DEAR LANA, FIRST TIME, LAST TIME, AND NEVER AGAIN!
Fuentes – Cuenca | Or how the Camino tried to bury me in mud as a farewell gift, and I gave it the middle finger.
Yesterday, when my angel in a white car finally brought me to Fuentes, I had only three wishes in life.
First: for the rain to stop.
Second: to have a roof over my head.
Third: BEER!
And since the third wish was by far the easiest to fulfil, I decided to start there.
I walked into the first bar I came across.
No thinking.
No checking Google reviews.
No questions about whether they served good food, had a lovely terrace, or employed friendly staff.
If they had beer and a roof, then as far as I was concerned, it was a five-star hotel.
CIVILISATION!
How wonderful to see you again!
Not long before, I'd been standing in a tiny village where the only reliable institution was the church, the only thing on offer was coffee after Mass, and my tourist guide was an app with an apparently very vivid imagination.
And now I was sitting in a bar.
Dry.
With a beer.
Surrounded by people.
And with a bed booked for the night.
If that isn't luxury, I honestly don't know what is.
Of course, I didn't go unnoticed for long.
Because apparently, whenever I walk into a Spanish bar, only two things can happen.
Either nobody notices me.
Or I become the main attraction of the evening.
This time, it was option number two.
A few locals started watching me with curiosity.
I probably looked as though I'd just landed from Venus.
A soaking-wet pilgrim who had survived rain, wind, a missing hostel, and something dangerously close to a nervous breakdown, now sitting at the bar smiling at a beer as though she'd discovered the meaning of life.
If I'd had a sign on my forehead saying “WARNING: EXTRATERRESTRIAL LIFE FORM”, I probably couldn't have attracted any more attention.
And then something unexpected happened.
They offered me medica.
HONEY LIQUEUR!
A drink made from honey and strong spirits.
In Spain!
I'd been convinced I'd be surviving here on coffee, beer, and the occasional glass of wine, and suddenly someone offered me something that reminded me of home.
And it was good.
Actually, it was excellent.
“Well, look at that,” I told myself. “Maybe Spain does like me after all.”
First it nearly freezes me to death, then sends me to a village without accommodation, and now it tries to comfort me with honey liqueur.
A CLASSIC TOXIC RELATIONSHIP.
First it drives you insane, then buys you a drink and expects you to forget everything.
And the worst part?
It almost works.
I stayed in the bar for about an hour.
We had a little fun.
I tried to understand some Spanish.
They tried to understand me.
And everyone seemed perfectly happy with the fact that we didn't entirely understand one another.
But then I looked at the time.
And remembered why I was here in the first place.
TO WALK.
Not to visit Spanish bars.
Not to drink honey liqueur.
Not to spend every evening getting to know half the village.
Although I must admit, those activities do have their advantages.
I'd come here to walk.
And if I wanted to continue, I first needed to solve one rather boring but extremely important question.
WHERE THE HELL WAS I GOING TO SLEEP OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS?
So I left the bar and walked to my accommodation.
And there, another surprise was waiting for me.
A lovely room.
Warmth.
And something that, after the day's weather disaster, felt almost supernatural.
HOT RADIATORS!
DEAR GOD, HOT RADIATORS!
If I could have hugged them, I would have.
In fact, I was so happy that I almost greeted them.
“Good evening, my darling radiators. You and I are going to become very good friends tonight.”
Because practically everything I owned was soaking wet.
Trainers.
Socks.
Clothes.
If my backpack could speak, it would probably have asked for a dehumidifier.
So my first job was to set up a drying station.
I hung up everything that was wet.
Placed things as close to the warmth as possible.
And hoped that the following morning I'd be able to put on something that didn't feel as though it had just come out of the washing machine.
The room looked as though a hiking equipment shop had exploded inside it.
But I didn't care.
AS LONG AS EVERYTHING DRIED!
Once I'd finished that important domestic task, I sat down and opened my apps.
Time for planning.
My favourite evening entertainment.
Well, it was my favourite until I started looking at the accommodation options for the coming days.
Then it became considerably less entertaining.
First, I checked the next stage.
The route.
The distances.
The villages.
The places to sleep.
And within minutes, I had that unpleasant feeling in my stomach.
No, this time it wasn't hungry.
This time, it had apparently understood before I did that trouble was coming.
THERE WAS PRACTICALLY NO ACCOMMODATION.
The next available options looked more like basic shelters than reliable places to spend the night.
And after the previous day's experience, I trusted those promises about as much as a yellow arrow pointing towards a cliff.
I studied the distances.
Searched for alternatives.
Checked whether I could leave the official Camino route.
Perhaps another village a little further away?
Perhaps a hotel?
A private room?
Anything with a roof, a door, and a bed?
NOTHING.
Everything I found was either fully booked or simply not reliable enough to count on.
And ahead of me was also a stretch of approximately seventy kilometres that would have to be covered without the usual support along the way.
No reliable bars.
No shops where I could buy food.
No places where I could properly stop, refuel, and continue.
The villages did have churches, of course.
Naturally.
THERE ARE CHURCHES EVERYWHERE.
But excuse me, my dear friends, staring at a church tower isn't going to fill my stomach.
I can say ten prayers.
I can light a candle.
I can ask for a miracle.
But after fifty kilometres, my stomach will still be demanding a sandwich.
And a church pew is still not a bed.
At least not the kind of bed I want after walking all day.
I tried to find a solution.
I really did.
I checked routes away from the official trail.
Looked at surrounding villages.
Searched for accommodation I could reach by walking a few extra kilometres.
Because extra kilometres aren't a problem for me.
THE PROBLEM IS WHEN THERE'S ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AT THE END OF THOSE KILOMETRES.
And the more I searched, the clearer it became.
This wasn't going to work.
Not the way I wanted to walk.
Not in a way that would make me feel safe.
Not in a way that would allow me to enjoy the journey.
I sat there in my warm room, surrounded by drying clothes, slowly realising something I really didn't want to admit.
TOMORROW WOULD BE MY LAST DAY WALKING THE CAMINO DE LA LANA.
And you know what?
That really pissed me off.
Because I wanted to keep walking.
My legs wanted to keep walking.
My head wanted to keep walking.
My backpack hadn't been invited to vote, but it would have had to continue too.
I hadn't reached the point of physical exhaustion.
I didn't have blisters.
I wasn't injured.
I didn't need a rest day.
The route wasn't technically too difficult.
I WAS READY TO KEEP GOING.
But apparently, the Camino de la Lana wasn't ready for me.
Or at least its accommodation infrastructure wasn't.
And here's where you and I need to have a little conversation, dear Lana.
I can walk seventy kilometres in a day.
I'm not saying I'd be singing happily and skipping along like a little deer.
By the end, I'd probably be talking to my feet, swearing at every hill, and promising never to wear hiking shoes again.
But I can do it.
IF I KNOW THERE'S A BED WAITING FOR ME AT THE END.
That's all I need.
It doesn't have to be a five-star hotel.
It doesn't need a swimming pool.
The room doesn't need a sunset view.
It can be the simplest accommodation imaginable.
But it has to exist.
And someone has to confirm that I can sleep there.
Because after seventy kilometres, I really have no desire to stand in the middle of some Spanish village discovering that my bed was nothing more than a digital hallucination.
Yesterday, my world briefly fell apart for exactly that reason.
The app promised accommodation.
I believed it.
I walked sixteen kilometres in the rain.
And at the end?
Nothing.
If it hadn't been for those wonderful people, I'd have been in serious trouble.
And I have absolutely no desire to repeat that experience.
Especially not after seventy kilometres.
Can you imagine?
You arrive in a village in the evening.
Exhausted.
Hungry.
Wet.
Possibly already in the dark.
And discover there's nowhere to sleep.
No bus.
No train.
No taxi.
And then what?
Start looking for locals again and ask them to save your life?
NO, THANK YOU.
Once was enough.
Those people were wonderful.
But I don't want my plan for a safe night's sleep to depend on whether I happen to meet a girl with pink hair and a man with a white car.
That's not a plan.
That's a lottery.
And I didn't come to the Camino to play the lottery.
I came to walk.
To enjoy myself.
To be alone with my thoughts.
To admire the landscape.
To swear at flies.
And to collapse into bed in the evening.
THE CAMINO IS SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT FREEDOM.
Not a daily psychological drama entitled:
“WILL I SLEEP UNDER A ROOF TONIGHT OR UNDER THE STARS?”
I really don't need that kind of stress in my life right now.
I've got enough of it without adding this.
And so I made my decision.
Cuenca would be my final stop.
From there, I would go home.
Was it a difficult decision?
BLOODY DIFFICULT.
Because I'm not someone who likes leaving things unfinished.
Especially when I'm physically capable of completing them.
But sometimes you have to know the difference between determination and stubbornness.
And if I kept going just to prove that I could, that would mostly be stubbornness.
Possibly very stupid stubbornness.
And although I'd already made a few questionable decisions on this Camino, I decided that at least my final one would involve using my brain.
Well, more or less.
Because the next morning, I still had one final encounter with Lana ahead of me.
And apparently, she had decided to make our farewell unforgettable.
I got up in the morning.
Put on my dry trainers.
Packed my backpack.
And told myself:
“Well, my dear, today is the last time.”
I was optimistic.
Really.
Even though I knew it was my final day, I was looking forward to walking.
Because walking is still the reason I'm here.
And if I have to say goodbye, I'll do it the only way I know how.
ON FOOT.
Ahead of me was the stage from Fuentes to Cuenca.
The landscape in this part of Spain has a character all its own.
Wide-open spaces.
Fields.
Rural tracks.
Low vegetation and occasional trees that seem almost lost in the vastness.
This isn't always the kind of landscape with dramatic views that force you to pull out your phone every five minutes.
Its beauty is quieter.
In the space.
In the openness.
In the feeling that you can walk for miles without meeting many people.
It's the kind of landscape where you can hear your own footsteps.
And your own thoughts.
Sometimes a dog, too.
TOO MANY DOGS.
Because if I thought Lana was going to give me a pleasant, romantic farewell on my final day, I was very much mistaken.
Apparently, she had other plans.
First, the dogs.
And not the friendly kind that come over to say hello, wag their tails, and hope you've got a treat in your pocket.
No.
The kind that believe every passing pilgrim is a personal threat to their national sovereignty.
They bark.
They growl.
They monitor your every move.
And make it perfectly clear:
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON MY TERRITORY?!”
“I'm just passing through, Mr Dog. I have absolutely no intention of buying your house.”
But explaining that to a dog in Spanish?
Not easy.
I already struggle with humans.
Dogs are a whole different level.
So I continued walking, a little more cautiously than I would have liked.
Then I discovered that the dogs weren't actually the biggest problem of the day.
MUD.
OH, DEAR GOD, THE MUD.
Yesterday's rain had turned the country tracks into something suitable for the World Mud Wrestling Championships.
Except I hadn't signed up.
And I certainly didn't want to participate.
But apparently, the Camino wasn't accepting cancellations.
I stepped onto the path.
And practically stuck to it.
The mud clung to my trainers as though it had decided to travel back to Slovenia with me.
First a little.
Then a bit more.
And after a while, it felt as though I was carrying an extra brick on each foot.
MY TRAINERS HAD TURNED INTO PORTABLE CEMENT MIXERS.
With every step, I collected more earth.
If I'd continued like that all the way to the end, I could have opened my own building materials shop in Cuenca.
“Good afternoon, I'm selling Spanish mud. Freshly collected. Personally walked through.”
Some sections were so waterlogged that I could barely move forward.
Two steps forward.
Ten steps back.
Then a little to the left.
A little to the right.
Then checking whether my shoe was still attached to my foot or had decided to start a new life in the mud.
“NO, NO, NO! YOU'RE COMING WITH ME!”
If anyone had been watching from a distance, they probably would have thought I was performing some bizarre dance ritual.
The Pilgrim Tango.
Two forward.
Ten back.
One little turn.
And almost flat on my arse.
WONDERFUL.
Exactly the kind of final day I'd been dreaming of.
I wasn't happy.
In fact, I was in a pretty foul mood.
Because after all the kilometres I'd already walked, the last thing I wanted was for my final stage to turn into a wrestling match with the ground.
And the ground was winning.
Convincingly.
At one point, I was dirtier than a pig.
If an actual pig had met me, it probably would have looked at me and said:
“Madam, have a little dignity.”
Mud on my trainers.
Mud on my trousers.
Mud everywhere.
If I'd walked into an elegant restaurant looking like that, they'd probably have stopped me in the car park.
And that's when I realised.
LANA WAS SAYING GOODBYE IN HER OWN SPECIAL WAY.
Not with flowers.
Not with a sunset.
Not with a gentle breeze and beautiful music playing in the background.
No.
She'd prepared dogs, mud, and a few extra opportunities to swear.
As though she wanted to tell me:
“You didn't think you could just leave, did you?”
“YES, LANA. THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I THOUGHT!”
“Well, then take some mud as a souvenir.”
And I did.
Lots of it.
Completely free of charge.
On both shoes.
But despite everything, I kept going.
Because I knew the end was getting closer.
And because this final stage, despite all its unpleasant surprises, still had something beautiful about it.
The landscape gradually began to change.
From the rural surroundings of Fuentes and open fields towards the more varied terrain around Cuenca.
It was no longer just a wide, open plain.
Hills and rocky formations became more prominent on the horizon, giving this part of the landscape its distinctive character.
Cuenca isn't a city that simply blends into flat countryside.
It's a city that grew among steep rocky edges, above the gorges of the Júcar and Huécar rivers.
Its old town is famous for houses that seem to hang over the edge of a cliff.
And when you're approaching a city like that, you feel as though something special is waiting at the end of your journey.
Something completely different from the endless fields and lonely roads of the previous days.
Although at that particular moment, I was considerably more interested in figuring out how to remove the mud from my trainers than in appreciating architectural heritage.
Priorities.
FIRST, SAVE THE SHOES. THEN WE CAN TALK ABOUT CULTURE.
As I walked towards Cuenca, I thought about everything that had happened over the past few days.
The heat.
The flies.
The dogs.
The roads that seemed to go on forever.
The days of walking more than fifty kilometres.
The soaking-wet feet.
The missing accommodation.
The kind people.
And just how badly I'd wanted to complete this Camino.
Then I asked myself:
“HAVE I BEEN DEFEATED?”
No.
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Disappointed?
Yes.
Angry?
Also yes.
Sad?
Of course.
But defeated?
No.
Because I set off on this journey alone.
As a woman.
Into the unknown.
On a Camino that isn't nearly as busy or organised as the more famous pilgrimage routes.
I had no idea what was waiting for me.
And apparently, the Camino had no idea what was waiting for it once I started swearing.
But I went.
I stepped outside my comfort zone.
Exactly what I'd wanted to do.
I wasn't looking for a comfortable holiday.
I wasn't looking for a sun lounger beside a swimming pool.
I wasn't looking for hotel breakfasts where someone slices your fruit and serves freshly squeezed orange juice.
I was looking for something else.
THE FEELING OF BEING ALIVE.
And I found it.
Sometimes a little too intensely.
In fact, a few less intense experiences would have been very welcome.
But I was never bored.
Not for a single moment.
Every day brought something new.
Every day, I had to adapt.
Solve problems.
Make decisions.
Sometimes laugh.
Sometimes swear.
And sometimes admit that things weren't under my control.
But there was one thing about this journey that made me especially happy.
MY BODY.
Because I discovered that I can still do it.
That I can still walk more than fifty kilometres in a day.
And wake up the following morning as though nothing particularly unusual had happened.
No blisters.
No major pain.
No feeling that I'd need a crane to get myself out of bed.
My legs behaved as though I'd simply walked to the shop to buy bread the previous day.
“Good morning, legs. How are we doing?”
“Excellent. Where are we going today?”
“Are you two aware of how many kilometres we walked yesterday?”
“No. And we don't care.”
WHAT A BLESSING!
I don't know how much longer my body will continue cooperating with me like this.
But for now, it does.
And that makes me happy.
Because part of the reason I came was to test my limits.
And I discovered that my physical limits are much further away than many people might expect.
Unfortunately, I also discovered something else on this journey.
MY LIMITS AREN'T ONLY PHYSICAL.
There are also limits to how much uncertainty I'm willing to accept.
How much unnecessary stress.
How much risk.
And how many evenings I'm prepared to spend searching for a bed that might not even exist.
The answer?
NOT VERY MUCH.
Because I don't like things in my life becoming unnecessarily complicated.
And my dear Lana …
YOU'VE TURNED COMPLICATIONS INTO AN OLYMPIC SPORT.
If they handed out medals for logistical disasters, you'd be the world champion.
Gold medal.
No competition.
Plus a special achievement award for flies and muddy paths.
And so I slowly continued towards Cuenca.
Dirty.
Tired of the mud, not of walking.
With a slightly heavy heart.
But also with the feeling that I'd made the right decision.
When I finally arrived in the city, I looked as though I'd just crawled out of a muddy swamp.
Cuenca, meanwhile, welcomed me into a completely different world.
A city.
Traffic.
People.
Buildings.
Shops.
Bars.
Civilisation.
And that wonderful possibility of finding food and a bed without first having to organise a village emergency committee.
HALLELUJAH!
The first thing I did wasn't visit any famous sights.
Nor search for the prettiest viewpoint.
Nor photograph the famous Hanging Houses.
No.
I CALLED MY MOTHER.
My dear, precious mother.
And told her:
“Mum, I'm coming home.”
I think she was very happy to hear that.
In fact, I suspect she'd been under considerably more stress over the past few days than I had.
Because she'd been reading my blog.
And if you imagine reading stories about flies, dogs, cliffs, rain, freezing feet, and villages without accommodation, while the main character is your own daughter …
Well, it's probably not the most relaxing bedtime reading.
At least I knew I was still alive.
My mother, meanwhile, had to wait for the next blog post to find out whether I'd survived the latest disaster.
“Dear Mum, good news. I'm still alive.”
“And even better news. I'm coming home.”
She probably let out a sigh of relief loud enough to be heard all the way across Spain.
Then I had to organise one final logistical operation.
HOW THE HELL DO I GET HOME?
Because apparently, finishing a Camino isn't enough for me.
No.
Now I have to organise the international relocation of my backpack, filthy trainers, and exhausted nerves.
From Cuenca, high-speed trains connect towards Madrid, Valencia, and Alicante.
And I had a choice.
Madrid?
Valencia?
Alicante?
I checked the options.
Thought about it.
And made my decision.
ALICANTE!
Why?
Because after all those days of rain, wind, and cold, I apparently still have enough common sense to head somewhere warmer.
And because I'd love to explore a little more of that beautiful city.
If I'm ending my Camino earlier than planned, I might as well treat myself to something pleasant.
A little sunshine.
A little city life.
Perhaps a really good meal.
And above all, a day when I won't have to worry about whether I'll find a bed after walking fifty kilometres.
Then a flight to Zagreb.
And from there, a GoOpti transfer.
Home.
Sounds simple, doesn't it?
Of course not.
Because tomorrow is still going to be a long day.
And I'll even have to walk approximately eight kilometres to reach my high-speed train.
EIGHT KILOMETRES!
Normal people would probably ask why I don't just take a taxi.
Meanwhile, I'm thinking:
“Oh, only eight kilometres. How adorable.”
I think the Camino has seriously damaged my ability to judge distances.
My brain apparently no longer understands what a normal walking distance looks like.
But never mind.
Just a few more kilometres.
Then a train.
A plane.
A transfer.
And home.
So tonight's plan is very simple.
First, wash all my clothes.
ALL OF THEM.
Because I really don't want to board tomorrow's plane smelling like a ferret that's spent a week trapped inside a gym bag.
I understand that aeroplane seats are quite close together.
But I'd rather not have the passengers around me reaching for oxygen masks before the plane has even taken off.
Then I'll eat something delicious.
Something substantial.
Something that doesn't require walking twenty kilometres to find.
And then …
BED.
Early to bed.
Because tomorrow will be a long day.
And because my body, even though it still behaves as though I'm invincible, deserves a little peace.
And now, as I sit here in Cuenca thinking about everything that's happened, the truth is slowly catching up with me.
MY CAMINO DE LA LANA IS OVER.
Not the way I'd planned.
Not where I'd wanted.
And not because I couldn't physically continue.
But because sometimes wanting something badly enough simply isn't enough.
Sometimes you also need the basic conditions to make it possible.
And a roof over my head after a long day of walking isn't a luxury to me.
It's a necessity.
Would I have liked to continue?
OF COURSE!
If I had reliable accommodation ahead, I'd put on my trainers tomorrow morning, pick up my backpack, and start walking again.
Without a second thought.
Because I love walking.
Because I'm happy when I walk.
Because walking gives me something that many other things in life simply can't.
Peace.
Freedom.
The feeling that I'm responsible for my own day.
And the feeling of being alive.
And that's why I feel like crying.
Not because of pain.
Not because of exhaustion.
But because I have to say goodbye to something I genuinely wanted to finish.
And that hurts more than any blister.
Although, thankfully, I didn't get any.
At least there's that.
But apparently, the Universe has other plans for me.
And I could stand in the middle of Cuenca, look up at the sky, and start shouting:
“OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PLANNING NOW?!”
But I doubt I'd get an answer.
The Universe is about as talkative about these things as my app when I ask where the promised accommodation is.
So I'm going to do something that doesn't always come easily to me.
ACCEPT THAT THINGS DIDN'T GO MY WAY.
I'm not going to pretend I'm happy about it.
Because I'm not.
I'm disappointed.
But at the same time, I'm proud of myself.
Proud that I went.
That I dared.
That I walked alone through unfamiliar places.
That I survived the heat, flies, dogs, rain, mud, and every logistical nightmare this route threw at me.
That I managed those long stages.
That I met wonderful people.
And that I knew when enough was enough.
Because sometimes courage isn't about continuing at any cost.
Sometimes courage is also about turning towards home, even when your heart still wants to keep walking.
And now, something I never thought I'd write about any Camino.
MY DEAR LANA …
First time.
Last time.
AND NEVER AGAIN!
Seriously.
You and I are done.
Our relationship is over.
No extensions.
No second chances.
None of that famous:
“Maybe in a few years …”
NO.
If I ever start missing you, I'll simply open my blog and reread the stories about flies, dogs, soaking-wet trainers, and accommodation that exists only in some digital fantasy world.
And the feeling will pass.
Very quickly.
For the first time in my life, I can honestly say that I won't miss a Camino.
Every other Camino I've walked became so dear to me that I returned to some of them and walked them all over again.
But you?
You're special.
SPECIAL IN THE SAME WAY THAT A ROOT CANAL WITHOUT ANAESTHETIC IS SPECIAL.
You don't forget it.
But you certainly don't want to repeat it.
And yet …
If someone asked me whether I regretted setting off on the Camino de la Lana, my answer would be clear.
NO.
Not for a single moment.
Because this journey gave me so much.
Not always what I wanted.
Sometimes mainly what I absolutely didn't want.
But it gave me stories.
Laughter.
Anger.
Fear.
Gratitude.
Challenges.
And the knowledge that I'm capable of much more than I might have thought.
It also gave me people I'll never forget.
The man with the white car.
The girl with pink hair.
The elderly woman who took me for coffee.
All those locals who tried to help me, even though I couldn't understand a single proper sentence they were saying.
And although I lost faith in apps several times along this route, I never lost faith in people.
Quite the opposite.
PEOPLE WERE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL PART OF THIS CAMINO.
So I'm not leaving it feeling defeated.
I'm leaving as a woman who set off alone, experienced more than enough adventures, and is returning home with a backpack full of stories.
And probably some Spanish mud.
Because apparently, I'm not getting rid of that anytime soon.
Dear Lana, thank you for everything.
For the kilometres.
For the views.
For the silence.
For the feeling of freedom.
For proving that my legs can still manage more than fifty kilometres a day.
And for all those moments when I felt truly alive.
As for the flies, dogs, and nonexistent accommodation …
NO, THANK YOU. YOU CAN KEEP THOSE.
I'm going home.
With a smile.
With a little sadness.
With enormous gratitude.
And with one very clear decision.
CAMINO DE LA LANA – FIRST TIME, LAST TIME, AND NEVER AGAIN.
But walking?
Walking stays.
Because if this journey taught me anything, it's that my legs aren't tired of exploring the world yet.
And neither am I.
Buen Camino!
P.S. Dear Lana, if you thought I'd cry over you the way I've cried over other Caminos, you were wrong. I'll mainly be crying because I have to scrape three kilos of your mud off my trainers.
P.P.S. If anyone ever asks whether I recommend the Camino de la Lana, I'll start with just one question: “Do you have a tent?” If the answer is no, I'll recommend another Camino instead. One where accommodation isn't a mythical creature.
P.P.P.S. Mum, I'm coming home. You can stop reading my blog with a blood pressure monitor in your hand.