Now we are in Odeciexe, a sweet village arranged on a hillside above a lush valley and a river which runs another four k before it flows into the Atlantic.
We're staying in a magical tiny-tiny house with a lovely courtyard. Carlos, who built this house, comments on how early we arise in the morning. Like him, he says. I tell him, actually, we slept in, by several hours.
Yesterday, we hiked along the river to the sea, then north along the bluffs, about 8.5 k out, then back. Along the way, we met folks from Italy, Germany, France and the UK--- all hiking town to town. All friendly, all young.
Today, we headed north, a bit inland and along a canal, through small-scale agricultural areas. (Moo!) Stopped for picnic lunch, then backtracked to an oceanside loop. So much open space. Quiet, except for birdsong. Racked up 23 k, today. We're feeling confident we can make the treks between towns, now.
What I wonder, as I hike:
Why no washcloths, here?
What does it take to get a bit of greenery on a sandwich?
How long will it take for me to sleep in until most everyone else does, here?
Is it possible to feel heard, if the one listening doesn't understand the words? Without words, how do I connect without touch?