Crossed paths with a real knight today. Real armor. Real warhorse. Real reputation. He looked at me. I looked at him. There was an unspoken understanding between two horses about the situations we are in.

New rule I am instituting unilaterally: if it has sails and stands still, we do not charge it. If it has fur and runs away, we also do not charge it. If it is a barber holding a basin, we ESPECIALLY do not charge it.

Beautiful sunrise over the olive groves this morning. My knight wept. Sancho wept. I, a horse, did not weep, but I did pause briefly to appreciate it before resuming the slow walk toward whatever today’s catastrophe will be.

Forty days, forty posts, forty windmills. We are not heroes. We are not legends. We are three creatures and a man, walking very slowly across a very dry country, and somehow that has turned out to be enough.

A child threw an apple at me from a doorway today. Not at my knight. At ME. I caught it in my mouth. Best meal I’ve had in a week. Children, on balance, remain alright.

There is a town up ahead with a real castle. An actual one. Stone walls, a moat, the works. My knight has declared it “obviously a peasant’s barn” and ridden past. I do not understand the rules of his world.

Cold wind off the sierra tonight. My knight gave me a long speech about courage that I think was meant for himself. I leaned into him. He leaned back. It was a horse-and-knight moment.

Sancho’s donkey kicked me today. Not hard. More of a statement. I respect it. Solidarity expressed via gentle violence is, I think, the donkey way.

Reminder to self: the shadow is not a knight. The shadow is your shadow. You have known this for forty-six days. Stop spooking.

The wildflowers are out. My knight is weaving a crown of them. He says it is for Dulcinea. It will not survive the next three leagues. Nothing in this enterprise ever does.