Free Called Again by Jennifer Pharr Davis, Pharr Davis Page A

painful. He was an idealist. But he was also becoming a pretty good backpacker, and that meant—despite the occasional meltdown—he was getting more comfortable being, well, uncomfortable.
    â€œHoney, if I had all your issues right now, I would be crying too. You are a Romantic, but you are a
tough
Romantic.”
    Unfortunately, my words did not provide any immediate consolation to Brew’s tender heart . . . or his tender crotch. It wasn’t until the next day, after he’d had a good night’s sleep, and after the sun had dried out our clothes and warmed our bodies, that we could joke about his romantic side.
    Together, we made it through the GR20 in Corsica—arguably the toughest trail in Europe—in only seven days. To celebrate our finish we found an ATM, then a pub with cold beer, warm food, and World Cup soccer on TV. Despite all the modern amenities in front of us, all Brew could talk about was how amazing the trail had been. At the end of each hike that he completed, my husband became a little less Henry David Thoreau and a little more Daniel Boone.

    After Corsica, we traveled to the Alps to hike the Tour du Mont Blanc. It became very clear to me on this one-hundred-mile circuit why people burst into spontaneous song in
The Sound of Music.
The Alps were perfect. The temperature was ideal, the views were amazing, there weren’t any bugs, and every day we passed a small farm where we could pick up fresh cheese, cured meats, or local wine. It was the perfect place for a romantic hike—and a romantic hiker.
    I cannot say the same for Wales. When we traveled to the southwest corner of the United Kingdom to hike the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, we arrived during a medium downpour and then spent the next two and a half days hiking through a torrential storm. I have never been so wet in my entire life.
    After the first day of slogging through inches of standing water, Brew made a decision.
    â€œListen, if this keeps up, I am not going to finish this trail. You can do whatever you want. I am fine if you want to keep walking, and I can just meet you every few days or at the end or whatever. But if I have to go through another day of this, I’m done.”
    I knew my husband was sincere, but I also believed the rain would stop. I didn’t think it was possible for that much water to continue falling from the sky.
    Twenty-four hours later, we were still walking through a wall of rain. Brew and I hadn’t said much all day. I was miserable, and I assumed I would be on my own after that evening. Our guidebook, which was soaking wet, with pages glued together by the rain and ink running everywhere, suggested that toward the end of the day we would come to a town. We both assumed that when we arrived there would be a pub, or a bed and breakfast, or even a public restroom where we could briefly escape from the rain.
    As night fell, we reached the town to discover three small houses and a bus stop. Desperate, we knocked on the door of one of the houses. A man with white hair, red cheeks, and fine wrinkles on his face opened the door. His stare suggested that he was both taken aback and also empathetic to our haggard appearance.
    Without wasting time, Brew immediately said, “We’re sorry to bother you, but is there a hostel or pub anywhere in the area where we can get out of the rain.”
    The man shook his head no, then after a pensive moment, he smiled and offered in his thick Welsh accent, “You are welcome to stay in my barn if you want.”
    We immediately accepted. The man then put on his raincoat and, with his border collie by his side, led us through a nearby field to his barn. The building was made of rocks and clay and had a packed dirt floor, but it also had four sides and was divided into rooms so we could sleep separate from the sheep and cows. Finally, we were out of the wind and rain.

    When we were left on our own, I slowly started to open my pack. There