When it comes to belief systems there are very few credos that do it for me.
Organized religions with their systematic dogmas leave me cold, although I did briefly flirt with the idea of converting to Judaism when I sobbed through Leon Uris's 'Exodus' at sixteen.
My 'Weltanschauung' has been gradually reduced to the daily enchantments and disillusionments of my own small menagerie; a natural part of growing older, or so I am informed. At this mid-point of my life I have whittled down my list of what is important to a few simple creeds:
- The love of a good man
- Preventing the offspring from joining a cult in Turkmenistan
- Carrying a pair of tweezers at all times
But my most abiding belief is this -
- that the footware you accumulate throughout your lifetime tells the story of who you are.
Like most women who reach a certain age I have a closet teeming with shoes. The most precious are still in their original boxes, lovingly wrapped in tissue paper; Kitten Heels, Mary Janes, Peep-toes, Slingbacks, D'Orsays. As my social life shrank in proportion to pregnancies, so the donning of many of these beauties dwindled and when we decided to leave big city Dublin for the frontier outposts of South Belgium, I swear I heard them cry. These boxes are the history of my Twenties and Thirties; the party shoes, the wedding shoes, the christening shoes. Even now, when I can barely remember what drawer the kids socks are in, I can tell you exactly for which occasion each pair were bought and when first worn.
Now, living close to the forests of the Ardennes, chasing kids, dogs, stone martens and wild boar, practicality rules. Flats, Converses and Boots are the mainstays. Especially Boots. Boots fill every nook and cranny of this house. High heeled boots, Doc Marten boots, Ugg boots, Go-Go boots, Riding boots, Snow boots, boots with names I can't even remember.
The most precious are these. These are my Argentinian 'Cowboy' boots and they too have a story to tell.
In one of my career incarnations as a Banking Consultant for a Software Company, again in my twenties, I travelled constantly, circling the globe many times. South America was a frequent destination, Ecuador one of the countries. This particular trip was in January; damp and very cold in Dublin, warm and achingly humid in Guayaquil. I had been feeling fluey before I left and by the time I checked into my hotel in the Port City, I was fevered and shaking. All meetings were cancelled and with only a few Anadins in my wash-bag, I sweated it out in bed for 48 hours. Hotel rooms can be lonely at the best of times but when you are sick and on your own they are torment. By day three, with fever abating and having consumed nothing more than flat coca-cola and half a banana for two days, I determined to get some air and maybe a sandwich.
Guayaquil is the most populated city in Ecuador with humans and highly decorated vehicles teeming in all directions; quite the shock to a weakened soul in search of nourishment. But as I spotted what looked to be a delicatessen and attempted to cross the heaving road, my eyes were drawn to a small cobbler's shop alongside, with a pair of boots in the window. Soft, brown, cracked leather boots. All I wanted to do was touch them. The cobbler and his wife were busy, well, cobbling I suppose. He glanced up and gave a toothless grin while this tiny, rounded lady who exuded warm tortilla and onion (my sense of smell was heightened by semi-starvation) bustled around me, gesturing in every direction. I pointed to the boots indicating that I would like to try them on using sign language and woeful Spanish.
My lady cobbler was enthusiastic to say the least. She sat me down and tape measured both (!) my feet and the soles of the boots. Nodding, smiling, repeating over and over:
"Gaucho, gaucho, you like? Is good, is good, si, si....!"
I was feeling weaker by the second, but the instant those 'Gaucho' boots slipped over my feet like soft silk, a higher energy crept through my body. They were a perfect fit and reader, I married them.
Since that time, through all the twists and turns of my meandering life, the 'Gauchos' have remained a constant. A reminder that when I am at my lowest ebb, something as seemingly insignificant as a pair of old boots, can restore even the most jaded heart.
Just as the smell and feel of an old, tattered book from your childhood can magically transport you back in time, so does footwear for me. I could no more discard my well-worn, aging shoes and boots than I could my children.
They are the stepping soles of our lives.
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A thousand thanks to Dee for this, I am entranced by The Gauchos.
You can visit Dee at La Vie en Gris or follow her on Twitter
