Time are tough in Madrid

This time last year, Madrid's Puerta del Sol was the hotbed of Spanish politics, spontaneously transformed into a protest camp that engulfed the centre for weeks – a movement dubbed 15-M. Now, the revolutionary fervour that ignited the passions of so many seems to have fizzled out, replaced with a weary, down-beat resignation: empty tables in restaurant terraces, quieter shops on the high street and a notable swell in people plying their trade on the streets. Times are, most definitely, tough.

I noticed it almost as soon as I arrived in Madrid. The city was heaving with beggars, buskers and vendors, unacknowledged or simply unseen. The leathery-faced old lady hunched beneath her shawl, monotonously turning the wheel of a windup music box; the blind beggar shuffling between the tables of restaurant terraces, eyes clouded with cataracts and head nodding mechanically; the disused doorway established as a bedroom for three, piled high with flattened cardboard boxes and discarded clothes... No corner was unoccupied. Even on the metro from the airport there was a three-piece band squashed into half of the carriage. Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder by the door, one twanged a fast-paced riff on a battered-looking double bass while the saxophonist and accordion player bobbed rhythmically to his side, another maneuvering between commuters to collect loose change in an empty tennis racket case.

In addition, the carnival of performers usually concentrated in Plaza Mayor had overflowed into Puerta del Sol, and the fluorescent-vested gold sellers based in the city's historic centre had to weave in between life-size smurfs and a Puss-in-Boots as they gabbled their sales offers. Human statues in elaborate costumes wobbled uncomfortably in their poses, and a serious-faced torero, dressed in full bull-fighter finery with a briefcase in hand, roamed between the statues solemnly. The Jesus Christ had attempted to up his game by painting himself and his crucifix a metallic gold, and a slightly grotesque baby and cot had appeared – a yellow-toothed face surrounded by a cluster of soft toys. Daubed with clown-like face paint and wearing a dirty-white linen bonnet, it gestured to passersby with plastic arms that must have been detached from a child´s doll.

Needless to say, it seemed that innovation was running low. Duplicates were abound. I noticed at least four headless sailors, and the inexplicably successful snapping goat had multiplied five-fold: from curly-horned Friesians to plastic fauns, there was a trend for sparkly streamers and animal heads with hinged jaws. There were, however, no imitations of Spiderman. The ringmaster of the circus was centre-stage in Plaza Mayor, broad-bellied and enthused with an energy that he had notably lacked on my previous visit. Back to his usual sparkling form, he commanded the plaza in a mix of broken English, heavily accented French and Spanish bravura. Pacing the square purposefully, he was alert to any with a lingering step and camera-in-hand, sending shy tourists quick-march in the opposite direction and engaging braver ones in an animated, multi-lingual exchange. It was a relief to see that his under-pa performance of a month ago had just been a temporary lapse.

Perhaps, just as Spiderman has highs and lows, I simply caught Madrid on an off weekend last week: heavy cloud and drizzle keeping people indoors and bars empty, emphasising the sadder sights of the city. It seems a likely conclusion – in the sunshine, you have to table-stalk restaurant terraces just to get a seat. Similarly, I´m told that, though the revolutionary fervour of last year seems a long way away, the 15-M movement is still bubbling under the surface. With strikes planned to mark the anniversary, it´ll be interesting to see what turn events take.

Times may be tough, but I can´t imagine the Spanish to stay down-beat for long...

The final countdown...

Since my final pre-marathon training run at the end of March – a toe-bruising 23 miles – I have only ventured onto the roads three times in as many weeks. Though all part and parcel of the tapering-off process, the lack of running in the lead up to the big day is unnerving, particularly as I have felt heavy-legged and sluggish each time I've ran. 

Though perhaps understandable to feel weary only a few days after a 20-miler, struggling to complete a short lap of Kennington Park only the week before embarking on a marathon is hardly a confidence boost. Instead of feeling prepped and primed, I´m paranoid about the miles I´ve missed in training and confused about carb-loading tactics. In hindsight, a boozy weekend of wedding-fueled revelry and a night dancing Strip the Willow and the Gay Gordons in high-risk heels, wasn´t exactly ideal preparation. As a result, I´ve spent a panicked three days on a serious, if slightly belated, health kick. 

However, weekend excesses aside, at least I have made it this far. From loops of Clapham Common on dark and frosty mornings, to late-evening circuits of Battersea Park, to monotonous laps of the swimming pool during the week… Now, there´s only three days to go and no way to wriggle out of it. Though convinced that in the hours preceding I´ll either clumsily injure myself, lose my timing chip or get lost on route (all worryingly likely scenarios), I should be on the start line on Sunday. After notably sporadic training, I haven´t a clue how it will go. The only thing I can be certain about is that I´ll be relying on bloody-mindedness and praying for a strong tail wind. Unfortunately, weather reports so far have confirmed that it´s likely to be pissing it down. Typical! 

I´m still collecting sponsorship, and am a fair way behind the target total that I promised to Children with Cancer. Thanks to those of you who have already donated, and to those who haven´t, envisage 26.2 miles in the pissing rain. You can sponsor my efforts here!

Does Spiderman get hangovers?

Had it changed in the seven months I´d been away?

The Tio Pepe building in Sol was still hidden behind a curtain of green net and scaffolding... the bearded beggar on Calle Carretas still swayed shakily behind the same cardboard plea... Plaza Mayor was still the melting pot of Madrid, humming as it always did to the tuneful motifs of accordion players… However, when I used to visit on midweek mornings the shiny cobbles were untrodden - expectant, expansive and empty. Last weekend in comparison, the square was heaving: a congested mill of well-dressed abuelos, tourists in halter-necks and hot pants, and locals wrapped up in duffel coats and Doc Martins.

Most notably, the carnival of street performers had swollen ranks. Of course, the long-term residents still occupied their favoured corners - the weary Mini Mouse shuffling in circles around the central statue, the tabletop of zombie heads routinely startling passers-by - but new characters were strolling in between the familiar faces. A nonchalant Elvis strutted back and forth in front of the terraces, his hands laden with cheap finger bling and his tango-tanned cheeks framed by a stiff collar and colourful Hawaiian garland. Occasionally he would pause for a discrete word with a headless sailor, whose floating glasses wobbled on the bounce of their wire supports, or would cock his head in greeting to a toothy yellow sponge, just one of the multiple Spongebob Squarepants. There was even a bare-chested, long-haired Jesus Christ lugging a make-shift crucifix around the square.

However, for all the new arrivals, one member of the plaza was poignantly absent. Spiderman, whose presence had been reliably predictable during my year in Madrid, was notable only by his absence: the ringmaster of the circus nowhere to be seen. It wasn´t until the square was nearing gridlock with the lunchtime rush that his hulking figure appeared.

His distinctive silhouette instantly recognisable, he lumbered into the square from the shadows of a restaurant terrace, walking with heavy legs and laboured steps towards his customary corner. On arrival, he drew his plastic wheelie box to a halt beside him and swung his paper-mache miniature unceremoniously onto the cobbles. Then, rocking back on his heels, arms clasped loosely behind his back, he briefly scanned the milieu of people before him before walking a short loop. Arms swinging characteristically as he went, his unmistakeable outline seemed largely unchanged - the distended barrel of his stomach perhaps slightly bulkier, the slack of his suit stretched in even baggier sags. He walked purposefully through the crowds, bumping fists with a suited clown and saluting one of the waiters on his way to the centre before circling back.

On returning to his wheelie box, he thrust his arms skywards in a full body stretch and made a few stiff circles with his hips in an unexpected sequence of stretches. However, the effort alone of limbering up seemed to swallow what little enthusiasm he had: no sooner had he finished than he collapsed onto his plastic trunk in a heavy round-shouldered slouch. His torso folded in a double roll of breast and belly, legs resting in a shallow V shape, he mechanically folded up his mask and lit a cigarette. Puffing mindlessly on his fag, wholly detached from the buzz of the plaza, he seemed a sorry shadow of the showman who used to command the square. Even a noisy rabble of 15 – a wave of matching fluorescent T-shirts that would have been a jackpot for the Spiderman-of-old – failed to inspire him: he remained stubbornly seated as they passed, his usual theatrical display abandoned.

Is Spiderman struggling to keep pace with the carnival of street performers? Or is he just fed up of the burgeoning circus in Plaza Mayor and unwilling to compete with walking fruit bowls and men selling invisible mouth whistles?

Or, maybe even Spiderman isn´t immune to the non-stop nightlife of the Madrileños and he just had a stonking hangover? I wonder where he goes out for a drink…

Wide-eyed and with weary legs

London on a sleepy Saturday morning: Brixton high street empty except for the Friday night debris of crushed plastic pint glasses and lumpy splatters; Vauxhall station sparsely scattered with colourful characters and burly bouncers that hulk outside darkened doorways; the plinths of Trafalgar Square refreshingly clear, free from the gridlock of snap-happy gaggles. A city that seems to shift drastically in mood from morning to night, week-day to weekend, London consistently surprises me. Grand and inspiring at times, drab and exhausting at others, fun-loving and eclectic one minute, hectic and frustrating the next, the atmosphere is never the same.

Training for the Virgin London Marathon has opened up new windows into the city for me. From the concrete slab tower blocks of Stockwell to the red-brick town houses in Kensington to the neatly manicured flower beds surrounding Green Park, I´ve run through corners of London I´d never before bothered to visit, past monuments I´d never noticed and sights I´d never properly appreciated. Whether it be seeing up-close the iconic husk of Battersea power station or circling a crowd-free Hyde Park Corner, I see London through fresh eyes when I’m running. It hasn´t taken many outings to realise that, however well I mentally map the cityscape, I will never stop discovering it.

Sight-seeing runs aside, marathon prep has not been plain sailing. The meticulously planned schedule has had to be been abandoned in favour of erratic runs whenever my body feels like it. Sporadic rather than continuous, training has been interspersed with panicked enquiries about deferral, overpriced physio appointments and far too much time looping the swimming pool instead of pounding the pavements.When I have managed to get out on the streets, runs have ranged from light-stepped cruises to sluggish struggles, 4 miles on weekday mornings to 16 miles on a Saturday afternoon. The experience has certainly taught me a few things other than the city´s geography: always carry jelly babies, wear a bum-bag not a backpack and never go for a run and then board a peak-time commuter train.

Training blips aside, I am now marginally more confident about making the start line on the 22^nd. As such, the fundraising can begin. Get ready for pleading e-mails and facebook groups. I promise that, even if I end up walking the last ten miles, I´ll give it my best shot! You can sponsor me here.

Eyes shut and ears open

When a friend recommended substituting soundtracks on my ipod for audiobooks and podcasts, I dismissed the notion almost immediately, considering anything verbal when walking or exercising to be a dangerous distraction that would inevitably lead to clumsy injury.

However, I recently had to review an audiobook as part of a job application and so was forced to abandon my prejudices and plug in. Despite my resentment at spending a Saturday doing something job-related, I was pleasantly surprised when the morning slipped by being soothed by the suave tones of Jeremy Irons. Curled up in a hazy half-snooze, eyes-shut and ears-open, I was whisked away to the world of the novelist without even having to open the book. In a room without TV and with frustratingly temperamental internet, it provided effortless escapism.

Though it will take some time before I have the confidence to swap driving basslines for a topical podcast when out running, there is something oddly satisfying about having someone read to you when in the safety of your flat. Is that because it’s a comforting allusion to the days when someone read you a bedtime story? Or is it simply an idle indulgence for those reluctant to read for themselves? Or, maybe it’s so satisfying because the style of narration actually adds something to the text…

To help justify my lazy eyes, I’ve decided to go with the latter.

Brideshead Revisited, by Evelyn Waugh. Narrated by Jeremy Irons

Described by the author as “a novel about the operation of divine grace on a group of diverse but closely connected characters”, I was fairly apprehensive about starting Brideshead Revisited, anticipating a weighty novel laden with complex, religious themes. However, my reservations dissolved within the opening minutes of the narration. A far cry from a moralizing religious sermon, Waugh guides us through the delicious decadence of pre-war English aristocracy, as seen through the eyes of his protagonist Charles Ryder.

A man who “sails through the world riding on his creamy English charm,” Ryder’s story is an  ambling account of carefree merriment, hedonistic weekend jaunts and indulgent lunches, through which Waugh deftly touches on the murky themes surrounding Atheism and Catholicism. One of the finest British writers of the 20^th century, his lyrical literary style is ideally suited for an audio book, and as I listened to his meandering tale, I felt as if Charles Ryder was actually sat opposite me idly chatting over a cup of tea. 

The novel is narrated by the quintessentially English Jeremy Irons, who was catapulted to stardom following his interpretation of Ryder in the award-winning TV adaptation of Brideshead in 1981. Irons explained his identification with Ryder by describing him as “the man who I was educated to be”, and has since referred to the TV series as, “the swan song to that side of my life”. He was undoubtedly the ideal choice for the audio book, and his connection with the protagonist is evident in his narration. He speaks with expressive ease, his suave tones emphasising the subtle snobberies of English elegance that underlie the text.

An engrossing immersion into the flamboyance and extravagance of the early 20^th century, Brideshead is considered Waugh’s magnum opus, and Irons’ eloquent narration of the audiobook adds yet another dimension to the text.

A must-read that is now a must-listen, the Brideshead Revisited audiobook is not to be missed.

87 days and counting...

"So, you´ll soon be running a half-marathon every week, building up to at least 5 runs a week and a weekly mileage of about 45 miles per week. This should culminate in a 22-mile run about 3 weeks before the big one..."

After this speech by a seasoned marathon runner at a London 2012 training day, I conceded that my vague fitness strategy would need substantial revision if I am to make it through the marathon. Though the talk was intended to motivate runners, with legs still twitching uncomfortably from the 11-mile group run and a head stuffy from a birthday-night-out in Shoreditch, I felt more intimidated than inspired. However, fortunately it only took a Sunday roast and an afternoon meticulously colour-coding a training plan to make me feel much more positive. In fact, as my job is still distinctly shaky, I’m actually quite glad to have something as uncompromising and all-consuming as a marathon to keep me focused.　

Even so, only 2 weeks in, two major problems (other than strength of willpower) have already become apparent. For one, maintaining a normal work and social life will be a feat requiring military precision. Squeezing miles in after work and still having the enthusiasm to walk to the pub is certainly something I will have to get used to. I will also need to perfect my technique when running in the morning. On Thursday I got up at an unearthly hour (blissfully unaware of the monsoon-like conditions outside) to clock up some mileage before work. However, blinded by sheets of rain and gloomy light, I ended up adding an unintentional mile and a half to my route and arrived back at my flat bedraggled and exhausted with only 45 minutes before work. Needless to say, despite the early start, I arrived late and looking even more disheveled than usual. Similarly, post-run productivity is proving to be a problem. Last week, optimistic hopes for an efficient Sunday finishing off some freelance work evaporated after 12 miles around Westminster. The morning's efforts consigned me to a duvet-clad afternoon watching a dubious Lord of the Rings imitation starring Jason Statham. I’ve absolutely no idea how I’ll manage increasingly long weekend endurance runs when the diary is rapidly filling with hen dos, weekends away and weddings.

The other major challenge for me will be remaining injury-free. Despite having spent nearly half my weekly wages on gait assessment and new trainers, 　I’ve already had my first Oyster-card-moment: I found myself half way to Battersea (typically without my Oyster or any money) when my ankle became too painful to run on and I had to hobble home to an ice-pack and some ibuprofen. I suppose it’s inevitable that spending disproportionate amounts of time pounding the pavements is not conducive to healthy bones, but no matter how much core-strength training I do, my body seems to have an unfortunate propensity for injury. As such, I can regretfully predict that managing injuries and forking out for physio will be an unfortunate characteristic of the next few month. (I suppose that - in the case of disaster - I can always defer for a year.)

However, though for now I am resigned to the fact that any spare time will be spent either napping or horizontal with a bag of frozen peas, I am hoping that I will gradually learn when to take-it-easy and when to push-through niggling pains. Similarly, I'm assuming that I’ll become an expert at juggling running with weekends away and evenings out. In fact, injury frustrations and social calendar aside, I am actually looking forward to the intense few months ahead. Of course, another task I feel slightly apprehensive about is raising sponsorship for my chosen charity,
Children with Cancer. Being part of the London Marathon Mr Men team, and therefore responsible for raising over a quarter of the charity's income, I will need to get stuck into the fund-raising sooner　 rather than later…

So, if you do want to contribute to a good cause, or give me a bit of added incentive and a head-start up the hill, you can sponsor me at www.virginmoneygiving.com/Lotts.　

Steamy sessions with a French baker

I didn´t quite realise what I´d let myself in for when I paid for a 25-day membership of a yoga studio in Clapham. Though well aware that the studio only offers classes of Hot Yoga (yoga practiced at a steamy 38°C), being hypersensitive to the cold, I found the prospect of some sub-tropical heat – even if it was to be artificial – fairly alluring. Similarly, given my back-catalogue of disastrous yoga classes (ranging from hours of meditative chanting to impossible acrobatics), I reasoned that it couldn´t be worse than previous experiences. However, I started to feel dubious as soon as the teacher entered on the first class of my 25-day stint. A squat Frenchman, his physique can only be described as slack: a soft, squashy torso with podgy bulges rounding over the elastic band of his very-short shorts. Though as the class progressed I warmed to his softly accented instructions, because he was unable to demonstrate lots of the positions I remained suspicious of his coaching abilities. My doubts were confirmed when I later discovered that this supposed yoga guru is also a professional pastry chef – a somewhat ironic dual identity.

Even if you put the French baker to one side, the actual yoga – consisting of short, basic sequences loosely linked to your breathing - wasn’t that challenging. Though by the end my body was pulsating, this was due to heat exhaustion rather than muscle weariness (I suppose an inevitable side-effect of a temperature gage that is pushing 40˚C). At one point, I was sweating so much I thought I was actually melting. It is certainly a purifying, cleansing experience, and far more effective than a sauna and a face pack. Similarly, for those who are particularly tight, yoga in a muscle-loosening 38˚C must be ideal for a bit of added elasticity. However, for those who are already fairly bendy, it seems a bit pointless. It even felt slightly sordid at times: lots of half-naked bodies packed like sardines into a small space, sweating profusely in a series of grunts and lunges. Within half an hour, your mat is flecked with splashes of your neighbour’s sweat, a periodic spray that continues throughout the class and which, when upside down in a Downward Dog, you are powerless to prevent. Furthermore, after an hour, even deep breathing - elemental in yoga - becomes increasingly unappetizing as sticky aromas start to overpower the incense. In fact, the inevitable pong seems to vary in pungency depending on the person next to you (and whether or not they are sweating out last night’s curry). In the most recent class I went to, I was squashed so uncomfortably close to the man next to me (alcohol sweats if I’m not mistaken) that I repeatedly hit him on the bum every time I did a forward bend… I snuck out of that one early.

I still (regrettably) have 15 days left of free classes, and so I’m not going to completely reject Hot Yoga.With the London Marathon looming ahead of me, the growing pressure to clock up some mileage and a body that feels particularly wobbly and brittle, I have resigned myself to some intensive yoga in a bid to build up a bit of strength. However, I can’t help but question if it is ever good for you to perspire that much: there is a reason why there are time restrictions on saunas and steam rooms. Ideally I would prefer to work up a sweat from challenging, muscle-shaking yoga sequences instead of radiators and dumbed-down imitations. Similarly, if paying through the nose for a class, I expect to hear hard-earned yoga wisdom from some spiritual quasi-Buddhist who has spent half their life in India… not a pastry-chef.

Back in the day when I still had an NUS card, I frequented the £1.20 yoga class at the Student Union in Cardiff. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed Scandinavian called Yulia – criminally bendy with the appearance of never having ingested a single toxin – led a demanding Ashtanga class that left your muscles throbbing and your limbs heavy. It certainly felt more organic. Then again, maybe I’m just a yoga snob... A fellow yoga-goon recently joked that if you put a bench press in a steam room and marketed it in the right way, you could charge £15 for a half-hour session - a prediction I can easily believe. Could Hot Yoga just be a fad? Another fitness craze with a little bit more staying power than most? A trend designed for those simply too lazy to work up a sweat on their own?

I’m yet to decide…

The ´there and then´ or the ´here and now´...

Although I tried to keep an open mind when I went to my first Kundalini Yoga session at the Brixton Rec last Saturday, I was instantly dubious when the teacher pitched up wearing a hemp shirt, a cotton flat cap and an armful of wooden bangles. I was tempted to make a quick getaway before the class started, but before I could roll up the mat and slip out he had carelessly flicked on a CD of Enya, assumed a meditative position and begun preaching about Ying and Yang. When, after near on an hour of spiritual babble, uncomfortable ´fire breathing´ and several inexplicable references to the ´love nerves´ we still hadn’t done one basic yoga sequence, I decided to abandon ship: hood up and head down I snuck out the back door mid-chant.

  The early exit turned out to be a blessing: stepping out of the sports centre, I stumbled straight into the foot-tapping rhythms of Rock Around The Clock Tonight and the buzz of an impromptu dance floor. A twirl of swirly skirts, tapping of patterned winkle-pickers and rolling of padded shoulder pads, four couples were spinning and smiling arm-in-arm in a lively jive. A toothy-grinned scruff with a can of Red Stripe bounced enthusiastically on the balls of his feet in their midst and a teacher stood by the music decks directing the steps with a cheesy smile and an American twang. Stockwell Swing Patrol had commandeered a corner of the street as part of Brixton’s Vintage Market and Atlantic Road had been transformed into a colourful jumble of low-hung bunting and stands of antique furniture; the street bubbling with head-bobbing spectators, oversized cardigans and tweed suit jackets, loud retro patterns, random knick-knacks and antique trinkets.

I felt as if I had morphed straight into the 1950s: my yoga-fuelled huff lifted instantly. A fan of rummaging around the clutter of second hand shops, I find that there is something instantly appealing about things from the past and am instantly drawn to anything with a story behind it. In fact, I spend a disproportionate amount of time imagining life as it was generations ago, dreaming of discovering a time-travelling DeLorean to zoom me through the ages Marty McFly style… I recently went to see Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, a slightly off-the-wall tale about a man who discovers he can teleport through time to the 1920s. No question about it, I would leap at the chance for a night of 1920s revelry. As much as I love the 80s (headbands and comfy fashion), just imagine swooning about in a Europe where everyone is an artist: the roaring twenties, the golden age, the crazy years…

However, as a wide-eyed and innocent Owen Wilson shows us in Woody´s latest romp, is it simply a case of ´the grass is always greener´? In every era Wilson visits the contemporaries he encounters are pining for a generation-past: the previous Golden Age. Is it that, no matter where – or when - you are, the past is always perceived to have been better than the present? Looking back wistfully on school days or university years as the best time of your life certainly seems to be a habit inherent in society. I often smile back on my schooldays and reminisce about fumbling together coloured maps for geography posters or messing about with Bunsen Burners… Warm and fuzzy reflections. That however is certainly a case of selective forgetfulness. I don´t have to strain my mind much for memories of missing the train every morning and doing battle with balanced equations to sharpen up those rose-tinted lenses.

Perhaps perspectives of ages-past are similarly forgetful. Put the 1920s in context as a decade sandwiched between two world wars and it’s instantly clear that it can’t have been all cultural dynamism and hedonism; economic collapse and the rise of fascism must have featured somewhere. But who wants to read about unemployment and social misery when you can get lost in the glitz and glamour of the artist (even if it is superficial)? It certainly makes it easy to be sentimental about an era you never lived through - simply because you´ve not experienced the cold, hard reality of it. Similarly, when bogged down by pessimistic press and mundane day-to-day monotonies, it’s easy to overlook the present.

Last Saturday, moving on from the 1950s time warp of Atlantic Road, I walked home through Brixton Village. Spread through the maze of arched tunnels under Brixton Station, it’s just as good as the nostalgia of vintage markets. A rabbit warren of restaurants and shops, it’s squashed full of everything and anything: from boutique fashions to deluxe sweets, cheap home ware to specialist Indian spices. On one corner you might pass a display of exquisite cupcakes, at the next a counter-top of iced pigs heads placed. You can dine on the greasy slap-up Chinese served from a mobile counter or share a tapas platter of pinchos from the Spanish taverna, sample freshly prepared noodles or experience the best pizza in London. I doubt they had that sort of a selection in the 1920s.

Even so, as much as I can appreciate the perks and quirks of the hear and now, I’m still dreaming about the DeLorean…

Brain Blank

I have now been back in the UK for a couple of months. Returning home in September after a four-week-walk, I had high hopes of being on the cusp of a creative burst. I expected that, following a few weeks of home comforts, I would be writing reams and reams of inspired, pilgrim-themed prose...

Sadly, the pending novel is still non-existent and even short-stories or artistic articles are proving elusive. It seems that any imaginative impulses have been bludgeoned by the unwelcoming reality of working full-time: spending eight hours a day writing web-optimised content is certainly an effective way to numb the brain into blankness. However, before the memories recede too far into the distant past, I have cobbled together some words about the pilgrimage for Spanish company Letango Tours.

Though a fairly disappointing yield considering that when walking I scribbled my way through two journals, at least it is a start - if a little tentative... You can read it here: El Camino

El Camino...

Now sitting in an internet café in the South of Spain, it is hard to believe that less than 2 days ago I was standing on a craggy cliff on the edge of rugged Galician mountains, gazing out at an Atlantic that stretched onwards endlessly and merged with the sky in a blurry line on the horizon. I was in Fisterra, an idyllic, unspoilt stretch of coastline in the North West corner of Spain. Also known as the "Coast of Death", it is more or less the final destination on the ancient Jacobean pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela - El Camino de Santiago. Though the route culminates officially at the cathedral in the city, some pilgrims continued until they reached the coast in order to bathe in the sea be cleansed of their sins. For me, the simple prospect of reaching a beach was ample encouragement to pause only briefly in Santiago and continue for a further 3 days until I reached the coast. It was certainly worth it: finally arriving at the ocean, dumping my pack on the beach and running (or hobbling) into the water, was quite a powerful moment.

 However, over the 28 days that I was walking, I came to realise that meaningful moments are almost Camino-fashion. I met no end of people keen to share their life-changing camino experience: some had found spiritual enlightenment, others (often men) described how when walking on their own they suddenly found themselves sobbing uncontrollably. Sadly, as far as I know, I´ve had no such experience. Granted, the Baywatch-beach-entry was a special moment, but on a physical rather than emotional level - after 800km my weary, aching muscles and blistered feet were in dire need of attention and a bracing ice-bath in the Atlantic was the ideal remedy. I can´t help but feel slightly short-changed: despite walking at least double the distance of some I wasn´t met by any dramatic bout of self-realisation. If I did find my inner-self, it´s not had much of an impact: I´m still vegetarian and enjoy gin and tonics...

To be fair, I didn´t embark on the pilgrimage with any spiritual goals. In fact, one of my main motivations was the hope that I would be struck by creative genius and return with all the ingredients for a bestseller in my head. The unquestioning simplicity of the day certainly allowed for thinking and writing time- get up when you wake up (unfortunately often pre-dawn), walk in time to the sunrise, stop whenever you find a shop, talk to whoever you meet, sleep whenever you feel tired, stay wherever you end up. The unthinking routine set the mind free to reflect on anything, everything and nothing. However, I seem to have fallen short of that aim as well: though I have filled a diary (and overflow notebook) with scrambled descriptions, any coherent prose remains elusive. In fact, the only comprehensive sentences I have written were disappointingly mundane - the result of a frustrating, sleepless night...

I was staying in a particularly grotty government hostel - a dingy, damp room with white-washed walls and bunks squashed in as if it was a battery farm. Despite my surroundings, after a 36km day my exhausted limbs felt as if they were literally dissolving into the bed and I was asleep almost as soon as I lay down. However, shortly after the lights-out curfew, an elephant-like snotty rasp dragged me from my dreams and in the space of minutes, the hostel was filled with a cacophany of room-shaking snorts coming from two or three chronic snorers. By no means can I claim to have never snored, but this snorting-chorus, puncuated periodically by an offensively persistant trumpet ring tone that someone decided not to mute, must have been scraping the top of the decibel register, and the combined efforts of Nick Cave, Tom Baxter and Enya on high volume on my ipod all failed against the onslaught.

I spent a painfully long night smarting with the injustice that some troll-like beings behind me dreamt soundly while their incompetent breathing denied others some much-needed shut-eye and when I stopped for an extra strong coffee the next morning, a tirade of abuse simply flowed from my pen. Unfortunately, cutting through line upon line of uniformed vineyards in La Rioja, stomping across the stark, barren plains of Castilla y Leon and climbing through the luscious valleys of Galicia has failed to unleash similar verbosity from my pen... An indignant rant about a bad nights sleep is a fairly disappointing yield from a 28 day plod across the breadth of Spain. I can only hope that my current weariness and raggedeness is temporarily inhibiting the inevitable creative burst and that it is just a question of digestion time before the erratic scribbles in my diary become legible paragraphs.

Spiritual enlightenment may have eluded me but perhaps a few duvet-clad nights and PG Tips mornings will tease out something mildly creative...