His feet paced across the hot sand of an Italian beach. He cuddled a cat, his cat, that he had just pulled from the waves. A crazed, drunk and dehydrated monk was screaming, trying to fight him. Locals began to converge on the scene; starring and aghast. An ambulance siren approached. His scruffy beard had grown out to the point where he looked like a tramp. Well, he was one. Dreading the prospect of another stint in an institution, Simon instead put on his hiking boots and set off for Rome in attempt to grasp back control of a life that was spiralling in the wrong direction.
The son of a third generation butcher who grew up in the pristine lake region southwest of Munich, Simon had greater aspirations for himself. He went to university, including a stint at Duke in the United States on exchange, but often felt crippled by what he assumed was depression. He figured a trip to China to learn and meditate at a Shaolin Kung Fu monastery would clear his mind, but he managed just three weeks before crossing the country to blow an inheritance under the fluorescent illuminated lighting of student city Kunming’s bar scene.
What he believed to be severe depression was soon after diagnosed as bipolar from within a mental health clinic. “I was absorbed with feelings of despair, hopelessness. Those were two of the feelings I was constantly dealing with. I felt empty and completely full at the same time.” A return to normal life worsened his mental state and he began having suicidal thoughts, prompting him to go to his father and ask to be returned to the clinic, knowing that meant being locked away from the world, medication three times a day, plastic mirrors and cameras on the ceilings. “I was drowning in feelings of guilt. I knew I was ruining my family’s life and at a certain point I felt like I being gone would be best for them. They wanted to help me, they simply couldn’t.”
In late 2014 he was released and gratefully returned home two days before Christmas. Seeking stability, he took a position at a bank, yet it came with a monotonous daily routine in the Bavarian countryside, not quite the same a major US college campus. For many in his small village, depression was nothing that couldn’t be healed by a long walk and some immaculate country air. “I kept asking myself what the hell is going on. I’m taking my meds like I’m supposed to, talking to friends like I’m supposed to.”
A new psychiatrist wrote him off work for the better part of a month, but warned Simon that if he was still unwell after that period then he would be readmitted into the clinic. “For me the worst aspect was when I started identifying depression as who I was, it became a competition. In the clinic when I heard someone else telling a story of their depression, I would think to myself, ‘that person has it so much worse than myself but is somehow handling better than I am. You loser.’ You at least want to be good at feeling the worst. It is such a terrible downward spiral because you want to be at least good at something, even if it’s feeling terrible.”
March 2015. Convinced the hospital was not a long term solution, he packed a bag, a burner phone and some bread and cheese and snuck out the next morning while the family slept. The letter he left behind was brief - Goodbye. I’m gone. I need to do it. Take care of yourselves. I love you. Knowing his parents would be worried sick and come looking for him, he sent them a text from his new number and impersonated a fellow hiker. ‘I met Simon,’ he wrote them. ‘This is my number, he will reach you through me. He has a place to sleep tonight.’ They respected his request and kept their distance, only finding out where he was a month into his journey.
Day one was brutal. Seeking warmer weather, Italy became his direction, mainly as he spoke neither French nor Spanish. His pack was a disaster and included 12 boxer shorts and five books. Muscles aching, he was second guessing the plan after just the three kilometres to the next village, but pushed on to do 30km that first day, reaching the old town of Weilheim where a pair of angels came to his rescue. Astrid and Gabi, a lesbian couple walking their dog got chatting with the young man who was rapidly beginning to resemble a well-worn pair or lederhosen and offered their number should he need a place for the night. He made the SOS call within the hour. they picked him up, drew him bath, tended to his open feet and back and offered him their couch for the night. Not only did they offer him a warm bath, ointment for his blisters and a couch for the night, they gave him a reality check as well. ‘We are happy to drive you home,’ they told him, ‘But if you decide to continue, you will have to finish this’. Avid hikers themselves, they went through his backpack, leaving him just one shirt, two pairs of underwear and a single book, the writings of Ghandi. Still at least another day’s hike from the Austrian border, he was dropped off the next day at the nearby Via Claudia Augusta, an ancient Roman road leading as far south as Lombardy in Italy’s north.
“The second night was where it got crazy. I had no plans on where I would stay.”
€10 a day - Simon had decided on his daily budget, half of which would be spent on a pack of cigarettes and none on accommodation. Also included in the budget were an espresso, a beer and whatever ‘meal’ he could make from the remaining three euro. Sleeping presented a problem. Some nights were spent inside churches, hiding away inside until it had been locked for the night, once in a mortuary, under many a store front and in train stations, the least attractive option “because the lights never go off”. Not yet spring, Austria delivered a late winter snow. One wrong turn saw him trudge through it knee-deep for the better part of a day. There were never layers to stop the cold penetrating his clothes. The comfort of a shower was far and few between, sometimes going an entire week without. His legs and back ached, his stomach constantly grumbled and at night he froze, yet he made his way through the alps, emerging in Italy where the sun kissed the budding vineyards. As the weeks wore on, his appearance began to change, most notably his beard grew out and with that so did people’s perception of him. Some rude interactions made him selective of who he approached. People received him much better in the smaller towns and villages than bigger cities and by the time he reached Tuscany he looked far from the person who had been wearing a suit to work just over a month before.
Kindness from strangers was as much fuel for is soul as the meagre meals were for his body. Goodwill along the journey came from students, families with small children and seniors offering hospitality in the form of a beer, a meal, change from their pockets or a couch to sleep. He had maybe overestimated his ability in the Italian language before he had set off, but found himself conversational before too long. Many people he would meet simply by exercising his Italian and asking how long it would take to get to his next planned destination, the majority shocked when he told them he had meant by foot, not car. He found life-long friends in Francesco, a psychologist, and his fiancee Christina in a cafe in Verona. In Simon they saw a young man who was making the most of a tough situation and the young couple took him to their home, fed him and gave him a bed. That first night before the couple retired to their room, Francesco disappeared only to return with a key to the apartment. He would still have moments where he’d fight back tears and profound loneliness, but the conversations he would have with Francesco, then and later, played a significant part his own winding path to health.
On the way to Rome, he met a man in his mid 30s, ‘brother’ Jonas, a fellow German who said to be a Franziskaner friar who had taken some detours on his pilgrimage to Jersulam, already having clocked up close to 9,000km. Simon’s new travelling companion was a likeable person and fun to be around; Jonas was a talent with the accordion and busked to fund his way. Simon thought he finally had found someone in a hole as deep as the one he was trying to climb out of, however time began to reveal concerning traits in Jonas’ character and he learned before long that the man in brown robes and sandals with a modern take on a tonsure haircut reacted intensely to heat, an empty stomach and a lack of alcohol in his hand.
Following the Via Francigena, another pilgrim route ending at the Vatican, the duo eventually reached Rome and the city’s size was unlike any other part of journey. “On the road I could do up to 20km in a day. In Rome, it felt like we were walking for days. It’s takes so long.” Eventually they found pilgrim accommodation, however it was fully occupied for the night. A luckless search resulted in a night wrapped in cardboard boxes under a bridge, a stone’s throw from the Vatican, and among Rome’s homeless population, before being shooed off by police at dawn in time for the flocking tourists.
They received their pilgrim certificate, tidied themselves up and attended an outdoor event at the Vatican where they were addressed and blessed from a balcony above by Pope Francis. “That feeling was unforgettable. I was on my knees. I felt a huge burden was lifted from my shoulders. It was strange as I’m not religious at all.” Feeling anew, Simon decided to get a room for a couple of nights, with Jonas, the first time he had used money for accommodation. Summer had arrived and with Sicily now in his sights, they continued to south.
While he had willingly accepted the responsibility chaperoning Jonas, he had not expected a third companion to be added to their south-bound troop. On another arduous day of hiking under a sweltering sun, the sounds of feline screams led Simon to some undergrowth where he would pry out Nelly, a tiny abandoned kitten more alone than he was. He had no intention of keeping the cat, but they became inseparable and Simon would feed, care for and carry her over his shoulder in a bag especially bought for Nelly.
The three reached Anzio in late June with the Italian summer at peak heat. They spent a day at the ocean to escape the forty-degree temperature. Jonas had been drinking all day and passed out on the beach with the sun blasting down his exposed body. Splashing some cold water on the friar’s face enraged his compatriot, who then picked up Nelly in her bag and flung her into the water. The sight of two well-worn travellers screaming at each other in their native tongue drew a crowd of locals and an ambulance was called for Jonas. Simon decided to scrap his plan’s of reaching Sicily right there. The conditions were no longer suitable for a kitten and Jonas’ agitated and aggressive state were only exacerbated by the rising temperatures. Perhaps his family would employ him at the butcher shop? He purchased train tickets for both of them back to Verona where they camped a final night. In the morning Jonas was gone. He left a note saying that he’d moved to a further camp ground, but when Simon pursued him he had moved on with no trace.
With Nelly over his shoulder, they returned to Bavaria after a 1,300km, three-month journey. Simon is adamant that his time on the road led him back to the path of recovery. He is at one with the fact that he’ll likely have to medicate daily for the rest of his life and describes himself as a far stronger and stable person, better equipped to overcome life’s ups and downs. 2020 alone has presented him with challenges, including a break-up with his long-term girlfriend and Covid-19 resulting in his US working visa being revoked and his dream job of managing a restaurant in Pennsylvania forcibly abandoned. His hike is a badge he proudly wears and figures that one day he will finish the rest of the journey to Sicily. Along his travels he sent 107 postcards to people he met along the way wanting to keep track of his travels. Nelly became the family cat, he was the best man at Astrid and Gabi’s wedding in 2017 and he’s now managing a restaurant on the lake where he grew up. And one day he may even take over the butcher shop.
WRITTEN BY Robert White
robertbenedictwhite@gmail.com