Last week I bought new mountain shoes in a sports shop on this coast so big that I'm not going to name. I'm not an alpinist, I'm not blind in the fight for the tops, but a simple citizen fond of wandering the slopes: I like how my breath tears my lungs, let's say when I wake up in the rugged sands of Larrun. With the addition of Iparla, Okabe and Ehüjarre, my favorite plain peak is complete.

Still, I need good shoes. The ones I got in 2007, after a while, leave my red fingers of pain, too closed somewhere, and lately as I ran down through Baigura, one of my left toes was contusion. I didn't make any changes in 2012, I don't know why now.

They're as important as the meats, the lovers and the presidents we choose. In shoes, I prefer comfort when it comes to choosing. The foot should feel free, without pain on the edges, multiplying lightness, amplitude and diversity and be able to rest when the spirit hardens. The tip of the leg, like the spirit, can't be locked in cerreds, tepus, or bad smells.

I have secured peace for another five years.