'My Caminos' - Walking from Ireland to Spain
Enjoy this excerpt from a memoir by Breandan O Scnaill, about the time he put on a backpack and walked out his front door from his home on the west coast of Ireland, making his way to Santiago, Spain
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“I was delighted to hear and see that the sheep had bells on. This is one of my favourite sounds, of the French and Spanish countryside where I had walked. The haunting sound of sheep, goat and cow bells ringing will always be part of my backing track for my Caminos.”—Breandan O Scnaill
Author’s note: In my travels, I’ve been meeting writers, poets, artists, artisans, and musicians. I am inspired by the energy of Europe’s rich tradition of celebrating and supporting humanities. I met Breandan O Scnaill in an Irish writers’ group, where he shared an excerpt from his memoir about the time he walked from his home in Connemara, on the west coast of Ireland, to Santiago, Spain. As he tells it, he simply put on his backpack one day and walked out his front door, embarking on a six-month journey. I was so moved by his experience, I asked him if I could share the excerpt with the Bette Dangerous community. Thankfully, he said yes. I recommend finding a quiet space under a tree or near a river, to enjoy Breandan’s travelogue in nature’s surround sound.—Heidi Siegmund Cuda for Bette Dangerous
‘My Caminos’ — Walking from Ireland to Spain
by Breandan O Scnaill
Intro: I was three months into the walk, just arrived in France, having walked through Ireland, Wales and England. I had crossed from Dover to Calais. I was now ready to walk through the biggest country thus far.—Breandan O Scnaill
24th June 2022
I had a slightly disturbed night, due to a very rowdy crowd in a bar just across the street. There was obviously some sort of a party going on with a disco, and some inane song which played regularly, and which everyone felt they had to join in. Somehow, I managed to get a few hours’ sleep, but I was awake early and decided that I would get on the road.
I could see from my window that the weather had changed and not for the better. I made sure that my wet gear was near the top of my rucksack for ease of finding it if the rain came. As I came downstairs the owner invited me to have a coffee and cake. Both were very good, and I had a nice chat with him. He was interested in my walk and asked if he could take my photo. We ended up getting a couple of selfies.
I didn’t hang around as the clouds hung low over the city, and although I would have liked to explore some more, I thought better of it and decided to get going. I called into a lovely old-fashioned shop, and bought bread, cheese and ham for my lunch. I also bought something sweet as a treat.
I headed towards the coast following a canal and admired the buildings across the water. There were a lot of walkers, joggers and skateboarders following this beach path, they were all just going for short walks I would say, as no one had any type of backpack. There was a lovely statue set in a small garden, and from the items displayed I assume it was in memory of the fishing or maritime history of this port.
Just beyond this were the ruins of a large fort, this was Fort Risban, a place which has played an important role in the history of Calais. Strengthen by the English to stop supplies reaching the city from the sea, it was altered again by the French and played a role in the Second World War. I debated going in to explore but decided against this.
I stopped to put on my waterproofs, before I arrived on the large promenade above the beach at Calais. There was an activity fair just getting underway and I felt sorry for the people looking after the stands as they battled a stiff breeze, while trying to cover their stands with plastic tarpaulins. Each stand displayed information on activities such as swimming, diving, American football, rugby, beach volleyball and anything else which might take your fancy. I didn’t see anything for walking.
There was a great children’s playground which made great use of orange buoys as climbing frames and things to swing out of. There were a good many children playing there despite the weather. I continued walking along this walkway, but after some time I decided to go down onto the beach. I walked four kilometres along a lovely sandy beach with some wonderful outcrops of rocks. I almost had the place to myself. I assume that the weather and time of day dictates the numbers of people using this stretch of beach.
I met a number of people walking their dogs, or just strolling along, but there was very little interaction between us. I found a nice, sheltered place amongst some rocks, and I decided that I would have a swim. The water was lovely, and I ran up and down the beach a couple of times to dry off. This was the first swim of my walk, and I was looking forward to many more before I completed my journey.
There was an interesting feature on this beach; areas of bog land, or rich earth were sticking up from the sand. I was familiar with these features in Connemara but didn’t expect to find them in the North of France.
It was difficult walking through the soft sand, so I came up onto a concrete path which ran along the top of the beach. I also came across the red and white marks of the GR or Grande Randonee, or Big Walk. I would be following these for a few days, or at least I hoped so. There were also great wildflowers along this section.
I discovered that this walkway was all part of a huge dyke which protected the land, farms and villages from the sea. A good many of these places were below sea level or at least very close to it.
The village of Sangatte was a case in point; I came down from the concrete and through sand dunes to reach this small place. There was not much to see, the church of Saint Martin was not very inspiring and probably looked insipid by the use of creamy brick. There were a number of businesses which seemed to be doing well, most of these were restaurants and hotels. The village had been the site of an infamous refugee camp which opened in 1999 and was closed or closing, I didn’t see any evidence of it anywhere. I know that there have been riots over the past year or so. I had been warned to take care in this area, but I never felt threatened in any way.
The area had a number of interesting firsts; it was the landfall for the first undersea telegraph cable in 1851. In 1909 the first airplane to fly the Channel, left from the beach here. This plane was flown by Louis Bleriot. The beach is now known as Bleriot-Plage.
I had a quick coffee before walking on. The path was through the village and along a busy road before heading onto a smaller farm track and I began to go up hill through fields of flax and grass. There were lots of wildflowers. The weather began to improve, and I was able to put the wet gear back in the pack.
As I went higher, I met a shepherdess with a flock of special sheep. We had a quick chat, and she told me that she was taking these sheep to new pasture. I was delighted to hear and see that the sheep had bells on. This is one of my favourite sounds, of the French and Spanish countryside where I had walked. The haunting sound of sheep, goat and cow bells ringing will always be part of my backing track for my Caminos. I don’t think I ever heard them this far north.
The track kept going uphill and it was fairly hard going, but the path was so well maintained that it didn’t pose as much of a challenge as it might have done. It was also very well marked, so the chances of going wrong were fairly slim. There was a lot of scrub along the path, with a couple of windblown trees amongst them. There was a good view from the top, with most of the view consisting of sea and sky. There was some evidence of World War Two bunkers and in the distance, a tall stone monument overlooking the sea. I spoke with a small group of people who were walking their dogs, and they showed me the path to follow to come down from this hill and to make it to the headland with the monument on top. I thanked them, not that I needed very much advice as the way was again well marked but also well worn, so it was really only a matter of following the path.
I reached the coast road and crossed over this to the road to Cap Blanc-Nez. There were a lot of cars parked along this stretch of road; it was essentially a car park with a path to the headland. I had a great chat with an English guy, who was very interested in my pilgrimage. He had walked a part of the Camino a number of years ago. He wondered if he was now too old to continue along another section. I told him that you are never too old, you might have to do it at a slower pace, but it is still possible. He was very happy about that and promised that he would look into the idea a bit more.
We walked to the monument at the top of the hill and after a short time looking around; he went back to his car, while I explored this monument. It was built in memory of the Dover Patrol which operated during World War One. It consisted of fishermen and sailors from both England and France which helped keep the Straits safer. This is one of three similar monuments designed by Sir Aston Webb; they are 23m high, built of granite. This monument was erected in 1922; the others are near Dover, 1921 and New York 1931.
I sat down in a sheltered spot and ate my lunch; afterwards I relaxed in the sunshine for an hour or so. The way down was very steep, and I needed to take care. Although there were steps, some of the stone was very loose and tended to slip away from under my feet. Eventually I reached fairly flat ground and the walking became easier.
I telephoned a friend who had lost her son in tragic circumstances, and we spoke for a long time. It was good to touch base with her and at the same time admire the lovely wildflowers which bordered the path. I made my way back onto the beach and walked along this for most of the afternoon. The weather which had improved now got warmer and there was lovely sunshine. I took off my runners and socks and walked in my bare feet.
This section of beach had much evidence of the Gun emplacements and pill boxes, known here as Blockhouses. Some of these looked like they were built yesterday while others were tumbling into ruins. Giant slabs of reinforced concrete, with twisted steel bars stick out at odd angles. Most of these were daubed with graffiti. I went for a swim and walked up and down to dry off. There were plenty of others, swimming, walking or just lying in the sun. I was struck by one fact, very few people, male or female, young or old had any tattoos. This was such a change from England where so many people were displaying a huge array of them. I had even seen one or two people who were completely covered in them. The few villages I had passed through here were also different as there were nearly always, a café, bar or restaurant open and possibly even a shop or two.
I walked up from the beach to the town of Wissant, and began looking for a place to stay, I tried a few on the main street, but the usual story, they had no room. One lady recommended a hotel just outside the town and I made my way there. It was a lovely place, very 1920’s or 30’s in style, with a wonderful interior. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were used as a set for a Poirot film. The lady at the reception looked as if she had been there from that period as well. I got a room and made my way up a grand wooden staircase. Everything was deliciously old fashioned, and my room had walls and ceiling papered in the same wallpaper, and the matching curtains and bedspread were great.
I had a shower and followed my washing routine. A lay down for a bit of a nap before going out to explore the town. It grew out of a fishing village which became an important embarkation point for England. Over the centuries it lost out to Calais. It is now a very popular place for surfers. I visited the church of St Nichols which dated from the 15th century. There was a great market going on around the Square, and I had a look. I found a nice restaurant perched over a river, and I had a lovely dinner of mussels and chips.
I wandered back to my hotel and sat at the open window and watched a lovely sunset, while watching and listening to swallows flying back and over in such an acrobatic manner. I went to bed.
I walked 22km today and my step counter measured 32,000.
—Breandan O Scanaill, 24 June 2022
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Breandan O Scanaill was born and has lived all his life in Connemara. He has a passion for history, geology and gardening, especially of his home area. Always having an interest in walking, he started his first Camino in Le Puy en Veley in eastern France. Over three years, he reached Santiago de Compostela, a distance of some 1,500 km. During this walk, he began to plan a crazy dream. The day after he retired he would walk from his home in Connemara all the way to Santiago. This dream stayed alive from 1998 to 2022.
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It is so fine to read Breandan's experience. It reminds me a bit of folks who walk the Appalachian Trail in the US. I would love to be in such great shape that I could set out on such a journey. 22K in just one day? Are such solo experiences just for men - while we wee women stay home and keep the cottage clean? Do men have the same anxiety about dangerous people met on the trail?