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.

The rain in Spain falls mainly on me, apparently. My knight has graciously offered me his cloak. He is now wearing the saddle blanket. We look insane. We are insane.

Update from the road: Sancho has been knighted. By my knight. Using a wooden spoon. Sancho seemed pleased. The spoon survived.

My knight just told a passing shepherd that I am “swifter than the western wind and more loyal than the dawn.” I am eating a thistle. I am eight years old. I have arthritis.

A small child at the last village called me “the saddest horse in Spain.” I am choosing to take this as a compliment to my soulful eyes.

There is a windmill ahead. I can see it. He can see it. Sancho can see it. We all know what is about to happen. The windmill, somehow, does not know.

Sometimes I think about the plow horse I used to be. Then my knight charges a flock of sheep and I remember: at least it’s never boring.

Dusk on the road to Toboso. The cicadas are loud. My knight is asleep in the saddle, mumbling about Dulcinea. I am walking very, very carefully so as not to wake him.

Innkeeper just asked if we needed anything. My knight requested “a flagon of the finest wine, a hero’s welcome, and the hand of your daughter in friendship.” Sancho asked for bread. I got the bread.