What's in a name?

Lentejas con Arroz
lentejas + zanahoria + cebolla + arroz + oregano + perejil pimento + Mucho Amor!  
...as written by Javier

I stood, rosemary tied to the front of my backpack, tapping my foot impatiently as my walking companion crawled out from under a hydrangea bush, holding aloft his prize of a lemon stolen from a farmers tree. I laughed as this man whose name I still didn't know sliced bits of lemon for our camelbacks, this Frenchman who considered a bottle of basalmic vinegar a necessary weight in his backpack, this man who loved to feed others, this man who grew up in Toulouse and had family in Morocco, this man who never married but loves his girlfriend, this man whose name I still didn't know. I was secretly relieved when he stopped to bat lemons from a tree with his walking stick because when he walked, he set a bruising pace. I generally raced sweaty and out of breath after him as he took what seemed a leisurely stroll across Spain, all while slowly hand rolling and calmly puffing on his cigarettes. 

Javier, the man with the pretty eyes who washed my socks and cooked dinner the night before, sent us on our way into the early morning light with full bellies, recipes, flower scented clothing and kissed cheeks. 

Though we had left later, we quickly caught up with Manuela and Lucy, the lovely and intelligent Frenchwomen who brought laughter to our day. We stood in awe yet again at the beauty of the waters edge and had a slow coffee in llanes.  Our afternoon stretched long though, and as the kilometers added up, our bags and feet grew heavy. 

We stopped just outside of Playa de Poo, laying out our picnic treasures of bread cheese tomato and tuna just as the rain began and we ate messily before covering ourselves in raingear, Lucy looking poppy red against the grey backdrop. 

Kilometers had grown freakishly long as we wandered into the small highway town of Piñeles. "There is a scout group, there are no beds, but you can walk to the church."

"Where is that," I asked apprehensively. Our faces fell dramatically as the old woman pointed nearly straight up to a church off in the distance, set high into the side of the mountain. 

"Oh dear God!"

Saint James laughed, "just wait till you see the view from the top.. You will thank me then!" 

Later, while eating our meal of garlic and cumin pasta made by the man whose name I don't know, we toasted to our view of mountains ending in clouds.