Chapter 14: Day 17-18 Salamanca to San Sebastian to Bordeaux

Chapter 14 - Day 17  Salamanca to San Sebastian 250 miles

After a wonderfully relaxing sleep, Anton and I were the only ones who were rested enough to be animated the following morning.  We woke early but prolonged our enjoyment by breakfasting at the hotel before seeking out our weary travel mates.

Our destination was San Sebastian, a coastal town 250 miles to the north east, on the Bay of Biscay.  Most of our companions slept through that journey, which allowed Anton and me a peaceful day of scenery watching together, as our Love Bus bridged the distance.

We did not stay at the same campsite that had welcomed us during our first visit to San Sebastian!  It was closed, understandably, considering a goodly portion of the upper mountainside now covered it.  Our drivers had successfully located an alternate site, that overlooked the ocean and was also open for business.  And most of our group stayed there overnight.

Having enjoyed a wonderful night's sleep on real beds in Salamanca, Anton and I decided our bodies required continued comfort and ease.  So he found us both a room in a clean and comfortable 'pension' in San Sebastian.

Sensing that this would be our last opportunity to enjoy uninterrupted time together, we shunned the group's company and ate one last private supper together, at a local restaurant. We then spent the evening quietly sipping wine and re-living all of the wonderful things we'd done, places we'd seen and memories we'd created on our very special 'hippie' trip.

From the bottom of my heart, I thanked Anton for being a kind, sensible and caring gentleman who had tried so hard to protect me from bodily harm during our trip. We had had a glorious adventure so far, experiencing so many wonderful places, cultures, and people in an amazingly short period of time.

He had also been a wonderful tonic for my doldrums. And he brought out the best in me, as I sensed I had in him, most of the time anyway.  I told him, truthfully, that I would never forget the sweetness and enthusiasm with which he had shared his considerable architectural knowledge with me, and how lucky we all were that he had been there to keep up group morale whenever it flagged.

I was grateful to him for minding his manners and always acting like a gentleman towards me, even though I’d flirted madly with him and knew that he’d really wanted more than just my 'friendship'.  I also thanked him for the opportunity to earn (with my bargaining skills) those many souvenirs and gifts with which he had showered me, and which would forever remind me of this wonderful trip that would be abruptly ending in a few days' time.

Though we both knew that we would soon return to our 'real' lives, we would always have this trip as a beacon of happiness, should our future lives ever seem dark or hopeless. This trip would serve to remind us what magnificent, strong and luminous beings we were as young adults.

I then confided in Anton about my deep sorrow at my failed relationship with my Canadian man; about my feelings of inadequacy in my new job; and my antipathy about my recent move to a new neighbourhood where I was now the stranger. And, more for my own illumination than his, I explained how these inner stresses had been magnified by blackouts and loneliness - all of which had precipitated my impulsive booking of this trip to Morocco, mere hours before it had departed.

Anton listened in silence, nodding as I illuminated each point. And when I asked why he had not seemed surprised by anything I told him, he confessed that he already knew much of it since I had apparently talked in my sleep!   

It took him long enough to mention that! 

In his turn, Anton then confessed to me that he had been living with the same woman for more than two years before booking this trip.  As an architect, he had yearned to see and experience different cultures and the buildings they created. Yet, because his lady disliked travelling outside of Britain, they had never taken a foreign trip together.

Eventually, frustrated by her inability to share something so vital to his well-being, Anton had booked this overland trip to Morocco without her. She had not been pleased, of course. But travelling slowly was his preferred way to deepen his understanding and appreciation of a foreign culture and its many styles of architecture.

He had not expected to meet anyone on this trip who would share his same depths of passion for art and architecture. And yet our paths had collided and we had become each other's magic catalyst for change!  And we were still both in awe of that small miracle. 

Once back in England, we would go our separate ways and likely never see each other again.  And perhaps that was how it needed to be. 

Anton had no idea what kind of reception he would receive when he returned to the North London home he shared with his girlfriend.  And I now knew that I had a lot of thinking to do about what I wanted to accomplish in my life.  Only then would I know the direction my life was to take, and how I would 'make it so'.

Because it had been the elephant in the tent, Anton and I had been forced to accept and face our fascination for each other head on, and without pretense. Animal magnetism had drawn us to together, its power undeniably seductive and persistent.

Under different circumstances, our sleeping in such close proximity, night after night, might have precipitated much more than just respectful togetherness. But neither one of us was prepared to jettison our precious new friendship for the sake of a fling. We simply wouldn’t risk the passion because we were both reluctant to lose each other's respect by making promises that we'd couldn't keep in the light of day.  

Holiday romances are, by their nature, ephemeral. But by remaining conscious of the deeper needs of the other, we’d each been able to enjoy our holiday flirtation without losing ourselves, or each other, to the allure of 'forever'.

Had we crashed and burned that last night together, it might have spoiled all the memories we had just created, and now treasured. So we sipped wine and talked till we fell asleep, gently cradled in each other's arms, two carefree strangers, delighted that we had found each other, if only for the duration of this three-week trip.

Though our own compatible energies were protected by the time warp of our trip, an ocean of discordant energy awaited each of us back home, and we both knew it.  

 Chapter 14 - Day 18 San Sebastian to Bordeaux  150 miles

photo by kind courtesy of judybellwatercolors.com

The next morning, I awoke to find a single pink rose on my pillow, and next to it a note that read: 

Thank you for all you are, and for all you have inspired in me.

Meeting and being with you these last weeks was a joy that I never expected, nor thought I ever deserved. Being and talking with you has given me the courage to face my life head on.  So I have decided to leave the tour and catch a flight back to London today, to sort things out at home, one way or the other.  Wish me luck!

Forgive me for not waking you to say goodbye, you were sleeping so peacefully I didn't have the heart to disturb you.

Thanks again, my precious friend, for choosing this particular Tour so that we could meet; for always being your REAL self; and most of all,  for creating such beautiful forever memories with me.

love always, A

p.s. When printed, I will send photos of our trip to you, via the Overland Tour Company.

After days of waking before dawn, I could not believe that on this, of all mornings, I’d slept in!

I sighed and smiled through my tears reading his note over and over again, because I knew what he said was true.  Anton was also a joy that I had also never expected nor thought I would ever deserve.  And now he had left my life as suddenly as he had entered it, a mere 18 days earlier. 

I would miss Anton's winning smile, his quirky humour and his complete obsession with photography, art and architecture.  But in a very real way, his idiosyncrasies and the lessons they taught would always be with me.  And, in my heart, so would he.

Dressing, I gathered my few belongings, and with rose in hand, slowly made my way back to the Love Bus. There I discovered that, earlier that morning, Anton had collected his backpack and sleeping bag, and bid everyone farewell before departing for the airport and his plane to England. 

During our journey to Bordeaux, I came to realize that Anton must have booked his plane fare to London from San Sebastian while we were still in Salamanca.  I wasn't sure how to feel about that realization.  My emotions were just too fresh and raw to trust.  So I let it all simmer, hoping I'd understand more later.

We all missed Anton, in our own way, on our return trip through the Pyrenees to Bordeaux. Everyone seemed a little more pensive and self-absorbed than before.  But even George and Len seemed to understand that I was currently rather fragile and they should try hard not to irritate me more than usual. 

An insecure part of me felt horribly abandoned when Anton left.  And while it was true that I'd now have to pitch my own tent for the next couple of nights, that fact alone did not explain the depths of my very mixed feelings about him, or about his current living situation. 

As the bus climbed higher and higher through the mountains, my reflections grew deeper and deeper. By the time we neared our destination I had become aware of many unresolved feelings of abandonment lingering from childhood days. Those same feelings had re-surfaced when my beloved boyfriend had suddenly left for Canada in February.  And now that Anton had also left so abruptly, those ugly feelings of rejection had surfaced once again!

Though young in years, I already knew that when something we don't like surfaces again and again in our life, we have to find out why, if we are ever to find peace within ourselves. 

I found it slightly ironic that the very method of Anton's departure had given me both the time and the space I'd needed to identify the true underlying cause of my misery. 

Now all I needed was a solution. But before I could come up with one, we had arrived at our Bordeaux campsite.  I had never been any good at setting up a tent and was dreading doing it alone now.  So it came as a complete shock when Len -without saying a word- took it upon himself to set up my tent for me, a discrete distance from his own.

I was flabbergasted, but made a point of graciously thanking the man I'd thought of all these days as just a rather sullen scholarly stalker.  It seems the people on this trip still had the ability to surprise me.  And I rather enjoyed knowing that!

 Coming Soon!

Realizations, Reality Checks and Rain

in 

Section 3 - Chapter 15 

Bordeaux to Paris to London

My Road to Morocco - Days 19 -20

A Tibetan Monastery in Scotland

COUNTRY LIVING
At 21 years of age, my cooking skills had been mildly impressive, if somewhat meagre. I could make and serve 4 people a light and tasty cheese souffle and a wholesome chef's salad, followed by a delicate chocolate mousse. But while Londoners might thrive on such elegant fare, this kind of meal did not even begin to fill the belly of a outdoor-working man in the wintry wilds of Scotland. So I had to learn how to plan and prepare hearty meals of stews and soups, along with the home-made crusty loaves to sop up the goodness.

And, of course, no meal would be complete without dessert! Thus, every week, I would place my mixing bowl on my (now scrubbed clean) wooden drainer and make a tasty iced chocolate cake, from scratch. Occasionally, I would utilize the cold granite counter top to create and roll out a less-than-perfect pastry which I'd gallantly bake into a fruit pie.

I have to admit that the sight and sound of the Esk River gurgling past my window as I created these culinary delights greatly added to the deliciousness of the entire experience. Whoever had built that addition had certainly understood and provided for the inner needs of this particular housewife!

Distant neighbours supplied us with fresh milk, cheese or eggs whenever we visited their home. And other neighbours would hack a ham or some thick slices of bacon from the smoked pig that hung from a hook right in the middle of their living room. I revelled in such authentic country customs and would eagerly offer some of my home-made soups, cakes, pies or bread in exchange for these luxuries. Thankfully, they always, graciously, accepted my offerings.

Despite these occasional fresh additions, not every meal I made was a success. But necessity is indeed the mother of invention, and I soon developed and settled into a daily routine that worked for me.

The mail was delivered to our door twice weekly and, without a phone, I would wait by the window for the postman. My family and friends in England felt, to me, like they lived on another planet, and their letters became my lifeline to a reality that was fast fading from memory. Living a kind of crofter's life, I felt like I'd stepped a couple of centuries back in time .

TIGGER
A few days after I had settled into my household routine of washing, cooking and keeping the fire alive for heat and comfort, a local fully grown feral cat wandered into my kitchen and made himself at home behind the cooker. I was delighted to see my visitor and offered him some home-made stew, cheese bits and water, which he seemed to enjoy. He would disappear every night but return the following day.

In time, I named the cat, Tigger, because he looked and acted just like the Winnie-the-Pooh character, bouncing on his hind legs. This he did whenever he encountered those enormous field spiders that lived in the coalshed, but would enter the house specifically to terrorize me. Tigger eventually adopted and became very protective of me, moving indoors permanently once the cold weather arrived.

During those chilly autumn days, I had knitted a single brimless cap for my boyfriend, to cushion his balding head against his hard-hat and keep him warmer as the season wore on. Of course, once his workmates saw how cosy he stayed, I was asked to knit all six of them similar hard-hat liners And when I did so, Tigger would purr louding literally sitting ON my feet as I sat in my chair by the fireside. He was great company for me, and a wonderful vibrating footwarmer too! But, though he chased away the spiders, Tigger was never quite able to find or dispose of the pesky mouse who regularly feasted on the sack of grain, stored in my larder behind the staircase.

AN ALTERNATE REALITY

For several weeks, I was happy living with my boyfriend in our little stone cottage, exploring the local by-ways, making friends with visiting critters and enjoying the peacefulness and beauty of that unspoiled lowland countryside.

But as September melted into October and November, and my boyfriend's work became more and more demanding, he became more and more exhausted, falling asleep shortly after our evening meal each night. I was rapidly becoming a recluse, or a hermit, staying close to home and closer to Nature and delving deeper into spiritual retreat mode with each passing day.

After ten weeks, I had read and re-read each of my library books and indulged in so many conversations with my cat that I felt I had stepped into an alternate reality, but that nobody had noticed! It was apparent that, despite the arrival of the first snows of winter, my soul needed to seek companionship further afield.

NEIGHBOURLY LIFELINE

A scattering of neighbours lived within a couple of miles of my home, so after my daily chores were complete, I made a point of walking to their farms for a visit. They were congenial and polite enough, and seemed to enjoy my company, regaling me with a "wee drammie" to ward off the cold. Then they would tell me the most wonderful tales, their hands talking as they burst into ribald laughter remembering the joy of a particular occasion. But try as I would to interpret their stories, comprehending their thick Scottish brogue remained steadfastly "beyond my ken".

Delightfully unspoiled by the pressures of city living, these farm folk might have been speaking Norwegian for all I knew. Also, they either had growing families or were so elderly that I found little in common with them, beyond the events of our mundane lives.

This was hardly a place where a young sophisticated London couple could hope to build compatible friendships. Thus, as the snows began to fall, and we enjoyed only six hours of daylight per 24 hours, I became more and more restless, yearning for conversations with English-speaking companions of my own age.

CONNECTING THE DOTS

The seeds of this realization had been planted months before, when we'd first decided to move to Scotland. The experience had, for me, been an adventure that opened my consciousness to new spiritual realities as it expanded the limits of my mental, emotional and physical boundaries.

Unconsciously, I'd chosen the starkness and chill of the Lowland winter in which to gestate a new aspect of my psyche. For it was in Eskdalemuir that I first "connected the dots" in the process of becoming myself. Despite, or maybe because of, the intense isolation of that location, I also experienced extreme joy at my newfound simplicity. And, once I had decided exactly what my soul needed next, my angels wasted no in creating it in a few miracles for me!


SERENDIPITY
In my youth, I had been a cigarette smoker, with a solid pack a day habit. Amazingly, our local Scottish post office carried my brand! So, regardless of the weather, I made the 5 road-mile return trek on a daily basis, drinking in the beauty of the scenery during the short daylight hours. In this way I fed my addiction and, conversely, kept my body fit, until the day I found my "local" post office closed. Instant panic!

Craving a nicotine fix, I walked a bit further down the road, knocking on doors of the few houses dotted around Eskdalemuir, hoping someone would have cigarettes that I could purchase. But, at that time, Eskdalemuir was far from being a real town, and though I enquired widely, nobody had any relief for me. One of the homeowners, upon seeing my distress, helpfully suggested that if I traveled still further up the road, I "could ask the folks up at the monastery if any of them smoked".

"Monastery?" My ears perked."What monastery?" I demanded to know
"Och, the wee Buddhist Monastery beyond?" they gestured, surprised that I had not heard of it.

Thus did I learn of the existence of Samye Ling, the first Tibetan Buddhist Monastery EVER to be established outside of Asia.

Renewed in spirit, my feet happily carried me an extra couple of miles further up that deserted country road towards Johnston House, the simple hunting house that was now a Monastery. I first arrived at the gardens that (then) lay to the south of the house, where I was stopped dead in my tracks. In pure shock and total surprise, I was looking at several fully-bloomed pink roses that flourished there despite the season's short days and below zero temperatures.

PINK ROSES
Disbelieving even my practised 3rd eye, my hand reached out to touch those delicate rose petals, convinced that someone must have planted silk or plastic flowers there, as a prank. But the roses were quite real and very much alive, with a sweet fragrance, even in the deep snows and frigid temperatures of late November 1969!

I quit smoking the very instant I communed with those roses, and did not smoke again till I returned to stress and bustle of London's city life the following year.

IRONY
Even while these events were unfolding, I found it ironic - and somehow reassuring - that my destructive nicotine addiction had led me directly to a place where my soul needed to be. A  Buddhist Monastery is a place where nicotine, and other, equally harmful, addictions are routinely overcome.

Indeed, had I NOT been a smoker, I would probably NOT have ventured far beyond the post office, certainly never in the deep-freeze of that late sixties' Scottish winter. And I doubt that a non-smoker would have had the need to enquire from the locals about where to procure a pack of cigarettes!

Yet it was in that impossible rose garden that I was to meet Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, the Buddhist monk who had, only two years before, bought Johnson House which became the seed building for the Samye Ling Buddhist Centre and Monastery in Eskdalemuir.

SECTION 2 Chapter 3 Chogyam Trungpa Rimpoche details the unusual, secular happenings at Samye Ling Monastery, and introduces some colourful characters who set up homes in its vicinity.
 
Meanwhile, read about the current and historical events of the Monastery here: http://www.samyeling.org/