One of the joys of doing this blog is the people –

The wonderful people I’ve met through these scatty ramblings of mine.

I’ve become friends with some truly extraordinary people here – and in our travels Jennifer and I have had the chance to meet some of them too.

Some I have yet to meet, but hopefully that will happen in due course.

(Yes Ingrid, thinking of you!!)

Last year Jennifer and I did a trip to the US, and in the course of our travels we went up into the Seattle district where we met Lynda and Dale Lozner.

Lynda in particular had been active on the blog for some time.

We met them at the Twin Peaks Cafe – the place where those famous “That’s a damn fine cup of coffee” scenes were shot.

Lynda and Dale lived nearby, and were there to meet us with two hampers of incredible presents – which was so generous of them.

And when we announced that we’d be doing the Assisi tour, they were amongst the first to sign on.

But then tragedy struck. Their daughter Stacey was diagnosed with cancer.

Lynda contacted me to tell me that they would have to throw all their energy and resources into looking after her – which they did with love, devotion, and an unremitting conviction that everything would turn out ok.

It didn’t look good, initially.

And I would call them regularly to check in, and I could feel the strain and the fear in their voices. But they never gave up hope.

They put into effect some spiritual practices that gave them hope, and belief.

And things turned around.

A few days ago Stacey went for a medical check up and was told the cancer was gone. Completely.

Lynda and Dale had very much wanted to come on this current pilgrimage, and so Lynda prepared a little gift for those who are coming.

She remembered a post I’d written some time ago, about barnacles. Here is the post…

Barnacles

In it, I write:

We’re like a ship, steaming through life’s waters. And as the years go by, barnacles begin to form on our hull, under the waterline.

Out of sight.

Barnacles and seaweed, which capture the flotsam and jetsam of our worldly experiences.

This debris of life clings to us.

It slows us down, makes us less manoeuvrable.

Less nimble.

It makes us cautious, hesitant, scared.

It tries to stop us going places we once went without a moment’s thought.

The barnacles finally get so thick we can’t move forward.

They burden us with their heaviness. We carry that heaviness with us as we struggle through our later years.

Finally, we give up.

But we can scrape those barnacles off.

We have to scrape them off, if we want to become nimble again.

If we want to be unafraid again.

We can do this, by walking the Camino.

And so what Lynda has done is she has collected some barnacles, and put them in a small and very beautiful bottle – she has included in the bottle the words of my post, reduced down into a miniature manuscript, and she’s attached a cord so that those walking on this tour can attach it to their packs.

She said she wants them to be reminded that the walk is helping to scrape off the barnacles. It’s obviously taken her a huge amount of time and effort to do this –

She packed it all beautifully in a box and posted it to Elena in Tuscany, to give to me – which she’s now done.

Lynda did all this while dealing with the daily traumas of her daughter’s illness.

Dale, her husband, is like the rock that those barnacles were attached to. I don’t know Dale well – but I know that he’s a sold guy, Very solid.

Dale and Lynda will be coming with us on the Indian tour, in September, and they’re very excited. They will head off with the huge relief that their daughter is okay.

So, tomorrow when the group meets up, Jennifer and I will give each of them their bottle containing the barnacles, and the tiny reproduction of my original post.

Created with love by Lynda Lozner – a very special lady.
Jennifer and I feel very privileged to know you and Dale.
Thank you…

Gubbio is a beautiful historic town about two thirds of the way along our route.

I’ve programmed a rest day here, because it’s such a magical place, and it has a strong connection to St. Francis.

Gubbio is famous for its wolf. The story goes that a wolf began to terrorise the town, attacking the townsfolk and killing many. The wolf had gone crazy, and was hungry for human flesh.

It got so that everyone was scared to venture out doors – until Francis of Assisi arrived. He tracked down the wolf, and in front of an assembled crowed began to talk to the beast.

Everyone was terrified for Francis, believing that the wolf would suddenly attack him. But it didn’t. It listened to what Francis had to say, and then as if in a gesture of making a pact, the wolf offered a paw, and they shook “hands.”

What Francis told the wolf evidently was that if it agreed to stop killing the townsfolk, then Gubbio would provide it with whatever food it required.

And that’s what happened. This killer wolf became the town pet – going from household to household, getting fed. meek as a kitten.

The incident with the wolf was regarded as a miracle by many – and Francis was revered even more for the way he had so bravely confronted the animal, and tamed it.

The wolf is now featured in the town’s iconography, and the bones of the wolf are buried in a church high on a hill. Jennifer climbed up there and we went into the chamber where the wolf is said to be buried, and meditated there.

Later we found our way to the Cathedral, where I saw a very strange featureless angel on the floor. It looked like an eyeless mouthless moth. Kind of creepy. But how can angels be creepy? This one though looked like something out of a Guillermo del Toro film.

Today we began to make our way back towards Florence, to meet up with the first of our group tomorrow. We stopped in a village just in time to see a small military band heralding the laying of a wreath on a military memorial.

Back in Australia of course, it’s ANZAC Day, our Memorial Day. Strange to see this ceremony, so much like our ANZAC Day ceremonies, in a small Tuscan hill town.

We stopped at a small restaurant about 45kms south of Florence for lunch.

On the menu was my favourite pasta dish – Pici with garlic and pepper – a very simple dish, but delicious. Jennifer had a robust fish stew.

Will need to walk two weeks to work it all off!

Woke up to this view out of the hotel window in Gubbio –

After breakfast, (man do they know how to make coffee here!), drove to Pietralunga, and arrived during a morning market in the square in front of an old church…

We parked the car then walked off along the route to Gubbio.

This stage, from Pietrulunga to Gubbio, will be a long hard walk – about 27kms and 8hrs walking, Sandy Brown says in his guide book. Do the maths on that, and it’s only about 3.4kms per hour. Not very fast at all, which means there are lots of hills. And no towns, villages, cafes, or any place to get a feed or a drink.

We’ll have to either take all our food for the day, or have Elena meet us part way with the van, and some lunch.

This morning we hit the first hill about 3kms out of town – a long steepish ascent of about 200m, which certainly got the heart pumping.

But the scenery was stunning. The photos don’t do it justice.

What we learned from today is that Sandy’s directions in his book are very accurate. Also, it seems that the route in parts is well marked.

And the GPX tracks on the iPhone work a treat. But having the phone’s GPS function drains the battery very quickly.

Also I’ve done two walks now without my knee brace – the other day’s long walk, and today, which was only about 8kms, but up and down that steep hill. My knee has been twingeing, but is holding up.

There’s no doubt it’s going to be a gnarly little walk, this Via di Francesco – but through some breathtakingly beautiful countryside, and in the footsteps of St. Francis, which is a potent energy imprint.

Tomorrow we head towards Florence, and on Sunday we meet up with the first of our group. Very excited to soon be starting…

I’ve just come from Uluru.

It’s flat out there.
Damn flat.

Here in Tuscany and Umbria, it’s hilly.
Damn hilly.

It worries me.
Soon I will have to walk it, or rather ascend it, and descend it. I will have to do this with vigour, aplomb, and derring-do, because I’m leading this tour group and I’m meant to be the guy out front that shows how it’s done.

Hmmmm.

I should have trained more.
I didn’t do enough Mt. Miserys. (I think that’s the correct spelling in this context.)
In fact, I only did one Mt. Misery, which in the whole scheme of things, is pretty damn miserable.

I feel like I’m under prepared, physically, and that wouldn’t ordinarily be a concern, however I have one half of the Landers Express on this tour – Peter Landers – and he’s going to rib me mercilessly if I pike out on any of the stages.

I know I won’t. I’ll walk every kilometre.
No, let me correct that – I will walk most every kilometre, and stagger the rest.

Today before we left Sansepulcro we went to a museum and saw one of the great religious works of art – Polyptych of Mercy, painted by Piero della Francesca in 1445.

It was pretty cool.

As we were leaving I saw a member of the museum staff carrying a very old statue of Jesus into another room.

I was somewhat taken aback at where his hand was –

Fortunately he was wearing a glove…

We then met up with Elena at Pieve Santo Stefano, one of our stage stops.

She was giving the van a test run, to see if she could reverse park it up a hill in a narrow lane. She couldn’t, but that’s ok.

It was great seeing her again, and she will be a wonderful asset to the tour.

Also I spoke at length today to Ivan the Terrible, who is married to his Beautiful Wife Giovanna. They will be joining us out of Sansepulcro, and walking with us for three or four days.

Those of you who have read my book – The Way, My Way – would know that this wonderful couple featured prominently on my Camino Frances. They are delightful people, very funny, and I’m thrilled that they’ll be joining us, even if for just a few days.

Later Jennifer and I drove south to Gubbio – another stage stop – which is where we’ll spend tonight and tomorrow night.

We spent the evening wandering around the cobblestone streets, and had possibly the best meal of this current trip. Magnificent home made pastas, eggs with truffles, all beautifully prepared. We’ll take the tour group there when we come back to Gubbio.

I thought today about the ethos of the pilgrim.

When I first started out, I was a bit narrow minded about all that. I was a bit of a hardliner. I really felt that you had to walk every step, you had to carry your pack all the way, you couldn’t catch a cab, you couldn’t catch a bus – you had to be a true pilgrim.

Now I realise that’s all nonsense.

None of that matters.

I had to go through that at the time when I walked the Camino Frances, and subsequently on the Camino Portuguese too, and I’m really pleased I did. But I’m much more relaxed about those things now. It’s not that important.

The only thing that’s important is your intent.
What’s in your heart.
The real reasons you’re walking a pilgrimage route.
All the rest is pride, ego, and things that in fact get in the way of you being a true pilgrim.

As you walk more Caminos, and as the need to prove stuff to yourself and to others gradually dissolves, the true growth begins…

A young Italian lass today, while activating my new Italian SIM card, said that Umbria was the green heart of Italy. And today, driving through the magnificent countryside, I could see why.

It was another glorious day – blue skies, sunshine all day, and the fields rich in colour. A perfect spring day in Italy – at stark variance to the savage storms which are currently lashing Sydney.

After getting SIM cards we drove to a hilltop town – Monterchi – to have lunch, but the restaurant was closed, Disappointing. I’d eaten there on the previous trip and it had been a lunch I will never forget.

Undaunted, I set my Garmin to find the nearest restaurant, which was only 1.5kms away. 12 kms later, and the Garmin was still dicking around, so I shut it down and used my own PGS to find a place to eat.

This involves “feeling” the right way to go. It’s a sense which I’ve developed, and it rarely lets me down. It doesn’t follow rational thinking. I see a lane and I ignore it and keep driving. I see another lane and I turn and drive down it, not knowing where it’s heading, but just trusting that the feeling I’m getting is leading me to the perfect lunch spot.

Invariably it does, and today it didn’t let me down.

We ended up in what turned out to be one of the great historic towns of Umbria – Anghiari.  This time of the year all these towns are virtually deserted. It’s wonderful. You wander through cobblestone alley ways and under medieval arches and you’re the only one there.

I found us a restaurant that was sublime. Buffalo mozzarella that was so fresh – followed by grilled chicken with white truffles. The mozzarella was €5 and the chicken with truffles was €9. Plus a 750cl of a carafe wine – a Montepulciano – that was unbelievable, and cost €10, but would have cost $80 in Australia.

After lunch we drove to Sansepulcro, which is a town on our tour. Another beautiful historic medieval Umbrian town. We checked out the hotel we’re staying in – and the restaurant – both of which are in the heart of the historic centre.

In the evening we went for a walk around the town, and later outside the old gates of the town we found a local bar where we sat and watched the sun go down and had a plate of hams, salamis and local cheeses, with a glass of red wine each.

Tomorrow we go for a walk along our route – maybe 10kms or so. We want to test out our GPX coordinates on our iPhone maps, to make sure they all work ok.

You might think from all this that we have it easy, but hey, this is work…

Right at the moment it’s 4:14am, I’m jet lagged, working on my laptop in a hotel which overlooks Dubai Creek.

Jennifer and I decided to break up the journey so that when we got to Italy, we could head off into the Umrbian hills while there was still some daylight.

I’ve been to Dubai once before. And wandering around the markets, as we did yesterday, I couldn’t help stop thinking about how we’ve demonised the Middle East, because of our fear of terrorism.

Late yesterday we were in a cheap backlane restaurant, eating mutton curry, and I was listening to someone at another table speaking on the phone. We’ve heard that guttural Arabic accent in recent films and tv shows about terrorists. And we now associate it with “bad guys.”

It made me think about how the West demonised the Germans during World War 2, and the Japanese too. How those accents at the time, and some time later, were always associated with hatred and fear. They were the bad guys then – and now they’re the good guys.

Yesterday as we walked along the streets I saw women in headscarves, and some were burqa-ed up so that all you could see were the eyes. And it made me think how this has become such a hot issue in some western and european countries – again because of our fear.

I spent some time in Egypt a while back, and now with this little bit of time in Dubai I have to say that all the Arabs I’ve met have been friendly welcoming people. They smile readily, and are always willing to help.

Now that’s a huge generalisation, I know, because there are some Arabs in Egypt who are serious bad guys – but then there are some serious bad guys in the west too.

Our fear breeds suspicion, suspicion leads to hatred, and hatred spawns racial vilification and stereotyping. We find ourselves sitting in a restaurant eating mutton curry and wondering if the man on the phone at the other table is a terrorist.

He’s probably just calling his mum to say he’ll be late home.

In our country at the moment we read in the newspapers how teachers and headmasters at the country’s most prestigious private schools have been involved in pedophilia.

There was a story the other day about how a Catholic orphanage turned a blind eye to the systematic rape of young children in their care. Nuns beat children who came to them complaining that they’d been raped. One of the young boys had blood streaming from a lacerated anus, and the nun whipped him for daring to say anything bad about the priest.

When I heard this on the radio news I felt disgusted.

People within our own society – people we trust, and whom we’ve entrusted with our children – have let us down.

These people – the teachers, the headmasters, the priests and nuns – they don’t wear funny scarves, or long flowing robes, or burqas. They dress like us, they look like us, they talk like us. They could be our father or mother, or sister or brother. They’re not different to us. And they’ve never roused our suspicion, because they’re one of us.

And yet they are more dangerous, more disturbed, than these women wearing headscarves. Or these men with hooded dark eyes and flowing beards and funny robes.

I watch people in the street, and I often consider how we all come in different shapes and sizes. And how we spend so much time thinking about how we look, and how much money we have or don’t have, and we worry about things which are really inconsequential.

And I think about how alike we all are – underneath it all – and how much actually really matters. Not much.

I look at a distinguished gentleman rushing past in an expensive suit, polished shoes, grey hair, immaculately groomed. He could be a judge, or the CEO of a highly successful company, or he could be a doctor. He could be a heart surgeon rushing to save someone’s life –

– or he could be the headmaster of a private school that has silently sanctioned the sexual abuse of children for decades.

Who knows?
You can’t judge.

So why then should we judge these people in the Middle East, who worship Mohammed and the Qu’ran, and who hold religious and cultural beliefs that are different to ours?

One of the things that terrifies us the most is uncertainty.

It keeps us in jobs we hate, in relationships that are unfulfilling, in a day to day routine that is mindless and stifling.

We hate it, and yet we feel comfortable with predictability. Knowing what will happen with a degree of certainty. Even though we feel uncreative and shackled.

But when you think about it, nothing is certain.
Nothing is predictable.
Our whole world can change on a dime.
In a moment.

Why are we so scared of uncertainty?

Because implicit in uncertainty is the possibility of change. And whilst a lot of us want change, when it really comes down to it, we only want change within certain parameters.

Known parameters.

We want to change our lifestyle, but only if it doesn’t eat into our savings.
We want to leave a loveless relationship, but only if we can find a better one.
We want to do something that will better the world, but only if there’s not too great a personal cost.
We want to change our lives, but only if it’s not too disruptive.

Jennifer and I live intuitively.

We always have.

We met intuitively, we married intuitively, we make all our decisions – big and small – intuitively. If it feels right, we do it. And we don’t even think about it.

Because with thinking comes the wrecking ball of intuition – logic and common sense.
And then comes timidity.
And after that, fear.
Finally, stasis.
We stay the same. We don’t change anything.

My wife and I don’t do logic and common sense.
Each day we take a running leap at life – we hurl ourselves off the edge of a cliff and we freefall, knowing that we’ll land safely.

And we do.

We embrace uncertainty.
We relish it.
It’s what gets us out of bed each day.

Because within the realm of uncertainty lives a myriad of possibilities.

And that’s where the best stories are told, within that realm.
Nothing great comes from certainty.

On Saturday we’ll be in Dubai. The next day we’ll be in Italy, on the Via di Francesco – the Way of St. Francis. Two weeks later we’ll be in Istanbul, a week later in Konya in Central Turkey, hanging out with the Whirling Dervishes and the Sufis – all for the film I’m making on intuition.

I love living intuitively.

Conversation in the Bennett household this morning:

My wife: I can’t find my panty-hose.
Me: Would you like to borrow mine? 

Yesterday, in preparation for the Assisi walk, I went out and bought some panty-hose, which I use under my leg brace to stop rubbing on my thigh.

I like the Extra Tall, sheer support style, used by airline hostesses, whom I’m told spend a lot of time on their feet.This type of panty-hose works well for me.

And I like black, because it’s kind of sexy…

Jennifer eventually found her own pair of panty-hose, which was a sheer relief for me, because I don’t like sharing something so intimate and personal…

I have issues, I know…