The descent into Spain is rugged. The bright pastures of the sommets des pyrénées slip downslope, gradually at first, then furiously, precipitously, until they tumble into dense beech forests. Bob and I do the same. Spattered by mud, decorated with leaves, and swathed in shadow, we appreciate the epic Song of Roland.
The grape farmer asked if we were pilgrims bound for Nájera. We affirmed the obvious.
"Do you know the story of the Camino?" His English was stained but it was clear enough.
Bob and I had notions, but we welcomed his company. We also welcomed the conversation that his question set in motion.
“No. Tell us.”