A rebel without a clue.

Distinct lack of energy: we're all zapped like tortured flies. Everyone is together alone. Some somnobulant readers, sleepers and I drawing freestyle. Now wolfing down pasas sin pepitas and glass duo of garanacha/ grenache noir. Two danes have heads in fiction. Partneren/Khans Skat. We're all in a trance; bewitched by the croaking and chirping. Adios amigos? Frau hacks at bread with a blunt spoon. We are lack want. None move very quickly if at all; it strikes me it is some opium den. Quick tour of the ville but even at 7pm it is shouting it is hot; 30°. Quick hello bueno to two female skinheads from Torino, both femme? One has very bad knees. Everyone has a bad mechanism lazy city walking doesn't require attention to the position of feet, knees and hips. I learnt this in France. All these guys out of Saint Jean Pied Pont are suffering terribly. We walk without marching correctly. Fini. Got some bananas, prunes, figs and a can of Coke Zero to skip along the Camino by 6:30...

Snakes in the grass go wild in the country, at around caza de reserva where the frogs were croaking, he passed me and then watched my onwards journey. We bothered each other but briefly. I saw some very old vines just near to the first village after Puente la Reina: Mañeru. I ventured to get groceries in Estella took a turn round the centre and found a bodegas artisanale. Me thinks €8 for old vine garanacha isn't too bad to confirm my feelings. Laderas de Montejurra, Emiliovalerio. Back to consume my unvaried lentil and pea from a can with a carrot of the pickled sort. Je suis le Gourmand, Non? Well the vin rouge knocks panties off all wine since Cahors; nice action Navarra old vine Garanacha. One glass and then a siesta it is 16:04 here but might be 14:04 really. That is what the sundial says. That is what the sun says. That is why it was so hot at ten, eleven and twelve: bastards! European central time fucks with your mind. I'm now overheating and can only wear my gaudi Can...

Cerveza from a vending machine: a buck? Nice idea! San Miguel not so hot, but it is ok? Sat in the Jardin with Seanan playing scales; or is that another person? Cathal reads Mort in the sun and I have another blister on the same toe as on the Aubrac. Nana stretches her left leg in the shade. A couple of hours and I'm tired, but maybe also full of gay fever. Yep. My nose is gay, my eyes are gay and my throat is gayer too. Listening to the auberge I'm wakened from my drifting via Australian voices. Which is damn odd. I feel a kin of that voice. New Zealand too. A homeless man I rewrite his worth. I substitute on for at. He lives 'on' the street ... What arrogance. Now he knows where he lives on Inglasis. Drops his pencil in the gutter. Drunk as a Skunk. I think of all the ciders outside of the West Country Asturias is closest. Good truth. Apples. Sour. Cloudy. Off back to sleep well. Really great being back on the way. ... Mad Spaniards coming into the only place to ...

In Pamplona we're in four rows, 2 deep on either side of what was once a church, couple of doors down from the main Cathedral. You are assigned a bed in order and once there are no more beds? Keep walking. There are 28 beds in 14 bunks on this right wing and the same is repeated above me and on the left hand side; roughly 120 beds. Plenty of space in a cloistered space to dry clothes. Jesus Y Maria. The people I've briefly spoken to are a variety of ethnicities, and the age group stretches further too. My wind is not really in my sails today so I've planned what I'm wearing tomorrow, but I don't feel alive or vital yet. I listened to the Bayern master pianist without really caring what he was playing, or how well. I thought he'd said he was from Bolivia not Bavaria. I am off. Switched off. My stomach sighing is concerning me as this is a community dorm and I can't go letting off steam without a few sour looks. It seems perfectly reasonable for me to go the J...

Sleepless in Girona. Sleeping in Pamplona. Another crazy night of booming voices, late arrivals and plenty of stomping feet; mopeds and motorbikes scretching; guitars wailing, gulls foiling; car alarms bawling; Spanish hombres singing, shouting and slagging; me flailing the dark! This ain't no place to be able to sleep through the chorus and awaken raring to take my seat; plaça catalunya. Wil.I.am and Justin Bieber 7am Girona oh yeah! I'm sat as far as I could get. Why is it so mono and unreal. Katie Perry: I'm taking my stuff and going. My pelerin pendant has vanished and I almost in my haste left no. 2 flask. Who is it writes and produces such dreadfully awful and empty popular music? It is so bad and evil that we're being subjected to either 24hr terror on the airwaves or transmission in one corner or 24hrs mindlessly unmusical frantic gibberish. I depart as soon as I consume a watery coffee and confide to the night security man how insane the music would make me. A...

Girona. End of. Pt.2. Between an alfresco afternoon tapas and wine those boomerang Ray-Ban's returned. Knew I shouldn't fret! If my water bottle could come south of its own motivation I would be complete again! Self made is often ideal, but I am unable to make this of myself. For a tetra prisma Solfrío Gazpacho bring it on! Better than any restaurants made option in the UK. There is a tension between the tomato, bread and olive oil which could make a bleeding Mary? So I popped the cork on the terminal Cahors vin and the last alcohol to touch my lips prior to the next walking section of the pilgrimage. Then a siesta for fragmentation. Woken by Harley Davidson screaming up Ginesta at 5pm. It drags to have the afternoon under the volcano broken by such an arrogant machine. The other thirds of the vin I hope to share out in equal measurements. Some angry Spanish TV opera plays out over the heads of those of us truly detached from another reality. I checked the forecast for Puent...

Girona, you took my glasses! An exchange of goods. My sun glasses; Ray-Ban's roadsters. Gone this morning. I packed up again. More needs washing than is for wearing; I dug out my shorts, worn, and shirt, clean. If they weren't from prior to cornwall 2010 I would be maybe aggreived a little, but they're not essential. What did we do in the sun before shades? A hat. Slip Slop Slap; no mention of sunnies on channel nine! The Polish girl left a facial scrub that my pores were screaming at me to use! My face is polished up a sheen. Dolce Cafè for an espresso that is so thick my spoon defies logic! It's another blue skies day in the heart of Girona. The bustle under the cover of these arched, covered, side walks. All Spain hides before the sun paralyzed open spaces and a Catalan flag hangs sagging nonchalantly in a suggestion of a breeze. With selfless suggestion I set two Canadian darlings feet on the road to Sitges and Sonar free Spain. They flee south and weighed down F...