It usually happens when I sleep outside: I wake up at the crack of dawn. My sleeping bag has drunk in all the dew and is sopping wet, but my eyes are sticky and dry.
I was lying on a bench in Gernika. I was actually surprised that I had only woken up two or three times during the night, and gone right back to sleep again. Usually the hardness and narrowness of a bench means that I spend most of the night in that state in which I am not fully asleep, or asleep but still aware that my hip is resting against something uncomfortably hard and that I can't just turn around because I'll fall.
I packed my things and went to the water pump. I loved these water pumps in the Spanish villages. In Germany it's an ordeal to find drinking water. Here it was available at every little plaza in every little village. I had a good wash and a drink and set out into the forest.
It was another wet and foggy day. The trail was uneven and there was nothing but forest for the first few kilometers. I reflected on how close I had been to attempting this stretch in total darkness late last night and was very thankful that I had decided to stay in Gernika. I think my flashlight batteries would have run out about an hour's walk into the woods, and my first hour did not present me with any sight of a good place to lie down. Sleeping in the underbrush would have made for a much worse night than lying on a bench did.
When I went on a pilgrimage through Spain in 2007, I repeatedly thought that I could write a book about everything that was happening in and around me. A few weeks after finishing the pilgrimage I started this blog instead. It may be the rough draft of an upcoming book -- who knows -- but it is my surrender to the urge to try to put into words what might better be left cloaked under a vow of silence.
