To Walk Far, Carry Less : Camino de Santiago (19 page)

You could wait to buy a walking aid until you get to France or Spain and bring it home after you finish the Camino. My retired wooden friends stand quietly in a corner of my home. Along with a scallop shell (more on this in the next chapter), my walking aids are the enduring souvenirs from each journey. A glance at them reminds me of my Camino journeys and the fact that I can walk quite far in all sorts of terrain and in various weather conditions—which prompts me to stop being so lazy and get out for a walk!

It’s easy to find walking aids in France or Spain. I’ve seen walking sticks and staffs in tourist shops and department stores, and even in a leather-goods store. (That staff was a work of art: lacquered wood with an exotic gnarl on top.)

I once bought an artisan-carved walking cane with Basque symbols burned into the wood. It caught my eye at a French sport shop in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, where it stood au naturel next to the metal trekking poles. It’s become my favorite walking aid of all, since I prefer wood over metal and because it’s easy to handle while traveling to and from the Camino routes.

Camino Lingo

Walking Stick

Spanish =
bastón

French =
bâton de marche

Typically made of carbon, aluminum, or sometimes a hybrid of the two, high-tech trekking poles can provide both strength and lightness for hikers and backpackers. Many pilgrims appreciate features such as cork or foam grips, adjustable wrist straps, ergonomic design, or a camera mount. Most trekking poles are collapsible and thus easy to carry in a backpack when they’re not in use.

But they’re not perfect. I once tried a collapsible walking staff and found that the tip frequently got stuck in mud, or between rocks, pulling the bottom section apart from the upper part of the staff. The consequence was that I almost lost my balance on several steep downhills. And, I know a Dutch pilgrim who broke her arm in a fall. She suspects the break would not have happened if she hadn’t had trekking poles strapped to her wrists during the tumble.

Many pilgrims, however, like the collapsible feature of the metal walking aids. That provides an option to put them away in your backpack when they’re not really needed—like on the long and flat stretches of the Camino Francés route in Spain, for example. It’s really a matter of personal preference: some pilgrims use them all the time; others use them only to help prevent stress on their knees when they’re on the steepest downhill parts of the trails.

A disadvantage of a wooden walking aid is its inflexibility. It can’t collapse to fit into a backpack like a metal one can.

A wooden walking aid will cost less than its metal counterpart—unless it’s made by an artist or craftsperson, in which case the price is justifiably higher.

A simple walking stick, bought from a tourist shop at or near a popular Camino starting point, is usually the best bargain.

Replacing the Wrist Strap

If you do buy an inexpensive walking stick or staff, consider replacing the thin cord that serves as a wrist strap. It won’t provide real support, and it could be uncomfortable.

A French Canadian pilgrim replaced the thin wrist-strap cord on my first Camino walking stick. He bought leather strips from a local French cobbler and, after fixing his own walking stick, offered to fix mine with the leftover leather.

Since then, I take a flexible leather strip from home when I plan to buy an inexpensive wooden walking staff along the Camino.

A strip of leather a little less than two centimeters wide (about three-quarters of an inch) works well—and is about the maximum thickness that will squeeze into the pre-drilled hole of an inexpensive walking stick.

As for length, about 30.5 centimeters (just over a foot) works well for my small hands. Consider taking a longer length to ensure there’s enough room for your hands. You can always use a knife to cut off any extra length you don’t need.

Recently, I’ve used a walking cane instead of a walking stick or staff, primarily because of increasingly strict airport security. It’s just too difficult to get a walking stick or staff through security now.

And it’s sometimes impossible: I met a woman at the Madrid airport in Spain who had to surrender her beloved Camino walking stick to airport security officials. She was quite sad about leaving it behind, which I can understand: a wooden walking stick becomes a companion of sorts on the Camino. I’ve never heard of anyone feeling sentimental about their metal trekking poles, though. Perhaps a bit of the artisan’s creative spirit lingers in a wooden walking stick. Or maybe it’s because the wood was once alive, unlike metal.

If necessary, I’ll use lies and deception to get my Basque walking cane through airport security. My latest strategy is to try to look old (which becomes easier by the day) and to limp a bit to make the cane seem legitimate. Who’d take a cane away from an old lady?

So far, the strategy has worked. Barely. The last time I used that scheme in Spain I had to grab at every Spanish word in my head to argue that my cane was urgently needed. A uniformed young man, afraid tears were next, finally let me limp away.

Another, less emotional option: check in your walking stick with the airline. Then hope it arrives back home with you.

(Airport security has tightened in all countries, not just Spain. One could experience the same difficulties anywhere.)

* * *

In the next chapter we’ll look at two additional items that are traditionally carried on a Camino pilgrimage. Don’t worry: they’re both tiny.

A friend once asked whether Camino pilgrims ever carry something that has no purpose other than to anchor themselves (as she put it) to their pilgrimage adventure. The answer is yes: pilgrims often take something to enhance their personal journey—even if it adds unnecessary weight to their backpack.

Sometimes the extra item will nourish a pilgrim’s spirit—like a miniature religious book or a small book of poems. Or a pilgrim with an artist’s soul might argue that it’s absolutely worth the extra weight to take a sketchpad, special camera gear, or a watercolor painting kit. If you take something to help sustain your spirit or to otherwise enhance your pilgrimage, be sure to include that item in your backpack when you train for the Camino walk. Then you’ll know if it’s worth carrying the extra weight.

You could also participate in the Camino’s historical traditions (while not adding much weight to your pack) by bringing a stone and a scallop shell from home—or by finding them somewhere along The Way.

Many pilgrims will bring a small stone from home and leave it somewhere along the Camino. Some even paint their name, a word, or a message on that stone.

The reasons for leaving a stone vary from pilgrim to pilgrim. Some might carry the stone to symbolize the carrying of a personal grief. After leaving the stone behind, they hope that helps to leave the grief behind them too. Others will place their stone to mark the spot where the purpose of their journey is fulfilled—after reaching an important decision, or after experiencing an “Aha! That’s it!” moment, for example. And many pilgrims leave their stone on a particular trail marker, like the one that indicates there are only 100 kilometers (about 62 miles) left before arriving in Santiago de Compostela.

On the Camino

One of the most famous sites to leave a stone is called the Cruz de Ferro—an iron cross found on the highest mountain pass on the Camino Francés route. Some have even received a blessing for their stone at a Benedictine monastery in Rabanal del Camino, a village near the Cruz de Ferro (about 230 kilometers away from Santiago de Compostela). If you’re interested in the blessing, ask for more information at the pilgrims’ refuge next to the monastery, or check your guidebook.

Stones aren’t the only mementos pilgrims leave behind at the Cruz de Ferro. You’ll also see scribbled notes on torn pieces of paper, photographs, plastic flowers, trinkets, and talismans. It’s not surprising to see hiking gear left behind too: the steep climb often prompts the purging of overweight backpacks. And apparently the Cruz de Ferro gets its own purging: I’ve read that the local municipality occasionally clears the area. With tens of thousands of people walking the Camino Francés each year, that’s surely a good idea.

Occasionally you’ll see collections of pilgrim mementos at other Camino sites too. I once discovered a remote grotto in Galicia on the Camino Francés route. Inside the dark and damp space I saw hundreds, if not thousands, of personal items left behind. I was inspired to take off my backpack and spend some time looking through the layers of pilgrim artifacts. The piles of notes and trinkets and stones reminded me that I was only one small drop in the river of humanity that has walked that way for a millennium.

For centuries pilgrims have also embraced an enigmatic symbol for the Camino: the scallop shell.

Shell motif seen on the Tour de Vésone—a Gallo-Roman temple in the town of Perigueux, France, on the Vézelay route

A scallop shell is the pilgrim’s badge—whether you’re religious or not. It tells other pilgrims and local citizens you’re on your way to Santiago de Compostela—whether you plan to arrive there or not. When you’re far from the trail—like at the Madrid airport or on the Paris Metro—and see someone with a scallop shell attached to their backpack, you’ll know that backpacker is either on their way to the Camino or on their way home after a Camino pilgrimage.

Camino Lingo

Pilgrim’s Scallop Shell

Spanish =
concha de peregrino

French =
coquille Saint-Jacques

Scallop shells at a French public market

A Little History

The history for how the shell became a symbol for the Camino has been lost. Nevertheless, there are numerous speculations about its original meaning. One story is this: startled to see the boat carrying the body of the Apostle James (Saint James) approaching the Galician shore, a bridegroom and his horse fell into the sea. By a miracle the saint helped the bridegroom emerge from the sea, and both the bridegroom and the horse were seen covered in scallop shells. Another related version of the story says it was the body of James that was submerged off the coast of Spain, and when it eventually emerged from the sea it was covered in scallop shells. These stories might explain why you’ll see numerous sculptures, reliefs, paintings, and stained-glass windows showing Saint James with a scallop shell sewn into his hat or cloak.

But others speculate that the shell was a symbol of the Camino because it was used by pilgrims to gather drinking water, or to hold food provided by local citizens as charity. Yet another idea proposes that the scallop shell’s ribs represent the many pilgrimage routes that eventually connect at one point: the destination city of Santiago de Compostela.

Another explanation for why the shell became a Camino symbol suggests that the shell was simply a souvenir, proving that a pilgrim made it all the way to Finisterre (Fisterra in the Galician language) on the Atlantic Ocean in Spain—where scallop shells are naturally found.

On the Camino

Finisterre

Finisterre is the westernmost land point in Europe, and it was considered the end of the earth by early Europeans. It takes about three days to walk there from Santiago de Compostela, and today many pilgrims also finish their pilgrimage at Finisterre. It’s tradition to burn your pilgrimage clothing after reaching the shore. A local government council even provides a fire pit for this ritual ending of the old and beginning of something new. Some say the tradition has its roots in the ancient Celtic rituals practiced in that area of Spain.