My feet's too big ... And they're driving me up the wall Belorado to San Juan

Ever since John admitted that his feet were size 14, this Fats Waller song has been on my mind. Last night I met Lee, a lady from San Francisco who told me that my feet looked swollen, which makes sense, it's a squeeze into my boots, and perhaps this is why there are so many pressure points causing blisters. Lee's other piece of advice was to lie on the ground at the end of the walking day with legs extended perpendicularly up a wall. And it is from this peculiarly uncomfortable position that I write to you now. She says you'll feel like you've new feet and legs, and frankly I'd trade mine in for any alternative.

A cold morning, but this signals a clear sky and sunrise. Everyone is sniffly by now: a lack of sleep has left everyone vulnerable to cold germs. There are so many things to disturb sleep that there is no chance of getting more than about 4 or 5 hrs.

We continue to pass humbler villages with humbler churches (I suppose corn doesn't pay so well as wine) but for all that they are very beautiful. Across fields we see the white curved walls and pink tiles of the churches, of course they are always presenting their eastward apsidal ends to westward bound pilgrims.

The majority of the group want to stop for lunch at 11, buy I know I have to make headway while my feet are moving well, so I walk most of the way alone. The path climbs and heads through paths on a logging road. It is ssomewhat monotonous and I'm glad when I come across Miriam and Marco about to start lunch as by 1:15 I am beginning to flag. I stop and dig my own provisions (bread, mozzarella, tomato and chorizo) out of my bag.

We reach the old monastery of San Juan de Ortega quite quickly after that, and the church is very fine with a wonderful capital of the annunciation/ visitation/ nativity. It was rediscovered in the 70s that the sun hits the image of the Annunciation on the feast day.

The refugio, while it can boast a fine tiny cloister and characterful pillars, is poorly equipped. The beds are ancient and sagging. There is no kitchen, just a microwave, so the food we had bought is useless. For dinner the choice is a microwave ready-meal paella, or a tortilla from the bar 50yards down the way. We would, like many of our travelling companions, pushed on to the next church, but for the fact thatM Malta is half lame with muscle strains.