Keith Foskett - The Journey in Between

THE JOURNEY IN BETWEEN

A 1000-mile walk on El Camino de Santiago

KEITH FOSKETT

www.keithfoskett.com

The Journey in Between

By Keith Foskett

www.keithfoskett.com

Kindle edition

Produced by Createspace.com

ISBN: 978 - 1480176393

Copyright 2016 Keith Foskett. All rights reserved.

First edition printed 2010. This edition 2016.

The right of Keith Foskett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the authors prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is produced and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Front cover photo by Keith Foskett and Patrick Monsieurs

Rear cover photo by Jeremy Rowley

With love:

To Mum, who never doubted any of my crazy adventures and always shared in my excitement.

To Dad, for passing on the Foskett walking gene.

To Bam Bam and Nan, I know you are both always with me.

Introduction

Clarification

The bar commanded a worthy view over the rooftops of Heraklion as a subtle, orange evening light softened the concrete world outside. Looking back now I know thats where it all started.

Monis Agkarathou Street is home to the hostel whose name has left me now, although I know I could return and find it tomorrow should I wish. A few travellers littered the room as the owner, Yanis, stifled a yawn and turned pages of a local paper with one hand, whilst twiddling his fingers around the beer pump with the other. Despite the lack of people in there, they were all drinking well, probably due to the eight flights of steps just to get up there; anyone would need a drink after that.

Bob was a Kiwi whom Id met briefly the previous evening, and he beckoned me over to sit with him.

Any idea what youre going to do? he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, raised my eyebrows and took a few gulps of Mythos.

I want to walk, Bob. Not just for a few days, for weeks, I replied.

Where?

I dont know. Somewhere warm with no rain, somewhere with history, culture and great food. Oh, and Latin women, you know? Dark hair and olive skin?

He nodded and grinned.

Yeah, I know what you mean. I was talking to someone on the south coast a few days ago who had walked somewhere in Spain for a few weeks last year. He absolutely loved it, hes going back to do it again. Its an old pilgrimage route, like really old, centuries old. Christ, what was the name of it?

He screwed his face up and buried it in his hands. I waited expectantly, feeling as though someone had the answer to my life for the next few weeks at least, and was going to let me down at the last minute.

Bloody hell mate, I cant remember. No! Wait! The Camino, Santiago Yeah, the Camino de Santiago.

A chance meeting with a stranger. I wasnt looking for answers indeed I didnt really have any questions but that conversation with Bob inadvertently steered me down one turn of a crossroads and took my life in a whole new direction. I didnt realise it at the time but now its obvious.

Yes, thats definitely where the journey started.

* * *

I have fond memories from my early teens of family holidays driving to Wales or Dartmoor in a sky-blue Triumph Herald, with my sister or, when she got bored of such things, a best mate. I was more into skateboards, girls and Abba at the time, but Dad would cunningly con us into walking somewhere a couple of hours away because there was a great ice cream place halfway or Mum would promise to give the new skateboard thing some serious consideration. So, most of the time I found myself walking and running about with my mate over hillocks, through streams, getting filthy and having a great time, oblivious to the fact that we were only, really, walking.

At around fourteen I discovered tents, not so much because it meant spending a night in the woods but because it meant a night away from home, a grown-up thing to do. I was, however, getting hooked on real walking, as opposed to an occasional ramble with the folks. When Dad suggested a friend and I try the South Downs Way, which at around 160 kilometres isnt too easy a prospect, I jumped at the chance for my first real adventure. It was close to home, so I had an escape clause with a bus or train back, some of the landscape and route were familiar, and the weather forecast promised great things.

I roped in Andrew Boyd after dismissing some poor objections, such as missing his favourite TV programme and being away from his girlfriend for that length of time (even though I knew she was seeing someone else). I thought his lack of actual interest in walking, which was the main problem, might be rekindled by the great outdoors. Besides, all my other mates were not interested, on holiday or listening to Spandau Ballet.

Dad dropped us off around South Harting one evening. Our tent was so flimsy it would have fallen down in a mild breeze. The sleeping bags took up most of our packs, leaving just about enough room in mine for Mums saucepan, a Camping Gaz stove, several cans of baked beans, numerous Mars bars, a couple of T-shirts and a rain jacket. As long as it didnt rain or get windy, wed be fine.

Four days in, on Kithurst Hill above Storrington, it did both. We had pitched on open ground right on top of the Downs and the expedition was going well up to that point. I noticed some alarmingly black clouds and a slight breeze just before I zipped up the tent, but had full faith in our little shelter. I woke up about an hour later with Andrew screaming and a rain-lashed canvas slapping me in the face. Every few seconds lightning lit up the scene and all I could see was my mate wrapped around the support pole down one end of the tent, with petrified eyes, looking like a cat up a lamp post with a dog underneath.

Hold your tent pole! he screamed. Hang on or the whole tents gonna go!

Thunder crashed all around us for two hours as we battled to keep the tent upright, terrified that one of the poles would be hit by lightning. It felt as if we were in the very centre of the storm itself. Every so often, when the lightning illuminated our world, I expected to look down the other side of the tent and see a pile of charcoal briquettes instead of Andrew. Then the water started to trickle in. After thirty minutes we were paddling around in a pool, very cold, scared shitless and with arms hurting so much from holding the poles we couldnt actually feel them.

By the time the storm had finished with us it was daylight. We struggled out of the tent, sopping wet, tired and thankful to be alive. Catching the train back home, both of us fell silent as we gave camping out some serious reconsideration.

I completed the South Downs Way the following summer with another mate. It never even threatened to rain on us once and I remember thinking that the elements owed me one.

In my twenties, cycling took over as my main activity. I travelled to various countries and indulged in the occasional hike here and there, just to remind the leg muscles that I might call on them again. I made regular trips to Wales, the Lake District and Scotland. I dabbled in mountaineering but became frustrated at the mechanics of it. The need to wear harnesses, use ropes, tie knots, and other distractions frustrated me. It took away the simplicity of putting one foot in front of the other, so, whenever I went up a mountain, which I loved, I chose the route that could simply be walked.

The uncomplicated act of walking is one of the appeals. I have never been one to require an in-depth understanding of something to appreciate it. If it works, then I have no questions the simpler the better. Walking is the most natural and oldest form of travel. It is designed to get us from one point to another with the minimum of fuss and at a pace that allows us to notice things that we would normally miss. If it werent so normal, so natural, then Id consider it a revelation.