Out of the Pyrenees.

We are on our 12th day of walking (minus a zero day in Pamplona.).

Everywhere we go, the local people tell us, “it’s never this cold in June here.” It is cool, and fresh winds blow, and huge sailing clouds cross above us–different clouds than the Pacific Northwest, towering thunderheads, defined in their edges, holding rains and sometimes hail. Then, they pass, and the sun is dazzling and brilliant and Mediterranean. Everything is in technicolor. The red poppies dance like little staccato notes in the endless wheat fields, green or golden or green-gold.

The other hikers come in waves. Sometimes it could be silent except for the birds or the distant highway. Other times, literally two hundred people will pass us. It is a strange trail to me socially because of the volume of other hikers and the lack of cohesion that I expect from previous hikes, and I struggle with loneliness.

Pamplona was wonderful. I loved the tall rowhouses on cobblestone narrow streets, the food, the wine, the Spanish. Still, it was very good to get back into the countryside again with its sleepy villages. I prefer these places.