After my little choking incident yesterday I was feeling vulnerable, lonely and fragile. My chest muscles hurt from the coughing spasms, my bad shoulder felt strained, my blisters were bothering me and I was feeling sorry for myself. So I checked into a hotel at the edge of town (too far from the center to be convenient, it turned out), holed up in my room, did my daily washing of socks, underwear and t-shirt, attended to my feet, and did seven New York Times' crossword puzzles on my iPad, Monday through Sunday. And then, uncharacteristically, got a really good night's sleep.

I woke up in a much better mood. At the good breakfast buffet I loaded up on protein, carbs, fruit, and several cups of good, strong, bitter coffee. When I stepped outside the air was startlingly brilliant, cool, no humidity, and a steady breeze was blowing the cumulus clouds swiftly through a lapis sky. After yesterday's adventure I was wary of inhaling, but when I did I felt like I was breathing in vitamins straight from the source.

And today's walk, from Navarrete to Najera, was once again mostly idyllic, 10 miles or so through the famous La Rioja wine country, across rolling hills and vineyards set against a backdrop of green mountains. Yes, there were some highways visible from time to time and on the way into Najera there were some factories and apartment blocks, but most of the time it was serene, with birds chirping and earth underfoot.

I walked with an Irish character for a short while today, a hyper-energetic, wildly gesticulating man vaguely about my age, with an enormous face made even larger by bushy-to-the-chin sideburns. Ultimately he was too fast for me and he scooted ahead, but in the few minutes we were together he unironically tried to persuade me that drinking water is bad for you, that it bloats you and slows you down. Beer, orange juice, and biscuits are all you need, he said. Judging from his surfeit of energy, it seems to work for him. For the time being, though, I think I'll keep drinking water.

But I haven't connected deeply with anyone the past few days, and it feels ok. I love the solitude of the walk, lost in my thoughts and drinking it all in. And I love being startled from my reverie as another pilgrim says "Buen Camino" as he or she speeds by me.

In the middle of a long stretch, an enterprising entrepreneur had set up a stand selling fresh orange juice. As I approached I heard the strains of Dylan's "Hurricane" blasting from the stand, and it seemed so strange to me, hearing this song in the middle of wide-open sun-drenched vineyards in Spain. So when I passed by I waved and said "Bob Dylan!" The OJ seller gave me a huge thumbs up, smiled, and repeated "Bob Dylan!" really energetically. For some reason that made me very very happy.