CAMINO PORTUGUESE DAY 6 - TOMAR TO ALVAIAZERE 31KM

Despite the great hostel, I slept poorly. All night, a nightclub near by, belted out thumping music until about 2am, when patrons left and decided to start fighting in the streets outside my window. Eventually, everything went quite. A few fitful hours later, I woke, packed by bag and left town.

It was a beautiful walk in the early morning beside a river. Thick vine and undergrowth took me out of my thoughts. Mosquitos buzzed all around me. The sky above was low, silver and oppressive. The air was humid. It felt like a storm was imminent. I walked in complete relaxation, totally present with no sound but the wind and the crunch of my footsteps.

I walked on for another 10km following country lanes that led up a hill and a small town. I found a cafe ordering a coffee and two chocolate croissants - one for now, and one for later. I paid for my meal, thanking the shopkeeper, and donned my backpack. The threatening weather of the morning had given way to a blazing sun. The air was still humid and sticky. Even after my break, sweat stained my shirt. I pushed on out of town and into dirt trails surrounded by eucalyptus. I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of home, so far away.

After the wooded area, I hit a long hot 4km slog up a bitumen road with no shoulder. I was out of water, and sweating profusely. Eventually I found a small tap in the front of a yard, filling my water bladder about half way. I had 6km go. I just needed to power through the rest of the way. I arrived into Alvaiazere mid afternoon and checked into the albergue. On the wall was a photo of John Brierly, the author of the most popular camino guidebooks. This was his albergue of choice when walking through town.

I showered, changed and went down the road to the local cafe and ate a huge meal of two mango ice teas, a kebab roll and a coffee. Right on time, the Italians: Claudio, Agata, and the two others whom I still can’t remember their names — I blame the hot sun. We ate and laughed as Claudio shared stories of his attempts to chat up the polish pilgrim we met in Tomar.

I leaned back in my chair letting it all wash over me. We had been consistently putting in big days. After from the second day, we hadn’t done less than 30km over the past week. And the next week looked more of the same. This camino is so different from the Frances, especially before Porto. But here, with new friends, and the simplicity of a life that fits into a backpack, it felt exactly the same. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Camino Portuguese Day 5 - Golega to Tomar 30km

I left Golega feeling lethargic. My legs were heavy, each step like stone. The sun was yet to rise, and somehow I got lost in the streets of Golega. It’s a pretty small town, with long straight streets. How did I manage that? I chalk it up to Camino brain and too much sun. Oh well, I plodded on.

I followed the two Spanish women I had been leapfrogging for the past few days. We stopped at about 8am in a small town for a simple breakfast of coffee and croissants. I was in my head today, just watching the bottom of my coffee cup. It’s one thing you have to be prepared for in any long hike - the moments of introspection and the mental game. Your brain gives out long before your body does.

I returned by coffee cup to the counter, thanked the proprietor and headed out, quickly leaving the town and into a trail surrounded by eucalyptus trees. The scent brought me home, to Australia. I let my mind wander walking on autopilot until I reached Grou. Grou, like so many of these ancient towns was perched atop a hill. The climb was steep, but short. I found solace in another cafe. Finally, this did the trick. Some of my mojo was coming back. I checked my map. I only had about 10km to go. I can do it.

The final leg went by fast, perhaps 2 hours since I left Grou. Before I knew it, I was passing the train station in Tomar. I’d pounded the road for the majority of the day. That seemed the norm on this camino. It’s definitely more road walking than the Frances, and significantly more than the Via Podiensis. I check into the Hostel Tomar, paying $8 for the night. The hostel was fantastic, one of the best I have ever stayed in. It was clean, modern and all the walls were covered with writings, and drawings left by other travelers. I ran my fingers over endless stories, getting a glimpse into everyone’s experiences.

I had a quick shower before heading out to explore. Tomar was one of the towns I was most looking forward to visiting. It was here, perched high above the town was a majestic caste, the seat of the Knights Templar for hundreds of years. I found a hamburger restaurant near the town square, devouring my meal. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. All I had eaten for the day was a croissant in the morning and some tomatoes and crackers on the trail. I paid my bill, and headed towards the castle.

The walk to the castle was steep, winding its way around the hill. Tourists puffed and wheezed, sweating until the hot sun. I, now with a full belly, and about 150km of walking under my feet, felt strong, especially without the weight of my pack. I powered up the hill, paid my entrance fee and explored for hours.

The castle was designed as a cloister, but in traditional Templar fashion felt more like a military base with towering walls and buttresses. At the center of the complex lay the stunning octagonal chapel. The ceiling towered above, with the entire thing covered in intricate gold carvings and spectacular paintings. The photos simply did not do it justice.

At about 16:30, I left the castle and returned to the Hostel. I chatted with Claudio and Agata. I had barely spoken to Agata until now. She came from Bologna, Italy. Bologna was one of the cities I had wanted to visit for many years. I peppered her with questions about the town, her life, and experience so far. Pretty reserved and obviously figuring out some of her personal demons, she, like so many Italians I had met, always had time for community, dinner, and conversation. When the topic of dinner came up, Agata, Claudia and two other Italians, whom I still couldn’t remember their names, immediately set out looking for food. Me, I’d had enough of people for the day, and needed some time just to relax.

I checked my guidebook. Tomorrow’s hike is another 30km day, with a few morning stops before what looks like a long 20km stretch with little to no facilities. That’s definitely one thing that I have found unique about the Camino Frances, vs. another other long distance hike I have down. You can start much slower on the Frances, clocking in 20km days, or shorter if you want, until you get your legs under you. So far, on the Camino Portuguese, every day, except one was a 30km+ with a lot of road walking. I headed downstairs buying some maize cakes , canned sardines, and tomatoes. All is good in the world. I’m simply living.

Camino Portuguese Day 4 - Santarém to Golega 30km

I woke up early after a good nights sleep in Santarem. I needed the rest after the ruthless sun of yesterday afternoon. Santarem wasn’t what I excepted, but in some way, what I needed. I took it easy in the afternoon, reading and walking to the lookout points before finding a local pizza place where Claudio and I stuffed ourselves silly. The pizzas were so big, I still had a few slices in my pack for a morning snack.

I left the hostel just before sunrise, finding a steep trail that snaked it way down the climb from yesterday. Below, a neighboring town, nestled in the shadow of Satarem, caught the first rays of dawn, putting on a beautiful show of light and color. I walked through the maze of streets before being immersed in fields of corn and tomato. Today, I finally felt that I had left the industrial reach of Lisbon.

I walked along through the fields, the only sound was the rustle of the corn husks and occasional tsk-tsk-tsk-rrrrr of sprinklers. The sun rose warming everything quickly, drawing the smells of fresh dirt along with it. At about 7am, I dug out the pizza from last night, and ate it while walking. I was at peace. My life was simple, stripped bare. All I had was a cold slice of pizza, my backpack, and one thing to do - keep walking.

After three hours, I arrived in a Valle de Figurua. I ordered a coffee in the bar next to the small city square. Thick, stubby tries lined the edges. Young children squealed as they rode scooters around, their parents engrossed in conversations with friends and neighbors. The gang - the Italians and Spanish - whom we had all stayed in last few hostels together - arrived. They all ordered coffee, and one whom I had dubbed the Professor, as he worked in a university and carried a huge book with him, ordered a beer. We ate and chatted, marveling in the change of scenery, before heading out again.

By 12:00, I had arrived in Azinhaga. I needed another coffee, but the only cafe I found appeared closed. I pushed and pulled the door with no luck. I was about to move on when a local motioned for me to go around the corner. I followed his directions to find a beautiful patio. The Spanish were already there drinking. I dumped my pack and ordered a coke. I few minutes later the Italians arrived too.

I ordered a sandwich and took off my shoes. So far, I was mostly blister free . I lounged back sipping my coke, cold stone feeling wonderful on my bare feet. We only had 6km more to go. I had no need to rush, ordered another coke, and finally picked up my pack.

The last stretch followed the shoulder of the road. About halfway, on the right side of the road, a huge sunflower field bloomed in all it’s glory. Beautiful yellow faces stared back at me, heads lilting this way and that. Until now, I hadn’t had much like timing my camino hikes with the sunflower season. I always seemed to arrive too early, with fields bare, or too late, where sunflowers were shriveled and black. I took advantage of today though, diving into the field, snapping dozens of photos.

Leaving the sunflowers behind, I arrived in Golega with Claudio. We had planned to stay in a hostel called O Te, but after eventually convincing the owner, an overweight bald man who insisted on walking around shirtless, to show us the room, we decided against it. Around the corner, we found another albergue, Solo Dura. At first Claudio was hesitant on staying here for some reason. He even considered going back to the O Te and the crazy man. But after we opened the iron gate and entered the little courtyard, with a few friendly dogs, and quaint bungalow, even he was sold. I loved this place. It reminded me of the gites along the via Podiensis.

We showered , washed our clothes, and relaxed in the sun. After an hour, Claudio leaned over, “Solo Dura” - the name of the albergue -, he said to me slowly, “it means hard-on in my language.”

I burst out laughing.

Camino Portuguese Day 3 - Azaumbura to Santarém 32km

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.

Camino Portuguese Day 2 - Villafranca to Azambura 18.5km

I woke early, just past 6am. I didn’t sleep too well. The albergue was opposite a train station. the windows rattled throughout the night as trains rolled in and out of the station in an endless procession. I packed my gear chatting briefly with Claudio before heading out at 6:45. I crossed the tracks and headed towards a field. The air was cool with a deep orange sun hugging the horizon. It appeared bigger than normal, closer somehow. The way was going to be hot.

I was dragging this morning after such a long first day on pavement. The sun rose as I walked through the fields, corn towering on either side. Aside from the field I was currently in, the way was still quite industrial, but the air felt cleaning. I was catching glimpses of rural Portugal. I arrived in the quaint town of Villa Nova da Rainha. It was still early but I found a small cafe with a friendly owner who was happy to serve a weary pilgrim breakfast. After two coffees and a pasty I began to feel myself again.

I checked my guidebook deciding on a short day which would set me up well for Santerem, the first historical city I was looking forward to visiting on the hike. One good thing about long days is that it beats your mind into submission. You are too exhausted to overthink things. All you care about is town, food, a bed, and doing it again the next day.

I left Villa Nova de Rainha expecting a 6km slog down the n10 highway, but after half a kilometer, the path cut to the right into wetlands running parallel to the same train tracks I had slept beside the night before. I followed the path away from civilization. Birds chirped, gathering in the murky waters. Reeds blew in the wind, rustling their well wishings as I passed by. The sky grew overcast, cloud blocking the bright sun. To the left, across the tracks I saw the industrial lungs of Portugal wheezing and belching from smokestacks. To my right, agricultural lands spread far into the distance, the smell of rich soil hanging heavy in the air. The thin strip of dirt I walked on balanced between the two.

I arrived in Azambura around 13:00. I briefly considered pushing on, but decided against it. I was in no rush, and still had a long way to go to Santiago. It would be good to give my legs a rest. I found a local supermarket, grabbed some supplies: cheese, bread, and salami, and found a quiet spot in the local park to eat. I pulled out my harmonica and played the blues. Life was simple.

At 15:00 I checked into the small albergue with 12 other pilgrims. Most were Italian, including Claudio, with an American, and two Australians. I returned to the park until the sun set. It felt great to rest, but by the end of the day I was ready to continue. I could tell that every step takes me further from civilization, and closer to where I belong.

Camino Portuguese Day 1 - Lisbon to Villafranca 40km

I had planned to spend another day resting in Lisbon before I started walking, but by 5:00am, with jet lag keeping me awake, and the draw of the trail, I knew I would be out the door at the first rays of sunlight. I packed my bag, filled my water bladder and studied the day’s route. The way seemed flat, mostly through the outskirts of Lisbon before heading inland. I planned for about a 30km day. At 6:45am, I dropped the keys at the front desk of my hotel, and closed the door behind me.

Foggy clung to the water, tendrils snaking into the narrow city streets. A light glow emanated from the horizon, casting shadows as locals began their day. Delivery trucks carrying breads and milk stopped on each corner, catching with owners. The occasional runner pounded up steep inclines, offering me a buen camino between heavy breaths. I was back where I belonged - on the trail.

I climbed a narrow street to the Cathedral de Se, the official start of the camino. I briefly stopped by yesterday to collect my credential, obtain my first stamp, and scope out the route. In general, the camino’s are well marked with yellow arrows, but I have learned that navigating out of cities in the dark is hard. It’s always best to find the next arrow in the day light, then return the following day.

I walked up to arrow, leaned down and touched it, marking the beginning of my journey. Beside me, a taxi pulled up and a man wearing a blue flannel shirt and carrying a backpack, exited. He introduced himself as Jesus, from Barcelona. He too was walking the camino. I picked up my backpack and we headed off today. We chatted briefly before parting ways. He was making a solid pace and pushed on. I wouldn’t see Jesus again until 19 days later when I passed him walking into Santiago.

I continued walking, the sun rising on the horizon. The way took me towards the waterfront where I walked watching the day come alive. The path stretched out across the water along a wooden boardwalk. After 6km of hard, urban walking, the wood felt soft beneath my feet. The fog had burned off and a light breeze caressed my face. I was free and happy, the constant noice of my mind, still.

I turned inland, bidding farewell to the sea, and followed a river inland. I passed under highways, passed bus depots, and derelict house. I saw remnants of squatter camps, rubbish, and overgrown bush. The city faded away for the next 5km, but was never far out of reach. I arrived in Alverca, about 20km from Lisbon. My guidebook indicated that there was a small albergue here and a good option to start slow before building up the miles. It was too early to stop. I continued on aiming for Alhandra, another ~6km ahead. Just passed town I met up with an Italian pilgrim, Claudio. Claudio and I hiked, and chatted for the next hour before I pushed on, eventually arriving in Alhandra at around 14:30.

I found a bar and ordered a coffee, my first for the day since leaving Lisbon. In broken Spanish, with a smattering of Portuguese I asked her where the albergue was. Angrily, she said there were no places to stay in the entire town, and walked off. Had I said something to offend her, or was she just tired of pilgrims asking the same question? I typically walk in the Autumn months, at the start of the camino season. This time, however, it was August. Pilgrims had already been walking for months already. I paid my bill, wished her a good day and hunted for accommodation.

I found nowhere to stay in Alhandra. I had no choice but to push on. I walked another 10km, mostly along pavement, following the waterfront again. Cyclists whizzed passed, families strolled into the afternoon sun, and I plodded on. I felt tired, but strong. My feet throbbed with the hard ground, getting tender after so much road walking. I had read that the first few days out of Lisbon were pretty rough. By the time I reached Villafranca, I had put in 40kms on my first day! I found an albergue near the train station, paid $12, dropped my gear in a small room with two bunk beds and took a shower.

After the shower, I returned to the room to find Claudio, the Italian I had walked with earlier, occupying the bunk beside me. I guess he hadn’t found any accommodation earlier either. I lay on my bed, relaxing, flipping through my guidebook. Tomorrow I could go either 18km or 30km depending on how I feel. Jet lag began to kick in. I called it a night by 20:00 hoping to get a good night sleep, ready for another day on the trail.

Camino Portuguese Day 0 - Lisbon 0km

The world around me has changed so dramatically in the past few months. COVID-19 has changed everything. Instead of exploring and hiking, I sit watching the news, wishing the world well. During this time of reflection I’ve been drawn back to the camino. My heart goes out to Spain, in particular. It astounds me how much a simple trail and a country has helped me. I have plans to return to hike the Camino Norte as soon as I can - partly for me, and partly to show solidarity and support for the Spanish people. For now, however, my mind drifts to my last camino along the Portuguese way.

I arrived in Lisbon after a long flight from San Francisco. It was hot and sunny as I walked out the airport doors and caught the Aerobus for $4 to downtown. Behind me, on the bus, two elderly British couples chatted about shrubbery, when they were last in Lisbon, their house, and medicine they needed from the pharmacy. I looked down at my pack and nodded. I’m attached to this pack. We’ve been through so much. This is my home, my life, my normality. Conversations like the British couple are engaged in, are not for me. Another’s normal is not mine. I accept that now. It look me a long time to come to this realization. One I did, the struggle in my mind subsided. I leaned back in the chair, at peace.

The bus wound it’s way off the freeway, entering the cities center. Beautiful promenades, crowded with people, were lined towering eucalyptus, casting welcome shadows. I exited the bus, walking the streets and city square to stretch my legs after an international flight. I walked to the waterfront in a square of undulating tiles of white and black. It reminded me of the ocean, foaming waves cresting against the shore. A stone fountain, carved by a master craftsman looked like a flower in bloom.

Terra-cotta roofed building framed the square, cafes were packed with patrons laughing, enjoying the afternoon light. I took it all in. The last time I was in Lisbon, I had just finished the Camino Frances after beginning a journey across the Eurasian continent from Beijing, via land. I had been gone for months, I treated Lisbon as nothing more than a jumping off point; the final leg before I got home. This time, it was a beginning and I drunk it all in.