I am out and on the road quite early, when the moon still loiters in the sky. She is a gibbous, left-handed moon, just off my shoulder as I walk out in the half-dark, looking for a sign that will show me the road. But soon the moon is gone, her soft light replaced by the waking sun. I have not slept so very well and I walk on somewhat all a-grumble, hardly a proper Nazarene spirit for someone who slept the night in a church, but this soon passes, for I am cheered by the rooster's reveille, the cheerful greetings of the farmyard dogs, and the chorus of the songbirds, filling the air with their dawn devotions.

I walk ever west, my shadow all before me, leading me on, but as the sun moves across the sky my shadow shortens, shortens, shortens, and by mid-day I tread him underfoot, poor fellow, and soon he chases after me, straggling, struggling, unwilling to be left behind.

My stride and pace are better than I expected but still not up to the standard of two years ago, the first time I walked this way. But this time I come with a more contemplative mind. Two years ago I was far too taken up with the physical challenge. I remember that I carried in my mind thoughts of Xenophon's ten thousand Greeks in 401 BCE on their long Anabasis up country to the Euxine Sea, in flight from the Persian army, and also Mao's Red Army in 1935 on their Long March from Jiangxi Province, pursued by the Kuomintang, the rearguard fighting all the way until the survivors reached safety in the Yan'an Caves. These were heroic feats, crossing a tremendous distance at a terrific pace, but now I know I was foolish to think I could ever match the pace of a Greek hoplite or one of Mao's men, for none of them were anything like my age.

No, this time I will take my time.

But these thoughts of soldiers on the march call to mind an encounter just a few days ago, walking west from Estrella. Ahead I see a young woman walking with a much older man, (later I learn he is her uncle.) and they are singing as they walk down the road, and I can hear them at a distance. I gradually catch up with them, for my pace is quicker, and as I draw near I hear the last words of their song, "Nous combattons les enemies de la nation!" And with each beat their walking sticks strike the ground emphatically.

I draw alongside and ask the old gentleman, is this a marching song of the French Army, perhaps from long ago? And he answers, Yes! Of course! It is the song of the Army of the Republic when they followed Napoleon on his great victories in Italy, the Low Countries, and Germany and Austria!  I cannot resist, (why do I do these things?), so I ask him if the same song was sung by the soldiers of France when they marched across Spain and Russia? His eyes narrow, not sure what I mean by this, then he laughs and says, "Oui, Oui, en l'Espagne, et la Russie..." And he laughs again, ruefully, for in these two countries there were no victories, only catastrophes.

But I must not end this on a note that may give even the slightest ill impression of the French, for only this morning I have a conversation with a charming young Frenchman. I stop at a small village café some miles before Burgos for a morning coffee, and a man I've seen in the days before joins me. He is in his thirties, prematurely grey, and quite tall and thin. He joins me at my table and we talk for some moments.  He speaks to me directly with the familiar, informal tu form, which would not be surprising in Spanish but I always think the French are more formal, reserving the tu-toyer for their intimates, and so I wonder if he speaks to me this way because we are both pilgrims in Spain? Would he do the same if we met in France? In any event, in Spain I seem to use more French than Spanish, and in Spanish I seem to make little progress at all.

In our conversation I learn that he began the Camino in France, in Le Puy, a long way north. He describes attending Mass at the cathedral in Le Puy and receiving the blessing of the bishop for the journey he was beginning, and how the bishop sent him on his way, and clearly this was an important moment for him. He asks if I am Catholic and, somewhat evasively, I answer that I had a Catholic education as a boy. He is gracious enough to understand this and ask no further, but goes on to recommend that I walk through France some day, saying I will find it even more pleasant than Spain, especially since I can speak French, which is excessive flattery, the most welcome kind.

But he really catches my attention when he speaks of the Chemin de Stevenson in the  central southern region of France, in the Auvergne and Languedoc, which the writer Robert Lewis Stevenson walked across with his donkey in 1878. Stevenson wrote Treasure Island and Kidnapped, two favorite novels of my childhood, and he described his journey across this rural landscape in the Massif Central in a series of essays. Best of all, his donkey's name was Modestine. Was there ever a better name for a donkey?

The young Frenchman tells me this part of France is wonderful country for walking, the people so warm-hearted, the food superb, and he insists I must try this someday.

We leave the café and walk together for awhile but he has a younger, longer-legged stride and I cannot keep up, so we agree to meet again farther down the road. Walking on at my own pace, I think about the prospect of a long walk in France – an adventure for the future? But first I must make my way to Santiago.  And yet I cannot help but stray in my imagination and soon I see myself in the Auvergne, passing through one lovely village after another, meeting kind people and my French improving with each day – or each mile! – new things to experience and capture in words, and soon I am wondering, what shall I call my donkey?