Four Calling Birds

(OK, so this is not a story.... it is an accompaniment to a larger story I am writing at the moment. Alison and I walked from Walsingham to Santiago last year and I am still getting my head around the experience. This is one short reflection which touches on a much larger story. Hope you don’t mind!)

They were constantly being asked what it had been like to walk that far.
How do you begin to answer such a question? Each day had followed a similar routine, they had faced all sorts of road conditions and the weather had swung from one extreme to the other and back again as they had continued their journey.
After resisting the temptation to tell people that if they wanted to know, they should try it themselves, they sat down and tried to find a reasonable explanation that would do the trick.
What were the constants? What could it be reduced down to that would make sense?
One idea they had was to tell people about the way the landscape unfolded as they walked. The slow pace walkers enjoyed let them see things. In particular, there was the sky. They were constantly aware of the changes in the sky; the clouds took on momentous proportions at times and then the weather would change and everything would close down. You would be walking along a ridge, looking down across a wide valley and the sky would fill with grey clouds. You would watch as the rain moved across the landscape in squalls at first, then as a long wall heading for you. You would see the whole sky lower until what had been open and grand was now closed down and dark. Your world would shrink from the distant horizon to the edge of your hood or the brim of your hat.
Another way to think of it was the balance between the rituals of the day and the combination of uncertainty and limited expectations you experienced. Yes, you might have an idea of where you were going to stay that night, but even that knowledge could be limited. Places might be closed or full, they might be well equipped or barely habitable, they might be crowded or empty, there might be food available and sometimes there was nothing unless you had it with you.
So, your rituals became a constant in an unpredictable world... you focused on settling into your corner of the room/bunks; getting your clothes and yourself washed; you carried food with you and replenished it whenever possible; you dealt with your physical issues (mainly managing your feet and dealing with blisters, etc) and sorting out your kit; you kept a record of what you had done and you checked out the next day’s route along with places to stay; checked out the other pilgrims and updated your news.
This routine dealt with much more than just the immediate needs. You accepted the overcrowding and limited facilities, the lack of privacy or comfort and the associated effects of these (snoring through the night, people getting up an hour or two before anyone else); people messing about during the night; smells, noises, mess and inconsiderate behaviour; the simple fact that the closest thing to a comfortable seat was the bunk bed and wall you sat on or the park bench you had lunch on that day; lack of your own books, music and other comforts; almost no English language conversation beyond that between you and your partner; etc.. Much of this was just background to the routine and rituals you performed. It was the backdrop to the joy of the journey, the wonderful people and places and so on. It was not the stuff to dwell on and was hardly to be considered as difficult, never mind seen as hardships.
So each day was a new challenge with the unexpected always about to happen and with a guaranteed format to follow and an understanding that we could expect very little, so what we got was always enough.
But really, that didn’t seem to be enough to answer the question. It did not do the whole experience justice and made it sound harder than it was. In fact, it was continuously and relentlessly wonderful...
Listing why they did it, they discovered that the top of the list was crowded with things like, “because we wanted to do it”, “because we enjoy doing this sort of thing” “because we had the opportunity to do it” as well as other more esoteric things like, “because we felt called to or felt a need to do it” and “because we wanted to walk in solidarity with those who live their lives without a home and have no choice in the matter”.
They also compiled another list defining what they got out of it, which matched a lot of their reasons for doing it in the first place (so, they did it because they enjoy doing such things and they got a lot of enjoyment out of it.... no surprises then?). It also emphasised just how much they had enjoyed walking in each other’s company but that, in itself, does not describe what it was like.... This was all very reassuring but none was of it constituted an answer.
Then, one day, as they were walking along the Thames Path enjoying the feeling of taking that sort of journey again, even if it was only for a day, something occurred to them.
Part of that magical pattern that made up their way was punctuated by birdsong.
In the morning they recalled the echo of birdsong as it rang through the cobbled streets and across the urban landscapes they had walked. They would even hear it in the lulls between traffic sounds as they trudged down busy city roads and it would fill the hedgerows of country lanes and forests as they slipped out of small villages or packed their tent in some rural campsite. Birdsong from the common birds like the blackbird and thrush were their morning call and their companion as they began each day.
Then, during their days walking, the birds of the day kept pace with them. In the wide flat fields of Normandy, and even through Burgundy, the Berry, across les Landes and even on the steep slopes of the Navarre and across the high plains of Northern Spain they would hear the skylark as it skipped skyward to sing its wild, adrenalin filled song while flitting and hovering above the fields. That sound, carried in the wind, playing in variations across so many landscapes was as evocative of their walk as the morning songs.
Then, in the evening, as they dried their clothes and ate their early meals before settling for the night, there always seemed to be the sound of birds screaming and calling along the streets. From Northern France to Spain the birds like martins and swifts would emerge from their nests huddled under the eaves and shaded corners of barns to swoop and dive through the buildings and along the quiet lanes, catching their evening meals as they sang of the joy of being able to fly so fast and so wildly through human shaped landscapes.
The fourth sound was something that led to a little debate.
In Northern France, right through to Burgundy, the days were punctuated by the sounds of cuckoos calling from across rivers, valleys and fields. They were never closer and seemed to take pleasure in filling large empty spaces with their haunting, repetitive calls. Perhaps it was the change in seasons, rather than the location that brought about the silencing of their calls, but it was a sound that had not been heard in England and was their companion across the first half of France. Was this the other sound that would help to illustrate their experience?
If seasonality or location were not barriers then another candidate would be the nightingale who sang its incessantly virtuoso song in a tree above their tent one night in the Eure/Loire borders area in France. Or perhaps they should consider the wild and whacky sounds made by toads or frogs in the many ponds and rivers across France and Spain. At times they were more like gargled screams and in other places like mad whoops, but they were there like odd question-marks scattered across much of their walk. Not birdsong, admittedly, but there all the same.
Then, as they passed under one of the many bridges along the river on their walk, they heard a familiar sound. Pigeons were cooing and scuffling in the crowded shadows above their heads and they looked at each other and nodded in agreement.
From the start in the Norfolk countryside to the primitive, misty villages of Galicia there were pigeons. Whether it was the wild and throaty call of the ones in the woods or the feral, urban murmurs of their ragged cousins perched on gothic church facades and under thatch on half timbered farm houses, it was a sound that stayed with them all the way.
So now, when asked what it was like, they had an answer to accompany the many stories and commentaries.
Along with the landscape and the skies, keeping them company in every language, from morning ‘till the coming of the next day, through the ups and downs of social and culinary experience, between the discomfort and unexpected luxury they remembered birdsong, like brightly coloured threads traced across the tapestry of their journey. Four birds to encounter as they started out, walked through the day and rested in the evening.
Four birds calling to them across the continent, keeping pace with them and adding familiarity to the paths and places as they went. Four common birds for a simple pilgrimage – isn’t that enough?