So we cheated. But is good, necessary, perspective changing self-care ever really cheating?
I had warned Mary that one of, if not THE, hardest portions of the West Highland Way is the walk from the Inversnaid Hotel in Stirling to Beinglas Farm in Inverarnan. It’s a 7 mile stretch. I heard one seasoned walker call it the “arse of Satan.” I laughed at that. But when I walked – nay, hiked, scrambled, crawled – this leg in 2019, I thought I might not arrive, at least not that day. This thought escalated as the sun began to set and I realized, having taken the wrong fork of a Y, that I was lost in the middle of a field. Thankfully I had that one precious bar on my phone and our wonderful travel agent Julie talked me in. (By the way, if you ever take this journey, Julie and her colleagues at Geminiwalks.com are terrific.)
In fact, four of the five women who joined me on the path in 2019 skipped this bit and had a wonderful relaxing mid-way day.
So I warned Mary about the hell it could be. We were both feeling pretty good after the aqueous stroll to Inversnaid, but Mary made the smart decision. She would ferry across the lake and take a bus forward to Beinglas. Not because she couldn’t do this leg, but because she can’t afford injury. Mary is a farmer. There is no one else on her property to step in to grow and harvest her sizable garden, prune her trees, mow the fields, deal with irrigation, build that fence and keep the farmhouse running in the horrid heat of summer and freezing cold of winter. If she breaks a limb or throws out a hip, years of hard work will be stunted, if not lost.
She didn’t have to explain it to me – I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as Mary does. I go out to help weed in the garden every now and then when I’m there, and in about an hour I am out for the rest of the day. But Mary doesn’t have that luxury.
Still, despite my wrecked knees (three surgeries each) and despite a compressed disk in my neck that was causing me great pain due to my backpack, I was determined to tough it out; to prove myself. I was going to walk this piece “even if it kills me,” I told Mary.
My wise friend didn’t protest, tell me to take care of myself or mention my idiocy. She said just one word, and that word made all the differe
I was stopped in my tracks. Who did I need to prove myself to? Certainly not to Mary. To the road then? The road could care less if I walk it or not — and frankly, it just might wish none of us trampled over it.
To myself then. And that is where Mary’s question sat: Why do I have to prove anything to anyone, especially myself, at 56 years of age, with two grown children, a small beautiful circle of friends and work I love?
I spent that night in Inversnaid thinking about the pressure I put on myself to conquer things. Mostly I conquer, I don’t enjoy. I have a long list of physical and other achievements at this juncture of life. Most of them were so driven by this need to “prove myself” that I completely cut myself off from the joy of the expereince. And here I was again. Getting ready to prove myself to myself – on a walk I’d already taken. Is that the definition of insanity?
At breakfast I put down my conquering sword. The heavens weren’t going to break out in a “Hallelujah!” song and my life would not change one iota for having walked these 7 harsh miles.
Instead, Mary and I lounged around the hotel sitting room listening to a very elderly bus tourist have an emotional breakdown about something she said or did that upset her fellow bussers. For some reason she thought the hotel manager could fix her faux pas.
The woman was bereft that “Now they are all saying I ruined this holiday for everyone.”
“They all hate me and don’t want me here,” she cried. The staff was gentle and eventually got her calmed down and back to her group.
This is armchair psychology, of course, but what I heard was a woman needing to prove herself to others, a woman fearing disconnection for not being good enough. This understanding, along with Mary’s why, were the happy accident and kindness I’ve needed for a long time.
We hopped on the small Loch Lomond ferry over to the town of Tarbet and had a nice cup of tea and cake in the bar (and a wee dram because we could). The bus was 20 minutes late but eventually arrived and we enjoyed a cushy ride rather than a painful hike to Beinglas where we settled in among dozens of other walkers and campers with a variety of accents, British, Scottish, German, French, Dutch, American.
In the pub that night, as the overworked staff heroically got us all fed, I eavesdropped on a few of the conversations around me.
“I almost decided to quit the walk,” one woman said. “That was unbelievable.”
“Difficult? The book f#$%ing lied,” said a large muscular gentleman in the corner. “I can barely feel my legs.”
I gave thanks for my feet and legs, which sat painless under the table, and for Mary and her wisdom, and for my heart, which listened and finally realized it has nothing to prove.
Nice post dear friend! I thought you might skip reporting on our skip but instead, as usual, you pulled out the nugget. You made yourself vulnerable and that is a beautiful thing. 🧡