Wandering Star

'Follow the call of the shell' he answered nonchalantly, dipping greasy churros into liquid swirls of dark chocolate. His beautiful Spanish accent oozed over the English words.
'But, what about the yellow arrows?' I fumbled around in my backpack, ‘my guide book mentioned something about yellow arrows!?'
'Chiquita,’ he reached out and touched my arm, ‘one thing you will learn fast on the Camino: there is no need for guide book. Here, we let St James show us the way.' He tucked a five euro bill under his empty mug and pulled on his backpack.
Sweat puddled in my armpits as I realised my first and only friend was about to leave me. 'And, um, where exactly do I find this St James person?'
'Todas,' he smiled and turned towards the door, ‘everywhere.'
I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. He could have been speaking Spanish. In fact, he should have – at least I’d then have an excuse to turn around and go home.
But instead, I was in the middle of a foreign country with nothing more than a backpack. The weight of my worldly possessions held me down like an anvil, and I suddenly realised how grossly unprepared I was for an 800km hike across the north of Spain.
'Buen Camino!' someone shouted outside the café.
Hanging from the back of the girl's pack was a large white shell adorned with a red cross.
Instinctively, I felt my feet move. My mind had no time to question the decision.Out the door, onto the cobbled street and into the humid Spanish air. Before I knew what was happening, I was on the outskirts of the city, heading up a hill towards a row of trees. Trees turned into fields, fields into forests, forests into towns and towns into cities. My only indicator of time was the movement of the sun – I had entered into a walking meditation, my feet as my guide.
‘Chiquita!’ a familiar voice broke my trance. The sun was fading and the air was getting crisp, I hadn’t even felt the cold until now. ‘You made it! Your first day and you walk 32km – wow! Now, you real pilgrim.’
My friend stood in the doorway of what looked to be an old church. Above his head was written the word Albergue, which directly translates to Refuge in English, the places where pilgrims stay while walking the Way of St James. As my Spanish amigo opened his arms to embrace me, I noticed a shape on the wall. It felt like I had seen it a hundred times before: a small blue tile engraved with a beautiful scallop shell.
And for the very first time in my life, I let go.