Sir Bawls-a-lot: Worst Spirit Guide. EVER.

...somewhere I passed an old man pushing a wheelbarrow. Hiw toothless smile touched me so deeply that I had a momentary impression that he was my father: a representation of The Father. Tears well up again and I am left speechless...my reality is shifting...why is it that I cannot recall the last few hours? This altered perception and emotional surge is overwhelming me. My heart feels so open my chest is aching. I seem to break in and out of conscious awareness, one instant of complete clarity, the next only haziness. I resolve in this moment to continue my pilgrimage in total silence. I don´t know for how long; I know only that something is seeking to reveal itself that can only be heard in the silence. Amidst these uncontrollable tears I write this simple message to hang around my neck. I trust others will understand what I can´t articulate or comprehend it myself. I don´t even know if it makes sense in Spanish, "Saludos. Yo peregrino a pie, caminate en silencio. Paz."

Every night we have a bed time story from one of the main English guide books for the camino. Back in 2005, a man by the name of John Brierley apparently cried his way along the entire pilgrimage. Anything would set him off, be it an old man´s smile, or a local peasant waving from their field. For this reason, we have taken to calling our "guide along the spiritual path" Sir Bawls-a-lot.

In his defence, he provides some great maps and practical tips for the days ahead. But, unfortunately, there is a wealth of personal reflections and advice for having your own spiritual experience along the way.

Perhaps there´s something wrong with me, but this leaves a bad taste in my mouth. One day, Bawlsy directed me to look at all the bees buzzing around and to think about the "buzziness" in my own life. I wonder such deep introspection had caused him to vomit a little in his mouth too.

Walking 800km across another country is a pretty big undertaking and, when it is steeped in centuries of Christian and pagan tradition, it is understandable that a lot of people will see the path as one leading towards a spiritual terminus. But, to think that this "inner journey" can be packaged and presented as some holiday tour for the soul is awful. Unfortunately, it happens a lot out here: there are buses of pilgrims who hop off for a quick, 15km jaunt before hightailing it to their hotels and hot showers. Other pilgrims sit and write in their journals, not because they´ve necessarily experienced a form of enlightenment, but rather because that´s just what you do when you walk.

For me, strangely, I´d have to say that this pilgrimage has become one of physical and pragmatic growth. When I started, 26 days ago, my body burnt and ached and I hobbled with blistered feet and sore joints across the way. Something changed a few days ago, and now we burn our way across the countryside, melting 30kms beneath our soles in the space of 5 hours a day. My feet have healed amazingly; they are not tough and calussed, though there are still razor-sharp shreds of skin from old blisters, but instead they refuse to be injured any further. Even my baby toenail, now an angry shade of Spanish Onion purple, is still holding on, despite all the stories of other pilgrims having lost their entire collection.

Mountains are no trouble anymore, either.

A few days ago, the hellish mesetas bowed down and their red earth cracked apart as rivers of grey slate rose up into new, healthy mountain ranges. These mountains hid many secrets.

I came to the town of Foncebadon. Back in the 80s this was where Paulo Coelho, starved and driven mad by his own spirit guide, attacked and defeated a dog. It is also where Shirley Maclean was menaced by local dogs (perhaps they had something against pilgrims after previous experience). For me this ghost town, abandoned to the misty mountains, was a point of tension.

I found, instead, a village reinvigorated by the life blood of the pilgrimage and the very reassuring sight of dogs sleeping in the middle of the road. They just didn´t have that demonic fighting spirit anymore, apparently.

Beyond Foncebadon, the path climbed steeply towards the Iron Cross, a place where pilgrims are meant to bring a stone from their homeland. I didn´t know about this tradition, but it was very moving reading all of the messages left in the past. The pole (a simple telegraphy pole) to which the iron cross is attached was festooned with memorials to lost loves, faded photos of pilgrims, strange nick-nacks and Korean student cards.

The Iron Cross marked the highest point along the camino. Miraculously, it also marked a transformation in the landscape. Once we left the cross, we were transported into the west coast of Ireland: grey and white stones pushed through the ground, while yellow-flowered bushes did their best impression of gorse bushes along the way. Hidden amongst this new, cooler world, was a small hippy hostel, built out of natural stones and watered from a nearby well. We did not stay here, but I could already see an outcrop of dreadlocked folk sipping chai in front of it.

For me, there was nothing spiritual about these experiences. At least, there was nothing tear-inducing, striking me down to the ground and forcing me into a fit of silence. But, maybe I was doing something wrong.

Germans are one of the most common sights along the camino, so I asked a few travellers what guided them along the pilgrimage. It turns out that a German comedian had written a recount of his travels and that it was this that encouraged them to flock in gigantic numbers, clogging the arterial routes and enfuriating locals (we noticed that if ever we did anything wrong, a local´s first question was "Are you German?"). Supposedly a feature film is being made based on this book, which bodes ill for the "spiritual purity" of the Camino pilgrimage.

Mr Spain noted his dislike of the Germans on the day we entered Leon. Skipping around the rest of our group, he used his walking stick as a machine gun, firing bullets into the air and screaming:

"It´s a fucking war, aye, yeah, these Germans, we´ll beat them, aye, we´ll take them out before they get to the next city."

Needless to say, I haven´t seen Mr Spain since Leon.

But, he did make a good point, in a lateral way, and that is that the camino experience can be easily trampled by the immense number of pilgrims walking the way. Bawls-a-lot sends thousands of English-speaking travellers to the exact same towns every day, and I think that this is a major reason why a lot of the stops are either overcrowded or starting to develop new hostels (and why dogs are no longer attacking pilgrims).

To experiment, and get away from his pre-programmed path to Nirvana, our group has started finding beds in towns and villages off the beaten track. So far, so good, but I´ll leave this for another day.