#the community I’ve built though rebels is incredibly precious to me

[heart-0f-a-rebel16]

For anyone wondering why I’m deleting my old blog: basically, it was a side blog to my main that I’ve had since 2021. It was back when I was really into Zelda and had a bunch of fandom friends. Through a series of incredibly and increasingly horrible and ridiculous “dramas” and because of a mental health episode my interest in Zelda completely dried up. I had been trying to get back I to the groove for almost a year, but realized that it was unhealthy to try to force myself to love Zelda again.

For anyone wondering: I’m not going to stop drawing or writing for rebels, and I won’t stop drawing Zelda! I’m deleting my old blog only for the purpose of maintaining good long-term mental health

[wherespaulo]

Hiking in Galicia, Spain

August 12-23, 2021

I blame it on Ramon – who’d inexplicably told me his name was Joseph when we first met. An affable and mysterious Galician who cracked me up on my 2019 hike from Seville to Santiago de Compostela without speaking a word of English. Short dark hair, mustached, 50’s with slight paunch, he somehow communicated his passion for his Celtic homeland by waving his arms and with a fast Spanish dialect that I didn’t understand a word of – all emanating from a cloud of smoke generated by his never-ending supply of cigarettes.

So here I was once again in the least known yet oldest of the Celtic regions, surrounded by Santiago de Compostela’s splendid ancient architecture and ready to explore Ramon’s homeland by hiking the Camino’s Ingles over three days (47 miles reverse alternative route from Santiago to A Caruna) and Dos Faros over eight days (122 miles Malpica to Finisterre).

The Camino Ingles, which originated in the 11th century when many English pilgrims arrived by sea prior to their onward trek to Santiago de Compostela and the tomb of St James, would take me to the coast, while the Camino Dos Faros, a newly established route, would take me along the Costa da Morte coastline in a westerly direction.

I would navigate using a combination of guide books (John Brierley’s guide to the Camino Ingles and John Hayes’ guide to the Camino Dos Faros), way markers (yellow arrows on the Ingles and green arrows on the Dos Faros), and electronic maps (AllTrails) and have my luggage transferred between my accommodations (small hotels) so that I only needed to carry a day pack.    

As always, for me this would be an inner journey just as much as a geographical one – all part of a much longer Odyssean journey. The four winds had been loosed from the cobblers bag years ago and I needed to find my way home. We all need to walk slowly in the rivers of our truth to find that place where we might belong, wherever or whatever that might be. Don’t we? “Seek and ye shall find” I used to say to my kids – and they always did. The trick is knowing something’s lost in the first place.

Most pilgrims I’ve met on the various Camino trails are searching for something. I met Enrique and Diego on a closed off section of the Dos Faros just after the beautiful estuary town of Ponte do Porto – clearly all like-minded rebels, we decided to ignore the ‘no-entry’ sign and plough on together. Diego, 60’s, with a bald head as brown as a nut, spoke no English and moved with a fast pace, head down, rudimentary wooden staff in hand – with silent determination he kept his inner journey firmly to himself. Enrique on the other hand, 50’s and wiry from Andalusia, shared his hopes and fears using good English learned over 13 years in the UK as a guide dog trainer. Recently divorced, he was clearly still processing what this meant for his future, now a blank canvas.

Jaime, 50, needed to borrow my phone at the Nariga Lighthouse to organize his taxi pick-up from Praia de Ninons since his signal had vanished amongst the coastal headlands. We walked together to Ninons, communicating via my Google Translate app – an excellent tool but for some reason was stumped by my English – New York hybrid accent, interpreting half my words incorrectly. Desperate to leave the failing custom signs business he ran with his brother in Valencia, his inner journey was to finally make this difficult decision.  

While back in Santiago before returning to New York I visited one of my favorite restaurants, Garigolo, situated close to the Atalaia B&B where I regularly stay. As with other restaurants and small hotels I’d visited on this trip, many owners seemed slightly shell shocked after the Covid pandemic experience, seemingly fearful of what else might be careering towards them. I felt a spiritual connection with the owner and told her I’d be back again soon -- she presented me with a four-leaf clover she’d recently picked and I was grateful for its magical protection.

On the Ingles between Sigueiro and Hospital de Bruma I entered a dark tunnel of dense woodland where it seemed the trees were in cahoots, suspicious, whispering -- until I realized it was the pitter patter of raindrops on the leaf canopy. A sun shower out of a crystal clear azure blue sky? There was clearly magic about in these woods. Was something trying to warn me that I was going in the wrong direction? As in life, I’ve generally preferred the road less traveled. It seemed as though I was the only person going in the reverse direction here, just as in 2018 on the Scottish Southern Uplands Way the locals were aghast to see me walking west into the prevailing winds. It all reminded me of my youngest son, Alex, who for many years insisted on putting on his pajama top inside out – the apple didn’t fall far from the tree there!

Between the Ingles and Dos Faros I stayed in A Caruna for two nights over a weekend. It was the Festas de Maria Pita so during the evenings the warren of streets were packed with thousands of outdoor diners sampling the local food. I’ve never seen so many people eating within half a square mile where the incredible mix of aromas together with the cacophony of sights and sounds of so many convivial Galicians were a welcome onslaught to the senses after so much solitude.

The tranquil coastline of the aptly named Coste da Morte on the Dos Faros belies its treacherous nature.

The English Cemetery at Punta do Boi where hundreds of British sailors are buried is testament to this -- drowned in the 1800’s after running aground on the many hidden reefs. Many lighthouses (faros) were built over the years to counter this trend.

In the end I had to cut the Dos Faros hike short by ending at Lires rather than Finisterre since I needed to get back to Santiago early to get my covid test in time for traveling back to the US. That was ok since Lires, a small village set into a beautiful estuary, has a special place in my heart after getting lost on my way there from Finisterre last year.

Don’t you think it’s interesting that something seems more precious when you’ve had to search for it? But perhaps it’s the journey of getting lost that’s more important than what you find?