Pilgrimage: Hardship as an element of pilgrimage
“As for humans, God tests them so they might know they are animals.”
—Ecclesiastes 3:18
While pain is not a prerequisite for pilgrimage, it’s certainly the reality for many. Those sick and suffering, even those on the edge of death, have often traveled on pilgrimage as a petition for healing and a respite from pain. There are even shrines that specialise in certain afflictions.
By journeying to and praying in a specific place, we get a sense of the transactional nature of pilgrimage. As Victoria Preston notes in We Are Pilgrims, “If not personal sacrifice, what else can we offer up to the divine in exchange for mercy or redemption?”
While walking has always helped my mental health and mood, I walked these three pilgrimages in pandemic times and, perhaps for the first time, appreciated how far people might go in the hope of healing.
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Jedburgh, Scotland — 5 October 2021
Day 2 of the St Cuthbert’s Way
I wake up at two a.m. aware of the pain before I even open my eyes. My whole body aches and I want to sink back into oblivion, but I know these early hours well. I will not sleep again.
It’s dark and the sound of rain hammers on the roof outside, as if the storm is trying to get inside and punish me further. The forecast is grim. Heavy rain all day.
Yesterday I walked thirty-five kilometres and I can feel every step. My feet are swollen and bruised, with blisters already forming on my little toes and the side of one big toe. My calves ache from the hills. My hips are puffy and inflamed from carrying my pack. I know it’s too heavy, but I can’t let anything go. I have bruises on my arms and in weird places on my legs where I must have hit them climbing stiles. My shoulders and my neck ache.
I was so tired last night, I didn’t even go out to find food. I thought I would sleep through with so much physical exertion, but I haven’t had a good night in a long time, so why would this be any different?
I wake every night soaked in sweat, needing the toilet too many times, worried about money, about what I want to do in life, wanting to escape. I have a recurring nightmare of flying in an old plane with only a glass canopy between me and the sky. As the plane spins upside down, I realise there is no glass and I tumble out into the air, waking with a start as I fall.
I get out of bed, boil the kettle, and make coffee, each step across the floor sending painful sensations through my feet. The tiles are cold in the tiny bathroom, but it helps numb me a little. I take some painkillers with my coffee and eat a flapjack I bought yesterday while I google how to get home from here. There’s a bus from Jedburgh back to Berwick-upon-Tweed. I could get the earliest one and then the train and be home before the end of the day.
I email Jonathan at 3.49 a.m.:
Missing you.
I think this might be too much.
I’m still exhausted and in pain.
Can I give up after one day? I just want to come home.
I’m pretty miserable, to be honest.
xxx
I know he will support whatever I choose to do, and the decision is mine to make.
Only I can give up.
Only I can walk on.
The painkillers kick in, dulling the acute sensations, but underneath lies a bone-deep fatigue that I can’t seem to shake. I’m almost three months post-COVID and I desperately need to prove to myself that my strength is returning.
I could hardly get out of bed those first few weeks with the virus. I listened to audiobooks about walking so I could move in my mind even as I could not in my body. I couldn’t think, let alone work. After those initial weeks, I slowly added back one thing a day, but many afternoons I just had to lie down and rest, crying silently in the dark at how weak I was.
I lost my smell and taste, and I craved texture and salt, eating (too much) crunchy sourdough toast with Bovril (beef spread) to ease the misery. I was depressed and anxious, wondering if I would ever recover. I had never been that sick before, never felt like I wasn’t able to do things if I set my mind to them. I always believed that the power of positive thinking could overcome any weakness, and that if I set my mind to a challenge, I could achieve it.
But I am not that person anymore. My flesh is weak, and I am broken.
I am an animal, constrained by my ephemeral, physical body.
I am not a machine. I am not the Terminator.
I can’t just keep going and going every day.
Recovery from COVID, or any illness or injury, is not linear. I cannot force it through sheer will.
There was a whisper at the back of my mind as I lay there: What if I never get better?
Below that, a deeper sense of my mortality. Even if I recover, at some point, life will be like this again. There will come a time when my body is this weak once more. A time when I will not be able to walk on.
But perhaps today, I can.
In the shower, I press the flesh around my hips. It’s swollen, sensitive, and bruised under the skin and the thought of lifting my pack and tightening the belt once more makes me catch my breath in anticipation of the pain.
I carry too much baggage because I am afraid.
My first aid kit contains everything you could possibly need and more painkillers than a field hospital. I have all kinds of layers of clothing, and two pairs of most things in case one isn’t enough. I am carrying a flask for coffee, more provisions than are necessary, and even a paperback book about Northumberland.
I learned my lessons as a Girl Guide: Always be prepared. But I’ve taken this to extremes in pandemic times. I stocked our cupboards with tins of vegetables and corned beef, hid paracetamol around the house, and stashed extra bottles of water and thick church candles in case the power supply is cut off. Pandemic fear turned me into a prepper, but this need to be prepared is costing me now. I know this, and yet I still cannot leave anything behind.
I drink another two cups of coffee and, although it is only five a.m., I eat an emergency Snickers.
Sugar + painkillers + caffeine = problem solved. At least, for now.
If I can make it through today, then tomorrow I will cross the border from Scotland into England and I want to make it that far. These borderlands have been fought over for centuries, and the earth is soaked in the blood of those who died for their land. I want to cross the border of my own life — from sick, bedridden, and weak, back into strength. From the darkness of middle-aged ennui back into the light of confidence and creativity and being sure in my direction. If I can make it to Holy Island despite this pain, I will prove to myself that I am on the path to recovery.
As the clock ticks toward six a.m., I pack everything up and dress in full wet weather gear, including waterproof gloves and socks. I hoist my pack onto my bruised hips and let it settle before pulling a bright yellow poncho over everything. I look ridiculous, but this gear is my armour against the storm — both inside and out.
All I have to do is put one foot in front of the other and I will get there.
* * *
Pilgrimage is a physical journey
Pilgrimage might be a search for spiritual meaning, but it is also truly a physical experience. Multi-day walks in particular make the pilgrim acutely aware of living in a frail human body. You may struggle for transcendent thought when your feet hurt and you’re tired and hungry, too hot or too wet, and your clothes stink of sweat or you’re muddy and dirty.
This awareness of the physical self is part of why I find pilgrimage so important. As a writer, I spend most of my time in my head and my body is often an afterthought. But when I get up from my desk after a writing session, I realise how much sedentary life takes its toll.
Unless I am consistent with my workouts, my body is tense and tight when I sit at my computer all day, resulting in headaches; back, neck, and shoulder pain; and a tight right hip that pulls my knee.
While the rigours of a long pilgrimage bring pain, so does daily life. It’s just a different kind.
But then how can you be aware of memento mori — remember, you will die — if you are not aware of your physical frailty?
Some level of pain and discomfort are to be expected on any pilgrimage
If you undertake a multi-day walk longer than anything you have done before, you are likely to experience some aspect of pain and discomfort along the way. That should not be a surprise!
Maybe it’s exhaustion and fatigue, blisters or muscle aches, a twist, sprain, or a fall. It might be an upset stomach, a cold, or headaches. Itchy heat rash, bug bites and stings, chafing from sweaty clothes, or other issues.
There is a difference between low-level pain and acute ‘there is definitely something wrong’ pain. You need to know how each feels in your body, so you don’t over-react or under-react when it occurs.
We experience pain differently depending on our mental state. I don’t know whether I was truly in more pain that morning in Jedburgh because of post-COVID fatigue, or whether it really was greater than usual. It didn’t matter at the time. I had to overcome it regardless.
If you train for longer distances and walk back-to-back days in preparation, you will get used to the muscular sensation of walking when tired, and potentially with blisters. That will help you understand what a normal level of sensation is and you will also experience recovery over the following days, so you know that pain is short-lived.
How can you reduce your pain?
Physical preparation and training in advance will help develop muscles where you need them for walking.
On the Camino, I met many pilgrims struggling with Achilles tendon problems, twisted knees and ankles, and other leg pain. I didn’t have any of this and I can only assume it’s because of the amount of walking I do in general, plus my regular weight training.
Look after your feet.
I didn’t get blisters or foot issues on the Pilgrims’ Way, so I thought I had it all figured out! I know all the tips — make sure your shoes are the right size, change your socks regularly, keep your feet dry, tape sore spots early, use lubricant or hikers’ wool. There are so many tips and I’ve tried most of them, as well as different kinds of socks and blister prevention creams.
Despite everything, I got blisters on both the St Cuthbert’s Way and the Camino — due to the combination of wet weather and a too-heavy pack on the former, and long, hot, sweaty days on the latter.
While, clearly, I am not a doctor and this is not medical advice, carry painkillers for when you need extra help.
I used normal pharmacy-bought paracetamol and ibuprofen, which you can find in supermarkets and pharmacies along the routes. Please talk to your doctor or pharmacist about your situation before you leave if this is something you’re worried about.
Reframe pain as part of the experience, an aspect of the journey that you will overcome and that will make it even more worthwhile.
Pain is temporary. Pride in your accomplishment will remain for the rest of your life.
Consider luggage transfer.
If you carry more weight, you will likely have more pain. If you know in advance that you might struggle, or if you change your mind on the way, there are plenty of companies who will transport your luggage between accommodations on most established pilgrimage routes. You can then walk with a day pack and will certainly suffer less pain. I met many older pilgrims on the Camino, those in their sixties and seventies, who used luggage transfer and they zoomed past me every day!
While my personal ‘rules’ of pilgrimage included carrying my own bags on these three journeys, I will certainly consider luggage transfer if I do another.
If you need medical help, make sure you can access it
Write down the number of the emergency services if you are traveling to another country. Keep your phone charged so you can call for help if necessary.
Buy appropriate travel insurance, and if you’re a UK citizen traveling in Europe, get a Global Health Insurance Card (GHIC) from the NHS that entitles you to healthcare in Europe at local cost.
Questions:
• If you are sick or suffering, how might pilgrimage help you?
• What might you have to adjust to ensure you can finish your pilgrimage?
• How do you cope with pain at the moment?
• How will you cope with pain as part of your pilgrimage?
• How can you prevent excessive pain?
• What will you do if the pain is too much?
Resources:
• The Art of Pilgrimage: The Seeker’s Guide to Making Travel Sacred — Phil Cousineau
• The Whole Sole Guide to Walking the Camino de Santiago: How I Walked Over 500 Miles Without Getting a Single Blister or Losing a Toenail — Maureen Sullivan
• We Are Pilgrims: Journeys in Search of Ourselves — Victoria Preston
• Interview with Victoria Preston about We Are Pilgrims — www.booksandtravel.page/secular-pilgrimage/
• List of patron saints of various ailments, accessed 14 November 2022 — en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patron_saints_of_ailments,_illness,_and_dangers
• UK Global Health Insurance Card — www.nhs.uk/using-the-nhs/healthcare-abroad/apply-for-a-free-uk-global-health-insurance-card-ghic/
