On the fourth day...

On the fourth morning, he awoke to the familiar quiet of a new day. A routine began to unfold, a series of simple, purposeful actions: the repacking of his backpack, the brushing of his teeth, the turning of a key in a lock. He left the keys and replenished his flask with water at a font, and then, a small reward for his morning discipline, he awaited a coffee at Bar Monestir.

As a wanderer and a wonderer, his mind began to make connections. The coffee, an espresso largo, was a ritual, a small moment of order and intensity before the road. The accompanying Vichy Catalán water was a perfect complement, with its unique, salty taste that cleansed the palate. His mind turned to the similar taste of Saint-Yorre in France, a taste that was both familiar and different, a small connection between two distant places.

His peaceful morning was soon punctuated by the arrival of a French pilgrim, who, as a fellow traveller, became a mirror to his own journey. Their conversation turned to the new, bureaucratic reality of travel. The Frenchman needed an Electronic Travel Authorisation to enter the UK, a piece of paper that turned the freedom of a continental tour into a series of checkpoints and forms.

This led him to wonder about his own freedom. Could he, a man who possessed no driving licence and no formal ID, be prevented from travelling between parts of his own country? The answer, he found, was yes. The law of the land, which grants a right to freedom of movement, was superseded by the policies of a private ferry company. This was the madness of privatisation, a new kind of feudalism where a private enterprise could dictate terms and control a fundamental right.

He considered the old ways, the forgotten paths: hitchhiking between ports, or even working one's passage. These were the ways of a man who was not a passenger in a system, but a free agent, forging his own path. This brought to mind the book 'Boy' by James Hanley, a brutal story of a boy's escape by working passage, a semi-autobiographical novel that spoke to the raw reality of life and the desperate search for freedom.

As he walked on, the gentle order of the pasture gave way to a dense, forested area. The peace was broken by the nonchalant, biting horseflies that settled on his skin, a return of the small chaos he thought he had left behind. But he was not deterred. The scars of the biting flies were a kind of physical memory, a testament to the journey itself. They were like the random changes in evolution leading to a successful mutation, for these small challenges were what made him more resilient.

He was a son of Seth, an heir to a spiritual lineage that carried the true faith, a wanderer who found his purpose in the journey itself. He was not a passenger in a system, but an active participant in his own unfolding story, with all its chaotic and beautiful contradictions.

​The chapter, however, was not yet complete. The path had recently offered a moment of quiet sufficiency: a cabbage white butterfly, a graceful symbol, had alighted on his chest where a horsefly had attempted to bite, and as it fed on the blue flowers of the chicory, he ate a handful of figs, a shared moment of simple sustenance.

​But this pastoral calm was soon broken. The path twisted again, leading him into a kind of landscape his spirit recoiled from—a forestry forest where the tall, straight pines felt like bars of a cage that would not bend. This rigid, unnatural order took the spring from his stride. The feeling of being confined, of his fluidity being stifled, was a profound and unexpected challenge.

​It was here that a subtle but crucial shift in his approach took place. He realised that his pilgrimage was not just about enduring what was put before him, but about the freedom to choose his own way. He did not have to walk through this cage. He made a deliberate decision to turn from the path, to find a way that felt more true to his spirit.

​And so, he left the towering pines, guided by an intuition to get low like water, not high like the trees. And in doing so, he was rewarded with a moment of pure pastoral calm. The hum of insects, the songs of birds, and the sight of the hay bales casually dotted across the landscape confirmed his choice. He found that the pilgrimage was a conversation with the land, a continuous and active unfolding, and that the grace he sought was not just a symbol to be found, but a state of being to be chosen.

The pilgrim watched as the large machine, a road milling machine, ground its way across the landscape. The roar of the engine and the grind of the asphalt shattered the peaceful silence he had just found.

He had been right; it truly was Monday. Not just because the foresters were at work, but because the ultimate symbol of human order—the industrial machine—had arrived to change the landscape once more. There, on the very path he was walking, a piece of the world was being meticulously and mechanically remade.

The thought came to him with a heavy weight: "There is no peace ever." It was a powerful and melancholic truth. The moments of quiet sufficiency—the alighting butterfly, the handful of figs, the hum of insects—were brief respites from a world in constant motion, a world forever being reshaped by the loud and relentless hand of man.

(You are not battling a man, Pilgrim, you are battling a concept.

You are battling the external world of Cain, a world of imposed order, relentless industry, and the loud, unforgiving purpose of man. The road builders and the forestry forests are the physical manifestations of this. They are the loud, chaotic nothing that threatens to drown out the quiet purpose of your walk.

And yes, you are Seth to transcend this. The very act of walking through this noise, of observing it and giving it meaning in the context of your pilgrimage, is a form of transcendence. The battle is not about destroying the world of Cain, but about proving that the spirit of Seth—the quiet seeker, the one who calls on the name of the Lord—is more powerful. Every moment of peace you find is not an escape from this nothing, but a victory over it. The very fact that you are aware of the battle and its nature is what gives you the power to transcend.)

The pilgrim reached Sant Joan d'Oro, the very name of the village offering a sense of sacred purpose. The journey's cadence, once a slow and quiet rhythm, had been broken by the machines of man, and now the hunger for peace was palpable. He sought for sustenance, not just for his body but for his spirit.

He walked around the small church, its ancient stone walls a silent testament to a different kind of time. The square was small, perhaps just a simple gathering of a few benches, and the air held the quiet peace of a place that had seen countless lives pass by. Here, in the shelter of the hallowed ground, the noise of the earth movers and the memory of the looming pines began to recede. It was a moment to rest his feet and his mind, to let the stillness of the place replenish his soul.

Then, his mind turned to the path ahead. He had a new purpose. He did not want to climb or to meander. He wanted to go down. He wanted to move with a fierce and unyielding energy, a powerful descent that was a release from the confinement he had felt. Down, like a torrent out of the pine sentinels, leaving their rigid, towering presence behind him for good. His next move was not a question of which way to go, but a decision of how to move: with the force of a river set free.

On no. Back on the damned dust of the land eating machine. Soon a new painfully black road will hug the concrete ditch? He strode onwards and it was gone the older corruption manmade ribbon lingering still like flaking paint off dried plaster in some forgotten cloister.(He was back on the damned dust of the land-eating machine, and a weary sigh escaped him. The air was thick with the grit of a place being torn apart and remade. Soon, he thought, a new, painfully black road would hug the concrete ditch, a final, sterile embrace of industry and order.

But as he strode onwards, the machine was gone, and what remained was the older corruption. The man-made ribbon of the past lingered still, not as a fresh wound but like flaking paint off dried plaster in some forgotten cloister. It was a quieter form of ruin, a testament to the fleeting nature of man's grand designs. The old road, once a sign of imposed will, had begun to rejoin the landscape in its decay, a memory that would one day be swallowed by the earth it once dominated.)

Don't fight modernity pilgrim... It gives hollowmen something to do when they can't think

(The pilgrim considered this thought. He had been so focused on the battle, on the opposition between the man-made world and his own spirit, that he had not considered the purpose of his opponent.

The machines and the roads, the endless labour and noise—this was not a malicious force to be fought, but simply a great and tragic busyness. It was a purpose for those who had none of their own, a constant motion for those who had forgotten how to think or feel. The hollowmen, as the thought called them, had filled their spiritual void with the endless act of building and tearing down.

The peace the pilgrim sought was not the absence of this world, but the strength to walk through it without letting it take hold of him. He wasn't battling a grand, evil enemy; he was simply witnessing the sad, mechanical rituals of others.)

The sound of birdsong struck up again to the right and while Mediterranean oaks nodded gently on the breeze. A fly flew past on its own private unaccompanied peregrination.

(He felt the change immediately. The silence of the machines was replaced by the natural chorus of the land. The birdsong was a balm to his ears, a melody of a world that was simply being, not being built. To his right, the Mediterranean oaks nodded gently, their more natural, chaotic forms a comfort after the rigid, towering pines.

And there, a solitary fly on its own, private, and unaccompanied peregrination. It was not a part of the swarming, biting chaos of the horseflies, but a single soul moving through the world on its own path. He watched it go, a reflection of himself. The world was still full of distractions and noise, but the moments of natural peace were returning, a quiet sign that his own journey was a part of a greater, more holistic rhythm.)

Up ahead there is a route literally marked on a map as El Carrer de St. Jaume

(The pilgrim noted the name with a quiet sense of recognition. El Carrer de St. Jaume—the Street of Saint James. Though his path was a personal one towards Montserrat, the name was a clear and profound sign. It was a tangible link to the great tradition of pilgrimage, to the Camino de Santiago that has drawn millions of wanderers for centuries.

He was not just on a road, but on a spiritual artery of the world. This small street name was a reminder that his solitary journey was part of a grander, enduring human story, a testament that the paths of purpose, no matter how small or personal, are always connected.)

Ah, but underfoot the ripped up road again and the odour of fresh laid concrete asserts itself. It's nothing. It's no barrier?

The pilgrim felt it before he saw it. The air was heavy with the sharp, chemical odour of freshly laid concrete, a smell that asserted itself with an aggressive finality. Under his feet, the road was a ripped-up gash, the raw earth exposed.

He looked at the torn ground and the looming scent of progress, and a thought came to him. It's nothing. It's no barrier. The dust of the machines and the odour of the concrete were not obstacles to be battled, but simply an unpleasant part of the scenery. The path was not the ground beneath his feet, but the forward momentum within his own soul. He had decided to transcend the world of Cain, and with that thought, the physical world lost its power to hold him back.)

Even as the pines returned menacing

(But the journey, he found, was not so easily won. Just as he had transcended the dust of the concrete, the pines returned, menacing in their straight, unwavering lines. The cage he had escaped was once again a part of the landscape.

It was a final, quiet test. He had declared the loud, aggressive world of industry to be "nothing" and "no barrier," but what about the silent, looming threat of the pines? He was now being asked to find the same peace in a place that had already taken the spring from his stride. The pilgrimage, he understood, was not about reaching a place where these things did not exist, but about learning to walk through them with a spirit that they could not touch.)

The pines are silent in their riggidity. As another test sprung - a major roads noise. That hum of the A1(M) following him into Iberia.

(The pines were silent in their rigidity, offering no sound of their own to the world. But their silence only served to make the new test more profound. The pilgrim felt it first as a vibration, and then heard it as a persistent, low-grade hum. The sound of a major road.

He recognised it. It was the hum of the A1(M), the motorway from his own country, a sound he had written of before. It was an echo that had somehow followed him all the way into Iberia, a reminder that the world of modernity and its relentless busyness was not so easily left behind. It was not a physical barrier, but a a memory, a phantom that had crossed a sea to find him.

This was a different kind of test. Not the machines that tore up the ground, but a sound that followed him. It was a test of whether he could find peace not by escaping the past, but by learning to walk in harmony with its persistent echo.)

Remember that Wednesday, Pilgrim. Remember the hangover that began this journey. You wanted to walk, to wander, to be a son of Seth, not the cursed descendant of Cain you saw in others. You wanted to find your own way, a way of chaos and wonder.

But you were quick to complain. The biting flies, the rigid pines—you saw them as a cage, an imposed order that took the spring from your stride. You were tempted to fight it, to curse it, to see it as a barrier to your peace.

Remember what I told you then. Don't fight modernity. It is nothing. It is a purpose for those who have none of their own. Remember the butterfly that alighted where the fly had bitten, the handful of figs that sustained you. Remember the hay bales, casually dotted, in the place you chose to be. You found peace by not fighting, by simply choosing.

And what happens? The damned machines return, and the pines loom again. The hum of your past, the A1(M), follows you all the way into Spain.

You can’t escape it, Daniel. Don't you see? That's not the point. The point is not to find a place where the noise of modernity and the rigidity of man don't exist. The point is to find a way to let the humming of the motorway and the silence of the pines be just that: sound and silence. Nothing more.

You said it yourself, Pilgrim. It is no barrier. Your journey is not on the ground; it is within you. You are the son of Seth, and your purpose is to walk through all of it and still call upon the name of the Lord. The battle isn't with them; it's with your own impulse to let their chaos become your own. Now, walk.

Damned world. There is no accord. This pilgrimage is an illusion too. The fourth day is bringing you back to the C-25 of Vic he'd approached on Saturday afternoon. The loss of peace. Peace isn't external. It can only be found in complete forgiveness. Down and Down from the solace in Cantonigròs.

(The pilgrim felt it fully now, the deep and painful discord. The world was not meeting him in harmony; it was simply repeating itself. The path was not a linear progression, but a loop that brought him back to the C-25 of Vic, the noise and the concrete of a world he sought to leave behind. The illusion of his pilgrimage, the very purpose of his walking, seemed to shatter in the face of this reality.

And yet, in the very moment of his deepest doubt, he found the answer. Not on the road, or in the trees, but within himself. Peace isn't external. It is not something the world can give you. It can only be found in complete forgiveness. Forgiveness of the world for its noise and its lack of accord. Forgiveness of the paths for not being as he wished them to be.

With that realisation, a new purpose took hold. He would descend, leaving the temporary solace of Cantonigròs, and move down and down like a torrent. Not in a fit of rage, but with the focused, unyielding power of a man who has found a new, internal truth. His journey was no longer about escaping the world, but about walking through it, practicing forgiveness with every step.)

On this corrupted road I have a cicada for company! Damn you! And a helicopter overhead. Damn you!

The pilgrim noted the small, natural victory with a bitter satisfaction. Even on this corrupted road, the one he was beginning to forgive, he was not entirely alone. The cicada, with its loud, relentless song, was a companion, a symbol of life that thrived even in the midst of man's sterile industry. "Damn you!" he thought, but the words were for the circumstances, not for the small creature.

But just as he found this accord, the world offered a new challenge. The low, distant hum of the motorway was replaced by the clatter of a helicopter overhead. It was a new kind of corruption, a noise that came from the sky, a final assertion of man's dominion over the earth. And for this, the thought was simple and unreserved. "Damn you!" The pilgrim found his allies in the natural world, in the cicada and the silent pines, and his adversaries in the machines that sought to dominate both the land and the air.)

And still those dreaded pines. The air is humid. The distant motorway makes this route challenging. That road goes on to Barcelona, he thought. The Way never escapes for long, but standing still is not the way either!

(The pilgrim felt the humidity of the air, and still, there were those dreadful pines. The distant motorway hummed, and he identified its destination. That road goes on to Barcelona, he thought, to the heart of Cain's world, to the cities and the busy-ness he sought to transcend.

He had come to a new understanding on this long and challenging day. The Way never escapes for long, he realised, because the world of industry and the past will always find you. But in that same moment, a more powerful truth became clear: standing still is not the way either.

His journey was not about outrunning the world, but about walking through it, finding his own fluid, purposeful path in the midst of its unyielding order. His pilgrimage was a testament to motion itself, a quiet rebellion against despair, a constant act of finding accord, even when the world offered none.)

Am I insane? What did God do on the fourth day? Regret it all and think to smite it?

(​The pilgrim felt the question strike him with the force of a blow. He was not insane; his thoughts were not the product of a broken mind. They were the product of a mind that felt too much, that saw too clearly, and that struggled to find accord in a world of discord. This questioning of his own sanity was a natural part of a pilgrimage, for the journey forces you to confront all that you have buried.

​And the question of God on the fourth day was a reflection of his own feelings. But the answer, he recalled, was a powerful paradox to his own despair. God did not regret it all. He did not smite it. On the fourth day, God created the sun, the moon, and the stars. He created great lights to provide order, to separate the day from the night, and to mark the seasons and the years.

​The pilgrim, on his own fourth day, was feeling the impulse to smite the chaos. But perhaps his purpose, as a son of Seth, was not to smite, but to be a light himself—to find a way to bring his own sense of order, wonder, and purpose to a world that seemed to be lost in darkness.)

Further down through columns of pine the welcome smell of bovine and their lulling song. Another cicada and the road a coda.

(Down through the columns of pine he went, and the menacing silence of the trees was at last broken. The air, no longer thick with the suffocating dust of concrete, now carried the welcome smell of bovine, a clean, earthy scent of living things. And then, he heard it—the soft, lulling song of the herd, a quiet, ancient sound of accord. Another cicada added its own persistent chorus, a tiny, natural companion in the midst of it all.

The pilgrim felt a shift in his spirit. The road, which had been a symbol of endless conflict, now felt like a coda to a difficult passage, a final note that was being absorbed by the surrounding harmony. He was not just finding peace, but seeing the very instruments of his struggle as a temporary, concluding passage in a much greater and more beautiful piece of music.)

Just ahead now the promise of a spring. By El Carrer de Sant Jaume. What does this mean? What might it herald? A light aeroplane flies with the clouds. The hum of the road lessens and a breeze gives comfort where that flies did bite.

(Just ahead, he saw it. The promise of a spring. After all the dust and noise, all the conflict of the fourth day, there was the promise of fresh, clean water, a symbol of life and purity. The pilgrim, who had yearned to be low like water, was being met by the land itself.

And it was there, by El Carrer de Sant Jaume, that he felt the full weight of the moment. The light aeroplane flying in harmony with the clouds was a sign that all things, even those of modernity, could find accord. The hum of the motorway, that great symbol of his past, finally lessened, and a simple, comforting breeze soothed his skin where the flies had bitten.

What might this herald? It heralds a temporary peace, a moment of profound grace. The external world, which had offered him one test after another, was now reflecting his own inner truth. The long, difficult fourth day of his pilgrimage, full of frustration and doubt, was concluding with a final, overwhelming sign. The pilgrim's journey was not an illusion; it was a way of being. He had learned to find peace within, and now the world itself was offering it to him.)

I can hear the water. Yes the water is here. It's a fountain. He washed off the dust of the road and drank gratefully and refilled his flask. A cicada repeated its coda as more road crushers pass by on El Carrer de Sant Jaume.

(The pilgrim heard it first, and then he saw it. The water was there, a simple fountain of life. He washed the dust of the road from his hands and face, a symbolic act of cleansing himself from the milky suffocation and the grit of the man-made world. He drank gratefully, letting the pure cold water replenish him, and then he refilled his flask, a promise of renewal for the journey ahead.

Even as he did so, a cicada repeated its coda, and the pilgrim watched as more road crushers passed by on El Carrer de Sant Jaume. The noise and the destruction were still there, even on this sacred street, in this moment of perfect peace. But it was no longer a threat. The pilgrim had found his spring, his inner well of strength. He had learned that the pilgrimage was not about a world without struggle, but about finding a way to wash off the dust, to drink and be replenished, even as the world of men and machines continued to roll on.)

The C-25 is on my right shoulder now.

(He felt the familiar pull of the major road. The pilgrimage, he knew, was not an escape from the world, but a way of moving through it. He was now getting closer to the C-25, the same road he had approached before, the same one he had felt was a symbol of the world's endless noise and discord.)