Walking
In the morning, I walk without thought absorbed by the beauty of the waterfall or the curious behaviour of sheep that kneel to eat the nubbins of grass left in the field where they graze or the friendly "bon camino" from a good-looking young dude scooping shit out of a hole he stands chest deep in as I admire the neighbouring yard with immaculately sculpted bushes that could have been the work of Edward Scissorhands. As the day proceeds toward the mid to late afternoon, the walking starts to hurt and becomes the object of contemplation; “Just two hours left, then one, then 30 minutes, then 25, 20, 15, 14, 12, 9.” And then it could be all wrong. There could be another hour of walking when I think there's only 10 minutes. The beauty of the trail certainly takes you mind of the walking. I listen to a podcast or audiobook and concentrate on that or have a chat with passing pilgrims. (Always passing, never being passed.) I listen to how one guy’s feet hurt all the