Hontanas to Boadilla del Camino - pt one

In the mornings, I walk with my shadow. The sun rises behind me and she arrives, her edges starting soft and diffused and becoming firmer as the day goes. She's extremely tall, bobbing her head across fields I am yet to pass. On a trip defined by solitude, these moments of disembodiment are a strange comfort - she is with me, going on ahead, and I am here.

In the here, it's cold, and I am stiff. I clench my fists so resolutely crescent moon bruises are etched into my palms, a distraction from the pain radiating in sharp pangs from my lower back down my thighs. Occasionally one will take me by surprise and my knees will buckle, which must look to those behind like an impromptu curtsy to the dawn. How do you do? This hurts.

It makes it all the more remarkable, amongst this discomfort, that this turns out to be one of my favourite days yet.

Approaching Castrojeriz, a man calls out to me from his bicycle. I met him last night, drinking wine with his neighbour, a 60-something Luxembourg man here ostensibly to 'supervise' him but secretly I think loving the adventure, and a South Korean man who rode the wave of his country's digital revolution.

Clearly on the prowl as well as the Camino, the man had said that he could see in my eyes I had a reason to be here and would pray for me to reach Santiago. I'd argue anyone that's travelled halfway around the world to do something obviously has a reason, and am always wary of men weaponising sincerity, so held him politely yet firmly at arm's length in the conversation.

"Australia! You're going to achieve it" he cried, one hand off the handlebars to wave.

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