![]() ![]() Soon the sun emerged, casting long golden rays down a rural road. Paint these bucolic scenes in the deepest part of my memory. The whole of the journey was still ahead, but I yearned to suspend time. All gradually revealed within an etheric timelessness as if passing through a peasant's waking dream. We passed barbed wire fences, stacked stone walls, gnarled apple trees, weathered barns. The ancient trail pulled us forward through the countryside on rambling inclines and steep downward slopes. “Hola, Buen Camino,” the pilgrims would utter. I could hear my breath, my boots crunching on rocks, and the approaching clicks and steady rhythm of hiking poles. ![]() There were dark shadows and unfamiliar forms, the occasional cry of a rooster, a dog barking on some distant farm. My eyes were still adjusting to that first foggy morning when dawn was breaking over the Galician hills.
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