BLINDSIDED BY THE BOVINE: ON SACRED COWS AND HOW WE SEE THINGS.

(*Version 2 where the author has not gotten so carried away with complex content)

People say cows have no business in horseplay, but who’s ever heard of ‘cowsplay’?And then there’s never been a holy horse or cash horse. We don’t wait until the horses come home, and Seth Godin, didn’t make his millions writing a book called Purple Horse. And although the idea of spiritual horses carrying the human soul to Valhalla sounds more attractive than a cow clomping to the afterlife, it’s clear our allegiance is still with the beauty of the bovine and the essence of the sacred cow. The question then begs asking, ‘Have you checked in on your herd lately?’

We’ve all got subscriptions to various sacred cow protection groups. They are the ideas, opinions, theologies, relationships, processes and paradigms which remain immune , untouchable and unquestioned. With a “hey diddle diddle”, even in the absence of a fiddle, we’re prepared to “jump over the moon.”

Whilst these cows are the mainstay of much, the keepers of consensus, the stability in storms, and have often passed the test of time; they are as much our sacred as they are our stumbling block. Blinding our vision, blocking our ears and braking our progress. The sacred turned sacrilege.

Evaluating our sacred requires receptiveness, tolerance, benevolence, and bravery. A genuine desire to explore our realities, have the hard conversations, consider the contra, and accept that what is sacred today may require realignment tomorrow. In the Spanish bullfighting showdown, ‘Toro Bravo’ gets a shakedown, shutdown or wake up call. The arena of sweat and tears presents the valiant fighter with a reaffirmation of personal conviction to ideals, ideologies, or institutions. Alternatively, the struggle may just serve up a realistic reminder that, ‘you can lead a cow to water, but you can’t make it drink’. Resulting in an abiding by the state of play and enduring of our allegiance to the familiar.

In the line-up of holy heifers, cows, and bulls, amongst the Brahman, Angus, Hereford Holstein Friesians, and Texas longhorns; we often find it’s pedigree and heritage that have helped arbitrate our sacred. Our absorption of the hallowed has oft times been passive acceptance, learned behaviours and opinions, and protection of status quo. Periodically, our stock selection is arrived at through dedicated deliberation, exploration of ideas and ideology, and rejection of the mainstream.

However, as pure bread lineages of pre-determined affinities, perceptions, and politics jostle for pole position and preservation; the corral of complacency or conviction becomes a place where time stands still. Sitting in a stable of the unreviewed, we run the risk of our sacred leading rapidly and dangerously to stereotypes, stigmas, and stagnation. 

Considering the relevance of the ‘real’ is always going to require some amount of review. A voluntary sign up to a sweaty, dirty, dusty cattle muster.  A cracking of the stockwhip, rounding up of the random, and mobilisation of the mob. A ‘saddle up’ leads ultimately to the drafting – separation of stock. Requiring a supplementing of the herd with new sacred, turning out to pasture of the old, or perhaps even a transformation of the obsolete into high-end, overpriced, grass-fed steaks. 

But halo removal and drafting aren’t restricted to champion Matadors, bull riders or cattle muster legends. If the ‘sacred ‘is a stop sign for the exploration of beauty, growth, richness, challenge, and change; it behoves a grabbing and control of the bull rope, a reciprocation of flaring nostrils, and firm bracing for a crazy, turbulent ride. In the rodeo of reflection and realignment, it’s time we benchmark our beef, set free our thinking, and say farewell to our beloved Trojan cows.

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BLINDSIDED BY THE BOVINE: ON SACRED COWS AND HOW WE SEE THINGS.

People say cows have no business in horseplay, but who’s ever heard of ‘cowsplay’?And then there’s never been a holy horse or cash horse. We don’t wait until the horses come home, and Seth Godin, didn’t make his millions writing a book called Purple Horse. 

And although the idea of spiritual horses carrying the human soul to Valhalla sounds more attractive than a cow clomping to the afterlife, it’s clear our allegiance is still with the beauty of the bovine and the essence of the sacred cow.

As the protectors of the unquestioned, custodians of ideology and institution, the trustees of taboo and sentinels at the shrine of censure; we all have subscriptions to various sacred cow protection groups. Where opinions, theologies, relationships, processes, and paradigms remain immune, preserved, and often reinvigorated. With a “hey diddle diddle”, even in the absence of a fiddle, we’re prepared to “jump over the moon.”

Whilst these cows are the mainstay of much, the keepers of consensus, and oft times rendered valuable, it’s the brumby loitering beyond the paddock luring, that should not be shunned. It won’t be steeped in Hindu blessing, but is chomping to challenge the territory, discover the new and break from the bunch. In ‘Toro Bravo meets Brumby’, the sacred gets a shakedown, shutdown or wake up call. It reaffirms personal conviction to ideals, ideologies, or institutions, or may serve as a realistic reminder that, ‘you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink’. An abiding by the state of play and enduring of allegiance.

In the line-up of holy heifers, cows, and bulls, amongst the Brahman, Angus, Hereford Holstein Friesians and Texas longhorns; pedigree and heritage often arbitrate our sacred. Pure bread lineages of pre-determined affinities, perceptions, and politics jostle for pole position and preservation. Locked in the corral of complacency or conviction. But relevance requires review. A sweaty, dirty, dusty muster to supplement herd stock, turning out to pasture of the old, or transformation of the obsolete into high-end, overpriced, grass-fed steaks. Sitting in a stable of the unreviewed, sacred leads rapidly to stereotypes, stigmas, and stagnation. 

Halo removal isn’t restricted to champion Matadors or bull riders. The red flag necessitates a dismount from high horses. An ominous step into the ring. It behoves a grabbing and control of the bull rope, a reciprocation of flaring nostrils, and a crazy, turbulent ride. In the rodeo of reflection and realignment, it’s time we benchmark our beef and say farewell to our beloved Trojan cows.

JOY-FULL-NESS: Discovering Joy In Digestion And Ditty’s

There are things that stay with you you’d rather forget. There are things you’d rather remember that you forget. Then there are things you recall leaving you wonder why on earth you have.

Popping up somewhere from my lurking, murky, otherwise heavily armoured subconscious, is a kitsch, highly cringeworthy, Sunday school song falling into the category of memories we’d rather forget, but somehow seem to want to stick around.

“I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy
Down in my heart (where?)
Down in my heart (where?)
Down in my heart
I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy
Down in my heart (where?)
Down in my heart to stay”

Looking back, there’s a conjuring of young children scratching about under armpits, and inspecting belly buttons, searching eagerly for the ‘joy down in their heart’. Like, what does that even mean? Call it blind Calvinistic indoctrination or perhaps some lyricist’s oversimplified, clinquant attempt at confirming a global truth. I don’t recall if joy was ever allocated any descriptive adjectives or qualitative constructs, to aid us in our search, but somehow perhaps this inferred notion of joy, this feeling of pleasure and happiness, was an adequate pedagogical reference, manifesting itself into my juvenile, now adult psyche.

To move from Calvinism into the modern age of Evangelical exuberance, would mean that apart from rejigging the old jingle into a Hillsong chart topper, joy would need to shift from a personalised, modestly pious, self -contained experience, to an enlightened, effervescent, euphoria; a gaping chasm many of us would lack the confidence to jump, the ability to sustain, or authentically digest.

So how to move from a joy detox, to a joy smorgasbord without indigestion and other common aggravated bowel experiences associated with charismatic overindulgence? A menu of ‘take -away’ joy, offers a more measured, but short lived, often artificial, and remorseful experience. 5:2 eating plans require regular periodical abstinence and denial of all joy on some days – hardly a balanced approach. Juicing joy would be nourishing and healthy but short on long term oxytocins. While Paleo joy, may just involve the slaughter of innocent animals, a joyous oxymoron for many. Tapas options of appetizers or snacks, easily combinable to a moveable feast, seem to epitomise a well measured joy-full-ness. A culinary snapshot of what’s on offer, a taste of more to come, exploration of the exquisite, and satisfaction in the immediate. A wide arcing taste test of all things delicious, small, savoured, and shared, reminding us that, “Very little is needed to make a happy life” (Marcus Aurelius).

But joy isn’t always delivered on a plate or an easy recipe to follow. ‘Down in my heart’, may just require some serious excavating.  As with any archaeological undertaking, success comes from:

Awareness: Open your eyes and heart… treasure is everywhere.
Appreciation: Celebrate the small stuff, (apparently even broken bits of ancient pottery, and toenails).
Assiduity: Stick at it. Joy always shows up.
Action: Remember the tapas… Taste, savour, share.

“Find out where joy resides and give it a voice far beyond signing. For to miss the joy is to miss all” (Robert Louis Stevenson). So perhaps cringeworthy, childhood ditty’s, are in fact the initial impetus for the revelation of a greater whole. A scratch and sniff sentiment for the brave uncovering of, and abiding in, thankfulness. A juvenile reminder that “Joy is the echoing of God’s life within us” (Joseph Marmion). Be sure to grab a bite!

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CHANGING GEARS: A DETERMINED MIND AND MUSCLE POWER UP

“The way we see the problem is the problem.” 
― Stephen R. Covey

There’s a horizon called Easy. It’s unconsciously locked into most people’s dream destinations. You arrive there in comfort, with minimal dis-ease, hardly breaking a sweat or spitting a cuss. It’s the ‘Granny gear’ of all utopias, easy to reach after nominal peddling, pain and gear shifting. Life there is a freewheeling downhill ride.

There’s a price to pay for riding ‘Granny gear’, where the bike chain sits in it’s lowest position. Alignment is incongruous, wear is exacerbated and the load rests heavily on the sum of the parts. The scenery can be dull, the challenge low, and sense of achievement vanilla.

But it’s not like I want to ride The Tour, so why not be a sucker for easy?

When the gear levers suddenly freeze and the desired, pre-programmed shift down into easy fails, the road takes a mid-course correction. The cruise turns into a climb, demanding a mental- muscle gear change or an opt in to coward-arse.  Bail now, phone for help? Or suck it up and wave goodbye to Granny?

With no immediate change in the flat terrain, my quadricepts ache with the notion of pending uphill affliction. Sensory nerves send bogus burn messages to my calves, sweat beads to my forehead and reduced oxygen to my lungs. In this fight or flight scenario it’s time to chose the shit or grit – sandwich.

Wrestling against failure rapidly becoming my truth, I decide to override gloom and crank up determination – enthusiasm is common but endurance rare. With an inventory list of challenges rapidly recognised, there’s the twighlight zone of begrudging acceptance and halfhearted commitment, before making the ultimate pledge to peddling perserverance.

Along the initially gradual incline, the self- talk socialite gets comfortable rewiring messages, reinforcing the rosy and blindsiding the balderdash – a steady conquering of ‘can’t’. Each degree of incline demands further dedication and disregard of discomfort. Remember, there’s no shame in a shove uphill or a precipitous push. The finish line remains fixed, embellished through adjusting the pace of performance.

But I’m not advocating some kind of masochistic motivation or punishing peddle. Merely a slight paradigm shift. A mental-muscle gear change out of easy into effort, from bland to brave, and an engagement with the unfamiliar. An ensuing steady shift from pain to practice, to perserverance, and exasperatingly ultimately also pleasure. Stronger legs, stronger minds lead to unfolding trails with choices and meritorious mountain climbs that will ultimately always, (let’s be real), at some point bring you back to Granny.

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BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATERS – HOW MELBOURNE SABRE SAILORS ARE RIDING THE SECOND WAVE.

In a series of on again, off again COVID-19 restrictions since March, Melbourne Sabre sailors have found themselves stranded high and dry. Undeterred by the storm, the fleet has ‘re- written’ the sailing instructions; rigging up new strategies for community connection.

The class’ renowned enthusiasm normally reserved for the rigging yards and racecourse, has rapidly switched tack to embrace online sailing development forums designed to share and foster skills growth, Sabrette Soirees creating a sense of connection and community across the female contingent and PR cross-State collaborations. While fortnightly informal Zoom catch ups have replaced after racing bar chats, boat repair checklists and to do lists pre-empt a no excuse strategy for a return to the sea.

Although some sailors have hooked into regular informal online social opportunities, others have maintained motivation by hurling heavy and light weight questions into the Facebook Sabre Development Forum. Ranging from how to improve boat speed, plywood boat rule changes, sail designs, centreboard rake, righting lines, mast sections and installing self- bailing systems, questions have been asked and willingly answered by all.

The sharing Sabre spirit continued as Alan Riley, current go fast guru holding two Sabre National State Championship titles back to back, invited fellow Sabre sailors to participate in several ‘all you can digest’ one-hour Q&A sessions. He says, “I like to think people have been learning from me, so will improve and enjoy their sailing more” and is keen to see the initiatives continue post lockdown.

Enjoying the information on offer, Randall Garnham from Black Rock Yacht Club, admittedly suffering serious sailing withdrawal symptoms, has become a further force to recon with after participating in the sessions. “I learnt heaps from these. Alan and Murray O’Brien’s tips were great. Their knowledge on how to sail fast in various conditions and how to address our problem areas was great. I’m itching to put it into practice so watch out!”

When asked what the most difficult thing about not being able to sail during this period has been, Sabre sailor Pam Webster remarked, “It’s the total physical isolation. I can’t go to the sailing club to check on the Sabre or do maintenance … or evict the water rats that might have taken up residence in my Sabre.” After regularly participating in Sabre Zoom events she comments, “I don’t feel isolated and it’s the positive attitude of the people in the class” that she has found helpful.

Lisa Barrand, familiar with Sabrette succour, sleepovers, and regular host of the Sabrette Soirees is confident the “Regular Zoom has been very supportive for people – beyond sailing.” Luis Mata says, “I miss being physically tired after going for a sail, and the sense of peace and relaxation that comes after sailing.” While Harold Medd, Mata’s fortnightly forum co-host and Sabre veteran shares, “I have always needed the completely absorbing activity of sailing to get me away from all other issues.” Both agree that the sharing of stories and getting to know each other beyond the club and a regatta has deepened their connection to the class and are keen to see the events continue.

In an environment where most Melbourne sailors don’t have a compass bearing for the next windward mark, it’s been the collective display of will, determination and commitment to community, symbolic of a sailing class made up of people prepared to batten down the hatches and weather a storm together, that has seen Sabre sailors reinvent the rules to continue living out the class’ values. Values readily described by its members as, “Encouraging, supportive, welcoming, inclusive, friendly,” or in the words of Adrian West, “Awesome!  Seriously, it’s one of the best groups I’ve seen.”

It’s traits like these that will see the continued development of a sustainable class of inclusion and participation. Securing Sabre success for the highs and the lows, the storm and the calm. In a class that can truly claim:

“Sail on silver girl
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
Oh, if you need a friend
I’m sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.”

(Simon and Garfunkel)

CHASING THE COCOA BEAN

Hypoglycemia and chocolate are not friends. There is no specific warning on the packaging, no alarm bells activated with a mouthful, nor radioactive encounter after consumption. They do not meet in a happy place for an ever after, or friendly happy hour. An encounter causes metabolic havoc; an over production of insulin, a sometimes surreptitious or otherwise sudden 1-2-3-combo of shakiness, sleepiness and sweating. Hypoglycemia sufferers know better to stay away from the sirens of sweetness, and lure of the luscious.

Rummaging through the pantry on a cocoa bean, butter or cocoa mass reconnaissance mission is a categorical harbinger of havoc. As the sensor light in the pantry extinguishes, it’s a sign my search time is up. A desperate grab at low grade, sugar filled choc chips exposes my bubbling anxiety and moment of surrender to the greater forces of stress, fatigue, conflict, expectations or change. Packet instructions run through a slow-release cookie calamity or a ‘lose it fast’ ganache.

I opt for the gusto-guaranteed ganache. A highly unstable form of meltdown. Rich, colourful, full volume, Kleenex consuming and generally short lived. It takes no prisoners and generally leaves an aftertaste of shame, remorse or total relief in my direct surrounds and blood sugar. By comparison, the slow-release cookie meltdown requires ingredients of gradual unease, restlessness, distraction, increasingly frequent leaky eyes accompanied by nether lip biting. It’s a tug of war between the rejection of, and capitulation to, mental constructs and authentic emotions genuinely mixed into the misery of meltdown.

Sitting in a cocoa induced coma comes highly recommended – if only temporarily. Providing health benefits such as lower blood pressure, mood improvement and energy. A justification to move out of this coma is complicated. Masticating Mars Bars and chomping down on chocolate squares, allows for gentle reconsideration of the treachery triggers. However, a lofty Lindt monolith clearly indicates the stretched-out sook must cease. Reflection turned rumination rarely provides a platform for post meltdown prizewinning performance.

There are no hard and fast rules for the cocoa climb out. Rich chocolate antioxidants, belly breathing and visualisation of a positive, post meltdown tomorrow, offer solid scaffolding for the arduous ascent. Apologies for meltdown emotions aren’t necessary. Speedy penance for transgressions advisable. Whilst forgiveness for transgressors most successfully transpires intentionally. Subjective, spectator scorecards belong buried or strewn undeserved of scrutiny, as a realignment of personal response, self -talk and stratagem is self – assuredly affirmed. Creativity, time out, friends, fitness, faith, and all importantly the fruit crisper, are signed up for success. The comeback countdown clock is set.  A Cadbury catastrophe need not automatically equate to eternal affliction and meltdown malaise. Embrace the cocoa bean, ride the sugar rush and play hard for the positive rebound.

TERMINALLY UNIQUE – Cracking the Code on Self-Worth

Trying to write a piece on a topic that sounds like a disease is complicated. It’s not exactly a draw card, eye catching or essential reading; nor would it be a hit on the Top 10 Blog charts. When the phrase in focus, ‘Terminally Unique’, offers up an oxymoron, the reader is more likely to develop interest in a burnt piece of toast than sort out the conundrum of expression. But unlike charcoal toast, there is nutritional value in unpacking the paradox.

For many of the technologically challenged like me, remembering passwords is like recalling the national anthem. My portal confrontation starts with a subtle process of login conviction, a move to mild annoyance and finally to ultimate remonstrance and surrender. Messages of “Username already taken” or “Incorrect user ID” spurs keypad clobbering and vehement castigation. Short of offering my unique details, the vault remains unwaveringly bolted. A deep dive into notebook archives leaves me digging for my unique credentials, the perfect password, my classified code. It’s some crazy combination of upper case, lower case, non- alphanumeric characters. My digital distinctiveness.

Therein lies an odd but obvious contradiction. It seems we unquestionably accept the requirement for cyber singularity; but ironically spend most of our lives as digital hackers. Cloning or stealing selfhood. Ignoring, burying, discrediting or sabotaging our personal scripted specialness. We ride high and low in our search for self- truth; our alter egos shouting crude distractions and deceit over the soul whisper of belonging, place and worth.

Anchored inside the dark web of identity denial and the intranet of self- derision; terminal uniqueness wraps itself lithely around our doubt. It ensnares personal insecurity, swallows shame and overshadows ambivalence. Its source code unfolds diversity, discovers delight and musters confidence. It clobbers lies and smashes the ceiling on our mainframe of mediocracy. Terminal Uniqueness – the Spirit’s script of wonder and possibility; the Creational directive of eternal, inescapable and indiscriminate un-likeness. A password of raw truth about you, me, him, her, them, us.

So, I’m loading up my firewall, locking out identity hackers, protecting my username and one- off Creator’s code. With determination I’ll resist password reset, yielding to the ‘yes’ of the gospel truth of my inherent uniqueness. Running a virus scanner against malware and the deep-seated infiltration of untruths, I’ll embrace Shakespeare in his, “This above all: to thine own self be true” and hold steady to the Psalmist who penned, “Wonderfully Made.” And being the only version of me, I need to get with the program, lock in the password, live with intention and always, always, remember to pop up the toast.

ALTERED TIME – Capacity in Crisis

 

The twentieth ‘virus funny’ for the morning pings on my phone. Armageddon emails jam my Inbox. Conversation circles like birds of prey on the down draft, evaluating the state of play, waiting for opportunity or hint of change. House bound vistas framed by an ever- lowering ceiling, declare the faithfulness of an oblivious green canopy. Goodness beyond the pane/pain, of the COVID vortex.

Blindsided we batten down hatches as the very buttresses of capitalism are battered, the security of familiarity is struck a blow and an altered reality constructed. Life between the sliding doors of comfort zone and new normal, in this petri dish of, “Godzilla, King Kong, Frankenstein all in one” is surreal. But it’s not new, it’s just very different.

As my amygdala, dedicated to detecting the emotional salience of stimuli, rumbles with a tinge of anxiety, flood of fear, discomfort in the disorder and confusion in the complex; misgivings of the moment threaten to dwarf me. “Somewhere in the world, the wrong pig met up with the wrong bat” and has redirected the trajectory of life as we know it immediately.

Reigning in the potential for an infection of the negative, or the pestilence of pessimism, I’m reminded that past performance often predicts future behaviour. That somewhere in this mire of the muddled, my hardwired defence system of mental weaponry awaits reactivation. This endoskeleton apparatus and cybernetic dashboard of inbuilt options boasts of long-range resilience, ballistic bravery, torpedos of tenacity, motivation missiles, an arsenal against apathy and anti-anxiety artillery. It’s armoured up with countermeasures for courage, hardware for hope, grenades of gratitude, a payload of patience, forcefield of faith and the protection of prayer.

Activating this multiprocessor of mindpower is not a panacea for this pandemic, or vindication from virus but a solid reminder that “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” Dumbledore.

REDHEADS ALLOWED

Three, four, five, six – drop. Three, four, five, six, seven – ouch!
Six seconds to burn the match, seven seconds to scald my finger.
Eight, nine, ten – drop.
Ten seconds and the blazing match plummets into the waters of the toilet bowl below.

With five of us under ten years old, deploying matches as an ‘after business air freshener’, or ‘smoke after stools’ strategy, could promptly be critiqued as a mother’s giant leap of faith, trust in the Old Testament tenants of punishment where provoked, flippant folly, or mad moments of insanity. For us, it was a dance with the devil, hardcore hazard, a contest of confidence or perhaps even pyromaniac perfectionism.

We never did burn down the house, or even burn a hole in the lino floor that I can remember. There were close calls. A few scorched toilet wall posters boasted scars of broken boundaries. Rolls of toilet paper destroyed by daredevils. Burnt matchboxes told tales of narrow escape and tiny- black at both end- sticks floating peacefully, announced a mission successfully accomplished.

 Secrets of lavatory jeopardy and fire freak-outs remain locked tight amongst siblings, in a family where competition has always been paramount. Or perhaps the expensive introduction of Airwick air fresheners has dulled memory, lulled lies or replaced stories with a scent of complacency or compromise. But the Redhead safety match, fire and ash ‘smell scheme,’ has burned bright beyond childhoods. Struck into educational action with a red, potassium chlorate, sulphur and phosphate combo. A mother’s confidence in a ‘match striking after motions’ mantra has set precedents for a blazing set of life skills unscripted and unorthodox.

One, two, three … I feel challenge

Four, five, six… there is defiance

Seven, eight, nine… risk smokes

Ten, eleven, twelve… there is boundary

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… I am bold

Sixteen, seventeen… pain shudders

Eighteen, nineteen … respect reminders

Twenty, Twenty-one… I yield.

In the room of risk and reward… shit happened. Was the Redhead responsible for reckless abandon or risk evaluation? Can we blame her for pyromania paranoia or a practice of problem solving? Were her flames flickering vulnerability or igniting resilience? Did she have confidence and competition manufactured into her matchstick? Or perhaps she reserved judgement in anticipation of outcomes?

Before the age of sanitization, air fresheners and helicopter parenting, we survived. With house still standing, confidence boosted, and fear parameters established, we moved beyond the four corners of flames into the fiery plains of life. Underpinned with an unexpected, unconventional, and potentially unidentified message, of a mother’s encouragement to, “Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire.” Jennifer Lee 

A LESSON FROM THE TRACK

“I can imagine lots of couples do something like that for their 25^thwedding anniversary, why would you go to an exotic Island to relax when you can walk a 430km trail!” The response, sweating sarcasm, from my old sports teacher, at a chance meeting on a 25km training hike. Romantic, sand soaked, sun bathed, blue water- bliss 25-year wedding anniversary celebration options never appeared on our ‘trip advisor’ as we considered the challenge of a long- distance hike. Sifting through alternatives to the heavily trodden El Camino de Santiago and other common trails along the St James Way, something ‘local’ to our roots, jammed with history, culture and nature, not people; an adventurous track less travelled- the Fränkischer Gebirgsweg amounted to our idyllic island.

There was no ‘spiritual wasteland’ or ‘ditch the doldrum’ impetus for the walk, and there will be no ‘come to Jesus’, soul searching, cosmic enlightenment Camino chronicle. “Von nichts, kommt nichts.” From nothing, comes nothing. Perfect German poetical pragmatism from a fellow Nürnberg café patron upon denying herself cream with her apple cake. A truth of the trail, a bona fide bottom line resonating perfectly with our rationale, endorsing our endeavour.

After the initial blisters, boot calibrating, pack aligning and expelling of the excess -(paperback books and unwanted layers), the steady rhythm of ‘walk, eat, read, rest, repeat’, seeped down into the daily. 27 days, 480km. Unlike our Gore-tex gear, we were not impervious to the effects of the trail. Surreptitiously it taught us:

• There is never bad weather, only the wrong clothing and attitude. Regardless of what others might say.
• Planning is totally underrated unless you enjoy an unbearable secondary hike tramping unlimited kilometres around the village looking for food and a bed at the end of each day.
• Detours are VERBOTEN. Stick to the track for full satisfaction.
• Pillows are pathetic in Germany…bring your own option.
• Ignore guidebooks that say, “Use toiletries at accommodation.” Most often there were none.
• Check your rain jacket before you leave your country of origin. A heavy storm along an isolated track does not make for ideal testing conditions.
• Don’t take a laptop. Apparently, there are lighter options.
• Be on the same page as your walking partner about carrying paperback books. You will find them in a post satchel very quickly otherwise.
• To avoid weekends spent hunting and gathering in forests, plan accommodation with food options and a supermarket that is open at least on Saturday mornings. Worst case scenario, sleep near a fuel station that is open on Sundays, you’d be surprised what trail nourishment can be found.
• Carry staples such as Ryvita, avocado, Nutella and cheese, to avoid German austerity measures, whereby restaurants don’t open until 5pm and villages with a dwindling trading shadow provide no food options.
• For the non-vegetarian, a steady Leberkäse (literally translated ‘Liver cheese’), village crawl is recommended. This compulsory butcher stop will assist in lean food times. NB: for fellow vegetarians, see previous point.
• Germans have a penchant for order. Penalties apply where not adhered to – even at breakfast buffets. Don’t go stealing food for morning tea or lunch.
• Hipster coffee aficionados will need to downgrade their expectations and prepare for caffeine ‘entzug’.
• Beware of local tourism spruikers. Every village has a ‘claim to fame’. Whilst some towns are definitely not what they are made out to be, no matter how many breweries the local area boasts, others surprise pleasingly.
• Your travel partner must get the ‘minimalism thing’. Limited clothing offers the bonus of maximum stink. With no laundromats along the track, wash basins provide the best domestic options. Carry merino gear for quick dry times and always offer to walk up front.
• You will walk through many towns from the Middle Ages. Payment systems don’t seem to have caught up and hardcore currency is still the favourite – “Don’t leave home without it”.
• Talk to the locals. They know everything about what you are seeing and more. They are the context, additional content, glue and glitter to the trail. (They particularly love selfies with you and follow up WhatsApp messages).
• Suffering from pack resentment? A rest day will clear it up.
• About rest days….. keep the km’s down. A rest day is not walking 25km without a pack!
• German national park highlights are really well signed, albeit deliver false expectations about the animal life on offer. Be satisfied with seeing a few deer, listening to bird song in the mixed forests and heed the warning of wild pig diggings along the track that dictates your escape from the forest before dusk.
• Audible is your friend, in the talking downtime. Unless you are walking with an extrovert, expecting to talk 24/7 might be unrealistic, and if you are the excuse of some exciting books, might just save you.
• The ‘Keep It Simple Stupid’ principle applies. There’s so much to enjoy and process, don’t jam it full or overestimate your capacity. Less is more on some days.
• Missing kids. It’s inevitable, especially if you are a well- travelled family and they’ve always been in tow. Share often, speak to them when you can, cry when needed, and start shaping your future as empty nesters where applicable.
• Expectations: Have very few and be overwhelmed with the magnificence of the experience.
• Self -Doubt: It’s normal. Have a husband/partner with a plan B and a whole heap of understanding. It’s better than medicine.
• Separation anxiety: Putting down the pack after 480kms is forced detachment from the tangible. The trail ends but your experience with it doesn’t have to. Ease back in slowly and prepare yourself for wardrobe overload!
• Gratitude: Give thanks for scarfs, Elastoplast, good shoes, a comfy pack on most days, hydration bladders, a healthy body, friendly strangers, unexpected discoveries, amazing surroundings, hidden history, awesome opportunity and a majestic Creator.
• In the spirit of ‘walk, eat, read, rest, repeat’ start planning the next one.