Yesterday we walked with eagles, even though we were mostly along the road, climbing high and wild between rocky ravines with the sea falling away to our right, silvering in the sun. One eagle flew so close its shadow blotted out the sky and fell cross us like an eclipse, fronded wings and talons threateningly close. It circled a few times before climbing away to join the others to an eerie or perhaps for better prey.
Today was more rural: a ferry ride and beautiful beaches. In fields, buzzards followed a tractor in such numbers that one sees crows in England. We tried to make them into eagles, but we knew that neither the country nor their silhouettes were harsh enough. Still, a dozen or so cartwheeling, quarrelling buzzards is no mean sight.
When we reached Guemes and met Don Ernesto the old priest who runs the hostel that the guide book said was not to be missed. I thought perhaps the eagle had been an omen. Sadly, we did not find the experience of staying in the comune that he has built with his own hands and with the help of friends, awe inspiring.