Breaking news - my latest book – the last in a series of four – has appeared off the printing press a few weeks earlier than expected. How often does that happen? But I’m off to Nepal, so the launch party will have to wait until after my return. Think Christmas gifts, dear readers.
Meantime, if you fancy a great Thanksgiving read – the book is available at the Laughing Oyster bookshop www.laughingoysterbooks.com in Courtenay or for order from independent bookshops anywhere in Canada. Readers in the UK – patience – maybe by December but definitely before my tour in April. You can see details about the book on my website www.kimletson.ca but if anyone is curious - here's a sneak peek.
From Chapter One – From Coast to Coast:
… The clear view of Helvellyn and Striding Edge make it difficult not to pine for the unattainable.
Mum chooses this moment to announce that this will be her last hike. Her words are greeted first with silence, then kind murmurs from these friends who have been hiking with her for years. I see how sad they are, but none argue. I turn my head so they can’t see my tears. A bright torch has been extinguished. Mum’s love of high places will remain fierce, and I fear for her wellbeing when she can no longer hike to the landscapes she holds dear.
Later in Chapter One:
… The long-disused railway track across Farndale Moor provides easy walking. Rain drips off my hood onto my breath-fogged glasses. Coming towards me, a man materializes from the mist. He has a certain stride and body build. I recognize Mike and smile at him. His face turns towards me.
“Might rain today,” he grins.
I reach out my hand, but he seems not to notice as he continues out of sight. The others emerge from the mist behind me.
“Did you see that man?” I ask. “What man?” asks Kay. “Did a tall man pass you just now?” I persist. No one saw anyone. “Did you see a man?” Mum asks. “I saw Mike,” I say. “Well, I suppose that’s possible,” she agrees. “But he picked a hell of a wet day to visit.” “He liked the rain,” I say, glad for Mum’s acceptance of the visitation.
From Chapter Two – Becoming a Pilgrim on a Portuguese Camino:
… Like last night, our evening’s Albergue Peregrinos is an uninspiring church basement dorm. But here we are also offered a €6.00 pilgrim’s meal including a generous glass of wine. We present ourselves to the nearby dining hall and are soon enjoying an excellent meal and the company of several other pilgrims.
Most are familiar faces and the multilingual conversation swirls: where folks come from, how many Caminos they’ve bagged, how to treat blisters and sore knees, what footwear they are wearing and what gear they are carrying. Pat and I notice a boastful phenomenon between some of the young men who discuss how far and how fast they walk. We’re proud of our six-kilo packs, but two teenage pilgrims from Italy carry much less. Pat and I, in our early sixties, are among the oldest people at the tables, but there are a few with more age-weathered bodies than ours. A couple of white-haired women smile at us over the heads of the two young Americans flirting with the Hungarians and raise their glasses in silent salute. We smile and raise ours in solidarity.
From Chapter Three – In the Company of Chaucer on the Pilgrims’ Way:
… Neither the drizzle nor the route is conducive to picnicking, so we pop into a down-at-the-heels pub and order beer and crisps. We had hoped for a hot meal, but lunch isn’t served at this pub on Sundays, and no one seems to mind us munching our napkin-wrapped sandwiches.
A short time later, we slosh into Aylesford Priory amid a deluge. Founded in 1242 by Carmelites, the priory has been providing hospitality to Canterbury pilgrims for centuries. Today, however, no dinner is available.
“It’s Sunday,” says the receptionist by way of explanation as she stamps our credentials. “You can just drive over to Ditton across the river.”
“We’re on foot,” Pat reminds her.
“Oh right. Of course. Well, The Chequers is just down a ways. In the village.”
I check Pocket Earth and see the pub less than a kilometre away.
“Maybe the rain will have let up by then,” Marianne says.
… Walking into the village a while later, we look forward to a hot dinner at the Chequers. The pub has been in operation one way or another since the 1500s; however, dinner is not served on Sundays. We stand dumbfounded at the bar, then order four beer and four bags of crisps.
“What’s that bowl of potatoes for?” I ask the barkeep of a large ceramic serving bowl containing several roast potato chunks.
“Oh, that’s leftovers from lunch.” “Can we have them?” Looking alarmed, he pauses in drawing a beer.“They’re cold. We generally toss leftovers into the pig bucket.”
“We’re hungry. Cold is fine.” I try not to worry about the pigs missing roast potatoes from their evening’s slop.
The barkeep shoves our beer, crisps, the bowl and four forks across the counter. We pay for our drinks and crisps, grab the lot, hurry to a table and dive in. A few patrons raise their brows, but most don’t seem to notice our uncouth gobbling. No doubt, in its five hundred years of operation, the Chequers has seen stranger things than four grey-haired women sharing a bowl of cold potatoes.
From Chapter Four – Upping and Downing on the Cornish Coastal Path:
… Tucked between the shops selling junk souvenirs, tables sit outside busy tea shops where Cornish cream teas are served.
“You guys ever had a Cornish cream tea?” I ask. Marianne and Pat shake their heads. “Well, come on then. Here would be the place and we have an hour.”
Supervising our packs and trekking poles, I lay claim to a little table and three chairs while Marianne and Pat go inside to order. They are soon back, reporting that three cream teas will be delivered to our table. We wait in hungry anticipation.
A waitress soon arrives with pots of tea, then returns a minute later with three dinner plates each heaped with two enormous, sugared scones, a large dish of thick yellow cream – which looks like creamed butter – and a small pot of jam. We set about devouring the rich sweetness. Marianne quits halfway through. I throw in the towel with half a scone remaining. Pat does us proud by finishing.
The fog rolls back in as we stagger to our feet and walk the last kilometre along the coast to YHA Tintagel. I turn back several times.
“What are you looking at?” asks Marianne.
“The castle – it’s just there in the mist,” I say, remembering that day when I was four and I heard the baby cry. Seagulls, Mum had told me, but I knew better.
From Chapter Five – Revisiting the Ridgeway:
… I continue, invisible fingers pulling me forward, a familiar vibrating hum filling my being. Mum used to tell me that the veil between past and present is thin in these parts. As I approach Wayland’s Smithy, a Neolithic long barrow, … I sense the ancients swirling around me. I know them, as again my footsteps fall where theirs once trod. Their existence thrums through my body with each heartbeat, and I recognize our innate knowledge of each other. This is where our shared humanity is the connection that binds us. Here, I understand that I am both finite and infinite.
From Chapter Six – Walking the Via Francigena:
... Two men, shirts darkened with salt-rimmed damp, shrug off their backpacks and settle at a nearby table. One of the men wears a broad-brimmed pilgrim’s hat.
Rising and swinging my pack onto my shoulders, I approach. “Are you walking the Via Francigena?” I ask, hope blooming.
They respond with smiles and affirmation. Having started in Lucca, this is their second day on the route. Their names are Stuart and David, and they will walk for the week.
“And you?” Stuart of the Hat asks.
“I started two months ago in Canterbury. Aiming for Rome. ... My friend Pat and I started together, but she hurt her knee and had to fly home. It’s not as much fun now that I’m a solo act.” At a sudden pricking behind my eyes, I realize I’m near tears.
“Anyway, the trail won’t walk itself, so I best get back at it.” I spin away. These guys will think I’m unhinged if I start blubbering.
Also from Chapter Six:
… Dense forest crowds the trail obscuring any potential glimmer of starlight and cloaking us in near-palpable darkness.
With a sudden crashing and squealing, an enormous boar erupts from the brush. Short tusks gleaming, snout high, mane bristled, the beast dashes across the trail just ahead of Atul and me. Gasping, we stop, each stepping closer to the other. Antonella, who has dropped behind, screams in terror. Rustles and grunts from the bush on both sides of the trail indicate the monster isn’t alone.
And another from Chapter Six - it’s a big chapter about a really long walk:
… We’ve both relaxed into the pleasure of walking through tranquil farmland when I hear small pops about six metres behind us, then similar sounds the same distance in front accompanied by small puffs of road dust. My immediate thought is too disturbing to contemplate. The pops and puffs happen again.
I glance at the road behind me. “What is that?” I ask.
Atul will have a more logical explanation than the one my brain is considering.
“Those two hunters over there by that shed. They are shooting,” he says.
“But there’s no animals or birds,” I protest, my mind still refusing to believe.
“I guess they are trying to intimidate us then,” says Atul.
“Well, it’s working,” I respond. “Let’s hope they are very good shots. And sober.”
If you enjoyed these teasers, you know what to do!
I won’t be blogging from Nepal – but Canterbury and Other Tales will provide plenty of entertaining reading material. Of course, you can keep an eye open for Nepal highlights posted from time to time on Facebook and Instagram.
Meantime – save this date and I’ll see you at the launch: Comox United Church on Beach, 2 pm, Tuesday, 28 November.
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