“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveller is unaware.”

 – Martin Buber

 

 

A couple of weeks (and a few lifetimes ago),  I was alone on a boggy trail somewhere in the Yorkshire Dales. I wasn’t exactly lost, but I wasn’t exactly found either…

On the previous day’s walk my right knee had been protesting too much, so I had opted out of this particular day’s full hike with Yvonne, Bruce and Kevin. Instead, I was stacked in with the luggage in a vehicle driven by John. He didn’t say much beyond his name, but he delivered our bags to a remote inn near Cowgill, or maybe it was Cowdub, but whatever it was called, there was nothing else there and I was w-a-a-a-a-y too early to check in.

“Look,” he said, “why don’t I drive you back to the village of Dent. There’s things to see there and it’s only four miles (six and a half kilometeres) away…you could take a cab back here later or walk.”

It seemed like a good plan.

In fact, it seemed like the only plan.

I found a pub for lunch; a big white plate with a slab of ham, thick chunk of cheese, some crunchy salad, warm bread and a half pint of cider.  I decided that it looked like a flat and easy walk back to the Sportsman Inn. Besides, the village was a million years old with a list of vicars in the church that dated from 1290 until the present, and nary a cab to be seen.

 

 

Truth be told, I was actually looking forward to being alone with my thoughts. That is, until the first time there was a choice of two unmarked paths. I thought I remembered that the Sportsman Inn was close to a stream. So I chose the trail nearest the water. But with each step away from the previous path, I grew more uncertain.

I carried on in what I hoped was the right direction.

And then…another choice needed to be made.

And another.

We had run into these unmarked options before, but then it had been the four of us, and with the map, compass, some deductive reasoning and bouncing about of ideas, we’d figured out the way. But with no one to check my thoughts, I was alone to make the call.

 

 

There was not much risk in getting too lost. And although I hardly saw another person, there were farmhouses around if I really ran into trouble.  Yet, when I finally found our inn, I felt rather satisfied with my singular achievement.

But the day’s metaphor wasn’t lost on me; just like walking the path called life, it is always more comforting with friends.

(Then again, maybe if I’d had an international roaming package, I could have posted my FB status and asked for help, or tweeted to my peeps for advice on which path to take. Or maybe I could have instagrammed a selfie of me lost in the rain with a big fat question asking, “Where the hell am I?”).

Seriously though…I’m not actually one of those people who is dismissive of social media. I have made some great connections through this blog, Facebook and Twitter and have found new friends and good companions while traveling on press trips or other journeys.

And I know that we all have those friends that we can pick up with after years apart, as if no time has passed at all. But most new cyber and travel-inspired friendships are hard to sustain when the inevitable time and distance apart are factored into the equation.

Real friends are the ones who are traveling on the path with you.  They share your history. They are the ones that are there for the non-shiny FB moments. The ones who have seen you cry, hugged you when you’re down and promised you it would get better when you were sure it wouldn’t. Friends share more than photos of happy times and multiple clicks of the ‘like’ icon.

They are the ones laughing and crying with you, sharing not only the triumphant moments but the boring bits too.

I know that ultimately we are on this journey alone, but my oh my, the journey is so much sweeter with the company of real live flesh-and-blood friends.

 

 

And for that I am truly grateful.

Amen.