Tag Archives: stories

What to put in your backpack

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What would your ‘must haves’ be if you had to put your stuff into a pack and carry it on your back across the mountains for a few days?

It’s a question I was wrestling with last week in preparation for a rather long walk.

I’d taken out everything except the absolute essentials, but when I heaved the pack onto my back, I knew a few more ‘essentials’ would have to go.

It was the day before we set off on the first stage of the Camino Frances – the full journey is a 500 plus mile walk from France across the Pyrenees into northern Spain, ending at Santiago de Compostela. This time we would only be doing the first gruelling 45 miles or so from St Jean Pied de Port to the bull running Spanish town of Pamplona.

I’d been informed we would have to climb to more than the height of Ben Nevis in the first two days – this might have felt less daunting if it wasn’t for the pack.

So, what was in the bag? Annoyingly a sleeping bag, a travel towel, pants and socks and one extremely light weight change of clothes, flip flops, plus my toothbrush, hairbrush, suncream and that was practically it, apart from the water, oh, and a hat and a waterproof. Then there was the food! It all added up.

It’s been a long time since I walked with a backpack, and it took some time getting used to the weight on my hips and the pull on my shoulders. Still, it was surprising how quickly I adapted and focused less on the weight and more on the views around me and the path ahead.

There is a sense of freedom about stepping out with all you need on your back and heading towards your destination without looking back. We wouldn’t be returning to the cobbled streets of St Jean until we’d reached our destination and grabbed a lift back to the car, which we hoped would be where we’d parked it!

I’ve been wanting to walk the Camino for years, ever since I stumbled out of the cinema in Nottingham, eyes still moist with tears, after watching the film, ‘The Way’.  I remember saying to my companions at the time, “I want to do that!” 

Although I’ve been banging on about pilgrimages and the Camino for years, my husband has remained solidly indifferent to the idea. So, it is a little bit of a miracle that embarking on this four-day ‘mini Camino’ was his suggestion. It conveniently filled a gap in our holiday, when our friends were busy, and gave us a chance to try out our walking abilities in advance of a planned two-week Camino next year from Porto in Portugal to Santiago de Compostela.

What we hadn’t quite taken in was how tough the first few days would be as we hiked up the Napoleon route to a height of 1,400 metres. The good thing about being out of breath is that you’re forced to stop and take in the views – and these were some views. Walking ever upwards, sometimes we were passed by the fast-paced pilgrims and at other times we overtook people taking a break. At one point five of us leaned on a five-bar gate, catching our breath and staring down at where we’d come from. There we were – two Aussies, two Brits and an American – it sounds like a joke, but a few days later we were pilgrim buddies, sharing our day and our lives over coffees, beers and pintxos.

One of the greatest joys on this Camino turned our to be our fellow pilgrims. Sitting across the table on our first evening was an enthusiastic 78-year-old who was walking The Way with her daughter. If she could do it, surely we should be able to? 

The ‘pilgrim supper’ in the hostel, for almost 20 of us, included a delightful mix of nationalities from Japan to Canada and the Netherlands to Australia. Each one had a story to share about why they were walking the Camino and there was a common theme – they all hoped this journey would be one of self-discovery and for many spiritual enlightenment. There was an air of excitement and high emotion that evening, no one knew what lay ahead.

That night we settled down in our wood lined room, items of clothing drying all around us, we hoped we’d be up to the big climbs tomorrow and that the 7am breakfast and dawn start wouldn’t be too much of a shock.

Where am I?

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Do you ever have that feeling of waking up and wondering where you are? It’s happened to me on and off over the years – sleeping in strange beds and plenty of unfamiliar rooms for a variety of reasons!

Although we’re always on board the same boat, outside the locations change and so do our neighbours. The other day I woke up to the sound of New Zealand accents on the adjacent yacht and popping my head out on deck, I was greeted by a friendly voice, “How are you this morning?” A few days earlier it had been German accents and before that French.

Our neighbours over the past few weeks have been varied and many. It’s been one of the many joys of this extended trip, getting to meet so many sailors from different parts of the world and often mooring up beside them again at different anchorages and greeting them like old friends, sharing stories of where we’ve been in between and what we’ve seen, along with the inevitable sailing nightmare tales! They’ve also been on hand to help with ropes and getting moored in harbours in various strengths of wind, everyone has been helpful and kind.

The other morning I woke up in the saloon of the boat, as the cabin had got too hot in the night. I couldn’t remember where we were and even more confusing was hearing the twang of “Kiwi accents” again. I’d forgotten that having left this friendly family behind a few days earlier, we’d found ourselves moored next to them again the previous afternoon in a new location.

I’ve loved the friendliness of fellow sailors. The other day, the skipper of a boat anchored across from us in a bay swam over to chat about our sun canopy. He explained how he and his wife had sailed here from Brittany. We talked about our Devon flag and places he loved in England, especially Cornwall. When left he said, “We’re practically cousins!”

In our favourite port on the island of Alonnisos we found our new neighbours were a couple who’d been stranded in Australia during lockdown, and their lovely wooden boat had been damaged, but they hadn’t been able to get back to it. He was a native greek with a shock of white hair and he and his Australian partner shared tips with us on easy meals to cook on board along with sailing tales from around the islands. We nicknamed her ‘Shirley Valentine’ and wished them well with their boat rebuilding in the coming months as we upped anchor and set sail again.

Today we chatted with our new Danish neighbours about places to visit and last night we were back onboard yacht Zigzag – sharing a few glasses of wine with a Cornish couple, we keep meeting up with and who are now anchored a few metres away in this idyllic bay.

When we swam before breakfast this morning, it felt as if we were in our own giant swimming pool. Even in the deep water around the boat the seabed was so clear you could see each little pebble and rock far below.

As we move into the twilight of our time in Greece, for now, it’s clear our little boat is in need of some repair work. Over the past few weeks we’ve both become intimately acquainted with a sponge and bucket that has been filled up daily after each trip from water leaking down below! I’m thinking of buying one as a reminder of the adventure.

In the meantime, I’m gazing across at lush pine trees lining the shore above a bank of white rocks reflecting in the sparkling water. Apart from the heat and the temperature of the water, we could be anchored down the Fal in Cornwall! And I’m reminded that we have plenty of beautiful places to rediscover on our return home.

I’m also wondering how strange it will feel sleeping in a real bed that doesn’t rock and has space to move, or taking a long shower without being worried about using too much water.

But I may well wake up in a couple of weeks and wonder where on earth I am!

Unfinished stories and ‘Bird Box’

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We began to watch a scary movie last night. The film became progressively more terrifying and depressing, until we both admitted we didn’t really want to watch it anymore and turned it off, without any argument.

This is very unusual for me. I am a consumer. I consume stories, so leaving one unfinished is like walking away and leaving a plate half full of chocolate cake (or your favourite food). It just isn’t done. Once I start a film or a book, almost however bad, I need to know the ending and find myself glued to the chair until the credits roll.

It took me by surprise to discover something new about myself today.

In the night half-run scenes from the film ran through my mind as a dream formed with Sandra Bullock in a blindfold serving up Toad-in-the-hole in our kitchen. When I woke-up I couldn’t help wondering about some of the facts in the half-watched film that didn’t make sense and how on earth her river journey would end. 

Giving in I decided to google the plot and read how the story unfolded and how it ended. Spoiler alert for Bird Box! If you want to watch it, skip this paragraph. She and the children make it, although most of the others die along the way. I told this rough outcome to the other film watcher in the bed beside me and something strange happened…

We decided, in the cold light of a rainy Saturday morning, to watch the rest of the film.

“I don’t mind watching it if that’s the outcome,” he said. And strangely, I agreed.

My insatiable desire to devour another story was satisfied. By the end of the second half of the film the blindfolds were off and the birds were singing. And I’d also discovered more about myself.

I want to eat up stories, but I don’t want stories without hope.

Faced with an impossible situation, it looked like there was no way forward for mum-to-be Malorie (aka Sandra Bullock). Once I knew there was a way through, some light at the end of the fast following river and the dark woods, I was prepared to be engaged. To suspend my disbelief for 40 minutes and join in with the journey of Bird Box. I knew that the hardships ahead would eventually lead to some kind of salvation.

The link with faith is obvious. But I’ve never realised how much hope is such an important part of how I live, the way I think and what I choose to consume.

The most interesting thought I’ve been left with is that with Bird Box, I knew the ending ahead. Someone had already seen it and told me how things would turn out, so there was no need to fear. It wasn’t just hopeful watching, willing her and the children to be OK. The hope was grounded in some facts. 

I don’t know how my life will pan out or exactly what the ending will be or when it will come, but my faith gives me hope. When life’s circumstances threaten to knock me down, or I feel like I’m walking blindfolded, I have hope. It’s not based on something from Google that tells me it will all be OK in the end. But it is based on God’s Word and his promises and on my experience of being held in His everlasting arms.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. Hebrews 1:11

True stories

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If someone asked you to tell a story, what would it be? Would it be a well-known fairy tale, a mystery or perhaps a thriller? It might be a heart-breaking tragedy or a love story with a happy ending… but would you choose something that really happened or would you make it up?

Once-Upon-a-Time

As a child I loved stories. I read them and I wrote them, so it was no surprise I ended up as a journalist. That has involved listening to other people’s stories and re-telling them in an interesting way, or sometimes piecing together a story from lots of different viewpoints and sources. I can’t forget some of the best newspaper stories I’ve written including the sad ones like the toddler twins with a rare and incurable disease who died holding hands or the funny ones like the vicar on a run with his dog being tossed into the river by an overprotective cow.

Stories captivate us. We want to find out what happened next or understand why something has happened. We get drawn in by the characters and if it’s a good book they become important to us and we think about them even when we’re not reading the story.

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I’m in the process of making up a story… writing fiction. The trouble is the characters aren’t behaving quite as they should and there’s a problem in the plot. Hopefully, I’ll get it sorted soon. But as I pour over my plans and struggle with sentences and speech marks, I’m realising the best stories are playing out all around me.

Working for Scripture Union International over the past year I’ve heard many moving and inspiring stories from around the world. These are true stories of how lives have been transformed through an encounter with God. One was about a 14-year-old girl who fled from the fighting in South Sudan into Uganda. She lost her parents, saw terrible violence and just escaped with her life. On the road into Uganda, she was helped by a woman from her village who agreed to adopt her as part of her own family. They moved into one of the huge displacement camps in Northern Uganda. But because of the girl’s terrible experiences and the way she had to work so hard to look after the woman’s younger children, walking miles to fetch water, she became bitter and angry. She blamed the woman for her hardship and all that had gone wrong in her life. She decided to take her revenge. She made plans to poison the woman or one of her children. Before she could put her plan into action she wandered into a meeting in the camp being run by Scripture Union (SU) volunteers. They were talking about forgiveness and about God’s love and they sang songs too. As she listened something amazing happened to this young girl. She realised what she’d been planning was wrong and she began to cry. She didn’t go ahead with her deadly plans. Instead she asked for forgiveness and her life was transformed as she began to see her situation in a new light.

It’s so good to know that God’s ‘Big Story’ is also ours and there really is a happy ending!

You can listen to more stories from SU Uganda and other parts of the world here.

turning pages

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A pair of white gloves was draped beside an open picture book. I didn’t notice them at first because my eyes were drawn to the startling colours on the satin pages. I slid my hand across the expanse of paper, enjoying the silky texture beneath my skin. It was a giant picture book laid out on a stand in the hallway of the old house and there were no words. As my fingers twitched at the corner of the page, I paused – what if it ripped?

The other night we were invited for a meal at the home of a couple we had met briefly a few weeks earlier. We’d been welcomed in warmly and had sat by the open fire sipping Prosecco with brandy and nibbling canapés. It had been time to move to the dining room, and as I followed one of our hosts along the passageway I hadn’t been able to resist a closer look at the book. Each leaf was about the size of a television screen.

The gentle voice of the owner flowed over my head as she noted my interest and told me something about the origins of the book, which I instantly forgot. “There are gloves to turn the pages,” she said. That was all I heard. I stepped back and smiled. I thought she’d been joking. But no, there really was a pair of white gloves on the dark wood table beside the book. I realised my ‘crime’ and snatched my hand away. I’d dared to touch the book without the gloves.

During the meal and in the few days since I’ve wanted to go back to that hallway and slip on the gloves to turn those giant pages, soak in the colours and images and find out what the book was about. It was obviously very precious. So precious that it couldn’t really be touched.

I have some precious books of my own. But they come in two kinds. Some are precious in a valuable and historic sense, which means you have to be careful when you handle them and they must be wrapped away and stored in a safe place. Others are precious in another way. They are my favourite books from childhood and so well read they have become torn, dog-eared and stained. My all time special – More adventures of Caroline – has no cover at all, just the inside pages are left. I haven’t a clue what happened to the cover.

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When we love something very much it inevitably gets used, moved around, packed and unpacked and so it gets worn and sometimes damaged. (Readers of the Velveteen Rabbit will have heard this before!)

And that’s because when we’re attracted to something we want to touch it – we reach out our hands to see what it feels like. It’s an important part of the experience and so it seems alien to put on gloves to turn a page. Touch is one of the reasons I prefer reading a book to a Kindle. I like the feeling of turning pages and in the same way I enjoy flicking through magazines or rustling a newspaper. Touch connects me with objects, ideas and stories in a way that just looking doesn’t cut it.

So here is my Advent thought… God knew we needed someone who could physically be there, who could touch us and hold us, demonstrating love in a way we could feel it.

Isn’t that what we’re all waiting for?

#adventword #touch

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sea addict

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I have to confess. I’m addicted. I can’t go a day without it and I’m afraid I may get a little shaky if I don’t see it. I didn’t realise it could be so addictive or I’d have been a bit more careful. Photographs don’t do it justice – they don’t capture the smells and sounds that make it such a wonderful ‘drug’.

I never imagined moving to live beside the sea would be so delicious and leave me craving for a sight of it every day. This afternoon I ‘ran’ to the beach (not the kind of running you do when being chased by hungry lions – just the kind that keeps pace with a slow cyclist). I knew it was going to be beautiful when I noticed golden blades of grass casting sharp shadows on the sand in the dunes. A bright white sun was starting to slide towards the horizon across the channel lighting up the ripples in the muddy coloured sand as the rays danced across the water. There were shallow dark pools on the wide expanse of empty beach. In the distance a solitary sailing boat bobbed mid channel and high up in the distance a flock of migrating birds swooped and swirled in a cloud, before disappearing out to sea.

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This is a special place. The only sounds were some strange sea bird noises and what I think might have been baying seals on the sandbanks. This afternoon it was as quiet as a nature reserve. I had the beach to myself. The light was unreal in a golden ethereal way. It felt like it was going to be the kind of night for smugglers to pull up their boats and haul their contraband up the beach…the kind of night for stories and secrets to be shared around a fire on the cool sand while the waves creep closer.

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I’m not sure how or why I’ve developed this addiction to ‘see the sea’ over the past few weeks. I could also describe it as a love affair because no matter what the state of the water – dark and stormy, grey and choppy or calm and blue – I can’t help but love the view. I even love it when the tide is out and messy dark green sea plants are left exposed, with the channel a remote blue strip beneath the boats. There is a reassuring rhythm to the tides. I’ve been waking up trying to remember what state the tide will be at – we can’t go far around here without noticing if it’s in or out. Now we’ve stuck a tide chart up in the kitchen and most days someone checks out the tide times and heights.

The sea here gives me a sense of space and freedom as its wide-open skies wrap around the island. It’s a sea of possibilities. A reminder that there are so many stories out there as people set sail or launch into open water – a lone fisherman inspecting his nets, an anxious sailor battling against a retreating tide, or a man on a motorboat heading into the deep. It’s a place of inspiration too. There are mysteries here to unravel and stories to be told… even crimes to be solved. I’m going to indulge my addiction for now. After all it’s not expensive or unhealthy and I have a suspicion the sea has something to tell me. And most of all – we live here…

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