- After years of cancer treatment and life’s pressures, Kirsten and Jack decided to walk Spain’s famous Camino de Santiago together
- The 799km trek helped them reconnect, slow down and appreciate what truly mattered
- Following his death, Kirsten turned their journey into a memoir about love, loss and gratitude
Here Kirsten McHugh, 56, tells her own story, in a letter.
Dear Jack,
Sometimes I wonder how I ever kept up with you.
When we met, through family and friends, and fell in love, I was in my late 20s, drifting between hospitality jobs and office work, while you were around 50, a barrister and dad-of-two with an enormous personality.
You were magnetic – intelligent, funny and always the centre of a conversation.
There was more than 20 years between us and plenty of people had opinions about that. But I didn’t care. I’d found my partner and co-adventurer.
We married in May 2000 and, two years later, bought our property at Foxground on the NSW South Coast.
That was the beginning of our harebrained schemes.
You were forever dreaming up projects and I’d egg you on. We planted tea, which I picked and processed to sell at farmers’ markets.
Then came cheese.
‘Do you think we could make it?’ you asked.
‘Of course!’ I replied.
Famous last words…
We eventually spent two years turning an old Gerringong schoolhouse into a cheesery.
But in February 2010, you were diagnosed with stage 4 cancer – a tumour at the base of your tongue. It was terrifying, but you faced it with your usual humour.
After surgery, weeks in hospital, radiotherapy and chemotherapy, you slowly regained strength.
I wanted us to slow down. But to you, that would mean cancer had won. So we soldiered on.
The Schoolhouse opened in 2012, and we even won prizes for our cheeses.
But the pressure and endless work began consuming us. We’d become so busy building our life we’d forgotten to live it.
Then in 2017, the angel of death came knocking again.
You were diagnosed with prostate cancer.
READ MORE: Alissa was doing a good deed when she found love in the donor chair
Thankfully, it wasn’t life-threatening, but it was a reminder that tomorrow’s never guaranteed. It added extra stress to our life and were becoming out of synch with one another.
For years, I’d dreamed of walking the Camino de Santiago pilgrim trail across northern Spain.
We’d always loved walking, completing tracks in New Zealand, but at first, you simply indulged my Camino obsession.
Then one of your doctors told you he’d completed it, and you were hooked, too.
So in September 2017, we packed our walking boots and headed for Spain.
We’d barely trained, but you were feeling strong, so we seized our chance.
READ MORE: ‘Did he just flirt with me?’ Aussie mum’s Facebook Marketplace sale turned into true love
For six weeks we walked 799 kilometres through historic villages and stunning landscapes from the Pyrenees to Santiago de Compostela, averaging around 20 kilometres a day. We carried backpacks and stayed in little apartments and pilgrim lodgings.
Sometimes you’d slow to snail’s pace, texting friends to share our adventure.
It made me laugh. And watching you grow stronger filled my heart.
We finally had time to work through the pressures in our marriage and talk about our lives.
Slowly, we found our way back onto the same page.
One afternoon, almost halfway along the Camino, I wandered into a beautiful old church alone.
Sitting quietly, I became overwhelmed.
After everything we’d survived, there we were – together, in Spain.
I lit a candle, shed tears and silently gave thanks.
Walking outside, I spotted you in a shop across the road. You looked horrified when I wandered in.
‘I can’t believe it!’ you complained.
You’d been trying to buy me a present in secret.
We both chuckled. One minute I’d been crying, the next we were laughing.
That was us.
By the time we finished, we’d agreed to slow down back home.
Just six months later, in May 2018, came the news we’d dreaded. Cancer was back, in your larynx.
After radical surgery, you could no longer speak.
For a man who adored conversation, it was shattering. You spoke through texts and notes.
Devastatingly, 14 months later, the cancer returned. Chemo could only buy us more time.
Still, you refused to stop.
You had farms to renovate, things to finish and ideas fizzing in that brilliant head of yours.
By January 2021, doctors warned that time was running out. Yet you left hospital and went back to your projects.
Part of me believed that, if anybody could perform a miracle, it’d be you.
But in March 2021, aged 74, at home with me and your two sons beside you, you took your final breath.
Sobbing, I knew nothing would ever be the same.
I missed your humour, your extraordinary way with words, and most of all, our private language.
We’d created our own stories, expressions and jokes. Suddenly the only other person who spoke that language was gone.
I’d begun jotting down memories of our Camino trip after your 2018 surgery.
This year, those memories became my book, Seekers, Sinners & Me, about our Camino, our marriage and what we learned about love, mortality and gratitude.
You’d be delighted.
Now, I’m regenerating the tea plantation we started.
I think about our trip of a lifetime, but it’s the little memories I treasure most.
When eating became difficult, you still enjoyed coffee, so we made a ritual of having one together, passing little notes across the table.
Those quiet coffees mean as much to me as walking across Spain.
That’s what you taught me, Jack. Don’t wait for the grand adventure.
I’d give anything for one more walk, one more coffee, one more hare-brained scheme with you.
But I’m grateful for every step we had.
‘Seekers, Sinners & Me’ by Kirsten McHugh, Broadcast Books, $34.99.
