Hontanas to Boadilla del Camino - pt two

I didn't need to buy that perfume, the Meseta turns out to have its own. Every town is scented with what seems like a spiced smoke, I assume fuelling woodstoves in houses. I want to find out what kind it is, that'll be a fun task for Google, and then seek it out in a fragrance.

It's gorgeous here, these sepia towns must camoflauge completely in the summer when everything is scorched. We're all blending together too, a singular wardrobe of outdoor-wear, which makes distinguishing nationalities slightly more of a game, and it's interesting to see how people play it with me.

The Italians think I'm French (they say it's the face, I'm sure it's the bob). The Spanish think I'm Italian (which I reckon is just the Italian accent slipping in when I try to speak Spanish). When, at the bottom of The Hill of the day, Yeori from the Netherlands and I finally talk for the first time after days and days, he does so in Dutch, assuming I am too. When he's corrected he explains that I have a very "Dutch vibe". In the interests of not offending Harry and Erica I'm choosing to take that as a compliment.

Nobody ever guesses Australian, often even after hearing me talk - my accent is soft. I don't think Rusty has this problem. The only thing he could do to make himself more convincing is to add corks to his hat, as he sings out "g'day mate" and thanks people with a sincere "grassy arse".

I walked today with a different pace. I dawdled, I stopped often. I got lunch during the walk rather than at the end. All told, I started at 8am and finished at 4pm, 31km in 28 degrees. The pictures show the extent to which this walking in this landscape is following a ribbon of white into the horizon.Baca lagi