Let me tell you the story of my father, and the many fathers I have met on the way.
My dad loves things, loves life, loves seeing how things work, loves making things work and seeing other people figure things out. He is the perfect daddy (according to me). He starts strange, off the wall traditions that make you appreciate life, such as swimming at 6am in the Shannon river every morning, or walking the train tracks on Christmas morning. He likes to see the other side of life. He wanted to do the camino, for if the camino is anything it is the exact opposite of life.
It is waking up at obscene hours in the morning, walking until you fall down, seeing the back of towns and the In between secret paths in the county, seeing little signs only meant for you, being part of a tradition a thousand years old, making a family of the people you meet and accomplishing something.
My dad gives me music to listen to, poems to say, things to think about, songs to learn, and books to read. After Christmas two years ago he gave me a book about a father and a daughter doing this thing called walking the Camino de Santiago. Two years later I finished the official pilgrimage of 800 km from St Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela and I'm still going as far as the sea (8km to go.
For the first part of St Jean to Santa Domingo de Calzada my dad was with me, as well as my mum, my uncle and a family friend Kevin. Technically they were almost always 5km ahead of me but they were always in the square drinking vino tinto as I arrived and ready to suggest a swim or a plate of calamares.
This time I'm on my own, but like I have repeated again and again, I wasn't alone really.
Like the camino mommys there are also camino daddys. Ones that talk to you and are amazed and somehow proud of you. They want to give advice, a joke or two to help you up the hill, to offer to carry your rucksack, to reminisce about their own kids and to give you something more valuable than anything you can carry which is encouragement.
The first time I got this feeling was with a French Canadian leaving Burgos and entering the meseta. He said I really reminded him of his eldest daughter and that he wished she could experience this like I was. Then he almost pushed me up a hill and helped me with my French verbs.
The second was a birdwatcher who I shall always remember as the birdwatcher, (pretty cool superhero name, or sidekick name) his actual name was as cool as his title which was Atilla. He was a Hungarian, which probably explains the Mongolian influence in the name. He was travelling with his mother, Artillo (not entirely sure of her name, someone correct me if I'm wrong) she spoke no English but a real mommy, I got more hugs off her than words. Atilla was quiet and smiled all the time, he had English learned from time spent at Cambridge or Oxford. I met him three times before he told me that his mother and himself had been talking about me. Apparently I really reminded them both of his eldest daughter which he really missed dearly along with the rest of his family. She was 14 and always smiling. I laughed and told them that I smiled because it was easier than crying, but we all knew that wasn't true. I smile because I like it here. I like the people I meet and the simple beautiful things like being told the bird I saw yesterday wasn't a hawk but a black kite and the geese I saw in Samos were probably Canadian geese because they had little white bibs under their beaks, and that birds only sing in this area of Spain in the mating season which is right now and we are lucky to hear it.
And then there was Steve.
He first saw me reading a John Grisham novel which now resides in Santiago, and eating white chocolate. He thoroughly approved and I found a fond ally against the evils of terrible books and healthy food.
Steve became something special, it was around him that my last little camino family grew, two other girls and a boy with Steve buying the wine and the M&Ms. It became completely normal to see the four of them in the distance at a bar at around 11am with the wine out and sandwiches being offered around. The battle of who got to pay was always won by sneaky Steve. He was always able to find the best food and the best wine. I have never eaten or drank so much fantastic food and drink before in my life with such good company (Killonan neighbour parties are exempt from this sweeping statement).
Steve was always there with a smile, always with a hand offering something. When we finally arrived in Santiago together there was no one better to break down in tears with. In the plaza, the cathedral, during mass, after mass, at dinner, at breakfast the next day. We shared bandages and shoulders as tissues and I will always remember that day as one of the best in my life.
The next morning we all got up to say goodbye to Steve, 6.30 in the morning we were to meet for breakfast.
Only
No Steve ...
We had been his alarm clock for six days and the hotel had failed to wake him on time. We hauled him out of bed and dragged him half way across Santiago to find an open cafe to let him pay for breakfasts one last time. We are generous like that. And then that was it.
I will admit I did watch him walk off the plaza Obradioro one last time with that determined walk, ready to conquer finistere and muxia and meet his sweet Betsy on the plaza on the 12th at 12pm. (So romantic!) I would love to meet him there too one last time.
Well before we all show up one day in October at his vineyard in Napa Valley to do some MOGging in our pilgrim outfits looking for a cama.
I'm totally serious Steve, never invite an O'Neill to something unless you mean it, we always show up. Always.
Xx
Buen Camino.
