Immerse into your travel dream with movement

"Lose this day loitering. Twil be the same old story tomorroow and the next, even more dilatory. Whatever you would do or dream of doing, begin it! Boldness has power, genius and magic in it. Begin it now."- Goethe

"All men dream: but not equaly. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act out their dream with open eyes, to make it possible"- TE Lawrence

They say the human brain has evolved to work best while traveling 2 to 3 miles per hour. Fish aim upstream, eating most often in waters that move at 2 to 3 feet per second and surfers bob in the sea in wave periods that move past them at 8 to 14 seconds until they burst into action, furiously paddling and popping up and finalizing the act at the first bottom turn. This is all to say that dreams become reality when acted upon and set in motion. The journey of a thousand miles....... starts with but one step.

We just returned home from France, Spain and Portugal, walking parts of "The Camino," hiking the Pyrenees and generally moseying through time and space until we could dovetail into a person's life story, or sip Ricard in the garden or swim in the sea. We were, in essence, acting upon our dream at 2 to 3 miles per hour.

People will invariably ask if we through-walked the Camino. They will ask what our highlight was and if we did it with a tour and if it was safe and if we found what we were looking for. The answers are varied and like the waves coming in to the Cote De Basque, sloppy and unconsolidated on some days and on others, stood up by an off-shore breeze so that life is made easy.

There are many "Caminos." The most famous is the Camino de Santiago, starting in St. Jean Pied d Port in Basque, France and ending in Santiago, Spain. This is the way of the Pilgrim and what most people think of when they hear about the Camino. There are hundreds of other Camino walks, spanning France, Spain and Portugal and there are individual days that can be cobbled together or sewed up into whatever you want. For example, We chose what we thought of as sections that we may find to our liking:

Zaurats, Spain to Getaria along the coast and back via a ridge that passed through terraced hillside vineyards was a brilliant one. On The way out of town we walked along the turquoise water as a fisherman cast his long pole into the waters below. A basque flag stood proud in the breeze, framing the green hills to the north and in the calmer waters where the color turns from cerulean to cobalt, there were two long distance swimmers hauling their warning floats as they chopped water with their arms and hands. That, for us, was a dream.

On another day we did San Sebastian to Pisai, where we paid a tiny ferry to take us the 3 minute ride to the tiny village for a lunch of small fried whiting, mussels, Serrano ham, various cheeses and several glasses of dry white wine from the local vineyards. We took a bus back, pinching each other at the dream we were in.

One day we drove inland through the hill villages of Pays Basque, along the Nive river to villages like Espelette and Arbonne. These are tiny villages spilling from centers on hill tops, downward into chili pepper fields, vineyards by the river and up the other hillside where bell cows sat looking down on it all. As we drove through Larun and up the Col Du Pourtalet, I kept hearing Phil Ligget and Bob Roll anouncing the many summers of the Tour France that we have always had on in our home. "He is in a spot of botther Bob as his grimace portrays the utter pain..... Ohh therrrrrrr is an attack! Contador has gone off and he is covered immediately by the Schleck brothers!"

We wound up and out of the trees to the Col, where the Lac de Ayuse loop trek starts. It is easy to round up by saying that there was a central casting Pyrenees dog loping through herds of sheep. Working horses standing in the mist and turquoise lakes dotting tundra. It was ethereal and certainly dream like. I will never forget it. I felt small and filled with gratitude.

In the evenings we based in a villa in the village of Anglet, France. It was white with traditional green trim and shutters. A Mediteranean garden encircled the small gunite pool so that we felt as though we were in Tenerrife or Menorca or any small, proud village encircling the tropic of Capricorn. We laid by the pool pouring Pastis made from 2 ounces of Ricard, 4 ounces of water and one ice cube. Once the Ricard, or Pernod if you prefer, mixes with the water, it turns a creamy white that is off-putting until the anise hits the pallaete and mixes with the air and the sun and the blur of the late afternoon wash of light.

We crafted platters of tapas filled high with Manchego and Ementhaler, salamis, hams, peppers and olives, a baguette and finally, many different types of chocolates and custards. We ate over maps, dropping crumbs on Rioja, smudging custard on Lege Cap Ferrat and tracing rivers that may hold brown trout to fish.

Our highlight? It will sound anticlimactic and strange but it was real. We spoke for 10 minutes with the family who owned the local market in our village. We were checking out and began speaking in broken French, Spanish and English, enough to understand that we are more similar than we are different. We learned that they came to this spot from somewhere else with a dream and that it was working. They had bright smiles and deep laughs. I found the courage to say, "I speak a bit of Spanish and French.. not well but I have been learning and I try." The father held his finger in a very Spanish gesture that spins the index finger to the temple, and said, " Ah see yes, but you try."

Wendy, our concierge, brought us a small box of confections. She was tall with black hair and a straight roman nose. She could have modeled. The tin box of sweets was a small gesture but indictive of her caring nature. She drove us to drop off our bikes at a local store. On the way she spoke about her husband and small son and the bond they have. She told us about her life in Anglet and her current situation and what she dreams of. She is in motion. She is moving toward her dream. Some days the waves come from different directions at shorter periods and it is these days that lead to the sweet sets that ramble in from the horizon.

We moved on to Portugal where we found Fabio to be our fixer and guide on a day to the Douro Valley. It was, again, dreamlike and perfect. I sat in the middle back so I could see Fabio's eyes in the mirror as he drove through white washed villages, winding down to the river. He had been a tire delivery driver but 3 years ago he had become very depressed. He walked the Camino and found the company of a woman wearing a pink shirt. She had beaten Luekemia and rung the bell on five years of remission. "This compelled me to quit my job and make my dream of guiding people." His eyes flickered in the mirror, filled with hope and sincerity, he continued, "By 2030 I will have a hotel and a hiking center in Geres National Park..... this is my deam." He continued, "You have this dream already, Dylan, I think Yes?" I responded, "I am moving toward it Fabio..... I am certainly moving toward it."