I left early, at 6am. The small albergue was hot, but I slept well, snagging a bed near the window. The night was filled with laughter and conversation. I didn’t know it then, but I would walk with many of the people in the albergue for the majority of the camino. Hiking from Lisbon is far less popular than starting from Portugal. There are less services, and less pilgrims. The days are longer, but each night there is still one or two albergues in the towns.
Last night, things felt more like the Frances with wine, conversation, and company in excess. During my passed few Caminos, I had become fascinated how different languages sounded so different. Some are musical, others guttural, and others still, lilting. I even once met a man when I was hiking in Ethiopia who could speak Khoisan. Khoisan sounds like insects clicking. It was fascinating. The best example of different languages is the word butterfly. In Spanish, it is mariposa. Italian, it is farfalla, French is papillon. These words sound like a Butterly - light, airy, and pretty. Then, there is German. In German, butterfly is schmetterling. It sounds like a machine gun!
I laughed remembering the conversations of the night. I headed out of town, meandering through the streets before hitting a dirt trail towards a small, local airport. The sun rose as I walked between towering eucalyptus. I closed my eyes and smelled the mix of soil and trees. I could be back in Australia. It felt natural, just like home. The sky was painted in slashes of pink. The weather already warming fast.
About two hours out of town, I walked through an immense network for tomato fields. Ripe red dots stretched as far as I could see. I bent down and picked a few, gently depositing them in my pack beside some tuna, avocado, and fresh bread rolls I had purchased the day before. My guidebook had indicated there was no services along the route today. In preparation, I had stocked up on supplies.
Claudio caught up with me shortly afterwards. We hiked for the next few hours along small country roads, and fields of corn, tomato, and potatoes. Shortly after midday, we stopped in the shade to eat lunch. We feasted on the fresh bread and vegetables, freeing our feet from the confines of our shoes, and lounged in the dirt, our backpacks forming pillows. We lingered and relaxed for about an hour. We were in no rush.
Eventually, it was time to go. We estimated that we had about 8-9km to go. The hottest part of the day was upon us. The weather was in the mid-thirties. It was baking. We packed our gear and left the shade. We soon discovered that bit of shade was the last spot until Santerem. The camino gods were definitely looking out for us.
We pushed on in the baking heat. The ground, which was fresh and moist in the morning was a spiderweb of cracked clay. Fine dust rose with each step. Eventually, we made it to the road which led to town. I was running low on water and feared dehydration. The remaining 45 mins was brutal. The road climbed steeply into town. Like so many medieval towns, Santarem was built atop the largest hill around. The height offered protection from invaders, but was always hard work for pilgrims at the end of a day.
Finally, the road led us to town. I had read a lot about Santarem, being fascinated by the ancient towns of Europe. I had excepted a roman style city surrounded by stone walls. It was nothing like this. The roads were wide and spacious, with just a few narrow laneways. We checked into the Hostel Santarem. It was clean with half a dozen large rooms. I showered, washed my closed and relaxed before dinner - an entire pizza. This is the life.