Fifteen years ago, I discovered the transformational power of walking.

At 6 am one January morning, I stood at the top of Mount Iron, looking out over Wanaka, watching the sunrise. By 6 pm that same day, I had thrown myself headfirst off the Kawarau Bridge – bungy cord attached.

That day in 2008 taught me something profound: walking can change how you think, and facing fears can change your life. You don’t always have to know how things are going to turn out – you just need to be prepared to take the step.

A decade later, I faced a different kind of fear – one I couldn’t escape with a bungy cord. My neurologist’s blunt words prompted me to reclaim walking as my lifeline. 

He told me that my condition is progressive and that I might only have five years of being able-bodied left. He said, “If there are things you want to do in life, you should probably just go and do them while you can.”

Inspired by the story of a man who had “walked off” his Parkinson’s symptoms, I wondered: could I do the same? I was determined to find out.

 

 

The idea of doing a pilgrimage had been simmering for a while and this seemed like the opportunity. Initially, I planned to walk the Camino Francés, the classic 790-kilometre path across northern Spain. But as time went on, I found myself drawn to something more solitary. 

Reading voraciously and talking to other pilgrims, I discovered that the Camino was not just one route but a vast network of lesser-known trails crisscrossing Europe, all leading to the spiritual endpoint: the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, where the bones of Saint James are said to be buried. This realisation piqued my curiosity. 

With fluent French and a deep connection to the country from time spent living there as a child, walking across France felt like the perfect choice. I was delighted to realise that the Camino network includes half a dozen French routes, tracing the GR (Grande Randonnée) trails.

I settled on the 750-kilometre route starting at Le Puy-en-Velay. Timing was crucial. I wanted to cross the Aubrac Plateau during the annual transhumance – the traditional movement of cattle to their summer pastures. This event in May, accompanied by festivals and celebrations, was a bucket-list experience.

 

I was torn by the idea of leaving my three boys behind. Though the older two were already self-sufficient, Nicholas was only nine. This would be the longest I had been away from them.
 

“Go,” said my husband, Stephen. “You’ve got this, and we’re all behind you.”

“I’ll always be walking alongside you,” said Nicholas. “Even when I’m not beside you.”

And so, with my pack on my back and a heart full of anticipation, I took my first steps on the Via Podiensis – and never looked back.

On muddy trails and through mountain passes, the journey was one of courage, camaraderie, and self-discovery that helped me shed physical and emotional baggage (even while scoffing pastries daily), embrace simplicity, and find strength in every step.

 

 

Some 40 days later, at the gîte Beilari in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, we were invited to share around the dinner table, if we wished, a little about why we were walking.
The best I could summon at the time was, “While I will walk, I can walk. So, while I can walk, I will walk.” But I’m not sure that truly encapsulates the multiplicity of reasons, some very practical, others more intangible – the sheer addictive joy I experienced on the Way.

Listening to our fellow pilgrims from various countries and different walks of life summing up their reasons succinctly in just two or three words, I was inspired. There are as many reasons as there are people, though common themes emerge: being at a crossroads in life, dealing with a loss or a life-changing diagnosis, seeking inspiration, or wanting a challenge.

Whatever the reason, I quickly decided that I needed more. “I’m sorry, I said to Stephen on my return. “I need to do a pilgrimage every year. They’re so good for me!”

Around Lauzerte, midway along the route, we had spent a couple of days with three Frenchmen in their sixties. In a particularly Gallic manner, they quizzed us with curiosity as to how two women with school-age children could spend six weeks walking in France on their own. How would our husbands manage?!

Stephen likes to jokingly call my pilgrimage time a ‘trail separation.’ Some neighbours, we suspect, think we’ve separated. He enjoys leaving them guessing.

In all seriousness, I’d like to think this is a positive example for our boys. They see their mother pursuing her own interests, enabled and encouraged by their father. I hope this fosters a respect for individuality and equality in their future relationships.

Having decided to embark on another pilgrimage, France still held a strong appeal, and the Via Lemovicensis, starting at Vézelay in Burgundy, called to me as another lesser-travelled path.

The relatively little-known route would be very different, with significantly fewer walkers. The path splits early on, diverging into two separate routes through Bourges and Nevers before reuniting several hundred kilometres later – a literal ‘trail separation’!

 

Unlike the more social experience of my first pilgrimage, I anticipated this second walk would be more internal. Long solitary stretches would offer opportunities for self-reflection.

So, after months of planning, late adjustments, and nights of restless anxiety about the unknowns, I set off for Vézelay to walk 1,000 km back to the Pyrenees.

A tale of pastries and persistence, the experience forced me to draw on every ounce of resilience to deal with expected challenges and unexpected curveballs. 

In the process, I was reminded of the vital role joy plays in well-being and renewed my confidence that there’s nothing I can’t do – with or without company – if I put my mind to it. 

Each day presents fresh possibility. I loved that setting out, you literally have no idea what is around the next corner. There on the road, just me, my backpack and my wits, I found my best self.  

 

 

Around 45 days later, my penultimate day of walking to Harambeltz was a short distance physically, but emotionally and spiritually, monumental.

A little over a year earlier, I had stood here at the Stele de Gibraltar monument, arriving from Le Puy in wild, stormy spring weather to meet a pilgrim arriving at the same point from Vézelay. That was the first I knew of the Vézelay route. And now, here I was, on a bright autumn day, surrounded by 360° views of the Pyrenees, closing the loop. It hadn’t gone exactly as planned (when does life ever?), but in many ways, it had been better. Plans are finite, but serendipity is boundless. It’s in the unplanned moments – often the hardest – that growth happens.

The Pays Basque delivered in full sunshine, with spectacular views stretching out before me. It was perfect – almost as if the Camino had saved the best for last. Walking this end of the route a second time, so much was familiar, yet everything felt different: a different season, a different perspective, a different me.

I arrived at the Accueil Pèlerin – the local pilgrim office – where most walkers are setting out rather than arriving. The woman at the desk asked if I’d come by train – perhaps I looked fresher than I felt?

Certainly, I left the path feeling stronger mentally and physically than I had been 45 days earlier, in ways I am still coming to understand. I’m fit, well, injury- and illness-free, healthy in body and mind – and I’m still walking!

What I do know is that, like the crane that broke down recently while working at the house across the road, we sometimes feel stuck, waiting for someone else to fix us. But the truth is, we already have what we need to move forward – step by step.

In short, where there’s a will, there’s a Way.

 

 

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As well as being a New Zealander, I'm a lifelong Francophile who shares a passion for language, travel, and culture with my family. After years of dreaming and planning, we finally took the leap and spent extended periods living in the southwest of France — first in 2014, then again in 2016 — before purchasing a home in the Pyrenees in 2017. Our time immersed in French village life inspired a blog that eventually became Parallel Lives, a book capturing our journey.

In 2019, I was diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s. I turned to long-distance walking as both a form of therapy and a personal challenge. My pilgrimages include the Voie du Puy, the Vézelay route, and the 2,400 km Via Francigena from Canterbury to Rome — with more to come. These experiences inspired my second book, A Will and a Way, the first in a trilogy about walking across Europe. Today, I split my time between New Zealand and France with my husband and three sons, continuing to explore, write, and walk towards new adventures.

 

 

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Read more about Jennifer’s experiences walking these two Camino paths in her latest book, A will and a way. On foot across France, available in all good bookstores, at your local library, from her website at https://myparallellives.com or on Amazon Kindle and print.

 

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Have you been inspired to walk a Camino trail? Share your thoughts in the comment section below.