Time is an odd convention. Once the world generally agreed to standard time for transportation purposes, time became a bit disconnected from the passage of the sun across the sky. Noon long ago ceased to be defined as the point in time when the sun was directly overhead and shadows were shortest. Spain chose to be in the Central European time zone, which has logic founded in commerce, but shifts the timeline awkwardly westward.
In these days since I began the walk in the very northwest of Spain, I arise before sunrise, as has always been my pilgrim habit, so that I can be warmed up and mentally present to welcome the rising sun along with the tweeting birds and enjoy the luscious moist fregrance of the vegetation. Eucalyptus trees abound here.
My southeasterly heading has Orion standing strongly over my right shoulder arrow drawn at the ready; the Big Dipper has toppled its contents out above my left; I walk toward the orange smudge on the horizon until the curtain slowly lifts during the first hour of daylight to reveal the sequential rolling bluish ridges to be climbed and descended all day long. I leave the albergue at 7. The sun reaches it height around 2 in the afternoon.
Portugal, staying more true to their place on the globe lies in the Western European time zone. Though I'll head both south and east tomorrow, the subsequent five days will begin at 6 to get the same hour of the dim light of dawn to myself, only afterward to step back into Central European time and reset my clock.
Next stop in Portugal - who knows what the keyboard will look like!