Last row to hoe. Whether it’s 5, 10, or 15 miles to walk, the last miles are the hardest. Towards the end, my thinking isn’t as sharp. I see way marking signs but I don’t really look at them. Was it “right,” “left,” or “straight on?” Retracing my steps, I actually look at the sign. My body is saying break time.
Images of Fátima are everywhere. She is Portugal.
Hold on to the morning light. Colors are saturated and the sharpest.
Colors becoming warmer.
My energy is fast fading when a car pulled over. The driver enthusiastically said, “Santiago!” He handed me a bag with a bottle of cold water and 2 chilled apples. Just what I needed. Just what a dozen other pilgrims needed today and also received.
When the scenery is dull, bits and pieces become notable. I walk zig-zag to claim patches of shadow. Weaving along provides different perspectives.
Name that bark.
Walking by yourself has a freedom of spirit. There is spontaneity in each step. How I need and enjoy walking solo.
An unexpected death in Christian’s family brings grief and a sorrowful interruption to his Camino. Today we speak of our new memories. Tomorrow he begins his journey home to be with family.
What pilgrim can resist a swimming pool? The perfect end for a walk began two hours before sunrise. Opting to walk on asphalt roads shaved distance. It is the first day without vacancies at a shorter distance.
The smell of olive oil hangs in the air. Olive oil factories with their huge barrels and vats dot the road. Here the people hand-pick the olives.
Linda Scandore 