Camino Portuguese day 16 - Rates to Tamal 26km

I left rates before sunrise. The albergue was full of people but I felt alone, lost as usual. I snacked on crackers and cheese watching the sunrise. An early morning fog clung to the eucalyptus trees. The morning light, golden and soft, filled the space with a radiating glow. Birds chirped and chortled, welcoming the day. I relaxed and just walked, letting go of any thoughts. I really didn’t feel like walking today. I felt heavy and sluggish, putting one foot in front of the other.

I arrived in Barcelos mid-morning, crossing the bridge in the beautiful historic part of town. Shops bustled with patrons and the large square opened up to an impressive cathedral. Families sat, children ran and played. The sun warmed the sand-colored stones of buildings and pavement. It took me a moment to realize that I was grinning like a madman. Sometimes you have to stop thinking and live in the moment. I sat at a cafe for a croissant and orange juice, before hefting my pack to continue.

I walked into Tamal mid-afternoon and found the albergue. It was a modern two-story building with wall-to-wall glass on the bottom floor, and a great yard to spend a few hours relaxing. It was too early to check in. The hospitalero directed me to a bar a short walk away where I ordered a coke and sandwich, relaxing on the simple red plastic chair, a light breeze the perfect accompaniment to a warm sun.

In the evening, thunder rumbled, turning the sky steel grey. I sat outside in the courtyard, bare feet enjoying the cool of the thick green grass, eating the rest of my supplies: tomato, cheese, and rice crackers. I chatted with other pilgrims. The conversions on the Portuguese Way are different to those on the Frances. Here no one asks you why you are walking. I think it is because most people leave from Porto and have maybe done the Frances before, and they don’t have the time or need for a mental reset that the draws them to walk the Frances in the first place. Here, most pilgrims I spoke to just want to recapture some of the Camino spirit they experienced before. For me, however, my annual Camino is much cheaper and more effective than therapy.

Finally, fat raindrops fell. Thunder boomed overhead. Lighting flashed violently. The storm moved past quickly; more bark than bite, with just a dusting of rain. In its wake, the storm had split the sky open leaving the most beautiful colors I’ve ever seen. Stretched above me, all the way to the horizon, the sky was the color of a ripe split red plum. I watched the clouds move through the sky, drifting, changing colors, like dye in water. I was mesmerized. I didn’t need a reason to walk, or a purpose to feel that I should be here. All I needed was this moment.

Camino Portuguese day 15 - Porto to Rates 40km

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.

Camino Portuguese Day 14 - Porto: 0km

A light breeze caressed my check, early morning rays of sun warming my face. I rolled over hoping to fall back asleep. After two weeks of waking, loading my gear, and heading out to beat the heat, my brain switched to autopilot. Today, however, I didn’t need to be anywhere. I had a zero day, a day where I would hike zero kilometers. I had all day to explore Porto. My plan was to walk as little as I could. Ah, who was I kidding, I can’t sit still more than an hour at a time.

I rolled out of bed, and enjoyed a long shower with fresh, fluffy towels. Oh fluffy towels, how I had missed you. A microfiber towel that size of napkin might be good to save weight, but it doesn’t compare to a full size towel that smells of fresh linen. Oh fluffy towel, how I love you. Reluctantly, I put the towel down, dressed, and headed outside.

The streets were crowded, locals heading to work, tourists snapping pics, and the occasional pilgrim starting their hike wandered with a expression of lost confusion and bliss on their faces. I knew that feeling, the trail already calling me to walk again. I felt guilty for not walking today. I stopped for a coffee, sipping the dark hot liquid, washing away the guilt.

There is something about European coffee shops that I love. It’s the smell of the roasted beans, the crunch of the fresh pastries with their thousands of varieties of sweet and savory toppings, the conversations in foreign languages washing over me. Coffee shops are universal.

I had read about a bookstore in Porto. It was reportedly the most beautiful in the world, and was a heavy influence on JK Rowling’s view of Hotwarts. I checked my phone. It was 5 minutes away. I finished my coffee, and headed over. The online review had warned of lines, sometimes an hour long just to enter the store. When I arrived there were no more than five people in front of me. I paid my $5 entry fee, waited fifteen minutes, and entered.

The reviews didn’t do it justice. The bookstore, Livraria Lello was stunningly beautiful. Rich dark wood bookshelfs, crammed with thousands of books stretched two stories overhead. My eyes followed the shelves up and up. The ceiling above, a majestic stained glass latice work of color, sparkled. I stared in awe as I saw the central staircase leading to the mezzanine level. A single sensous curve, with deep red stairs, wound its way upwards, like the trunk of an ancient tree. I felt like I had been teleported back in time. I snapped photo after photo, trying to capture it all. It was futile and I eventually gave up, choosing to walk the store in silence as I marvelled at the beauty mankind is capable of.

I spent the afternoon relaxing in the park, drifting in and out of sleep as the dappled sun crept through the trees canopy. I found an outside bar and enjoyed a beer mixing with the locals, snacking on tapas. As the sun set, I walked the streets again watching the hues of pink tint the tiled buildings and illuminating fountains. I felt the weariness of the past few weeks ebb out of my legs. Tomorrow I would walk again. Tomorrow I would contine to Santiago. Nothing could stop me.

Camino Portuguese Day 13: Lourosa to Porto - 22km

I didn’t sleep well. The bomberos was hot and stuffy, the old foam square I was using as a mattress wafted dust every time I rolled around, and the station dog barked all night, yet I couldn’t fault the firefighter’s generosity. They had opened up their facilities and done so with a smile.

I stuffed my sleeping bag into my backpack, filled my water bladder, and put on my shoes. I left the gym just as the first rays of light broke through the windows. I had a short day to hike, about 20km. The day started with beautiful trails, but quickly changed to the sprawling outer suburbs of Porto, not something I was looking forward to. I’m not a fan of road walking, to begin with; its hard surface puts more pressure on the joints and I often end up with my soles on fire from the constant pounding. The only thing harder than bitchumen is concrete. I am sure there is a scientific explanation, but concrete feels much harder than the road. Give me a dirt trail every day, but if I have to choose between the sidewalk or the road, I’ll take my chances with the cars.

I try not to plan too extensively for my hikes, preferring to feel out each day as it comes. I’d been walking for two weeks now, putting in long days from Lisbon through the remote countryside. Whilst not halfway, arriving in Porto felt like the end of the first stage of my journey. I felt strong, relaxed, and free. My only real plan for the hike was to take a rest day in Porto before the final 240km push to Santiago. Oh, and eat lasagne. A lot of lasagne.

I love the space hiking provides to think. You spend hours every day walking through nature with nothing but your thoughts. The rhythm of movement can be transendent. I’ll walk, mind drifting to thoughts about live, happiness, and very often nothing at all. That blissful state where your mind is free from the noise of everyday life is worth every blister, sore muscle, or sweat soaked summit. For the past few days, however, my thoughts had been preoccupied with lasagna. I craved the melted cheese, the ground beef simmered in tomatoe, and that first mouthful exploding with flavor. Even more than a year later, my mouth still waters thinking about it.

I arrived into Porto around midday, crossing the Ponte dom Luis, a spectacular double-deck steel arch ridge. The river Douro sparkled underneath, the deep blue water a perfect contrast to the terracotta roofs and white buildings that clustered along its banks. To my right, a cable car climbed a ridiculously steep hill, staying horizontal as it was pulled up the incline by some fascinating piece of engineering. Boats, sails white and reflecting the sun, danced across the water, enjoying the perfect weather.

Claudio and I headed to the Cathedral Se to collect a stamp. The architecture was stunning, with intricate stone carvings, and tiled floors. Dozens of pilgrims - more than we had seen for the past two weeks - walked around the grounds, faces fresh free yet to be weather warn. Claudio and I stood out. One glance was all it took to mark us as hardened pilgrims. They quizzed us on the trail life, our thoughts on the trail, and which path we would take out of the city.

Leaving Porto, pilgrims have two choices: take the traditional central route, or the coastal route. Both routes reconnected about four days north of the city. I had debated which route I would take. I was leaning towards the central route. I’m a traditionalist and like to follow the original routes, despite the coastal route being more picturesque by all accounts. I had planned to take a zero day tomorrow and make up my mind. A zero is a rest day, where you do zero kilometers.

I said goodbye to Claudio. He was hiking a few more kilometers west to a small albergue along the coastal route. I had booked a room downtown planning to walk as little as possible tomorrow. Plus, the room was a few blocks from a fantastic Italian restaurant. I could taste the lasagne already!

I checked in, showered, and rested for a hour, spread on the bed. Oh the luxury of real sheets. I found a cafe, holed up in the corner editing photos until the sun set. A gentle pink settled across the city. Locals and tourists mingled in the parks, rugs spread for evening picnics. Tables appeared on every sidewalk, vendors selling beer and apple cider. I walked through the streets marveling at the sights until I could wait no more. At 6pm on the dot, I crossed the foyer into Ristorante Pizzeria S. Martino Baixa, ordered the lasagna before I even ordered a drink. Fifteen minutes later, I went to heaven. It took me 14 days and 400km to arrive, and I’d walk it all over again for another serving of that lasagne.

Camino Portuguese Day 12 - Albergeia de Nova to Lourosa: 35km

Claudio and I left early, just before 6am. The sun had yet to rise. The weather was already warm at 22c. Today was estimated to be one of the hottest so far. The light of our headlamps danced across the stone walls lining the outskirts of town. Before long, town faded into beautiful dirt tracks, hugging the side of a meandering river. Trees, bent and withered with age, hung over the trail. Dew clung to spiderwebs, glinting in early light.

We were about 50km to Porto, and I had a decision to make. I had planned to take a rest day in Porto before continuing the remaining 240km to Santiago. My left tendon had been bothering me the past few days. After a few hours walking, the pain usually subsided - or perhaps it was the multiple cups of coffee on the way, who am I to know. I’d been pushing pretty hard with many 30km+ days, and Porto is a city that I have longed to explore more. After my last camino, I had caught a bus from Santiago to Lisbon with a brief stop over in Porto. The hour I had to explore wasn’t nearly long enough. Now, I had walked all the way back here. I deserved some time to immerse myself in the city.

Before we reached Porto though, we had to figure out today’s route. The logical choice was to split the two days into a managable 25km each. I had my eyes set on Lourosa though. Lourosa was 35km from Albergeria de Nova. My guidebook had indicated that there was a Bomberos, or Fire Station, in town which allowed pilgrims to stay. I had tried to stay in a Bomberos my first day out of Lisbon, but it was closed. Lourosa was my last chance. I made up my mind and set my sights on a long hot day.

Claudio and I kept a good pace passing the time making up funny stories and recording short videos like we were some big-time youtube influencer. Claudio narrated our surroundings like the cow patty he almost stepped in, or the pointless signs that appeared to have no idea how near or far Santiago really was. I played a n upbeat musical score on my harmonica. As much as I tried to give it a spanish feel, the melody always sounded more like a Irish lilt on crack. We laughed for hours, effortlessly crossing the landscape.

By early afternoon, our exuberance had wained, replaced with a sweat-drenched determination. I checked my phone. The temperature read 36c. There was no shade. We had left it far behind as the outer suburbs of Porto spread its urban wings. We trudged on meeting up with Agata and the other Italians. I sucked down water from my camelback. The sun radiated off the bitchumen underfoot. Did I tell you how much I hate walking on roads? It’s a lot. a lot, a lot.

We arrived at the Bomeros just past 3pm. Friendly and accomodating, the fireman stamped our credentials and showed us to the gym. In the far corner, a pile of old foam mats was stacked to shoulder height. Opposite the gym were the showers, and next door, a McDonalds. The entire setup was very basic, and I loved it!

I pulled a mattress from the stack, flinging it over to Claudio, then grabbed another for me, putting it up against the wall. I dumped the contents of my backpack atop the mat, spread out my sleeping back, and grabbed my toiletries before heading to the showers.

Clean and fresh, I headed up to McDonalds to do a little work, feed the hiker hunger, and relax. I booked a hotel in Porto for two nights, and researched restaurants where I could get lasagne. Perhaps it was walking with Italians for the past two weeks, but I had been craving a huge slice of lasagna! Yes, hiker hunger is real.

In the evening, we went to a small restaurant for a meal of, yup, you guessed it pasta. We shared wine and salad talking about our plans post Porto. The route split with two primary options: one along the coast, and the other more central. The central route was the traditional path, and the one I planned to take. Both paths intersected about 5 days further north. I wanted to take the traditional route and planned to pick up the coastal route in the future after I had done the Camino del Norte.

Outside, the sky had turned a dark blue. Streaks of crimson clouds painted the horizon. It was still hot, with the gym stuffy with little breeze coming through the small windows set high in the walls. I lay on my sleeping bag looking around me. Despite my simple surroundings I was content. That part of my brain that always wanted more, always wanted to be on the move, always wanted what’s next, was still. I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep happy and content.

Camino Portuguese Day 11 - Agueda to Albergue de Nova : 22km

Yesterday was a hard day. All I wanted to do was be invisible. I spent the entire afternoon in introspection. In the evening, I shared a meal with the Italians. I needed to laugh, to let go, and feel part of something - even if it was for just a short while.

Today, I left the albergue with Claudio. It was 6:15, the sun fighting with the fog. The air was fresh, with a hint of eucalyptus caught in the moisture. We followed the road out of Agueda before being swallowed up by nature and trees. We stopped in a tiny village for a coffee break.

Before long, we were joined by another Italian pilgrim. He smiled seeing us, backpacks propped on the wall. Sticking out of his pack was a huge signpost emblazoned with the word “Santiago”. Apparently he had found it near the trail. We laughed as our new companion, Stefano, retold the story of his sign and the comments from locals along the trail. We sipped coffee, eating sweet dark grapes from a market stand outside. A few posed photos later, we packed our gear, lifted our packs, the familiar weight on my back comforting, and headed out.

The remainder of the day passed by in a blur. We passed through groves of eucalyptus, ancient stone walls covered in moss, fields of cows with the rich scent of freshly tilled earth, and the occasional interstate byway where cars whizzed by, like creatures from another world. Our world was small. It was simple. And it was free. My spirit soared with the experience. I felt no pain, no stress, no anxiety. I felt at home.

Before I knew it, we arrived at Albergue de Nova. It was just past 13:30. The albergue did not open until 15:00. Thankfully, the albergue had a beautiful courtyard with plastic chairs, shade, and most importantly, a hammock. I removed my shoes and socks, wiggled my toes in the cool grass, and jumped into the hammock, melting into it.

New voices woke me. I must have drifted off. I rolled out of the hammock like a burrito, plopping onto the ground. I waved to the newcomers, two women, one from Spain, and the other from France. They had been studying abroad in Lisbon, one having just graduated as a doctor, the other, a year away. They had fallen in love with Portugal and wanted to walk the Camino as a way to unwind from the demands of medical school, and see the less-traveled parts of Portugal. Like so many Europeans, I was impressed their fluidity of languages, seamlessly switching between Portuguese, French, and Spanish. Perhaps it is my obsession with travel, but I love languages. They fill me with a sense of adventure, and places yet to be explored.

We chatted for hours. It was great to have some new faces. Unlike the Camino Frances, the Camino Portuguese has been much less crowded. Aside from the core trail family of the Italians, I have seen few other pilgrims walking from Lisbon. I heard this will change after Porto. It still won’t be as busy as the Frances, but I am expecting a lot of new faces. For now, however, the faces smiling back at me, are just perfect.

Camino Portuguese Day 10 - Salendra to Agueda : 24km

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.