I spent the final part of the voyage singing variations of "What's the point of a fascist dictator if the roads aren't even straight**Seriously, Franco: nice highways, asshole.", arriving in Madrid late at night.
In the 1930s a young English writer named Laurie Lee walked from one end of Spain to the other, only to be evacuated by the British Navy when he made it to the southern coast. Realizing, once back in England, that he regretted his decision of leaving (it all happened so fast) and that he would rather join the fight than read about it in the papers, he returned to Spain by crossing the Pyrenees (the mountain range between France and Spain) on foot.
I should have brought the blanket back.
It was in my hand, I was just about on my way already. The trading post people would surely have been pleased about it, even just the gesture: there had not been a lot of blankets to choose from. Someone else could have benefitted from it; I had no history of worrying about blankets; there was no practical reason for me to keep it.