15 mar

Walked another 28 kilometres, from Arzacq-Arraziguet to Arthez-de-Bearn. Making a total of 562 kilometres.
My leg’s fine, when I still don’t touch it. It doesn’t bother me while I’m walking. I would be able to drive a car again. Which proves as well the trivialness of these little pains, as the healing power that’s nestled in the body.
It is clear my body wasn’t used to this much walking, but gradually it adjusts to the new circumstances and seems to find a new equilibrium in which a lot of walking is the norm. My knees don’t hurt at all anymore. My heels were sensitive in the beginning but are okay now. The little blisters under my small toes are not painful. Julie calls them little pillows that protect an obviously vulnerable spot. She also calls them (the blisters) little brains.
All these remarks happen when Julie tends my feet, which she will do almost every evening. There is this pilgrim balm which smells like Vicks vapo rub, which it might be, though expansively repackaged and renamed. It works. Or seems to work. There is a lot of psychology in these products of course. 95% of the effects are caused by the fact that you think it will work. Anyway. it is clearly pleasurable for me, but somehow Julie enjoys it too. The foot fetishist in Julie is coming out. She must have been a closet foot fetishist for years, not even realizing herself maybe where her secret delights might come from.
Julie is in good company. In one of the Auvergne churches we saw this great sculpture of Maria Magdalena. Julie made sure that I wouldn’t miss it. ‘She seems to enjoy what she’s doing’, Julie said, which made me very curious. Well it ain’t no Bernini’s Theresa yet, but also Maria Madeleine seems to realize there are more pleasures in life than only spiritual ones.
They are trustworthy companions, my feet, and we happily trod on. Getting very close to the Pyrenees. A little more South and quite a bit more West. It is less than 100 kilometres to St Jean Pied du Port, where the journey over the Pyrenees starts. With every hill that I am passing I anxiously look if the mountain range between France and Spain is visible.
Today wasn’t a very good day for it. Although last night was a bright starry night with an almost full moon, this morning it was foggy. In contrast with most other days, the fog did not just burn off. Maybe it did in fact, but there were clouds behind the fog. After almost two weeks of sun, I almost felt cheated, although it was dry and the temperature was still perfect for walking.
But not to worry. An old woman on crutches was just walking out of her farmhouse door when I passed. She asked if I was going to Compostella. Yes, I said. Oh, I was so lucky with the weather, she continued. The weather was going to be just fine for at least a week and a half. Somehow old farmer women know these kind of things, I believe.
I set down for lunch on a bench that indicated it was less than 900 kilometres to Santiago. Which is true, 878 kilometres to go.