THE MINSTREL

I only met Marcus three times – and then all but briefly.

The first time was in Pamplona, a city which burst into life as evening fell - the stunning Plaza del Castillo, the vibrantly coloured pinchos piled teeteringly high in the bars, and the cacophony of a hundred conversations tumbling out of the cafes and restaurants. I had dragged myself back to the Jesus y Maria albergue (pilgrim hostel) close by the Cathedral Santa Maria la Real to ensure I was ready for bed by the strictly applied “lights out” at 11. The albergue had been cleverly and sympathetically designed to provide over 100 bunk beds which flowed calmly over two floors following the curve of the de-consecrated medieval church (little did I know at the time that this albergue represented the very highest standard of 5* hostel accommodation!).

As I fiddled around trying to master the art of efficient backpack management which, incidentally, remained an unresolved challenge throughout my entire Camino, I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense that I was not alone. I turned around and looked upwards at the top of the bunk bed next to mine. I was immediately captivated by an extraordinarily handsome young Scandinavian with stunning, alert blue eyes. He thrust out a hand. “I’m Marcus from Finland” he said with a boyish enthusiasm. For a moment I was a little taken aback by his open directness but then reached up, took his hand and replied “Hi, I’m Alastair from England”. He held my eyes for a moment, released my hand and then lay back on his bunk. He stared at the ceiling above him, eyes full of excitement – he was, to use modern “speak”, absolutely in the “now”. As I continued to study Marcus I noted what he was wearing – only because his clothes struck a slightly discordant note set amongst the various trekking outfits favoured by the international pilgrim set. Marcus had on a pink velvet jacket, white t-shirt, white skinny jeans and a pair of designer trainers. I didn’t realise the significance of these clothes until later.

The following morning I was finally ready to head off when I was intrigued to realise that Marcus, despite the buzz of anticipation for the Camino ahead raised by the hundred or so pilgrims setting out to Puente La Reina, appeared to be fast asleep with his blond head resting on his arms crossed behind his head. Again Marcus seemed in the “now” somehow.

Later that day it became clear that Marcus was, to say the least, unconventional even by Camino standards. It transpired that he was a musician who had found himself in Amsterdam with time on his hands, heard about The Camino, bought a flight to Biarritz and a day later walked over the Pyrenees - wearing the pink velvet jacket, white t-shirt, shinny white jeans and the designer trainers. He literally had nothing else with him. Marcus was already well on the way to achieving something of a camino legend status!

That day I walked over the stunning Alto del Perdon, with breath taking views back to Pamplona, and then on down to Puente del Reine. I was exhausted, having detoured at the end of the day to visit Enuate, a captivating 12th Century Romanesque Church. I found the municipal albergue, showered and headed out for some food and plentiful rioja. By the time I got back it was already “lights out” so I crept into my sleeping bag and crashed out into an immediate and deep sleep.

The following morning I finally accepted that I had to off load some weight from my backpack, which was already some way over the recommended maximum before taking account of the kilo bag of rice which had been acquired to contain my water damaged phone (that’s a story for another day!). So I laid out everything into relevant piles and started the painful process of de-selection. I was deeply lost in thought when I heard a familiar greeting: “Hi Alastair – it’s me. Marcus from Finland”.

There was Marcus reclining on a top bunk, for all the world looking completely at ease – as if he might have been sunning himself on a lounger in the south of France. His wide, open smile, and dancing eyes greeted me and, as before, I felt captivated by his presence.

“Are you planning on giving any of those away” he gestured, pointing to the piles of clothes. “If so perhaps I could take some of them myself?” “Sure”, I said, at which he swung easily down from his bunk. He carefully handled each item in turn with a couple of t-shirts, a jumper and some socks meeting with his approval. He finally came to a pair of faded denim jeans. He looked sympathetically over to me. “I’m sorry but I just can’t wear these old men’s trousers”. I smiled as I looked over at the ever present skinny white jeans. He shook my hand, wished me well, swung himself back up onto his bunk, lay down, closed his eyes and returned to his private world.

I carried on repacking and some ten minutes or so later set off on the Camino to Estella, an untouched medieval city of such charm.

The last time I met up with Marcus was about a week later, early one morning as I was on the outskirts of Burgos navigating my way through a series of motorway under and over passes. It was raining gently. I looked ahead and could just make out a hazy outline of someone walking towards me - the wrong way back along The Camino. I trudged on into the rain. When I looked ahead again I stopped, arrested in my steps by a figure I now realised was Marcus. Somehow he had managed to transform a black bin liner into a customised back pack. Marcus was reminiscent of Nepalese porters leaning forward trekking up to Base Camp One, with the weight of the bin liner, containing all his possessions, being taken by the bin liner handle which was stretched taught across his forehead. As our eyes met his face broke into a dazzling smile. He cried out “Alastair my friend” and accelerated towards me, arms outstretched into which he soon engulfed me in the warmest of bear hugs. “Marcus” I spluttered “What are you doing? Where are you going?” By now he had released me and I noted with some pleasure that he was wearing one of my black t-shirts under the pink velvet jacket. (Marcus clearly had not thought it necessary to invest in wet weather gear). I just couldn’t stop smiling. I felt as if the air I was breathing had been re-oxygenated. “Well Alastair, it’s my love story” he explained. “I have fallen for a girl called Stella from Germany. She had to go to Bilbao to travel back to Stuttgart. I thought I could continue on the Camino to Santiago but now I know that my camino is in the other direction – I’m on my way to Germany”. His excitement was palpable, tangible. There was no trace of uncertainty, this was no mere adventure. Everything was clear for Marcus. “Oh” he said “you played a big part in my relationship with Stella. When I first met her she was cold so I gave her your jumper to wear – and that’s how it all started!” I know it might seem a bit sad now but at the time I was thrilled to have played even a minor part in Marcus’s journey to love.

We stood a for a moment – unsure what to do next. I wanted to stay transfixed to that place, to that moment in time. All seemed possible. But Marcus was on his journey, it was time for him to go. He smiled again, turned and set off. I stood, watched him walk away and for a moment felt utterly bereft. I wanted to be sitting on his shoulders, carried high, forward into a world of unlimited possibilities.

But as he strode away my sadness was replaced by a deep sense of gratitude. I felt blessed to have been embraced by the energy and one dimensional sincerity of his youth, untouched by the cynicism of too many years. I finally turned away. Tears of joy and sobs of grief for a lost time engulfed me.

That was the last time I saw Marcus.

I was not the only one touched by the light of the star that he was. Every time his named was mentioned, his story retold, maybe embellished, maybe not, smiles and laughter abounded. Yes – for all of us who met him Marcus was a true legend on our Camino.