I’m very much aware that this is the beginning of the end for the walk – and it’s not going to be a clean, or particularly dignified final stretch either.
Almost everything around me is falling apart. My clothes are patchy with bleaching from sun and sweat; they’re worn, and my pair of trousers is torn at the crotch (which makes for a problem when one is washing both of the pairs of underwear…!); my walking stick has ground itself down by at least 25 centimeters since it was sawn to size two and a half months ago in far-off Villers-Chatêl; my boots are similarly worn, giving my gait a wonkyness that has amused many a Belgian; and two thousand kilometers of repeated rubbing has spent the fabric of my backpack in many places. I won’t mention the state of my socks. And just today, I lost the button on my only pair of shorts.
And then there is also the weather. I’ve always been sceptical of people like Bear Grylls, when they dramatically assert that drinking three (or however many) pints an hour is necessary to replace sweat in various tropical climates. Well, I’ve changed my mind. Whatever Bear Grylls claims to sweat, I’ll wager I do double. And some.
In other words, on Saturday I can well expect to wobble into the Vatican on wonky shoes, with the appearance of a lobster red vagabond, swimming in his own sweat. I’ll almost be offended if they ask for my pilgrim ID.
Distance to Rome: 70 miles
