A rebel without a clue.

Happy to be in a warmer environment than the last two nights. And to have reset my attire to fresh. This town is crap. It's a road running between Madrid and Albecate with sour faced solumn men trudging by not acknowledging me. As it's cold, dank and drizzling it's possibly the weather doing it? Some loud and Bolshoi youths stand on a few corners kicking the pavement and kerb for entertainment. Sounds like many British towns during autumn however by July most locals kids will be falling about flaking under the burning sky whereas in the UK it maybe another season of kicking the kerb: if the Tories win. It's my intention to be asleep before nine, warm and toasty, ready for tomorrow and one of the most famous vistas in all of literature: the very windmill sails Don Quixote went tilting at in his blind chivalric stupidity. This means I'm in Toledo Provence and only five days off the goal. My shin is brutal after two or three hours on the way. Popped into the bar neares...

Today I feel fresher. Took me a while to get up from the warm sleeping bag and step out to -1°C in San Clemente. Long John's on this morning. It always looks odd wearing these tight legged affairs, but they are very thermal. Headed out to find café and stumbled around for thirty minutes until a Churros cafe was gathered around by the he Sunday hunting fraternity. Now I'm warmed by chocolate and churros and heading out into the world beyond San Clemente where all the world is still and tinged with a haw frost. Dogs howling and barking and the distant sounds of gun shot: oh this is such a holy day? One where holes are driven into innocence. Then more rain. An hour of very intense, but fine, drizzle and the continuous breeze, which I had forgotten the last few days, as a companion after Santiago de la Torre - a fine ruins of a castle. Biting off chunks the bread and Salchichón secco, which had been bouncing in my lunchbox since Monteforte del Cid, I faced the final hour feeling mo...