Here's another one of my musings on walking the Camino de Santiago back in 2006:

'On the hardest part of the journey'

There is a saying, I’m sure you know it, ‘The hardest part of a journey is taking the first step’, the truth of which was to become apparent to me in a big way. My first step away from the relative security of the vehicle and into the South African bush was terrifying and now, stepping out of doorway of the auberge L’Esprit de Chemin in St Jean Pied de Port, I felt the same, except now it was not the vast Natal wilderness and wild animals that I was afraid of but the knowledge that this was it, I was taking my first step on an 800-kilometre trek across northern Spain. It is estimated that an average stride, step is 0.762 meters; therefore 1 kilometre is about 1,312.34 steps, so I figured I was about to take the first of 1,049,886.77 steps, not to mention all the other steps in-between. One small step off the doorstep, into the street and into the unknown, alone with nobody to rely on but myself and unlimited time; I hadn’t made any plans for my return journey to the UK. I was very extremely and dreadfully scared all at once.

I’d arrived in St Jean Pied de Port the previous morning, totally overloaded with baggage, both physical and emotional. The physical baggage being my enormous, incredibly heavy monster of a back pack. The landlady at the auberge took one look at it, laughed and tactfully and gently advised me to dump some stuff, re-think and re-pack. This I did and a package of wanted but completely unnecessary stuff was sent back home later that morning, and I felt so much better for it. A valuable lesson was learnt; you only need what you need and what you want is not necessarily what you need, if that makes sense. Less really is more. I spent the rest of the day wandering around St Jean, café hopping, exploring the town, and contemplating the view from the citadelle into the west and up the pass where I would be heading the next day.

There were a few other pilgrims staying at the auberge that night. One had started from Le Puy in France and had been on the road several weeks already; the others were all starting from St Jean like me. There was an American couple in their seventies from New Mexico who had been on Camino about ten years before but had been unable to complete it as the wife, a doctor, had broken her leg. She had continued for some distance but her husband, realising the insanity of this, managed to persuade her to quit and return home where she had to have her leg re-broken and set. They were back now to have another go and in case you are wondering if they made it; I met them again about a week before I arrived in Santiago. Truly inspiring. The food was delicious and the company was lively, and there much talk about the days ahead; breakfast on the other hand was a more subdued affair with everyone in quiet and contemplative mood.

I tried to take as much time over my breakfast as possible, in a vain attempt to put off that inevitable first step. Of course, I knew I had to gather myself and my pack together and just get on with it otherwise I never would, but doubt, fear and panic were making me hesitate. Eventually I pulled myself together, I was going to do this, and as I was about to leave the landlady pressed a small card into my hands with a poem, 'To know the way' by Benjamin Hoff from 'The Tao of Pooh' printed on it, gave me a huge hug and wished me luck. I hugged her back and thanked her, my throat aching and my eyes prickling with emotion and my mind screaming ‘Oh my god, this is it!’

So, I stood in the doorway, back pack on, staff in hand with the words from the poem in my head. My guts squirming with anxiety I took a deep breath and stepped out into the street. I walked past shops and cafes and people going about their daily business. There were smiles and wishes of ‘Bon Camino’ and soon I noticed the other back pack laden, staff carrying people, other pilgrims, walking in the same direction as me; heading into the west. I felt better and strode on through the archway on the Rue d’Espange, across the bridge and out onto the road heading up and over the mountains into Spain and on to Roncesvalles, my destination for that evening. I realised that being scared was OK, being excited was brilliant, I was embarking on an adventure of a life time and that I was free and totally independent for the first time in a long, long time.