I woke early, excited to keep hiking. There is a draw or a calling, I feel when I hike. I want to put on miles, to feel the ground-pounding beneath my feet, to get lost in the simple rhythm of the walk. I showered, packed, and left the hotel by 6 am.
Drunken partygoers meandered through the streets as the morning sun bathed the city in the golden light of dawn. I crossed the square where I ended the day yesterday. Unlike yesterday, when it was crowded and busy, I had it all to myself. The late-night partiers preferring to stick to the alleys and benches in the park. A pedestrian crosswalk blinked at me, the green figure of a man walking, encouraged me forward, out of town and back to the Camino.
Here, the Camino split for a few days. I could travel along the coastal route as Claudio had done the day prior, or I could walk the traditional route that followed a more central path through the hills. I had read that the way out of Porto, along the traditional path, was heavily urban for the first dozen kilometers. I’m not a fan of road walking, and the coastal route was undoubtedly more scenic, but for some reason, I felt drawn to the central way.
I walked for hours amongst the suburbs, stopping occasionally for croissants and coffee in small local bars, enjoying the company of locals, listening to their conversations as best as I could with my non-existent Portuguese. I was a foreigner in this land, but everyone made me feel welcome, nodding their head, wishing me well on my journey, and accepting me into their community, at least for a few brief moments. I walked and I walked experiencing a typical day unfold around me.
Buildings and houses began to grow more scarce. A warm dry fog embraced fields of sunflowers. I followed rural stone walls and smelted the scent of logging industries and fresh dirt. Deeply rutted roads wound their way into towns before turning into roman paving before once again changing to logging paths disappearing into thick Eculatypus forests. Farm dogs barked in the distance. Chickens cackled. Crows cawed. I walked on.
I arrived in Rates late afternoon after walking 40km. I felt strong and could have walked further. At the albergue, I saw many new faces and more pilgrims than I had seen for the past 400km. There were Germans, French, and a couple from Isreal. I cooked a simple meal of noodles and tuna, sitting in the courtyard. Once again I was alone, even when surrounded by others. I can walk across an entire country, but I can’t walk away from myself. If hiking has taught me anything, it’s to make peace with that; make peace with who you are, and embrace it. If I wasn’t comfortable with myself, there was no way I could travel so long and so far. I wouldn’t have it any other way.