Monday morning found me moaning, slumped on my slouchy couch, babying a reoccurring back pain from an old injury. After wrestling all night with shooting pain, finally at 5 a.m., there on my saggy-in-the-right-spot sofa, I could feel the pressure leaving, the pinched nerve pain dissipate, and peace of mind returning. My very happy vertebrae were slowly sliding into place.
I’m a fairly avid walker, and have learned that one way to keep my back healthy, is to go for long ones often, so naturally, my mind wandered onto Belloc’s The Path to Rome. When he was in his thirties, he drew a straight line from Toul, France to Rome, aiming to miss the main roadways as a matter of course, cutting across rivers and through woodlands, slicing his way up and over the Alps, with the idea of traveling thirty miles per day. He didn’t carry too much with him, not even an extra pair of shoes. He intended to trod, shod in these only, but eventually had to get them repaired en route.
He had rules for the way, and by the third day had broken every one of them; however, he met the ultimate goal of reaching Rome on the feast day of Sts. Peter and Paul and celebrating the mass there. He traveled light, and lightheartedly most of the time, relying not on things, instead reaching for the stuff he was made of.
The Path To Rome reads like a walking diary. He chats with peasants, paupers and innkeepers; passes huts, hovels and cathedrals; gazes at sheep grazing on green pastures, sleeps under cold starred skies, and climbs up and back down the Alps huffing and puffing with the blowing snow. His living diary has simple and beautiful illustrations that he sketched of the places he passed and paused in, sometimes singing, sometimes sighing and sometimes “crippled with fatigue.”
Belloc was a masculine man, a rugged romantic. The kind that the modern world is afraid of. He was a seeker and seer; a walker who, when reaching his mark, spent more time grappling to take it all in rather than grabbing to take it all. He, plain and powerful, represents the soul of humanity. He understood: life’s pilgrimage is a process; it’s end is only the beginning.
We are all on pilgrimage and the line is a straight one! We roll down valleys and tumble off cliffs; and at times we raise our eyes to heights we have yet to climb and tremble. Still, we go on — to catch the glimpse of the magnificent, the majestic, the mystical.
But for me, no walking today. I’m lollygagging on my slouchy couch, with a few books and pen and paper in reach. My back is feeling better all the time, which leads to my modified cliché of the day: Sofa. So Good.
