By midday we’re sipping cappuccinos in lieu of hot chocolates while we have brekkie (yep, bread and cheese, chocolate and mandarins) and soon after, with a new map in hand, the old one left behind a couple of days ago in a pizza bar, we’re on the road.
The rain holds off and it’s surprisingly warm. The best news for me is that my pack is finally feeling lighter! The last couple of days it’s been so heavy, as if the straps are two hands pulling down on my shoulders with all their might. Amazing, isn’t it? There’s nothing extra in it, no noticeable changes in my physical capabilities . . . yet there you go, out of the blue the pack’s heavy and impossible to strap on properly. And then, hallelujah, it’s not!

An hour later we find what Ben has been drooling for ever since we landed on Adriatica’s eastern shoreline – pig on a spit. We’re in time, on time, in luck – it’s shriveled up, probably not pig and ready to be eaten.
While he’s in lamb heaven, I’m in chip heaven. Frozen food entrepreneurs will have a field day when they discover Crna Gora (or Crne Gore, depending on your vowel preference) still has good old-fashioned bloody delicious greasy homemade chips. These are pre-trans fat days and jeez they’re good.

That said, one of the most dangerous things a pilgrim can do is make assumptions about what’s up ahead . . .
. . . all is well.
We’re warm. Not particularly fed. We’re content.
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