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Illustration by Sarah Farquhar
The hill keeps going up. I’ve been walking it for the last kilometre and have yet to see the top. It’s a stinking 32 C. This had not been on my list of things to do in life. Yet here I am: hot, hungry and thirsty, staring at yet another unending hill.
Let me back up a few months. My husband of 34 years had been diagnosed with several complex medical conditions, including young-onset Alzheimer’s. This had thrown a curveball into our retirement and life plans, and I needed to give myself space to confront the fear and sadness that had settled into my soul. While I am not religious, a two-week walk in nature would give me time to contemplate where I was and where I needed to be to help him, and to get my feet back underneath me.
Scrutinizing friends for a hiking partner, I unexpectedly found Karen, a professional contact of 15 years from Ottawa who mentioned in passing that she liked to walk 10 kilometres a day. She was retiring and had recently lost her husband from a burst cerebral aneurysm they didn’t know he had. She welcomed the walking experience.
My hiking criteria were not very complicated: a comfy bed, a guide, wine, good food and carrying only a lightweight day bag on the trail. Oh, and I wanted a certificate at the end to say I had completed it.
Our travel agent suggested two spots on the Camino Via Francigena walking through Tuscany to Rome. We would get our completion “testimonium” from the Vatican. It sounded sublime, and we signed up.
Leading up to our departure last fall, Karen and I texted frequently and shared travel strategies and worries. I was worried about my plantar fasciitis, which had been a constant companion for 40 years – but fall arrived, and we felt ready. With a good supply of courage and Advil we headed to Siena to begin our walk.
Places I have never heard of before – Sutri, the hilltop towns of Montefiascone and Radicofani, and the lovely historical town of Bagno Vignoni and its spa resort – caught me off guard with their beauty and treasures. With significantly fewer people than the well-known Camino de Santiago, Via Francigena provided lots of opportunity for quiet contemplation (except for the hills, of course, where all I could think about was gearing down and getting to the top).
We explored medieval fortresses and Etruscan archaeological sites, walked Roman roads. Doing so humbled me and reminded me that I am but a speck in the passage of time. And surprisingly, this comforted me.
Having a friend on the path was nice, but we rarely felt the need to walk together. This was refreshing, allowing each of us to process and reflect on the emotions we were going through. Yet we were always there to keep an eye out when nature called, borrow a euro for a gelato or a pair of dry socks. In the evenings we processed the day and I fell into bed exhausted – but not before soaking my feet.
One evening midway through the walk, sitting on a toilet seat with my feet in an infusion of tea tree oil and lavender in a bidet (yes, a bidet), I stared down at what I had long thought were my stubby, unattractive feet, and my perspective shifted. I was struck by how durable, resilient and amazing they were. In that moment, I realized I needed to change my perspective. It’s not just my feet that were resilient. I was resilient.
I came to trust that things would appear as I needed them. Water fountains and spigots appeared along the route in village squares and people’s front yards. As in centuries past, locals had set out benches and tables for pilgrims to rest and eat. They wished us “buon Camino” as they went about their day, hanging laundry, feeding chickens or picking grapes. We walked through vineyards, picked and ate wild asparagus and walnuts, and ate lunch in an olive grove with shade from magnificent ready-for-harvest trees. The bird song, gentle breezes and grand vistas provided a balm for my diminished spirit. People we encountered reminded me of friends at home who enveloped me: nurturing, thoughtful and generous. It began to restore my sense of hope.
Since our bags were transported for us, I was unencumbered by “stuff,” and freer to ponder and process. I left some of my heavy emotional stuff behind on those forest paths and by that babbling brook.
In the end, my certificate from the Vatican wasn’t as important as I thought. I valued my new sense of hope, the briskness in my stride as the days progressed, the amazing friendships (both old and new) – the self-confidence to take the path that was before me, both figuratively and literally.
I had no intention of climbing those hills, yet I did. The obvious comparison here is the unexpected hills and curves at this point in my life. While I did not plan this path, it is what I have been given. My focus now is to find a life path between fear and courage.
Shelley Goodwin lives in Yarmouth, N.S.