I steal steps. That's right, steps. I take them away from those who arrive home late in the evening and can't wait to lie down on the armchair in the living room to get stupid in front of the TV. From those who use the car for any trip, especially short, and maybe don't worry about parking in a double row in order to avoid the unnecessary effort of an extra meter on foot. I steal from those who stay in bed all Sunday to soak up a solemn hangover, from those who willingly exchange the tanning lamp with a walk outdoors or who go up into the mountains just to fill their stomachs in the restaurant near the state road. I wait for the right moment, come up like a hawk and grab them, in the blink of an eye. I collect them, sorted, on the shelf in the cellar, one on top of the other. When they reach an important figure, I begin preparations. I find a guide, study the stages, plan the trip. It takes at least two years to raise the necessary amount. Of the order of one million. A long, infinite wait, which culminates in an outburst of irrepressible happiness. The time has come. The backpack is ready. Let's go.
From 2006 to 2010 I was three times a pilgrim to Santiago de Compostela, in the north of Spain. The first along the Camino Francés, the best known and most popular, almost nine hundred kilometers, from the Pyrenees to the ocean, thirty-six extraordinary, unforgettable days. The second starting from Seville and traveling along the Via de la Plata, a thousand kilometers of desert solitude and silence, a month and a half of exhausting trek. The last one from Oviedo, the capital of Asturias, following in the noble footsteps of King Alfonso II the Chaste through the oldest itinerary, dating back to the early ninth century, and named for this Primitivo.
Along the way I tried to keep track of the encounters, the landscapes, the sensations I was experiencing. To be able to remember and relive them. I wrote in the late afternoon before dinner, often every other day, struggling with fatigue. Simple phrases, broken thoughts, images of a moment, to be re-knotted upon returning.
These pages want to be that knot, a network intertwined with the thin thread of emotions.
The first book tells of the pilgrimage on the Camino Francés, along the eight hundred and seventy kilometers that separate St. Jean Pied-de-Port, on the transalpine side of the Pyrenees, from Fisterra, the extreme strip of the West. One after the other, one million three hundred thousand steps.
Enjoy the reading.
