The path stretched over the hill to the horizon. There was nothing but a trail through patchwork green.
Head down, I focused on the grit of the soil, the drips off my limbs and the splash underfoot.
The approaching storm dampened the light, dampened my damp and weary will. And all I could hear was the croak and chorus of frogs and the patter of rain and the whip of the wind in the weather battered grass, as I followed the road to Santiago.
Hours before, a bent old pilgrim and his scrawny grey donkey had walked towards me. Barely slowing, he pointed from where he’d come, towards my destination, as if his vague gesture could impart the wisdom he’d gained on the way.
With throbbing bones and blistered heels, I smiled weakly. I was in awe. I was impressed. I was a third his age and wondering if I’d look as wise if I made it there and back.