The Camino Sunflower

I wait expectantly in the dark. I know they are coming, they always come.

The first glimpse is the little dot of light, gently bobbing in the distance, following the path down from the crest of the hill. It gets bigger as they approach, occasionally sweeping the path, making sure they don’t miss the yellow arrows pointing the way to Santiago. They won’t of course, here it is one single, winding path. They can’t go wrong, but best to check, just in case.

The sun rises on my right, from behind that ridge. It starts with a gentle purple glow, then erupts in a sea of oranges, then yellows as the sun comes to greet a new day. They will come from here. These walkers. These searchers. These pilgrims.

And then, my favourite part of the day. The sun warming my face as I turn to meet it. Did you know I turn to follow it all day, until it sets in the west and I bow my head in gratitude.

And everyday they come. A stream of humanity, crawling across the landscape like a caterpillar, one shared purpose, one common goal. I hear the clickaty-clack of walking poles, the thump-thumping of wooden staff and the scranch-scrunch of feet on gravel.

Next come the voices carrying through the night. Whispered words they would never dream of telling their loved one back home. Secrets and torment kept from friends and family, but shared openly with complete strangers. Here it is different. Everyone has a story and the act of walking brings it out, a shared experience bringing people together, breaking down the barriers that took so long to build.

Yes, I hear their talk. Tales of unrequited love, of life and death, of joy and jealousy, of delight and despair, of hope and heartbreak. I hear them searching for purpose in the repeating cycle of daily certainty. Wake up, walk, sleep. All there is to do here is walk. Nothing else matters but putting one foot in front of the other. Getting to the end, the joy of the journey. But here, on the Meseta there is nothing, no distractions, just the memories that arise, demanding to be heard, like spoilt children from long ago. Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me! I see the ones struggling with it, anguish on their faces, but cannot help. If only they could see the beauty around them…

Yes, I hear their stories, but also their cries. Blisters and bruises, aching feet to match aching hearts. Every day they come and they go in their thousands, looking for an epiphany, yearning for an enlightenment often found in the most unlikely places.

Then there are the tearful walkers, wet cheeks and gentle sobs, emotions can rise quickly, and subside slowly, petering out into the endless expanse of the Meseta. No mascara streaks here. No need for make-up, just protection from the sun, or the rain.

Some walk in the knowing they are ill, bringing medical ailments from overseas. Walking is their last chance of freedom before their body succumbs to the ravages of sickness and time. Often they have left it too late,  and die right here on the trail, exhausted but happy.

Many walk quickly, earphones in and heads down, or, if alone, joyfully singing out in pure abandon, caught in a moment they wish they could take back home, but rarely will. They want to bottle the feeling, the simplicity of the trail, but it is forgotten all too easily on the flight home.

They do not know I am watching, they don’t know what I witness, but I see the pain, love and hope in their eyes. The brightly coloured raincoats and sun hats, scarves and shirts, socks and sandals. The too-heavy backpacks packed with items they will never need, and the small day packs as some choose to send their luggage ahead. I see the ponchos and the poles, stooped figures heads down against the wind and rain, and raised faces to the warm glow of the morning sun.

Some walk past alone, lost in their own thoughts, gazing wistfully over the fields around them. Sometimes they will notice me, but not often. I stand alone in a field of thousands, yellow faces following the sun from east to west, the direction in which they are walking towards their hoped-for salvation.

But me? No-one one stops here. There is no shade, and nowhere to sit, they pass on by and onwards, and onwards. I miss them.

My days are short now. I feel the end coming, my energy is sapping. They pass on by without noticing. Have they learnt nothing?