{"id":3863,"date":"2017-09-29T07:48:18","date_gmt":"2017-09-29T07:48:18","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/2ndcupoftea.com\/?p=3863"},"modified":"2017-09-29T07:48:18","modified_gmt":"2017-09-29T07:48:18","slug":"the-psychology-of-failure","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/2ndcupoftea.com\/?p=3863","title":{"rendered":"The Psychology of Failure…"},"content":{"rendered":"

Or ‘A Lack<\/em> of Pilgrims Progress’<\/h1>\n

Experience is merely the name men give to their mistakes<\/em><\/p>\n

–\u00a0Oscar Wilde<\/p>\n

I didn’t make it. Not really close even. My long walk to Rome ended up as a short(ish) walk to Champagne. There, close to tears – of pain to an extent, but mainly disappointment, it all ended in a pharmacy in Ch\u00e2lons-en-Champagne.<\/p>\n

‘Can you help?<\/em>‘ said I, as I limped through its doors. ‘I’ll get the patron<\/em>‘, the young apprentice behind the counter replied, sensing I might be more than a couple-of-paracetamol-tablets sort of a client.<\/p>\n

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Stuff for two months…<\/p><\/div>\n

‘Rest!’<\/em>, ordered the summoned expertise, taking one look at the swelling. ‘Hmm… let’s just imagine<\/em>‘, said I, ‘that is the one<\/strong> thing I cannot do. Let’s just for the sake of argument say I need to walk a further 1500 kilometres over the next eight weeks’<\/em>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

I applied the cream and swallowed my prescribed tablets later that evening in my all too expensive hotel. I curled up under the blankets just wanting to sleep; to wake up to a ‘new’ right foot. Can cream and tablets do that? I was not hopeful. I knew it<\/em> was over.<\/p>\n

In the morning, on crutches (the foresighted pharmacist said I was ‘quite likely<\/em>‘ to need these) I hobbled to the train station, bought a magazine on the philosophy of long walks, boarded a train to Paris, then The Chunnel<\/em>, another train, and that very same day; home.<\/p>\n

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Receiving my blessing in Canterbury<\/p><\/div>\n

Racing through the French countryside I did reflect upon the absurdity of my two weeks worth of walking; the miles, the sweat, the aches\u00a0being ‘undone’ in less than one full day at close to 200 miles an hour. A sobering thought of how little ground I had covered.<\/p>\n

My pilgrims passport, hitherto carried in a waterproof pocket for easy access; now somewhere in my backpack carried all too few stamps in it. This was real failure. Had it been a mistake even? My mind kept pace with the train.<\/p>\n

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Just before the first step…<\/p><\/div>\n

These ‘credentials’ from the Latin – ‘credere<\/em>‘ – a folded flimsy, paper ‘passport’ the pride of every pilgrim, weighed heavier on the last days than any luggage. Their incomplete state, empty space where inked badges of honour should be, an unpleasant reminder.<\/p>\n

In my mind I had already bought the frame and defined a space on my wall in my house where I would hang this upon my return. As I write this, weeks later, I am not even entirely sure where I have (mis)placed it. It doesn’t matter.<\/p>\n

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Discovering I enjoy not just writing in my journal…<\/p><\/div>\n

There were many reasons I failed. Obviously the main one, the medical cause, was the inability of my right foot to carry me 1900 kms and the stress fracture it occurred as a result. However, today, I think the true undoing came before even one step was taken.<\/p>\n

My walk turned out far from the title of my previous post ‘As I walk out one morning…’ In his, Laurie Lee implies a carefree, spontaneous walk, one above all founded in freedom and a sense of fun. In my maths of a required 32.5 kms per day, the fun was lost.<\/p>\n

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Approach to Amettes<\/p><\/div>\n

Since returning home, I have met a few people who have enquired as to how it went. They are always sympathetic and ask the same two questions; how far did you get and will you return and do it again? The short answers are 352km<\/em> and I don’t know<\/em>.<\/p>\n

When pushed I’ll tell people that my greatest regret in terms of not making it, is not having the experiences I did have, multiplied by five. I walked for two weeks and should have had another eight. Contemplating the un-lived adventures in those, is difficult.<\/p>\n

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I slept that night amongst the dead of WW1<\/p><\/div>\n

In my 14 days or so, I slept in a Great War Cemetery when my foot could carry me no more, I spent a day in a gypsy camp, including eating with them, dancing with them and when walking out of their camp, being blessed by their priest.<\/p>\n

I spent one night sleeping rough in a concrete container, afraid of spiders and snakes, (which I am not normally) yet so tired I forgot both can climb, hence rendering my avoiding the ground, rather futile.<\/p>\n

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View at lunch<\/p><\/div>\n

I was invited to sleep in the garden of a lock keeper in France, then later to dinner with the same family, I was chased by dogs, given warm apple pie by the wife of a campsite owner when I’d run out of food. My journal was filling itself daily. It was wonderful.<\/p>\n

I made wrong turnings, I walked the countryside. I remember reaching a wheat field, just as the wonderful soundtrack to Gladiator came on my iPod (my only modern device) and leaving the road to re-enact. I’ll never be able to fully describe this moment.<\/p>\n

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I had no idea this would be my last sketch, but the pain was there<\/p><\/div>\n

I had so many experiences and special times, and despite the constant pressure of the miles building up as my foot slowed down, also hours where I felt truly truly free. In the middle of a field in France, totally alone, no one sure where you are, that is magic<\/em>.<\/p>\n

But after all this what was revealed? What was resolved? What did I find<\/em>? Anyone who walks, or learns of someone walking asks themselves this. The spiritual side of the walk. As if some great truth lies out there, only to be revealed after many miles underfoot.<\/p>\n

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On the physio bench<\/p><\/div>\n

And I pondered it too. What will I understand? How different will I be? How far do I have to walk to be initiated? But, it is the case with a walk, as it is with a mountain, that the only zen you find out there in those fields, is the zen you bring with you.<\/p>\n

The difference perhaps is that out there in the silence, in all that quiet, the more one has a chance to finally listen. The problems are there when one returns. I had somehow hoped to hear news of forgiveness, but just because I<\/em> walk, the world doesn’t change.<\/p>\n

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6 weeks without walking and then back to gentle running<\/p><\/div>\n

Today, it is September. I have just returned from a run along the beach in Sete, Southern France. My foot is healed. All is well. I still have a head full of memories from my 352 kms which I hope to retain for a long time. If<\/em> I set out again, they will line my backpack.<\/p>\n

Returning to that most asked of questions; will I do it again? I still don’t know, but it doesn’t much matter right now. That’s the whole point. It doesn’t matter. Perhaps if I did indeed find<\/em> anything out there in the French countryside, it was that…<\/p>\n

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A route to failure, my distance covered vs that yet untravelled<\/p><\/div>\n

… I am where I need to be, and all I have to really remember is to breathe. Don’t plan too much. Don’t even think too much. I think I’ve learned that there truly is only the present and this is exactly where I need to learn to live. I may walk again, I may not. And…<\/p>\n

…that’s absolutely fine.<\/p>\n

A great source of calamity lies in regret and anticipation; therefore a person is wise who thinks of the present alone, regardless of the past or future.<\/em><\/p>\n

– Oliver Goldsmith<\/p>\n

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