MEMOIR
As I Continue My Virtual Journey Along The Salt Path, I Compare The Winn’s Risky Adventure To My Own
One of my pet peeves (in addition to the expression pet peeves) is the person who turns every conversation back to himself . . . ok, they come in both genders — herself.
The term is conversational narcissist. Whatever you’re talking about — picking avocados on a California mountainside while wearing a polka dot bikini — the CN will find a way to liken it to his, or her, latest skydiving thrill in outer Mongolia.
I hate that.
So, maybe I shouldn’t compare Ray and Moth Winn’s decision to start hiking England’s arduous 630 miles Southwest Coast Path with my own decision to move to France alone.
But I’m going to do it anyway.
The Winn’s had very little money, and old equipment and Moth had recently been diagnosed with a terminal health condition. I was healthy enough for a 68 eight-year-old woman, but money was tight — Social Security, and not much else — I knew nobody in France and barely spoke the language.
But back to the Winns. Reeling from a bad investment and prolonged legal battle that had left them homeless, they were dealt another blow when Moth was diagnosed with an incurable and degenerative disease.
Their only option, they decided, was to take a hike. . .
Even before they left, Moth was clearly ill. Ray describes her husband’s ‘ashen and waxy’ face and the constant pain in his arm and shoulder that ‘distracted his thoughts.’
The hiking idea didn’t go down well with their college-age daughter.
“What are you thinking of, Mum, are you mad? What if he falls off the cliff? ’
That got me thinking about my own decision to move to France. A country I knew little about but wanted to do more than just visit.
Although I enjoy relatively good health — I have asthma and eczema, which often flares up, and, over the years, I’ve had pneumonia a couple of times, fallen and broken an arm, in Portugal, and my shoulder in California. I had little notion of how the French health care system worked.
Although my daughter did not question my sanity — at least to my face — I have, after the fact, asked myself a few questions that might have been wise to ask before I made the move.
Had I thought about what I’d do if I fell? How I’d pay for medical expenses? Who would look after me, if that became necessary?
No, no, and no idea.
And what about family and friends back in the States? How many lengthy and expensive airline trips could I afford? Could I really expect everyone to visit me instead? Hardly crossed my mind.
Brave and adventurous, or irresponsible and selfish?
I’d like to believe it’s the former. That whatever happened, I had confidence that things would work out and, at the very least, I wanted to try.
But as I continued along the Salt Path on my virtual trek with Ray and Moth, I began to wonder about their decision. Moth wasn’t the only one with health problems. Just a few days into their trek, Ray wasn’t feeling so great either.
Everything hurts — sole of my foot, hips, shoulders, and on and on. I was probably insane for thinking we could walk this path.
And the agony — both Ray’s and Moth’s — don’t let up. Added to that, at the end of a strenuous day, they can afford little more than tinned mackerel, tinned peas, noodles, and carefully rationed squares of fudge bought from a gift shop somewhere. The bed is sleeping bags on a plastic sheet on cold and usually bumpy ground.
Then there’s the indignities and embarrassment of admitting to themselves and, big mistake, to others, that they are not just adventurous backpackers on a long-distance hike, but homeless.
At one point, Moth, exhausted and in pain, throws his backpack down and sits on a rock.
Can’t tell if I feel half asleep, or wide awake. It’s like my head’s in fog and I’m walking through treacle. This is the most bollockingly stupid thing we’ve ever done. I want to lie down. ’
Spoiler alert. I’m aware there’s a positive ending to this journey, but at this point — less than a week into the trek it’s difficult to imagine. And, as I read on through more chapters of pain and suffering, skimpy meals humiliating brushes with more affluent, and younger, backpackers, I wonder if indeed it was a ‘bollockingly stupid thing” to do.
Exhausted and constantly in pain, Moth shouldn’t be dragging himself up from the cold ground every morning, subsisting on noodles and chocolate. Unable to afford even the most basic comfort — a hot shower, a beer in a pub. He should be home, sleeping in a comfortable bed, eating nourishing food.
But they have no home, so they trek on.
The sea birds were out at sea and the dog walkers were heading home for breakfast as we rounded Stepper Point, the wind welcoming us back to the edge.
And back to my favourite subject. Moi. Seriously, I’m not sure whether Ray and Moth are finding more joy along the trail than the book suggests. Things get lost in the writing, small moments overlooked, consciously omitted.
I’ve written about a few of the early trials and tribulations I went through in France. Reading them now, nine years later, they seem a little more gloomy and discouraging than I remember feeling at the time.
My first dwelling was rented sight unseen, that I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend one night in, much less the one-year lease I’d agree upon. There were evenings and weekends when loneliness and a sense of isolation overwhelmed me — cheap wine wasn’t the best solution. Supermarkets were a constant source of frustration, sometimes humiliation — I never knew if my American credit card would work, some days it did, other days it didn’t.
A few weeks after I arrived, a spot appeared on my upper lip, occasionally it bled. Back in the States, I’d had a squamous cell cancer removed from my lower lip. Should I see someone? I waited, hoping it would go away.
Ray and Moth indulged in similar magical thinking. If we tell people we’re on a lengthy backpacking trek, Ray wrote, “Maybe we’ll convince ourselves we’re not really homeless.”
Eventually, I went to a doctor in the village. He spoke a bit of English. He examined my lip, and said he didn’t think it was cancer but gave me the name of a dermatologist anyway.
“Do not be afraid of your face,” he said as I left.
I’m hoping that as their trek down the Salt Path continues, Ray and Moth’s aches and discomforts decrease and their days are brightened by a feeling of optimism and a sense of adventure.
They are indeed on a difficult path — and probably will be even after the Salt Path trek is over.
Joan Didion: Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.”
Until next time.
This is my second review of The Salt Path. Here’s a link to the first with an explanation of the project started by Scot Butwell.
Fellow travelers are: Evon
And some links to stories about my early years in France.
Perhaps you’re a glutton for punishment? If so, you can also take me along on your walk, or wherever you’d like to go. Just press the listen button at the top of the story to hear it read aloud.
