The Way.
It’s taken me longer than I’d care to admit to write about this trip but, now that I've processed a few things, I feel like it’s time to share the journey.
Self-expression has always been a comfort to me that I’d give up for no one. It has helped me communicate my ideas and emotions, things that at times were impossible to put into words; but for a time I’ve grown more and more reclusive with my thoughts and convictions. This troubles me. What is a photographer if you have nothing to put across? What does any of this have to do with this trip? Well to put it simply, I thought an answer could be to go and suffer a little. To find something within myself again. Some remnants of a voice I suppose?
An 800km bikepacking trip across the Pyrenees and through northern Spain seemed as good a way as any to seek a bit of discomfort. This is after all, a pilgrimage; and religious or not, pilgrims must suffer. So I sold my van, booked my flights and packed my bike up.
All in search of the way.
Day 1 - 30km in on the road to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port - The start of the Camino Frances. The heat, climbs and the first teething pains have arrived. I’ve stopped in a small town called Le Bourg. An old french man smokes his morning cigar and tries to speak to me while I drink an espresso. Must get on.
Day 3 - Met a young German guy, Stefan, on the small climb out of Puenta De La Reina. He’s cycled 2500km from the Bavarian forest and will continue on to Portugal to meet his parents before traveling home. He asks some questions about wild-camping but it seems his experience out does mine - still, I give what advice I can. I ask to take his picture as we watch the sun come up.
Day 5 - Had an early finish in Logroño - got chatting to an Old Californian guy who’s lived here for 25 years. He suggests a craft beer spot round the corner; my swollen knees take me there fast enough. I drink 5 pints alone since tomorrows a rest day and my mind doesn’t feel so hot. Back at the hostel, I meet Oisín, Dory & Timo. We sat and spoke about Scotland since Dory used to live in Aberdeen & Glasgow. I hope to see them all again.
The next day I spent my morning wandering around taking pictures of street cleaners & locals heading to work. Everyone talks here, conversation seems to play a critical part of daily life. Timo introduces me to Kinga and they invite me to cook carbonara with them for lunch. Timo is Swiss-Italian so is not happy that he couldn’t find proper Guanciale.
Day 7 - Back on the bike and I roll past Michael. He spends his days, weeks & months busking along the way for pilgrims passing him by. “Stairway To Heaven” is interrupted by another pilgrim - yes, we all love Zeppelin. Maybe if you shut up, we can enjoy it. She walks on by as me & Michael talk. He’s well versed in an unconventional life and we bond immediately.
Picking up speed as I steam down the rocky descents into Azofra. It’s a quiet dusty town where I meet David - He’s playing with a small kitten in the warmth of the sun. His seems like many of the best pilgrims; tired & content. On we go again.
Day 8 - Legs are feeling stronger than ever but definitely ‘used’ and my mind is doing it’s best to cope. A short break while I wait for the rain & wind to stop seems like a smart idea. With half an eye on the clouds & weather maps, I write in my journal - a new process which has done small wonders. But there’s still some thoughts troubling me.
Some luck has been afforded to me as I manage to cross paths with Oisín again, we meet in a small halfway town. I still have 10km of headwind to go but the opportunity for a couple beers and a chat can’t be missed.
Beers drank and laughs are had but, I have the feeling my path is about to get interesting.
Day 9/10 - Made it to Belorado late last night and ate my bodyweight in food after the longest day so far. Headwind is never to be underestimated on a fully loaded bike. I’ve checked the forecast for the next few days and it’s looks like autumn is coming all at once with the arrival of Storm Babet.
My predicament: pain in my wrists and back are making longer days impossible so the going is painfully slow. It’s around 60km into Burgos and the storm is due to hit tomorrow around 9am. The only solution is to ride two shorter legs with a cat nap in between.
The early finish gave me a chance to recoup a little. It’s now 6am - I’ve been ‘hike-a-biking’ for 2 hours now up the last steep, wet, and rocky ascent before some easy riding into the city, but the edge of the storm is coming thick and fast. Approaching the top of the hill, I see the black silhouette of a ten meter high metal cross. I shine my headlight to the right and see miles of tangled barbed wire defenses. The environment appears to threaten me as if it doesn’t want me here now.
Scared & sketchy riding takes me through run down industrial estates on the outskirts of the city and loose guard dogs give chase. I’d be impressed with the watts I’m pushing if I wasn’t so bloody scared.
Day 11/12 - I'm mentally and physically exhausted. I must admit defeat. A couple days of rest in Burgos has helped in some ways but my mind will not relent. I’m stuck in the mud, treading water, up the creek. Fucked.
Another rest day brings Oisín & Timo into town and I’m happy to have company again. A break from myself, I suppose.
A young lad from Liverpool introduces himself to me and we explore the city together. You can’t help but be bought by Dom’s eagerness & enthusiasm. It seems like a magnet for all as he introduces me to his friends from around the world. 2 hours on and we’re sitting down to dinner together with 8 more friendly faces. I wonder if this moment is as special to them as it is to me right now - They may be strangers but for this short time, my heart feels thankful.
In the morning I will leave for Bilbao; to jump ship and return home. No prize has seemingly been afforded to me. Reflection may prove me wrong.
Full Gallery
