On a warm afternoon on the 14th of May 2014, I stood in a long queue in Santiago with other pilgrims, waiting to receive my Compostela, a certificate to attest that I had walked 790 km from St Jean Pied de Port in France to Santiago near the western coast of Spain. The journey had taken 32 days, and I’d carried my rucksack and walked the route unassisted. I had never felt so proud or so elated. I was 75 years old.

Origins and History

The Camino de Santiago, also known as the Way of Saint James, is a pilgrimage route leading to the shrine of Saint James in the Cathedral de Santiago de Compostela in Galicia. According to legend, Saint James was martyred in Jerusalem, and his body was transported back to Galicia by his disciples, where he now rests. Early in the 9th century, a shepherd, guided by a star, rediscovered the tomb, leading to the establishment of Santiago de Compostela (Compostela of the Stars) as a significant pilgrimage site.

By the 10th century, the Camino had become one of the most important Christian pilgrimage routes. It peaked in the 12th and 13th centuries, then waned in the Middle Ages due to the black plague and the protestant reformation. In those times, the Camino was a dangerous undertaking with sickness, hunger, wild animals and robbers to contend with. However, over the ensuing years, a trickle of the devout continued to keep the tradition alive, perhaps stimulated by an edict from the Pope, promising that repentant sinners who made the pilgrimage would be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven with all their sins forgiven.

Modern Times

The revival of the Camino began in the late 20th century when, in 1993, it was inducted as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Then, in September 2010, the movie “The Way” with Martin Sheen was released at the Toronto Film Festival. His character, Tom Avery, walked the Camino as a tribute to his fictional son, an American backpacker who died on the Camino in a snowstorm while attempting to cross the Pyrenees. This captured the imagination of the Western world, and the Camino de Santiago now attracts hundreds of thousands of pilgrims each year.

As a non-believer, my pilgrimage was a rather unholy one. I had nothing to prove but was motivated by the history, the challenge, and the promise of adventure.

To qualify for the Compostela (certificate to prove you are a genuine pilgrim), you must walk at least 100 km and end your journey at the Cathedral de Santiago. Hordes of young Spaniards and foreign tourists join the pilgrimage in the European holiday periods. Those wishing to take advantage of the shortest option commence at a small town called Sarria, 112km East of Santiago. They are easily identified by their fashionable clothing, monstrous backpacks and loud and happy disposition. The “real” pilgrims, however, by the time they reach Sarria, have already walked 700 km and are easily identified by their meagre possessions, determined expressions, and relentless walking pace. They have very little patience for the pretenders!

There is a third class of pilgrim these days. They are transported over the more challenging terrain in buses and taxis, and if they decide to walk on the easier gradients, their luggage is trucked on ahead. It’s unclear whether the pope’s forgiveness of sins edict also applies to these pilgrims.

The Camino route is marked by yellow arrows painted on the roads or walls in the villages. And since ancient times, Peregrines (pilgrims) have tied scallop shells to their backpacks to signify their devout status. During my journey, the yellow arrows proved to be both a help and a curse. When the trickle of pilgrims became a stream of thousands after the success of “The Way”, accommodation owners missing out on the tourist bonanza, understandably painted their own yellow arrows to divert potential patrons from the traditional route to the doors of their establishments. With my dodgy sense of direction, I was caught out several times and one day was hopelessly lost and added an extra 12 km to the 23 km I had planned to walk that day.

Impressions From My Journey

Our pilgrimage started in St Jean Pied de Port, a lovely French village, roughly translated as ‘gateway to the St James walking track’. I was lucky to be accompanied on the first part of the journey by my two daughters, Nicola and Joanna, and my sister, Margaret. I was unprepared for the rigours of the first day, which turned out to be the most challenging of the entire adventure – 27 km over the Pyrenees and most of it uphill. I wasn’t nearly as fit as I thought, and when we finally arrived in Roncesvalles, Spain, I had never been so exhausted. Not even when, as a young man, I was working a nine-hour day as a learner sheep shearer.

My sister Margaret, me, and daughters – Joanna and Nicola.

We set out again on the second day and I was soon walking alone at a good pace when I noticed a farmer in a field on a tractor who seemed agitated. He was waving his arms, and when he’d got my attention, he stepped down, gesturing behind me and yelled loudly, “Camino por alli!” I was heading in the wrong direction, and he was very kindly telling me I had to retrace my steps. Such was the attitude of the Spanish throughout; they respected the Peregrines, greeted us courteously, and never failed to assist if they could.

It was wonderful to have family members at times with me on the journey. Joanna eventually had to go back to work in New Zealand, and Nicola back to her home in Madrid, but she drove from Madrid to spend time with me every weekend, which was phenomenal. I was joined by my friend Charlie Blythe from Cork for a while, and by my little sister, Margaret, for at least half of the journey. She would have walked the entire route, but a bad case of gastro was doing the rounds in the Auberges, where the pilgrims sleep, and she needed time to recuperate in Madrid.

There were several small cairns on the track, marking sites where people had died. Also, not surprisingly, there was much discarded footware, some in excellent condition but not fit for purpose for their owners.

I, too, learnt the hard way. By the time I returned home, I had replaced my shoes with a more suitable pair one size larger, forced upon me by the loss of three toenails. One day, we met a Swedish man sitting on the verge of the track, ruefully rubbing his blistered and swollen feet. He was very appreciative when my physiotherapist sister dressed his wounds and bound his ankle to relieve a bad case of tendonitis. He pointed to his fashionable blue runners and said, “See these shoes? I walked 100 km at home to break them in, and they were fine, but they’re not fine here.” And we had to agree.

For the last 400 km, I walked principally with three companions. A New Zealander, an Irishman and a Londoner. The wife of my comrade from London insisted he take supplies for every emergency. His ruck sack was enormous, but he battled on in deference to his wife without complaint.

One hot morning, tired and very red in the face, he was desperate for a drink. He knocked on the door of a small cottage and asked the elderly lady if she could give him some water. When she provided it, he took out his wallet and made signs asking if she could make him some breakfast. She nodded but shook her head when he made to follow her inside. He waited on the doorstep until she passed a welcome breakfast of ham eggs and coffee through the window. No matter how he insisted, she refused to accept payment and just smiled and wished him a Buen Camino as she closed the window again.

It was a warm, sunny morning one day after a night of light rain. The countryside was sparkling, which raised my spirits a little because I was lost and knew it was going to be a long day. So, before I retraced my steps, I sat down on a low wall to remove my shoes and massage my aching feet. A short distance away, I could see a stone cottage half hidden by trees with two small windows and a front door that looked like a picture a child would draw. A very old man emerged, stooping to fit through the doorway.  I greeted him in Spanish, but he didn’t answer. He just nodded and stared at me suspiciously for a long time before turning around and shuffling back to the gloom inside. How I wished I could have conversed with him. He was old enough to have lived through the Spanish Civil War and Franko’s fascist regime. But he and I were creatures from totally different worlds with nothing in common. I often think of him.

Rest stop.

Quite early on our journey, Margaret, Joanna and I had been walking for several hours through rolling farmland. A main highway was running parallel to us about half a km away. By mid-morning, we were ready for a coffee and angled off toward a Truckstop. We exchanged nods with some truck drivers sitting together in the café. We enjoyed our coffee break, and then set off again. Half an hour later a large truck was speeding along in our direction with its horn blaring. As it drew level a friendly truckie leaned out, waved to us, and the words “Buen Camino!” were shouted back at us as he disappeared into the distance.

In the late afternoon and evenings, the Auberges where travellers were accommodated were busy places, and with people living together in close proximity, gastro outbreaks were not uncommon. We were staying at Terradillos de Templarios, and Margaret was violently ill. Between bouts of sleeping, the owners plied her with soup made from traditional ingredients for which they refused payment, but to no avail. She was forced to leave me, to recuperate with Nicola in Madrid. Then Charlie succumbed and needed to return home to Cork. So I set off once again on my own.

Margaret rejoined me towards the end of the journey but was still not well, and we stopped at a coffee shop near Santiago to ask if they could spare two Disprins. They obliged and also provided coffee and muffins to me, for which they refused payment. The generosity we experienced so often was humbling.

I felt as though I was walking on air as I came to the end of my journey and ascended the steps of the Camino de Santiago after 32 days.

The Singing Nun

The Cathedral de Santiago is imposing and was a fitting place to end our journey. A steady stream of the devout can be seen in daylight hours, ascending a stairway on the right-hand side of the cathedral to lay hands on the tomb of Saint James.

The day after our arrival, we unholy pilgrims sat quietly in the main body of the cathedral, waiting for the Pilgrims’ Mass to start. Traditionally, at these services, the names and nationalities of the pilgrims who had collected their Compostela the day before were read out. On this day, we were lucky to be witnessing the kindling and operation of the Botafumeiro, the famous incense burner that had been in operation since the 12th century. It was initially used to mask the fetid smell of unwashed pilgrims. In modern times, some of the pilgrims even use deodorants, so the crucible doesn’t see the light of day for every Mass.

The Botafumeiro is suspended by a pulley system, allowing it to swing in a wide arc across the cathedral’s nave and above the heads of the congregation. It is operated by a team of eight men dressed in scarlet robes. It is suspended 21 metres from the ceiling, and can reach speeds of 68 km/h as it swings in an arc of more than 50 metres. It is reported that the ropes have broken three times over the centuries, and the crucible has fallen, scattering hot coals among those below. It is very heavy and would wreak havoc if it fell on any of the worshipers. I watched it nervously.

As the crucible swung in its arc above, us the organ began to play, and a soprano voice soared from the shadows. I was overcome by the beauty of the music and dabbed my teary eyes. The singing stopped, and three priests emerged and began to prepare for the service. They were adorned in the majestic vestments of their calling. The central figure holding a crook, imposing in white, with gold and scarlet trimmings under a tall golden mitre. I looked more closely and realised I’d seen him somewhere, and then recalled a small self-confident, impeccably dressed man, accompanied by three attentive girls walking the last stages of the Camino. At the time I’d wondered who he was and why he needed to be fawned upon, and now I understood. We were approaching Easter, and to demonstrate his humility he would have joined the Camino at Sarria to walk the last 100 kms. The three attendants were his acolytes.

After the Mass, the organ played, and the soprano voice soared once more. I had to see her. I rose and edged quietly towards its source – and there she was, standing in the shadows, behind and to the side of the three glittering peacocks.  A small middle-aged nun who knew her place. Drab as a tiny sparrow. Dressed in a black habit with the voice of an angel.

The next day, we were scheduled to leave; I was enjoying a farewell beer on the sidewalk in the centre of Santiago with my three friends. I still hadn’t come down from the high of conquering the Camino and, on a whim, took my harmonica from my pocket and began to play The Proclaimers hit, I’m Gona Walk (500 Miles). It’s a lively tune with a thumping rhythm and soon a small crowd had gathered, and two girls were dancing together in time to the music.

All was good with the world, and that scene was a memory I will take to my grave.

Looking Back

For 10 years following our Camino adventure, Auto-IT continued to grow. Another shareholder, Wayne Rushworth, took over from me as CEO, and I assumed the position of company Chairman. Finally, 24 years after its inauguration, in March 2024, the company was purchased by a public company headquartered in Ontario, Canada.

Staff have been retained, and the Auto-IT brand lives on with different owners.

It’s been a long journey for me. Fortune smiled on me when I was born in Wellington, New Zealand, in 1939. I’d won the jackpot by being a white male with loving parents, born into a stable Western democracy.

I lived with my grandparents at the Pencarrow lighthouse during the war years and then with my parents in the Belmont Hills, Lower Hut. At High School, I was streamed into a reasonably high level and could have followed the accepted path of university education and a career in the city. But I’d set my mind on becoming a farmer and left home four months before my 16th birthday; a decision I’ve never regretted.

In the ensuing eight years, I worked at many rural occupations in NZ’s North and South Islands until, in May 1964, I accepted a position as Farm Manager of Cairn Peak Station, a 5,200-acre hill country property near Invercargill at the bottom of the South Island. This was the same month I married my wife, Rosaline Peterson, and on the same day my mother passed away with a cerebral haemorrhage. She was only 47.

Cairn Peak was a big, rough, underdeveloped property with very little to recommend it but its size. I convinced the three absentee owners I had the ability to develop the property, and it would be in all our interests to let me buy my way into a quarter share. We agreed this would cost me £1,500 up front and a further £3,500 to be financed by salary sacrifice. My salary was £1,000 a year, a very good wage at the time.

This forced a frugal lifestyle on us for many years. Our daughter Nicola was born 11 months after our marriage, and Joanna and Graeme followed in quick succession, so while I was working insanely long hours on the farm, Rosaline was working equally hard, cooking for staff and mothering three children under the age of three.

Fifteen years later, we’d purchased more land, and the winter carrying capacity on the farm had risen from 3,000 to 8,000 stock units. In addition, we’d converted 2,000 acres of unproductive land into a viable forestry enterprise and added cash crops of wheat and barley to our income stream. By this stage, I’d bought my way into a 50% share, with the other half owned by Bill Piercy, an absentee owner with an accountancy practice in Gore.

In those days a heavy price was paid by farm workers, uneducated as we were in the dangers of our profession. Little or no attention was paid to safe work practices, and all my friends of similar age have impaired hearing due to long hours driving agricultural machinery with no ear protection. Protective goggles were also unheard of, and I permanently lost the sight in my right eye due to a deep penetrating wound from a flying nail, when building a fence in 1970.

In 1979 I was recruited by the NZ Foreign Affairs Department to the position of Ranch Manager of the Uluisaivou corporation in Fiji. This was a two-year contract, so we employed a Farm Manager to run Cairn Peak, and Rosaline, my son Graeme and I took up residence in a remote area in the north of Viti Levu. Graeme commenced schooling by correspondence under Rosie’s tuition while our two girls attended boarding school in Invercargill.

 The ranch comprised 120,000 acres of native land, set up as a cooperative venture for the local landowners. The NZ government gifted 2,000 Brahman cross cattle, and a sugar cane plantation had been developed over the two years before my appointment. The Uluisaivou people were hardworking and welcoming, and I treasured our time there, but bureaucratic roadblocks and nepotism stymied progress, and at the end of 1980, we elected not to renew our contract and returned to the farm in NZ.

The interim manager on Cairn Peak had done well, and the farm looked a picture. Southland had experienced an excellent spring that year, so there was stock feed in abundance, and the lambing and calving percentages were as good as they had ever been. We were three quarters through a very profitable financial year, and I decided this would be a good time to dissolve our partnership and give Rosaline and me the opportunity to take control of our own destiny.

I raised this with Bill, my partner, but my suggestion was met with derision and eventually became the catalyst to turn an amiable 17-year partnership into a bitter, unresolvable feud. I’d devised a map outlining a practical way to divide the holding into two standalone units and offered Bill first choice. He demurred and delayed for several weeks so I suggested he draw the line on the map, and I’d have first pick. He shook his head, then came back with an implausible scenario that would give him the lion’s share of the land and the assets, leaving me and Rosaline with an uneconomic holding. Trust was gone, it was time to go legal. After weeks of wrangling, the decision was made that the land, livestock, and business assets would be independently valued, and when the figures were agreed upon, the Piercys would be given first option to buy the entire business as a going concern.

Miraculously, Bill managed to find an offshore financier and late one memorable Friday afternoon, our lawyer called to congratulate us on the successful sale of our equity in Cairn Peak. I’d left home when I was 15 years old; no one had ever given us a cent; now I was 41, and we’d just become millionaires. Reluctant ones, as we’d just lost our farm.

Our marriage didn’t survive the ups and downs of this difficult period, and we separated. Rosaline bought a house in Invercargill, and I moved to our holiday cottage near Lake Manapouri in Fiordland. Eventually, we divorced, and I decided to make a new start in Australia.

At the time of the sale to bill, Cairn Peak was at its zenith. It had become one of the larger livestock enterprises in the Oreti Basin, and the wool clip required the equivalent of an 18-wheel semi-trailer to ship to market. But it was to be all downhill from there. Bill’s intemperate gamble hadn’t paid off, and after a year or two, he fell into arears. The mortgagor foreclosed, the property was split up with the best portions being sold to adjacent farmers, and the less productive country offloaded for forestry development.

I revisited the farm 40 years later, in August 2024. What was left was a sorry site. Just a few gorse-infested paddocks in the foothills, dilapidated fences and the covered yards that used to accommodate three thousand sheep were standing vacant and useless. The ornamental trees I’d planted in the driveway to the house were now mature and looked amazing, but the little school bus shelter we’d built for the children at the farm gate had served its purpose and was long gone.

There was nothing left to inspire anybody.

Across the Ditch

I arrived in Melbourne one sunny day in March 1983 on the day of my birthday. I was 44 years old and had arranged to stay with friends for a week or two until I’d worked out the lay of the land. In the first three months, I bought a modest house and a second-hand car and unsuccessfully attended two job interviews. But my resume wasn’t exactly run of the mill for a big city. I was struggling with my new urban life but determined to make a go of things. Finally, after four months, I saw a TV advertisement for people to attend a five-month course on becoming computer industry salespeople. I didn’t know exactly what selling would entail, but was prepared to try. I’m pleased I did. I came third in the course and by the end of the year, was successful in landing a sales job with Daro Computers.

Around this time, Lee, a close friend from NZ, moved in with me permanently with her son, Dane. Earlier in the year, she’d helped me find the house we live in now. Our friendship had blossomed, and we decided we were ready for a permanent relationship. That was 41 years ago, and we’ve been soul mates ever since.

Meanwhile, the timing of my shift to Australia was fortuitous. The PC revolution had arrived, and it wasn’t hard to convince small businesses of the benefits of changing from dumb terminals to personal computers.

Over the next four years, I worked for four different companies. The pace of the PC market had become turbocharged with the arrival of the IBM PC and Microsoft’s new operating system. I’d become a go-to computer network sales advisor for several high-profile businesses and decided to change from employee to contractor for tax reasons.

I named my new company KGM Management and provided a sales service in exchange for 30% of the gross profit on everything I sold. Three of the companies I contracted to succumbed to the overheated marketplace and two went out of business, but I managed to maintain my equilibrium and grow my customer base.

Fate had brought me and Lee together, and fate played a hand again with the chance meeting of Michael Damianos, who I happened to be sitting next to in a restaurant. We talked about the ups and downs of the business climate, and Michael suggested we meet in his office. As a result of this meeting, he became my accountant, then my business advisor, and eventually my business partner when, in 1988, he asked if I’d be interested in running an IT offshoot of his accounting firm. We briefly discussed how the relationship could work and consummated the deal with a handshake. Forty-five years have passed since then, and we remain friends and business partners to this day.

In 2000, we merged with a competitor and created a new company called Auto-IT.

Things I’ve Learnt & Things I’d Like to Share.

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Wisdom From the Ages

In great societies, old men plant trees, beneath whose shade they’ll never sit. (Greek Proverb)

Some Things I’ve Learned

1. I am where I am because I put myself there.

This sign graced the desk of Ken Morgan—dealer Principal of Ken Morgan Toyota in the 1990s. Ken did a lot of work with disadvantaged youth.

As we know, there’s nothing fair in life. Try telling an animal lower in the food chain that it’s not fair that a lion must eat him to survive. That’s its fate. But putting fate aside, at any point in time, you are where you are because you put yourself there. Success or failure, prison or freedom, it’s mostly up to you.

2. Making decisions. I’ve learnt from experience that good decision making is an acquired skill. Below is an accepted methodology. There are three steps: (i) Analysis, (ii) Decision, and (iii) Consequences.

(i) Analysis: You are grappling with a tough problem. Don’t make a knee-jerk decision. Write down the pros and cons of every option you can think of. If you have the time, it’s OK to sleep on it. You’ll be amazed at how wise your inner consciousness is and how often the correct solution will be waiting for you when you wake up.

(ii) Decision: When you’ve had time to consider everything, don’t dither—make your decision and get on with it.

(iii) Accept the consequences: This is as important as (i) and (ii) above. You followed the process, so more often than not, your decision will be the correct one. If you were wrong, don’t waste time with regrets; you did your best.

3. Things are never as bad as you think you are. It’s after midnight; you’re lying on your back staring at the ceiling. You’re sick with worry.

We’ve all been there, and if you’re running a small business, as I have most of my life, you will have had many of these sleepless nights. But you know what? There’s always a way out or a compromise that will help!

In the light of day, things are never as bad as you think. Not ever!

Conversely, when things are too good to be true – they probably are! Be vigilant when times are good.

4. There are benefits of every age in your journey of life. If you lead a life respectful of others, you’ll find your life rewarding most, if not all the time. Don’t burden yourself with regretting the past or yearning for the future.

Take me for example. I’m in my mid-eighties, I’ve very little hair left, my skin has been wrecked by the sun, and I’m hopeless without hearing aids. But I love my family, and I love my wife.  We laugh a lot, we travel a lot, and have many friends.

My life has never been better. I am where I am because I put myself here!

5. Money. It’s not shameful to make a lot of money, provided you earned it without breaking your code of common decency. But having money doesn’t buy you happiness; it just means you don’t have to think about money.

6. Religion. Oft quoted Eighteenth Century French philosopher François Voltaire famously said, “If there isn’t a God, it would be necessary to create one.”

There’s no plausible reason to disagree with Voltaire’s insight. Billions of people, particularly the vulnerable, find comfort in praying to their version of God because the promise of an afterlife offers redemption for the mediocrity they are forced to endure on earth. Voltaire was right.

I don’t believe in anything that can’t be backed by science, so spare me your conspiracy theories, or the preposterous notions of Creation and Judgement Day.

In all religions, both the major five or six in the mainstream and the hundreds of quirky outliers, there’s a charismatic leader or founder with a direct line to the almighty. This person talks to their God and communicates the tenets of the religion to trusted lieutenants who enforce the spiritual mores on the congregation.

Many of these religions do a power of good, but those led by the radical and the unscrupulous – do a power of evil. And if it comes down to prioritising the well being of the church and the well being of the congregation, all religions in my experience protect the reputation of the church first.

Final Word

It’s far better to be full of wine than full of crap. (Seen on a greeting card in a $2 shop.) 

Ken Fife – December, 2024

Me and Lee – Scotland, September 2024