We were robbed today. Or rather, a man approached us with intent to rob us, listened to my knight introduce himself for six full minutes, and then walked away muttering. I think he felt sorry for us.

Sancho is teaching me to recognize different types of bread by smell. So far I know: fresh, stale, and “the kind that has been in his saddlebag for three days.” Each has its merits.

I have decided that the most honest hour of the day is the hour just before dawn, when my knight is still asleep and the world hasn’t yet been declared anything other than what it is.

Met a flock of geese on the road today. My knight tried to declare them his vassals. The geese declared war. We have retreated to a respectful distance. The geese have won.

There is dust in everything. My mane, my tail, my soul. La Mancha is 70% dust by volume. The other 30% is windmills and hubris.

We forded a river this morning. My knight kept his lance held high in salute to the river god. Sancho kept his bread held high to keep it dry. I kept going, because someone had to.

Sancho has invented a new word: “quixotear.” It means “to insist a thing is something it isn’t, with great conviction, until reality politely corrects you.” I think it has legs.

New village, new innkeeper, same speech from my knight about being a knight-errant in service to a lady most fair. The innkeeper has heard this speech before. From him. Last month.

There is a goat in this field that has been staring at me for forty minutes. I do not know what it wants. I am beginning to suspect the goat is also on a quest.

Slept under a tree last night. Woke up to find an acorn had fallen squarely between my ears. I now have a head injury and a sense of cosmic injustice. My knight calls it “an omen.” Of what, he will not specify.