My wife and I took our son to lunch yesterday at one of the more picturesque wineries outside of Mudgee. Clancy is 25 years old, works in the music industry, and doesn’t visit us often. So we figured a lunch was required.

I’d got dressed yesterday morning in readiness for a walk – brace, stocking, Asolo boots etc – but I never got the time. Phone calls, a leaky tap, a work-related Skype call to LA delayed me – and then it was time for lunch.

So I went to lunch at this upmarket winery restaurant dressed in my walking clobber, including rain jacket. Luckily I did, because suddenly some very bad weather moved in.

Gale force winds, a big temperature drop, and driving rain.

The restaurant was outside on a patio, enclosed by transparent plastic blinds that were whipped into a frenzy by the wind.

Clancy had ordered a pork chop that looked delicious. Jennifer a walnut salad, and me an anchovy and tomato pizza. We drank some of the winery’s beautiful Barbera.

The weather got worse. It seemed like the wind was going to blow the blinds away. The trees outside were whipping from side to side like they were going to uproot.

We finished our meals, the skies outside darkened even further as the storms kicked up another notch, I said my goodbyes to my wife and son, and walked out.

I began to walk the 8kms home in the gale.

As I walked along the beautiful country lane leading away from the winery back into town, it began to sleet. It was freezing. And the winds unleashed their full ferocity.

I bent my head to keep out the horizontal rain. I put my hands in my pockets to keep them warm.

Some time later Jennifer pulled up alongside me in the car and asked if I wanted to hop in. I smiled and shook my head. Once I set my intention I’m hard to deflect. She drove off and I kept walking. Soon I found my rhythm and began to warm up.

Above me, the clouds swirled.
Around me, the wind roared.
Inside me, I only heard music.

It has to go down as one of the most glorious walks I’ve ever done.

(I wasn’t able to take any photos, because I didn’t want to get my iPhone wet, but here is a shot from one of my Mudgee walks when it wasn’t raining…)

I’ve been back from the United States a little over a week now, and I’m being tested.

While I was in Los Angeles I had an epiphany. I mentioned this in the post Finding a Saint in the City of Angels. 

I’d stepped into the Yogananda Lake Shrine Temple up on Pacific Pallisades. I’d sat on a chair looking at the wall in front of me. There was an array of portraits of Sacred Masters on the wall.

I began to meditate, and as I slipped into a stillness I got a sudden and very clear, very unambiguous message: The message was that I had to stop eating meat.

More than that, I was told that if I was about to eat meat, then I had to imagine that I was looking into the eyes of the creature or beast that I was about to eat, and ask myself whether I felt comfortable killing the animal.

Hmmmm.

Anyone who knows me, anyone who’s spent any time with me, anyone who’s walked with me, knows what an eager carnivore I am. More than eager, the word voracious springs to mind.

Those of you who’ve followed this blog might remember on my Camino last year, I tracked down a restaurant that specialised in steak and I gorged myself on a Fred Flinstone sized chunk of meat, conveniently cut into bite sized pieces, that still resonates with me as being the best steak I’ve ever had – ever.

Those of you who went on the Camino Portuguese tour will remember the gusto with which I attacked the Portuguese chicken meals that were placed in front of me.

Think of a Great White Shark and chum.
Think of the T-Rex being fed in the opening scene of Jurassic Park.
Think of a pack of rabid dogs attacking a hapless fawn. 

That was me and Portuguese chicken.

I’m not a natural vegetarian. But since that moment in the temple I’ve not eaten meat. I’ve had salads and beans and tofu and nuts and more beans and chick peas and lentils and miso soup.

And some fish.

I stared into the eyes of that fish and thought – you’re gone buddy.

When I got back from America I went on a three day fast. I needed to clean my body out. Tonight I’m having spinach pie with feta cheese and carrot salad.

Can I keep this up? I really don’t know.

I’m not being silly about it. The Buddhist texts tell me to tread the Middle Path. If I’m invited to someone’s house and they’re serving meat, I’ll eat what’s placed in front of me, gratefully and graciously.

But I know that when I next go to Spain, it’s going to be hard resisting meat.

My son had pork chops last night. I love pork chops, but last night I had no urge to grab the chop from his plate and munch into it. I had corn and baked potatoes with an avocado salad. And it was yummy.

I travel to India quite a lot and over there it’s easy being vegetarian. There are “veg” and “non-veg” menus in the restaurants. Most Hindus are vegetarian. Restaurants are set up to cater for non-veg meals. Except those with a tandoori oven. Tandoori chicken in India is unlike tandoori chicken anywhere else. It is sublime.

When I next go to India I’m sure I will meet some chickens that deserve to die. I know that already, sitting here in front of my laptop in Mudgee. I will stare into their glassy beady little eyes and know that they are not long for this earthly plane. As I smell their succulent flesh simmering in that tandoori oven, I will momentarily lament their passing.

But then, maybe I’ll spare them. Maybe I’ll stick to the veg meals. Maybe the chickens will have a few more days picking through the garbage out the back of the restaurant.

I’m being tested. I know I am.

I’m not saying this is a life-long conversion. All I’m saying is that right at this moment I’m giving a lot of thought to the implications of what I choose to eat.

Too many times as I’ve walked along a country lane I’ve looked over into the paddocks and seen frolicking little lambs and soulful-eyed cows and I’ve thought of them being killed in abattoirs for food. It’s always unsettled me. But my desire for meat has always overridden these little stabs of guilt.

But that damn voice in the Lake Shrine Temple has changed everything.

For now.

Each day I try to be a good pilgrim.
I don’t always succeed.
But that’s my journey through this life…

How can you judge whether you’ve changed after walking the Camino? Sometimes the changes are so subtle they go unnoticed, except by those close to you.

Sometimes though the changes are profound and significant.

I want to tell you a story which has shown me how profound the changes have been within me.

My wife Jennifer and I recently went to Ireland to research the possibility of mounting a Celtic Camino tour. I hired a car out of Dublin Airport through Hertz. For a small additional cost I was able to upgrade from a standard car to an Audi A3 that was nearly brand new – it had only 800mls on the clock.

On the third day we drove into a small town south of Dublin and parked in a carpark under a shopping centre. We then went for a walk to explore the town.

When we came back about an hour and a half later I noticed a handwritten note under the windscreen wiper. The note was written by a woman who had witnessed someone crashing into the side of my car while trying to park.

It was dark, and the car was black, and I hadn’t noticed – but on closer examination I saw that two panels had not only been scratched, but staved in. There was extensive damage.

The witness had taken down the registration of the car that hit mine, and in fact had confronted the driver saying that he should make an attempt to find the owner of the Audi. But he evidently brushed her aside, did his shopping very quickly, then drove off without leaving a note.

That’s what prompted the witness, a lady named Angela, to then write a note and leave her mobile number. It was very kind of her. She was an angel.

I called her, quite distressed by the damage to the car, and she was very sweet and said she would corroborate her account with the police and with Hertz.

I then went to the police station and filed a report.

Why was I distressed? Because I hadn’t taken out insurance when I hired the car. I believed my travel insurance would cover any rental related incidents. But I’d never actually read the fine print so I didn’t really know.

Also, when I upgraded the car, the excess was increased to €2000.

i called Hertz and told them what happened. They informed me that even though it wasn’t my fault, I was still responsible for the damage until such time as their insurers could get restitution from the driver of the car that hit me.

So they would be deducting €2000 from my credit card.

Before the Camino, this is how I would have reacted: I’d have been angry at the driver for doing such a lousy thing and driving off without leaving a note. I’d have been angry at Hertz for the injustice of my having to pay for damage that wasn’t my fault. And I’ld have been anxious for the rest of the trip, worried that my insurance wouldn’t cover the excess.

I would have regarded the whole incident as a personal attack – as though the universe was conspiring against me to destroy my joy at being in Ireland.

i would have talked about it with Jennifer the whole trip, ruining our time in beautiful Ireland. And most probably I would have called my family and whinged and gone O woe is me. I would have regarded myself as a victim of a foul act and a massive injustice.

In fact none of that happened.

When Jennifer and I realised what had happened, we did a high five in the carpark and we laughed. We made the decision then and there that it wouldn’t bother us, and that everything would work out as it should.

I was very calm. I asked myself: what’s the worst that can happen? That’s one of the huge things I brought back from the Camino. Whenever I was confronted with something irksome or troublesome while walking, I asked myself: What’s the worst that can happen?

You can’t find a bed? Then sleep in a field under a tree. That’s the worst that can happen. And hey, it’s a fine night. That’s not so bad.

I figured in this instance, the worst that could happen was that I’d have to pay €2000 to Hertz. Losing €2000 for something that wasn’t my fault? Sure, that stings, but I wasn’t going to let it bother me. It’s only money after all. No-one was hurt. No-one was killed.

I wasn’t going to let it spoil the trip.

I didn’t allow myself to think about the actions of the other driver – whether what he did was right or wrong. I figured that was his stuff which he’d have to deal with. How did he feel doing that, and driving away? Probably not good. Irrespective, I wasn’t going to allow his energy to impact on my energy, and Jennifer’s.

I put it all in the hands of the Universe, and trusted that everything would work out. And then I left it at that and didn’t think any more about it.

Over the next ten days or so while driving around Ireland I never discussed it again with Jennifer. When I handed the car in the manager at the Hertz Office looked at the damage and tut-tutted – and said that yes, it was unfair, but I would still have to pay the excess.

He then proceeded to take €2000 off my credit card.

I didn’t complain, I didn’t gripe – I joked with him and walked away. That would never have happened prior to the Camino. I would have bitched bitterly.

When I returned home I only mentioned it in passing to a couple of people. I didn’t make a big deal out of it. And I didn’t criticise the driver. He would have to deal with his own karma.

I didn’t allow it to impact me. I got on with my life.

Everything worked out. The insurance company handled my claim efficiently and respectfully. Yesterday I got an email from them saying that they’d deposited the full claimed amount into my bank account.

I was pleased, but I wouldn’t have been angry or disappointed had they decided not to allow the claim. I’d worked out what was the worst that could happen, and that was ok.

(I am posting this from LAX and will be in the air for the next 15 hours or so!)

I’ve been in Los Angeles now about a week. On Tuesday Jennifer and I fly home. We’ll have spent nearly a month in the US.

We’ve driven nearly 4,500 miles – met some truly wonderful people – and workwise it’s been very worthwhile.

Here are some shots I took on a walk last night and again this afternoon around the Venice Beach area.

I don’t usually post un-original material, but I came across an article on the UK Guardian’s website, and it amused me – and thought I would share it.

Should eating be boring and disciplined? Or should it be fun? Or are the two not mutually exclusive? Personally I think that good eating can be enormous fun. A lot more so than eating junk. Although eating junk sometimes can be great fun too.

Jennifer and I arrived in Los Angeles yesterday. It’s easy to eat badly here, but equally, it’s a great place for good healthy food. We went and saw MALEFICENT last night, starring Angelina Jolie. A very fine film, and it deserves all its current box office success.

Jolie is a great actress – her Oscar winning performance in GIRL INTERRUPTED still resonates with me – and in the film last night, she looked truly amazing. Lit exquisitely by Australian cinematographer Dean Semmler, she had cheek bones that could cut diamonds.

After the movie, we walked a block – yes, in Los Angeles we actually walked! – to our favourite Mexican restaurant called La Serenata di Girabaldi, on Pico.

We ordered a spinach and avocado salad and grilled Chicken Parillo – with two beers. Jennifer had a non alcoholic beer, and I had a Mexican dark beer – Negro Modelo. I don’t usually drink beer – white port is my first drink of choice, and out of the bottle, not the glass – but this beer was delicious, particularly with the spicy grilled chicken.

Was it “clean eating?” Probably not. But it was healthy, low calorie (except for the beer) and delicious.

So now here is the Guardian article, written by Jay Rayner –

You will be relieved to know that today, before writing this, I showered. Soap was involved. I am therefore clean. In the matter of my danker, moist crevices cleanliness is clearly the way to go. Where my lunch is concerned, however, I do not hanker after anything that can be described as clean. Sure, I want my plates without skid marks, my lettuce leaves without half an allotment’s sod. Sadly, though, that is not what the phrase “eating clean” now means.

“Eating clean” is a Thing. What does the phrase mean, apart from a wretched violation of the English language in a way that makes a good argument for corporal punishment? Oh, you know: it means joylessness, piety, self-regard, self-delusion and staggering pomposity. Gwyneth Paltrow “eats clean”, which tells you all you need to know.

Mostly what it means is: “I’m much better than you.” The opposite of clean is dirty. There’s dirty politics, dirty money and dirty dealings. People who enjoy sex are portrayed as dirty. (Though Woody Allen’s line that sex was only dirty “when it was done properly” is instructive here.) When junkies kick the habit they “get clean”. Bad people “clean up their act”. In short, if you don’t eat clean you are lacking in virtue. You are not a good person. You are a bad person. You filthy, dirty dog.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe in a balanced diet. But I also believe in honesty. So yes, I will confess to having eating Nando’s and KFC, Burger King and even one of those worryingly sweaty sausages sold off carts in Trafalgar Square at 3am. (I was very drunk.)

But I also like salads, real ones made only with green stuff. I do not always require something with a pulse to have died for my dinner. Sometimes I eat muesli for breakfast. I don’t expect you to think better of me for this.

And that’s the point. We all know that only the most boggle-eyed ideologue, the type who would be in the vanguard of a murderous revolution stringing dodgy sorts like me from lamp-posts, could ever keep to a diet like this. The rest eventually crack, only to be found slumped in the corner of the kitchen sobbing, smeared in bacon fat, spooning cheap peanut butter straight from the jar.

Not that I advocate “eating dirty” as a protest. I am just as irritated by all that filthy Americana, the menus of fast food elevated only by the use of quality ingredients in the service of fat, salt and sugar. Sometimes that’s OK. Sometimes it’s great. Just as salads are sometimes great.

But pursuing a menu of any of these things in isolation will not make you a better person. It won’t make you more deserving of our admiration. It will just turn you in to a self-deluding, sanctimonious bore.

Other post Camino changes –

Twelve months on, whenever I travel now, whenever I’m on the road, I always do my laundry each night. Unfailingly.

Even though I might have fresh clothes in my suitcase, I still wash my t-shirt and smalls. It’s become an ingrained habit.

If they’re not dry by morning, instead of hanging them off the back of my pack, I lay them out on the back seat of the rental.

Also, if there’s a buffet for breakfast, I still nick stuff for later in the day. Even though I might be having a business lunch. I stuff bread rolls and cheese and ham into my shoulder bag.

Another ingrained habit, post Camino.

My check in suitcase, at the airport, was only 16kgs. Before the Camino it was never less than 22-24kgs. Given my post Camino laundry habits, I could probably have got it down to 12kgs easily.

I still don’t need glasses.

Before the Camino, I needed glasses. For fifteen years I wore glasses. I needed them for long distance vision, and I needed another prescription for reading.

No more.

i stopped wearing my glasses while walking the Camino – my eyesight demonstrably and inexplicably improved – and I haven’t worn them since.

Weird.

Not weird.

That’s the Camino.

Clean smalls and clear eyes.

Here are some pictures from the road, just recently.

Some on Route 66 – cutting through from Vegas through to Palm Springs through the Mojave Preserve, then Joshua Tree and Twenty-Nine Palms.

Beautiful country –