In writing my book, it’s forcing me to go back and remember detail I’d conveniently forgotten – like my various obsessions.
One of my obsessions was finding the right walking stick, or Pilgrim’s Staff, as I chose to call it. (note the capitals please.)
When I got to St. Jean, after something like forty hours of travel from my home in Australia to the L’Esprit du Chemin albergue, all I wanted to do was three things: Get my passport, buy an Opinel knife, and buy a Pilgrim’s Staff.
The passport was easy. I got that from the Pilgrim’s Office. The Opinel knife was less so. I had to go to a few stores to get exactly the right kind. It had to be Opinel – the classic French farmer’s knife – and it had to be big enough to cut cheese and chorizo, but not so big that it weighed me down.
But finding the right Pilgrim’s Staff proved to be the most difficult of all.
I didn’t want one of those mass produced broom-stick kind of staffs. Nor did I want one of those silly tourist staffs with a gourd hanging off the top. I also didn’t want one with a leather strap. I wanted one that was in keeping with “the romance of the pilgrim.”
The “romance of the pilgrim” was something I’d gleaned off medieval paintings, and statues in churches. You didn’t see pictures of St. James holding a broom stick, or dare I say it, trekking poles. No, he invariably had a gnarled tree branch.
That’s what I went looking for that afternoon I arrived in St. Jean. A gnarled tree branch.
Needless to say, it proved difficult.
But I am nothing if not tenacious.
I did three circuits of the town, going from store to store, checking out every single staff, looking for my gnarled tree branch. Looking for a staff that had The Romance of the Pilgrim.
I never found it, of course. I ended up with a stick that was slightly deformed, that I pretended was gnarled. But given that I was jetlagged, and I’d worn out my welcome with all the storekeepers, I figured it would have to do.
Humorous and pathetic as it might sound, my obsession was real. I did require just exactly the right stick for me to feel comfortable embarking on my pilgrimage. I was clutching onto this notion of what it was to be a pilgrim.
It wasn’t long after that my knee flared up and I was forced to throw away that deformed stick and buy a pair of trekking poles. Trekking poles to me were the antithesis of The Romance of the Pilgrim.
But they got me through to Santiago.
I had to let go my obsessions, to discover what it was to be a true pilgrim.

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