A Steep Incline

A Steep Incline

We slept with the windows open last night, so that we could hear the river rushing by and the sound of the nearby weir. The soothing noises seem to have worked wonders because there are no complaints this morning. Or maybe I’ve just worn her down.

Our accommodation is a good few kilometres off the path so after breakfast a convoy of hotel staff await us in a series of bockety cars to bring us back to the Camino. We are last out so get the rustiest of the collection: a two door Honda.  Myself, Claire and Miriam squish ourselves into the back while Ciaran, being the man, settles himself into the front seat.

Our twelve year old Belorussian waitress cum driver doesn’t instil us with confidence as she reverses back and forth several times in her attempts to turn the car in the narrow confines of the yard. We are all conscious of the steep drop to the river below as she rips part of the fencing away with the rear bumper.

‘It’s my husbands car’ she explains in broken English and bits of Spanish. ‘I’m not used to driving it’ . We all raise our eyebrows at the fact of her being married. They must have very lax laws in Belarus we all silently agree. It takes a bit longer for the import of her not knowing how to drive the car to register.

We crawl up a steep narrow lane, following the other cars, acutely aware of the ravine either side of us. Our car halts suddenly, as have those ahead. A van is coming in the opposite direction and there isn’t sufficient room to pass by. As we wait for the van driver to reverse, the car in front of us rolls back slightly and then shudders to a halt. We nervously laugh and carefully watch the descent of our companions up ahead as it continues to roll back. Claire grabs the seat in front of her, frantically tugging at it, pulling and shrilly crying that she wants to get out. Ciaran is confused, there’s too much going on; we are watching the car ahead, trying to keep our car off the steep bank behind us and simultaneously not wanting to appear overtly anxious because we all realise it’s not in our interests to have our child driver even more scared. She is shaking and clearly has no idea what to do and it looks as if her colleague, from the slow but inevitable descent of the car above, is no more skilled or competent.

Our car rolls back sufficiently to give us some breathing space, and I lean forward to pull on the hand break. The waitress looks down and it is obvious this is the first time she realises there is a functioning piece of equipment in that location. I swear, she’s never noticed it before. Ciaran quickly hops out and Claire fumbles around with her seat belt, total panic setting in. With a huge sigh, she clambers out of the car, and Ciaran slams the door. Neither of them are getting back in, that much is apparent. Our driver is now near collapsing with fright but the car ahead has finally managed to get into first gear and move up the hill. All we have to do is follow.

Mir and I wave madly at Ciaran to evict the driver; as an ex Garda, we place all our trust in him.  She falls out with obvious relief the moment he yanks the door open, and Mir hops into the front seat, immediately revving the car. Her manky right hand isn’t able to lift the hand break so I pull on it and the car jolts and shudders up the hill to a cheer from the crowd now standing at the top anxiously watching our progress.  We get to the summit, cut the engine and jump out to high five each other.  We all pace for a few minutes before getting back into the car, trying to quell the trembling in our legs.

It takes us all some time to calm down, but it’s our last day of walking together and we set off in the cool morning breeze. It’s been raining during the night, so everywhere is damp and shiny.  We take on this last leg with a spring in our step, proud of ourselves for having come this far without any angst, blisters or major falling out.  The hills are a killer. I could walk on the flat all day but seriously, these steep inclines are such hard work. I try to focus on the calf muscles of the lovely cyclists and convince myself that I too can reach that level of fitness. I don’t allow the fact that I only have two days to achieve that physical perfection to faze me!

We arrive too late for midday mass at the cathedral. The others head to our accommodation but I want to sit and take a deep breath. It’s overwhelming, the indulgence, the elaborate gold and decoration. It seems so inappropriate after days of hardship, rain and sore feet.

I sit quietly in the church and wait for a flash of insight, optimism or wisdom. I consider the last few days and all I’ve felt and thought about, and realise that whilst I’m not feeling immense gratitude, or deep appreciation, there is something settling in my chest. After some moments of reflection, I recognise that what I feel, where I’m at, is a sense of great comfort, peace, acceptance.

I will witness the mass tomorrow and look forward to it.

Night from Santiago