Sando and I talked about ‘the Way’ for many years.
El Camino de Santiago. The Way of St. James.
An 800km pilgrim route through northern Spain.
I cannot remember how it first came up in conversation. He mentioned it.
He was familiar with it. I was not.
It was one of those great adventures we often dreamt up, like walking the Great Wall of China.
We dreamed and occasionally managed to get somewhere near our imaginations.
If it was not possible now, we would keep it on the list for the future.
Wiser people than ourselves realise that sometimes the future, however, is sometimes interrupted.
In this instance the interruption was his death.
Our plotting had gotten us on track for the last 125 miles of El Camino, some seven years ago.
A dream partly realised.
He walked it, just over six and a half years ago.
I did not.
We still schemed to accomplish the full route.
I wanted to, at his news.
There were still things he wanted to see and do.
I had to be there too, for the humour value at the very least.
Six months became six and a half years.
We still schemed. Sometimes we even achieved.
We may not have walked the ‘Way of St. James’ together, but in the future we will.
Until then there is this passage of time and unknown expression of grief.
I will walk the way.
I am sure he will accompany me.