walk I opted for the exercise bike. My bike is in the livingroom and I often put something on the TV to distract myself whilst I peddle. I have seen footage on Youtube taken from the helmet cams of cyclists, which let you join in on a ride from home, and decided to have a look to see if anyone had filmed their journey along the Camino Primitivo.

There were a reasonable number of videos to choose from but most were sped up compliations and I liked the idea of watching the stages as I did them. Luckily a lovely Canadian lady named Sara Dhooma had documented each day of her solo hike in November 2019 and I watched the first three of her vlogs during my 30 minutes on the bike. This brought Sara to Bodenaya and my total km count to 6km short of Salas.

I learnt quite a few things about the realities of walking the Camino Primitivo from Sara, not least that it rains A LOT in the North of Spain in November. Other important lessons are always to do a dance when you cross a bridge, say hello to animals when you see them and don’t feel bad about having the occasional glass of wine or beer when you stop to refuel.

I am travelling slower than Sara and now I have a bit of extra motivation to make it to Bodenaya today, 13.11km from my current position, so that I can watch the next installment of her journey.

Desire Paths and Intention Lines

They are all over the city. Everywhere there is a footpath across an open space, everywhere there are steps next to a slope, everywhere there is a gap in a fence or a wall or a hedge, there is a desire path. These unofficial shortcuts, unsigned, unplanned, untarmacked are both a bane and blessing to city planners. They betray the secrets of pedestrians, revealing with dead grass and trampled plants, how we react to our environment, where we want to go not where we are told to go.

These intention lines are most often equated with the path of least resistance. They cut corners, cross junctions not at the lights but next to the bus stop. By their very nature they differ from the planned route, they rebel against the rules.

But these are strange times and what we desire is no longer the quickest way from A to B. Unable to visit friends and family, unable to go to the office, the gym or the pub, our journeys are slowing. The time outdoors is as important as the destination. But there is a problem, everybody is doing the same. In the city there are only so many outdoor spaces, only so many paths and we have been told repeatedly, and forcefully, in messages sculpted by government psychologists, that we must keep apart. And so a new form of intention line is appearing in the parched parks, one that shadows the official route but a few metres away, an eroded echo allowing us to go walking together, but apart.

Oviedo to Escamplero-ish

One of the handy things about a virtual walk is that if you fall short of your target you don’t have to spend the night in a field by the side of a path, unless you want to.

The classic first leg of the Camino Primitivo is 25.5km (15.9 miles) from Oviedo to Grado, often split in to two days with a break at Escamplero 12.2km along the trail.

Five hours in to the first day of our adventure and I had gone 0.9 of a km and most of that was my Garmin mistakenly recording my arms moving whilst typing. There is, no doubt, something clever and meta to be said about undertaking a virtual journey sat in front of a laptop, but I had hoped that the majority of my travel would be literal, even if it couldn’t be geographically correct.

So at lunchtime I ventured out for a walk. Something I have rarely done during the last ten weeks. Close to my house the route of an old railway line has been turned in to a footpath, a hidden green corridor which can be joined and left at points along its length. I followed it to a small park. Once part of the grounds of Lochend Castle it is now an incongorous oasis amongst the housing estate tower blocks that encircle it.

Most of the park is covered by the lake or loch from which it takes its name. We are coming to the end of Spring in Scotland and baby birds were in abundance, amongst them Moorhen chicks, cygnets and ducklings. Further out in the loch three herons perched, and the banks were filled with yellow iris.

It should have been a tranquil spot, the birdlife certainly seemed well at ease, but I found it hard to relax. Although most people I passed were observing social distancing not all did, and more than once I found myself much closer to someone than I would have liked. I am in a low category of risk, a white middle class woman in her 30s, non-smoker, healthy weight, working from home. But ten weeks of constant messages to ‘Stay at home, save lives’, leave their mark and I didn’t linger. One circuit of the loch and I headed back to the railway path, stopping briefly to take a photograph of the stone doocot (dove cot) that would have housed the castle’s pigeons. Five centuries later and the descedants of those birds still perch there, though now without the prospect of being eaten.

With time to spare before the end of my lunchhour, and keen to clock up as much distance as possible, I followed the path, past some allotments complete with mask wearing scarecrows, to its end at a much larger park at the end of my street.

Later, after finishing work, I ate a Spanish inspired salad in the garden followed by a little light gardening to close the day at 10km of typing/walking, 2.2km short of Escamplero. I could pace up and down a bit, maybe spend some time on my exercise bike but choose to stop. A night under the stars in a field sounds just fine to me.