The sun was just beginning to rise as I left the albergue. The air smelt sweet, with a mix of honeydew and lavender. The hills rose and fell underneath my feet, the ground still damp from showers. I followed the road as it headed upwards into fog draped hills. Eucalyptus grew thick, their trunks slick with moisture. This is the type of hiking I love. Give me moody morning over baking sun any time.
The moody morning matched my mood. I was relaxed and thoroughly enjoying the hike, but felt lost. Why was I here? Why was I walking? And what did I want to do with the rest of my life? I kept walking, pushing negative thoughts away as best I could.
I continued climbing through small clearings and lumber yards. The fog closed in, blanketing me with it’s damp embrace. Visibility had been reduced to less than 100m. Disheveled houses appeared out of nowhere, long abandoned by the occupants. Eventually, I made it to the top of the hills and began to descend. The fog cleared, sun casting an ethereal glow over a small lake. I crossed a stone bridge, birds chirping, singing their morning songs.
I arrived in Agueda around midday, finding a cafe in the town square. Above me, hundreds of umbrellas hung, bathing the square in a kaleidoscope of colors. I ordered a latte, croissant, and an orange juice, kicked off my shoes and stretched out. One thing that I have learned after many years of hiking is that you should never let a down morning keep you down. You have to keep looking forward. As simple as it sounds, sitting at that cafe, in the middle of Portugal, with all of my belongings at my feet, was everything I needed to remind me just how fortunate I am. What more do I need?
I finished my meal, put on my socks and shoes, ignoring the looks of the locals as I did. The Camino Portuguese is second only to the Camino Frances in terms of popularity, but the stretch between Lisbon and Porto is significantly less trafficked that the section from Porto to Santiago. Perhaps the locals in Agueda was still not used to scruffy pilgrims hiking through. I smiled, offering the occasional wave when someone made eye contact with me. Whenever I have a backpack and am on the trail, this is the true me. See me as I am.
The albergue was another 1.5km up the road. When I arrived I almost turned around. It looked like a hotel with guests sipping wine and beer in the dining room. I checked in, discovering that the albergue was in the rear, in a beautiful little detached house and shared tiered garden. I dropped my gear, showered, and stretched out under a tree.
The hours slipped away. The sun set, spilling hues of pink and gold across the garden. Somewhere in the afternoon I had drifted asleep. By the time I woke up, the Italians had arrived. I smelted fresh pasta cooking, and the sounds of laughter. I was still the mood to be alone, but there is something about the Italian language, with it lilting melodic tone, that raises your mood. I joined the others, helping to dish up the food.
We ate. We laughed, and reflected on the journey so far, and the days ahead. We were about three days from Porto. It was here a few of the gang would be leaving us, and undoubtedly many more would be joining. For now, however, our world was here. Its was a great world to be in.