Meditative, monotonous, long views, lonely, reflective, memories rise to the surface. Tears. He walked on the Meseta in spain. Slow. Weat. Warm, hot and the feet gets swollen. Yellow arrows. He missed one and had to go back again (lesson!) Watch for the signs. Small, calm villages with a fountain for drinking water. Sit down, café, bocadillo con keso. A chapel and a choir. The hills and a narrow path. The hat is a must the stick is not. Balance in every aspect. He’s feet begins to protest. How far must we walk today? He takes a rest underneath a tree. Lying in the grass. Up again. Stops by a river, dips his feet in the cold water. Refreshing. Small fishes. On and on. Not there yet. The goal is not far. He can see the village now. Accelerates. Every step hurts. He’s looking in the distance – longing for the rest, longing for the rest. When arriving in the albergo in the afternoon he cares for the blisters. Cleaning clothes and mind. Getting ready for tomorrow and the next days. Later dinner with fellow pilgrims. Talking, sharing, listening, supporting, watching and writing the diary. Early night – tomorrow is another day. A happy man is in port.