A Will and a Way on Foot Across France: Jennifer Andrewes took a leap—literally

‘Nothing is impossible; the word itself says “I’m possible.”!’ Audrey Hepburn

An article by Jennifer Andrewes

In April 2014, we took a sabbatical to live with our family in Quillan, a small town in the Aude, in the foothills of the French Pyrenees. Our aim was to give our growing boys the experience of school in France, exposure to another language and culture, and a different perspective on life. I wrote about those adventures in my book Parallel Lives: Four Seasons in the French Pyrenees. In those first weeks living in Quillan, I noticed the red-and-white route markers of the grandes randonnées – the GR walking trails that crisscross France – and watched hikers stopping for refreshments at our local café. Some were walking the length of the Pyrenees. I envied them. How wonderful, I thought, to walk those trails myself.

Later, I joined the local walking group and heard fellow hikers speak passionately about the Camino de Santiago. They described it as transformative – a mix of freedom, connection, and profound achievement. A vague dream began to form: one day, I would walk the Camino. But life was busy. With three active boys, a full-time job, and endless commitments, I couldn’t see how it would ever happen. I lacked religious conviction or an obvious cause to which I could dedicate the journey.

Image credit: Jennifer Andrewes

Then, in February 2020, I was diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s, a progressive condition linked to declining dopamine levels, affecting movement and motivation. My neurologist told me I might have five good able-bodied years ahead of me. I was upset. I was angry. I was anxious. I was depressed. But I was determined not to let it get me. I was young. I had a family, a career, a life, plans. I wasn’t interested in being told what I could and couldn’t do. Perhaps I was in denial, but I was determined to carry on regardless.

At the same time, my neurologist’s blunt advice was a wake-up call: life is short, mobility isn’t guaranteed, and if there were things I wanted to do, I shouldn’t wait. Exercise, he said, was one of the few proven ways to slow the progression of Parkinson’s. Suddenly, I had my reason to walk. Bluntly, I was contemplating losing my will and my way. Walking became not just a dream but a necessity – a tangible action to keep moving forward, literally and figuratively.

• Norman Doidge’s The Brain’s Way of Healing inspired me with the story of a man who ‘walked off’ his Parkinson’s symptoms.
• Raynor Winn’s The Salt Path deepened my resolve with its account of the transformative impact of walking on her husband’s health, despite his progressive neurological condition.

Inspired, I wondered if I could do the same.

Putting one foot in front of the other every day felt like a simple, positive action to keep moving forward – literally and metaphorically.

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

Image credit: Jennifer Andrewes

An excerpt—Day 40: Out of the wilderness Saint-Sever to Beyries 30 km. Total 913 km.

Image credit: Jennifer Andrewes

Forty days in the wilderness, and today it feels like things are finally coming together. The night doesn’t start well – a relentless mosquito buzzes around me for hours. I finally outsmart it at 3:30 am, and those next three hours of sleep are bliss.

It’s a slow start, but Nicholas’s parting words stick with me:

I hope you have a fantastic, great, awesome day, along with a side dish of joy.’

And so it is. Finally, I find myself walking the joy-filled Camino I’ve been longing for.

It’s taken me this long to fully realise it: I’m responsible for creating my own joy.

Nothing outwardly has changed overnight, but something within has shifted, a quiet but powerful insight.

The day begins early with a visit to the boulangerie for pastries and a sandwich for lunch. I savour my croissant with a coffee at the bar by the cathedral, soaking in the calm of the early morning. The sky paints itself in soft pink hues as I leave town – another reward for starting early. The trail takes me through gentle, rolling countryside. Much of it is along roads, but I barely notice anymore. The fields and woods offer endless picturesque views, and the ever-changing sky keeps me captivated. The air hangs heavy with the promise of rain, but for now, it holds off.

I’ve found my rhythm, walking at a steady 5 km per hour. The kilometres melt away. It’s been weeks since anything hurt, though my muscles now complain more when idle. There’s a strange satisfaction in knowing that movement, not rest, brings me comfort. Perversely, my muscles scream at me when I don’t use them.

At Audignon, I’m disappointed to find the church closed. I’d hoped to see the rare wooden English altar piece hidden for centuries behind a Baroque façade. Still, the anticipation of the Pyrenees ahead carries me forward.

The landscape shifts as I approach Béarn – one of my favourite regions for its warm palette of browns, yellows, and greens. The countryside exudes a quiet, unspoken beauty. Fighter jets from the local base have been a constant presence these past days, slicing through the sky with their sonic booms. Today, one slows overhead, looping and flipping in graceful arcs. I pause to watch, imagining the pilot caught in a moment of playful freedom, mirroring my own journey in a way. I love looking at the sky – ever changing, ever absorbing.

On the road, I meet two women walking in the opposite direction. They’re part of a group of four medical professionals tackling the Camino in stages around their work schedules. Their enthusiasm reminds me of the countless ways people find to make this pilgrimage their own. As I near Horsarrieu, the first drops of rain begin to fall. ‘Just let me get to shelter,’ I murmur to Saint James, and a gust of wind blows me through the open church door just as the heavens open. Sheltered, I put on my rain cape and pack cover before stepping back into the downpour. It’s no bother; the rain feels like part of the experience now.

I reach Hagetmau before noon, bypassing the refuge on the town’s outskirts where I had thought I might stay – it looks a bit forlorn. After a refreshing two lemonades and my sandwich at a local bar, I decide to press on for another 12 km, aiming to stay ahead of the forecast heavy rain tomorrow. It’s remarkable how little the thought of an unanticipated extra 12 km walking bothers me now.

And then, there they are – the Pyrenees.

Deep blue-black and sparkling in the distance, their familiar silhouette fills my heart. It feels like coming home. My spirits soar, and the thought of the days ahead energises me.

Roel catches up with me, despite having started an hour earlier. I swallow my pills and fall into step, setting a strong pace. ‘You walk well,’ he says, slightly out of breath. It’s a small but meaningful validation. I’m doing it – I’m walking off my symptoms, one step at a time.

The last stretch to Beyries is wet and undulating, a reminder of those hilly training walks back home. By now, the rain hardly fazes me. Roel, less seasoned, is puffing along, but we make it to the refuge together. The municipal refuge in the Salle des Fêtes is a pilgrim’s dream. We collect the key code and find a well-stocked fridge of wine, beer, and food supplies. Comfortable camp beds are set up in a curtained area, and the hot showers are pure luxury after a rainy day. This little hamlet has thought of everything, offering it all on trust for a donation.

Pooling supplies, Roel and I craft a meal: sardines and nuts for an apéro, followed by rice with bacon, vegetables, and an egg, finished with my stash of fancy chocolates. Roel cooks, I clean – it’s teamwork at its finest. Simple, hot food shared in good company feels like a feast fit for kings. As we eat, council members arrive for a meeting, and the local man responsible for the refuge greets us warmly, stamping our credentials. Their thoughtfulness in providing such a welcoming space fills me with gratitude.

This is the heart of the pilgrimage for me: kindness, connection, and an overwhelming sense of abundance in simplicity. It truly is a fantastic day, with a side dish of joy – just as Nicholas ordered: says Jennifer.

Can you relate to Jennifer’s plight? Please share in the comments.

If you’d like to provide support for Jennifer, you can:

• Read more about Jennifer’s experiences living and walking in France at https://myparallellives.com and in her latest book, A will and a way. On foot across France available to order there or on Amazon Kindle and print.
• If you are inspired to walk, and enjoy Jennifer’s pilgrimage writing, you can sign up for her next virtual Camino through the Facebook group: Walking the Via de la Plata, starting 23 April in Cadiz and walking 1200km through Seville and Santiago de Compostela to Finisterra.
• Help spread the word wherever possible: A Will and a Way on Foot Across France: Jennifer Andrewes took a leap—literally

Playlist: Bob Dylan’s A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall
An edited extract from ‘A will and a way. On foot across France’ by Jennifer Andrewes, available on Amazon.

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