Carl Sesto

While any pilgrimage begins where you are,

the walking part of my pilgrimage

began in France in a small village

called St. Jean Pied-de-Port

on June 18, 1997 and

ended 800 kilometers away

in Spain in Santiago de Compostela

on July 24, 1997.

PROLOGUE

"Not quite a full shilling,"

Win says as we trudge along

the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.

She is referring to her assessment of

the general condition of pilgrims we've met.

We are walking on a dirt cart path in mid-afternoon

under a blazing Spanish sun.

She has a handkerchief on her head

as a makeshift hat.

Although, it is an unseasonably cool summer,

the temperature being somewhere around 82 degrees,

the sun is brutal and I check to see if

I am actually wearing my dark sunglasses.

I am, but every now and then

it seems so bright I'm convinced

I've forgotten to put them on.

"Now that you mention it...,"

I respond, thinking about where I

come up short of the shilling and

why I decided to make the pilgrimage

in the first place. I mentally run

through the people we know in common

and realize that Win may have boiled it

all down to a phrase that accurately

describes our pilgrims.

"What about the Norwegian couple?"

I ask, just as a way of testing the theory.

A retired couple, the Norwegians seem,

on the surface, to be completely

unassailable in the shilling department.

They have generously given me bandages

and in the last town they jumped

up from the cafe they were sitting at

having coffee as I walked across the street just

to greet me and ask how I was doing.

"They have each other,"

Win says. Not a totally convincing

counter argument, but I accept

it in the blinding sun and quick pace

we've set on our way to Villar de Mazarife,

a small town about 25 kilometers from Leon.

About a week and a half later

Cas, a Dutchman, and I were

having dinner in a restaurant

in Santa Irene. We listed nine

reasons pilgrims undertake

the arduous journey,

but that's later.

Magic forest encountered crossing the Pyrenees.