Texture of old things are appealing.
I’ve become a tic on a page. Since 2013, the café proprietor keeps a yearly account of the nationality of pilgrims. He’s anxious I mark my tic and shows no concern that water is flooding off me onto the dry floor.
There’s always special beauty before sunrise. The absence of sound and people are peaceful.
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.
