Zubiri to Pamplona

I sometimes feel like to be friends with me you need to be good at cleaning up messes.

Today, I got in a right tangle with my water camel pack which tucks into the back of my backpack. Long story short, I sprang a momentous leak and ended up with a mini flood in the dorm room while I ran out with my entire (packed) rucksack to let the pack drain into the sink.

Thank God everyone had already shipped out and it was just me and Anne in there. Anne mopped while I sorted out my equipment i.e. angrily stuffed it back, empty, into my pack.

It put me in mind of the night before my friend Emily and I travelled to Cuba and I spilt a tin of white emulsion onto the hall carpet at 10pm. I'm sure if you know me, you'll have similar tales of woe to tell.

Anyhow, this was not my only water issue of the day. You know when you really need the loo and you know there's a toilet soon and you just need to make it there? Well, imagine the toilet is 2km away, that your feet are aching with every step, your left leg won't bend properly and your little toe is about to drop off. Then imagine you get to the cafe the guide book told you would be there, and that it's closed for refurbishment.

I knew I'd never make it to the next town, so while Anne, who I walked with all day today, found a nice quiet spot by the side of the main road for a picnic, I frantically ran round the village knocking on doors. At last one man opened up - I managed "Sorry. Toilet. Please." in terrible Spanish but I think the face you make when you're about to wet your pants is pretty universal and he let me in very graciously - thank God!

I joined Anne on a patch of grass with fantastic view of the lorries going by, and exhausted (but with an bladder) we ate our bountiful lunch of sliced sausage.

Today was a tough day. Fifteen miles, with sore feet and legs. I'm told after a week I'll start to feel better. I bloody hope so!

By the time Anne and I reached Pamplona, we were dead on our feet. After a shower and some limping round the hostel catching up with people. A pancake party was soon announced, and the guys went out in the rain to bring us back supplies and wine.

I was sous chef to Martine - who better than a Dutch girl to cook us Dutch pancakes? The guys laid out the table with meats and cheeses and we all sat together all night having fun and enjoying some well earned glasses of red.

I didn't think about my blisters again until I had to attend to mine before bed - there's nothing like sticking pins in your toes while a hot Brazilian fireman looks on from his bunk.

It's almost exciting to wonder which new low I'll hit tomorrow!