The sky hung down woolly and wet. Rolling thunder could still be heard in the distance. Rain gear, typically buried deep in our packs, rode on top, just in case.
We crossed the Arga on the way out of Puente la Reina. It would be the last time.
I pulled down my sunglasses and hung over the stone rail. My glasses dangled from a string around my neck. The flow below, like us, had run off the Pyrénées. Unlike us, its journey would end in the Mediterranean.
