Somewhere past Roncesvalles Day 3
He had done everything right.
He watched the packing videos and bought the recommended shoes. He knew the albergue etiquette, the stage distances, the trick with the safety pins for wet socks, and how to dry his wet boots by stuffing newspaper in them overnight. By his own account he was as ready as a person could be.
By the second afternoon his feet were a mess of blisters. By the third morning his knee had seized up on a descent, and every step down was an excruciating negotiation.
What he did not expect was the loneliness. By the third night he had not had a single real conversation; he was in pain, and the thing he had dreamed about for two years felt like a cruel joke.
So he walked to a bus stop, rode to the airport, and flew home. He felt dejected. Utterly dejected.
