July 29: Oui, Oui!

Not a moment too soon, I have arrived in France.  It may sound weird to you, but I feel like I’m traveling again.  I had never stopped travelling—technically—but it felt like I had.  England was feeling all too familiar, and without a concrete destination to walk towards, I was lacking purpose.  Not to mention the last few days which I’ve spent “resting”, which is really hard to do, because it feels more like wasting time than resting.  I did do some things:  I saw two movies (Despicable Me 2 and The Wolverine; I have now met my yearly movie theater quota.  By the way, I loved them both.  I’d like to say that each speaks to a different side of my personality…)  I got a haircut.  Now I don’t have that “matted” look anymore, as the hairdresser termed it; and I went to Bath for a couple of days.

Visiting the Roman baths was worth the long bus ride—it was by far the best museum/ interactive exhibit I’ve been to.

It also made me miss living in the “hot springs neighborhood” of Busan, (which is how my old neighborhood, Oncheonjang, would be directly translated to.  Living in a spa neighborhood made the bitter Korean winters much more bearable, as in my third year I pretty much shunned my shower during the winter and did all my bathing in the bathhouse.  And if you’ve never been in a Korean or Japanese bathhouse before, learning to be comfortable bathing naked with a bunch of other women is one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.)

Back to France.  After Bath I needed to go back to Poole to catch the ferry to St. Malo in the morning.  I wonderful couchsurfer, Tom, pulled through for me, and although he couldn’t host me, he passed me off to another wonderful family who had just recently decided to start hosting.  After a little chit-chat in their orange dining room, Daisey led me back to the “shed” where there was a comfy bed, and I fell fast asleep.  Too soon it was time to wake up, and they drove me to the doorstep of the ferry terminal, which I am so grateful for, since that saved me an early morning bus journey.  The beauty of couchsurfing.

The ferry wasn’t as long as I thought it would be, only 5 hours total, but my ticket said 9 hours which had me believing that I was going to do a lot of reading that day.  Then I was informed that we’d be stopping in Guernsey for 4 hours, and yes, that was the first I’d heard of Guernsey.  I’m embarrassed to say I wasn’t quite sure upon disembarking whether Guernsey was in the U.K. or France.  (It’s in the U.K.)  In fact, I was handed these beautiful Guernsey pound notes in change after buying a Guernsey ice cream (that’s for you Rachel).  I said, “Oh, WOW THESE ARE SO COOL!” and the ice cream lady replied by saying, “thank you!”

Guernsey pounds

Only two hours away from Guernsey we arrived in St. Malo, where my travelling met a bit of a hitch when I couldn’t contact my couchsurfer and hadn’t received an email for a few days.  After telephoning unsuccessfully I decided to find another place to stay, which had me walking around St. Malo for about 3 hours looking for WiFi and then walking to a youth hostel (full) and finally a campsite.  (I just kept repeating my mantra: it always gets better, it always gets better.)

This is when I start speaking French.  Or “French”.  Some strange sounds have been coming out of my mouth, which some endearing Frenchpeople have been pretending to understand.  And then they say things back, which makes me think that these weird sounds are actually words; however, sometimes I say words which I was positive were French, but apparently not, and we just look at each other with awkward misunderstanding.  In that case I just yelp a big French-sounding “Hohn, HOHN!” and we move on like nothing happened.

But really, France has me excited.  After a bit of a worrisome search for accommodation yesterday, today could not have gone smoother, considering the amount of information I had (little).

I decided to hitchhike from St. Malo to Tours, where I’m starting the Camino, and only four cars, five hours, and 320 kilometers later I was there!  It must have been the smoothest hitch-experience I’ve had, and took less time than it would if I had tried public transportation.  It included a nice seaman who drove me to a better spot in St. Malo in which to wait for cars (I love when people do that); a couple of young ladies heading to Rennes on a shopping trip; a technician for Mercedes driving to Paris for work, who didn’t mind when I continuously dozed off; and a chatty guy heading to Tours for work (I want to say he was a vending machine repairman?  But there’s my French for ya), who probably gave me the equivalent of an hours French lesson through his patient listening.  But then again, we were stuck in a car together.  Miraculously, although he spoke no English, we talked about quite a lot, which is definitely a confidence booster.  He had even been to Portland!

Making things even smoother, he dropped me off right at the tourist information center in Tours, and much to my delight, inside was a “Walking Specialist” who lit up when I said I was starting the Camino and needed a guide book or map (I said that in French!  Wah!).  He selected one for me, and I bought my Pilgrim Passport, and headed off to the Cathedral to pay it a visit and get a stamp in my passport.

Only 5km down the Camino, and there’s a nice campsite.  A full day of travel, yet I hardly felt stressed.  Not only that, but now I feel in the company of others.  Although I’m good at being alone, I need to talk to people, and have those people understand what I’m doing.  That’s why it was good to talk to couchsurfers Julie and Tom and Daisey (hey guys!), because couchsurfers generally don’t think crazy trips are weird, they think they’re awesome.  That’s the same reason it’s good to be on the Camino, because I’ve already met other pilgrims (although they’re bikers) and that makes me feel like I’m walking with people, although I’m not actually walking with them at all.  It’s the feeling of common purpose, camaraderie, meaningful social interaction, in which I’m lacking.  Greatly.  Come talk to me.

Buen Camino! 

On a Sad Note

As you may have seen on the news, yesterday there was a devastating train crash in Santiago de Compostela, in the corner of Galicia, Spain where I have been living for the past 8 months, and towards which I am walking. I cannot stop thinking about it.  The only way I can really summarize my feelings is that I am very, very sad.

I can’t help think and replay all those times that I’ve been on a train through Santiago, and all I can see in my mind are the faces of those people who were on the train with me.  They are students and couples.  They are kids, and religious pilgrims, heading to Santiago on the eve of celebrations for St. James.  The train is full.  Some people are standing.  I can see myself there, with them, taking for granted that this is just another ordinary train journey.  The green Galician fields zip past.  It  have easily been me.  Or Gloria.  Or Marcos.  Or Eva, or Alex.  Or Natalia.  Or the children I teach.

I am so sad for Galicia today.  I’m not Gallega, but I do love some Gallegos.  My friends, I love you, and I’m so, so sorry for this tragedy.  Bicos.

July 21: The End! (ish)

You know you’ve been alone too long when you start telling the bartender how if your friend is attacked by a bear, you shouldn’t run away but you have to try save him, since the bear will eat his intestines while he’s still conscious.

Today was my last day hiking.  My complaints about the heat must have been heard because I woke up to stormy weather, with the wind whipping around my tent.  It’s okay though, because the rain stopped and it became hot and muggy again.  I left my pack in Pendeen and hiked nice and light to Land’s End, through old tin mines, and more cliffs, and a fiercely windy Cape Cornwall.

The day was pretty anticlimactic actually, since it wasn’t the end of a trail, no real milestone, just where I decided to stop walking.  So far I’m up to 550 miles, more or less.  I’m a little embarrassed actually, since it’s a pretty slow 550 miles, but take into account that I’ve had about 7 days off, and most days are an exhausting series of steep ascents and descents, then it doesn’t sound so bad.  The West Highland Way was the easiest trail so far.  I simply sigh and smile when thinking of those gentle ascents and cool temperatures.

If, after 550 miles, you have enjoyed reading my blog, or have learned something, or have even been inspired to start a crazy adventure of your own, consider donating $5.50 (a cent for every mile I’ve walked) to a sustainable organization in Cambodia, the Trailblazer Foundation.  (See the ‘DONATE’ tab at the top of the page).  Your money goes directly into a sustainable project.  If you donate the $60 needed for a water filter to be built and installed, you can even get your name painted on it.  Not that that’s a reason to donate, but it’s illustrative of how your donation will be going directly towards the cause, and not lost in overhead costs.  Let’s give the gift of clean water!  Empower the People!  🙂

July 19: Dolphins

I’m glad I had that little pep-talk with myself a few days ago, because I snapped out of my funk and tried to go back to appreciating just what was in front of me.  I tried to stop focusing on how sweaty I was and just immersing myself again in nature, like I had been doing in Scotland and Wales and somehow lost along the way in England.  The simplicity of just putting one foot in front of the other, taking a breath and looking around, is so relaxing, so gratifying, incredible how little you physically need in order to be in awe of the world.

I decided I needed to get back to what I loved, and I decided to wild camp.  It took a little planning, since the day was sweltering, and I had to wash off my layers of sunscreen the best I could in a pub restroom, and then filled up all my water containers, since the biggest roadblock to wild camping has been lack of water and feeling disgusting after a hot day.  I waited for the sun to cool in Portreath, and then started hiking again, and before too long found an acceptable spot on the cliffs with room for a tent.

The sunrise woke me early and I was just about to eat breakfast when Nature rewarded me for wild camping.  Past me swam a pod of dolphins, jumping out of the water, swimming off towards the rising sun.  I was so surprised I both laughed and cried.  It feels good again, to be out here.

Walking over the dunes

Long hot stretch of beach…

good morning

joining me for lunch

got the campsite picked out

it was a day of beautiful heathered cliffs

July 17: 5 More Days

I don’t know why it is, but I’ve entered a slump.  I wake up in the morning dead tired, and just go back to sleep, instead of making an early start of the day.  My whole left leg feels at times part of someone else’s body:  while I should be getting stronger, this leg has decided to prematurely kick the bucket.  Hip, knee, shin, heel—all are working together to send me little zings of pain when I’m going downhill.  But physical pain is usually the easiest to get over.

Harder than a little pain is a cloud of moodiness that has not lifted over my head.  I can’t blame anyone but myself, and I’m not unhappy, I’m just a little done.  I’m still happy walking along the beautiful coastal paths, and Wow, it sure is pretty, I think to myself dozens of times a day.  It really is.  I guess pretty can only get you so far.  What is bothering me more is the general change of tone my surroundings have taken now, in the middle of July.  England has gone on vacation but my mind is resisting.  It is hanging on to the small villages of Wales, the small friendly campsites, and the feeling of being in a slow motion bubble, walking slowly through a slow world.  Now I’m still walking slowly, but the world has sped up around me.  Campsites have gotten expensive, and no more are those friendly backyard fields to pitch a tent.  Every town that has a beach has become carpeted with bodies, and for once there is something more numerous than pubs—ice cream vans.

I’ve expressed my annoyance, but that’s not to say that I don’t get it.  This, for many people, is a fine holiday.  The bustle of crowds, the sun (the first summer in 5 years I am told), the sand, and lazing around eating ice cream and burning your beer belly to a crispy, plum hue (because you never know when the sun will return!).  My problem is that I haven’t adapted.  I haven’t changed my expectations of a quiet romp through the countryside, being bothered by nothing but sheep and kind people looking for a conversation.

So I’m not unhappy.  But I’ve become enough dissatisfied to want to leave.  Now.  Before my love of the UK changes quickly over to annoyance.

Well not now, but in 5 more days.  Five more days of walking, a couple of nights rest with a couchsurfer near Poole, and I’ll go to France early.  Until then, I’ll try to get over myself enough to really enjoy what’s right there in front of me.

***

Speaking of scenery!  Today was a lovely day, which is even more amazing because it wasn’t too hard.  Usually the most spectacular days come with grueling climbs.  Out of Porthcothen the trail skirted the edges of several coves, with water so clear and shallow you could see their sandy bottoms.  The coves, perhaps fortunately, weren’t reachable on foot, since the cliff walls encircle them protectively like a very steep amphitheater.

Next came the Bedruthan Steps, a line of six rock stacks and pinnacles wonderfully jutting out of the sea.  My favorite was Queen Bess Rock, really only for its name, for in Victorian times (the coast was a tourist destination even in those days), it was named for its likeliness to Queen Elizabeth.  However, due to erosion the resemblance has been lost; as a sign pointed out, “the Queen has lost her head.”

July 15: The Mists of Tintagel

 

I’m grateful for the times when I’m reminded why I like to wander on my feet.  They’ve been hurting a lot lately, and I still feel like I haven’t recovered from a tough, hot hike a couple of days ago.  Most of the time I’m alone on a path, perfectly happy in my solitude, but then I enter a town and it seems all of England is there with their friends and family, sprawled on the beach and enjoying the cafes and bars that I cannot.

It’s easy to feel envious, but it’s a feeling that quickly dissapates when I have a morning like today, walking before the world awakes, and all I hear is the sound of gulls chirping like radars among the cliffs, and the surf far, far below me.  Today the mist piled up against the sea walls, and I walked above it in the morning sunshine.  The white clouds unfurled over the sea, obscuring all signs of the water, looking almost like I could walk right onto it.  It was a spectacular morning.

I have to remind myself there’s a reason my feet are hurting, and my back twinges sometimes, and I always smell, and my hip shoots pain down to my knee when I walk downhill:  if it was easy, everyone would be here with me.  But they are on the beach, in the bars, in the cafes, and I have much of this beautiful world to myself.

July 13: On the Cornish Coast

Here in Cornwall!  What a beautiful walk this has been.  The scenery is mile after mile of stunning cliffs and coves and rock formations.  I’ve seen a fox, a peregrine falcon, and a deer who barked at me.  The sea is a shimmering blue, but this beauty doesn’t come cheap.  Every day is a grinding up and down clifftops.  Everyone I meet likes to tell me, “Oh, the next part is the hardest.”  I try to tell them that every day is difficult, but they are always certain that no, this next bit is the hardest.  It really is very similar: up, down, up, down, dramatic view.

I know I have blabbed on and on and on about the heat, but it’s really making things difficult.  Yesterday, a 16 mile day, was spendidly beautiful and remote.  I saw only a handful of people until the more accessible beaches at the end of the day.  A walker’s dream, except there isn’t any access to water.  Around mile 13 I was feeling faint and pretty worried, but luckily there was a long-awaited refreshment stand where I gulped a liter of iced tea.  Even then, when I finally found a campsite and a grocery store, I was completely beat, and felt it the next morning.

It’s interesting what has happened to my feet.  They generally hurt, which you can probably understand, but in the morning they have a way of seizing up over night, so as I stumple out of my tent in the morning towards the bathroom, I feel like a newborn deer learning how to walk, and stumble in the early dawn to the toilets, limping and moaning much like a zombie hungering for brains.

But, what a beautiful part of the world.  So, it’s worth it.  Here are photos!

July 9: It’s Hot. Let’s Take a Day Off, Shall We?

I’m not really one for hot weather.  As I may have mentioned before, I become absolutely depressed and miserable when two things happen: 1.) Lack of sleep, and 2.) when it’s hot.  I don’t know how some people manage to keep their heads and power on when they haven’t slept for 24 hours.  I can’t do it.  I’d miss my own wedding to take a nap if I was tired enough.

And for when it’s hot.  I also think all of you people who prefer the searing heat of say, Phoenix, to a temperate, if rainy, day in Portland.  Oh, but it’s a dry heat you say?  Who cares!  It’s in the desert!  It’s hot.  Throw in some humidity and I’m toast.  Soggy toast.  I will never get anything done in the heat.  You can see how my summers in South Korea were a bit depressing, when it’s 90 degrees and the only respite is the beach, but then OH HERE COMES A MONSOON!

So walking in the heat, with layers of sunscreen upon sweat upon sunscreen, is like a slow, slimy death for me.  Out here on the cliffs of Devon there isn’t much tree cover, and my 40 pound pack suddenly becomes the chains binding me to a hot and sweaty death.

Add to this that everything I own smells, because (and you might find this a bit disgusting) my clothes have had only one proper wash in more than five weeks, and you get the idea I’m stuck in a sweaty, smelly cycle of being hot and dirty only to shower off and start it all over again.

Alright, I’m really not that miserable.  I just wanted to paint the picture about how being sweaty, slimy, and smelly can get to you after a little while.  Which is WHY!!!

DAY OFF!!! WHOOOO!!!

I wouldn’t have chosen Westward Ho! as a place to spend a day off, but the YHA is on the hill above the pesky tourists, with a deck and a view of the ocean.  And you read that correctly:  Westward Ho! is spelled with a !.

Now all of my clothes are clean!  Ta-dah!  Westward Ho!  I sponged down my backpack, and aired out my sleeping bag, and washed everything I own, and though maybe it’s all scruffy around the edges, I’m no longer the person people avoid standing next to because of that strange smell wafting of her.

You see what I’m saying about backpacking?  It makes the simplest things a cause for celebration.

For instance, I haven’t had very much access to internet, which I in fact enjoy a lot, but last night Rachel and I were online AT THE SAME TIME!  Which hasn’t happened since we parted ways a month ago, so it was a surreal feeling, and renewed my love for internet.  Rachel is arriving in Santiago de Compostela TODAY, at the end of her long Camino, and she has far surpassed me in miles, has survived a heat wave in Spain, almost died of thirst, walked through a FLOOD, and hasn’t injured herself or even had a rest day.  So dear reader, please say out loud to yourself, Congratulations Rachel!

So enough writing already.  It’s my rest day, and War and Peace awaits.

July 7: It’s Getting Hot in Here

Yesterday was the 4^th day of the southwest coast path, and a lady I passed told me it wasn’t such a good day for walking as it was the hottest day of the year, and I said, that’s not saying much.  It started out not feeling too hot, pretty sweaty as the trail is difficult and goes up and down sea cliffs.  So beautiful though, that all the pain just seemed necessary for the payoff.  There were cliffs, and tidepools, and I went down to a long flight of stairs to a beach in a little cove with lots of rocks, went swimming and while I was drying off almost was unaware that my little rock I was perched on would soon be surrounded by water as the tide was coming in very quickly.

I applied and reapplied sunscreen, but the sun became relentless, and I sweaty.  At Woolacombe, I walked into a zoo of tourists, a sea of bodies on the beach, and people everywhere, apparently enjoying this hellhole.  I was like a scared animal entering into a sea of hunters.

I just don’t know who these people are, who congregate in one little area, with no charm or character, when there is a long coastline out there waiting to be explored.

I arrived out of water and dehydrated and probably on the edge of sunstroke.  I bought two bananas, yogurt, juice, and ice cream at the store, and gobbled it up sitting on a curb in the shade somewhere.

(My god, it’s 8:45am and I’m sweating out here already).

I was determined to get to Croyde Bay where there were camping sites (or so my book said), but as I was walking along the massive beach, Woolacombe Sand, my body felt ready to crumple.  I needed to uplift my spirit.  At the end of the beach, above Putsborough, I sat in a field and drank a beer.  I sang out loud to myself.  I watched the sun set a little.  I felt much better after that.

and soon I was down in Croyde Bay, and I turned up at… a giant Holiday Park camping complex.  It was like a mall within a campground.  It had fastfood joints, and bingo, and an arcade, and a surf shop, and lots of stupid looking people wandering around.

Reception was closed and I asked some security guard if I could camp there.  He told me to walk across the street to the security office, and then I waited for the main security guy to drive up, and he said, “the price might scare you off,” but I had no idea he actually meant it, as he told me to camp, without a car, just a camper, was 28 pounds.  “It’s terrible,” he said, shaking his head.  “But that’s the price they chose.”  Another strike against corporate money grabbers.  He didn’t really know where another campground was, but maybe one on the other side of town, so I started walking.  I passed a small, but closed campground, that said it had moved to another location back the way I came, so I was standing around looking confused and sad reading the small map in my book trying to decide what to do, when a guy in a truck stopped and asked if I was looking for a campsite.  He said he owned the other one, but there was one much closer in town, and since his direction confused me, he just put my bag in the truck and drove me down the street.  I said, “Hope you don’t mind if I smell,” and he said, “I work with sheep.”  Then he dropped me off in front of a B&B and said go around back.  So I did.  And there was camping.  And the man was so kind and soft-spoken that I wanted to hug him, and he even reduced the price down to 7 pounds (still expensive, but here I was in tourist land), and just was about the kindest person at that moment in my life when I was hot and tired.  And thankfully this place is here, much better than a caravan park, just his long backyard of grass and some cars and their tents.

So, it’s hot.  We’ve all got a heatwave it seems, and while it’s not “Spain hot” it’s hot enough to make me dizzy and feel like I’m walking slow motion through the desert.  I’m not sure how this will change things, but for the moment I’ll just keep walking…

Happy Hiking!

M

July 6: Boring Old Update

It’s not July 6!  I have had very limited internet access, so many of the following entries will be postdated.  

This is the first caravan site that I love.  It’s absolutely stunning and sprawling across several acres.  Of course it would be more stunning if there weren’t lawns of cars and mansion-tents along it, but at least it’s not on the only piece of pristine property around here, as it abuts the coves and cliffs of Exmoor which I just walked over.  And it’s not cramped, and the owners are cheerful, and there were free toboggan rides down a grassy hill as I arrived, so it’s got good spirit at least.

I took the advice of a man who started talking to me in Combe Martin, where I was outside the shut information center, reading the map taped on the window, to walk a little farther and camp here.  There was another site close by that I was going to walk to, but sometimes when someone starts talking to you out of the blue and recommends a campsite you get a good feeling about it.

The Southwest Coast Path passes right through the site, as a matter of fact, cutting through the lucky tents that are pitched high on the hill with a sea view and sunset off to the left.  Naturally I pitched my tent up here.

I’m often the little guy in the caravan park, but up here there are no motor homes, just car-camping families relaxing with their Saturday night BBQs.  I asked at reception, and again I am the only hiker here.

This was definitely a good day though.  The cliffs struck into the ocean one after another, sometimes interrupted by a bay and a rocky beach.  The main path never touched a beach though, and stayed high above, climbing up and down from the top of one cliff down into a  valley and up onto the next one.  Good climbs, I might add.  Fun climbs, that don’t feel like dreary work, but just that nice slow burn that feels more like a catalyst than a backbreaker.

And there was little civilization as well.  Besides a brief trek through a Christian retreat center, the cliffs are pretty out there by themselves, and I only encountered a couple groups of tourists near the more easily accessible viewpoints, like the Valley of the Rocks and Woody Bay.  So I got to have the scenery to myself for most of the time, and had lots of rest breaks to gape at the beauty, and even a chance to lie in an empty clifftop field and listen to the waves far below.  It’s a good day when I get to lie around in an empty field.

And may I mention something about the sun.  The past two days have been sunny and I have seen the sky, big patches of it too.   At this moment I’m watching the sun set on the ocean and I CAN SEE NO CLOUDS.   (Well I just jinxed it there, didn’t I?).  I know this isn’t such a big deal to all of you who have had the pleasure of living in a normal place the follows the seasonal calendar.  But here we are in Britain, and I have been here a month, and today for the first time I realized it was summer, because every other day seemed like it could have been early spring, late autumn, or even winter.  It’s SUMMER!  At last!  (I just jinxed it again).

There’s an update for ya!  Nothing exciting, but I guess you have to be here.  I’ll send you a postcard!  (And if you want a postcard, send me your address!).

Happy Hiking,

Marisa

And here are some photos for your viewing pleasure!