From Puente La Reina to Estella.
22,4kms. 7h.
Today, unless yesterday, there is no photo. And although I can assure you that the landscapes deserved it, my body just didn’t let me unload my backpack and pull out my cameras. The stage was easy. But the kms are well felt, in a body that has never been any sportive.
I realize now that I’ve done 114kms walking, so far. I would have never imagine I could walk that much. How many years of my life should I put together to get to walk 114kms?
Of course I’m moved and it deserves a beautiful picture, like the one with the poppy fields I’ve crossed, or those little villages that seem to come from the Middle Ages, but the weight of my feet’s wounds made me celebrate those kms in silence, sat on a hill asking to the sun to warm my bones.
While I was doing my last two kms, today, I felt I didn’t feel my steps anymore, that I was only feeling pain in my feet, that maybe I wasn’t brave enough to finish all of this, that how was it possible not to be crazy happy.
I crossed the bridge to arrive to Estella with tears in my eyes. When I finally drop my backpack at the inn’s, the owners told me that I had arrived pretty early, that they barely had two beds taken, that it wasn’t necessary to cry anymore: I had arrived home. They gave moved a biscuit plate nearer, carried my backpack and told me “Welcome, Pilgrim!”
Words of the Way of St. James
The Analogue Project by Oleñka 