The golden buddha, part 1

 The story begins some time ago, when I set off to walk the Camino from St Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain. That was in Spring, 2004  I took with me a small figurine of the Buddha, golden in colour. It had belonged to my father, who had recently died. I intended to take it all the way to Santiago.


It wasn't actually made of gold. Brass, more like. My father had bought it from the local auction room for a few pounds. But it meant a lot to me because he valued it. It sat on the mantelpiece next to his chair along with various pipes and other smoking paraphernalia.

I had to return home for work reasons after only a week of walking and having covered just a hundred miles or so of the 500 mile route. Before I left the path, I buried the Golden Buddha under a tree, in the garden of a ruined church, high on a hillside, overlooking the plains of La Rioca. I made a map, pinpointing the location to the nearest hand's breadth, fully intending to come back later that year to complete the journey, starting again at the point where I left the path.

What with one thing and another, I didn't make it back that year, or the next. Time rolled on. It was clearly always on my mind to return, however, as I wrote this rather wistful poem some years ago:


The Golden Buddha


Rests beneath a tree, the Golden Buddha,

A little statue buried in the ground,

In the garden of the monastery,

High on the hillside, waiting to be found.


Guardian of the soul of a journey

Cut short, when the traveler had to leave,

Left the road and his companion, yet hid 

The Golden Buddha underneath the eaves.


The intent thereby encapsulated 

To return to the path one day and find 

The tiny statue in its nest of roots 

And the spirit of the journey left behind.


To join the same road, at the precise point 

Of departure - to make a new start 

Where the old journey ended; that was the

Secret purpose buried deep within the heart


Rests beneath the tree, the Golden Buddha, 

A little statue buried in the ground, 

In the garden of the monastery, 

High on the hillside, waiting to be found. 


Twenty one years after I left the path, I finally returned to resume my journey to Santiago, starting again from where I left off. It was the beginning  of May, 2025. I got a room in one of the pilgrim's hostels or albergues in town, and went back to the very spot marked on my map, underneath the tree, armed with a trowel. Early in the morning, before anyone else was around, I began to dig.

Would the Golden Buddha still be there? You can find out in my next post...



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