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.

Camino Portuguese Day 9 - Coimbra to Sernadelo : 25km

After a great night enjoying the ancient town of Coimbra, I left early, and alone. My anxiety of not fitting in, and not being able to connect with people weighed on my mind, as heavy as my legs, and the grey sky above. The sun had barely risen. It was humid already, sweat dripping off me. I walked out of town with two Spanish women. Together, we navigated the labyrinthian streets, casting our headlamps around searching for the yellow arrows, leading us north.

The day consisted mainly of road walking. I held my head down, lost in my thoughts. The night before Agata, asked me how I feel when I travel. I immediately responded that I feel more like me. Traveling, with a few possessions on my back is where I feel the most at home. I asked her how she felt. “Inivisible”, she said. I think that is a great way to think of it. People ignore you when you have a backpack. I like to go unnoticed.

I walked for 16kms mulling over everything. Finally, I found a small cafe and ordered a coffee. I ate it in silence with the remainder of the breadrolls I bought the day before from the woman in the small town. I also picked up some juicy tomatoes in Coimbra. Here, now, is everything I need.

I finished my meal and walked on through a deep eucalyptus forest. Everything was silent, save for the rustling of the wind and leaves until I started hearing the occasional pop-pop sound of rifles. I kept walking until I saw a number of pickups, parked on the side of the trail. Men, dressed in camouflage lounged against the vehicles, shotguns propped against them. The hunters eyed me up and down, before nodding as I passed. I guess I was scrawny enough to not be worth the effort.

Eventually, I made it to the small hamlet of Mela. I was exhausted and drenched in sweat. I sat, eat a fruit tart and drank a coke. After 25 minutes, I started walking the raining 5km. I needed to walk alone today, but couldn’t help thinking of the hiker saying “never quit the trail on your worst day”. I had really focus on that to keep me motivated. Sometimes you just have a bad day.

Right before Sernadelo, Claudia caught up with me. We walked the remainder of the section together, his company raising my mood. We check into a simple albergue with a small cafe beside it. I showered, changed, and washed my gear, before settling into a chair at the cafe to edit a few photos. We are about 3 days from Porto, where I plan to take a rest day.

camino Portuguese day 8 - Rabacal to Coimbra : 30km

I left early in the morning, departing with Claudio, Agata, the rest of the Italian crew, and a polish woman who had joined our trail family in Tomar. The morning was fresh, the soft sun warming my skin. A light condensation clung to the eucalyptus as I passed, reflecting the light like a thousand diamonds lining the dirt trail.

We climbed out of Rabacal into rural land. Fog clung to the heights. I could see my breath in the air - the first time on this entire Camino. The crisp morning was a beautiful reprieve from the scorching days we had encountered since leaving Lisbon a week ago. I felt strong, powering up the hills, plunging into the fog.

Three hours passed quickly. We walked through a handful of small villages with no sign of life. All the cafes were closed. My mind was consumed with the thought of breakfast. I wasn’t the only one. We searched for anything, even a vending machine would do.

After giving up on finding a cafe, we flopped down on the ground at the intersection of a rural road. We sat on the one stone walls, dividing farmhouses on either side. I had some rice crackers and sardines, others had cheese and oranges. Sharing between us, we began to eat our simple meal.

As soon as we started, like magic, an elderly woman appeared pushing a cart full of fresh bread she was selling to the locals. We flocked to her like a pack of rabid seagulls buying warm handfuls of warm loaves. So often on the Camino, I have experienced this sort of trail magic. They say the Camino provides. I often wonder if, when hiking, you are stripped down to the bare essentials, you become so much more appreciative of the smaller things. At home, if I wanted fresh bread, I would jump in my car and hit the local bakery. I don’t think of it as a privilege. Here, I am acutely aware of the value of things. It makes you appreciate everything so much more.

Bellies full, we hoisted our packs and continued towards Coimbra, some 18km away. As usual, the sun returned with a vengeance, beating down on us. Eventually, we arrived at the municipal Albergue. It was located outside of the city center and across a bridge. I had read some fo the history of Coimbra - it was home to the world’s second oldest university, and the inspiration for much of JK Rowling’s depictions of Hogwarts. Here, when students graduate from college, they still wear traditional long black robes and wide-brimmed hats. I wanted to experience more of the city. We checked our phones and found a hostel right in the middle of town. Twenty minutes later we were checked in, showered, and ready to explore.

Coimbra enthralled me. Built on the side of a hill, you constantly climbed and descended narrow, twisted laneways. Stores jammed full of clothes, trinkets, and assortments of food: fruits, vegetables, eggs lined the streets. Above the stores, balconies of private residences were decorated with flowers.  Despite tired legs from another 30km day, I wandered the streets for hours.

At night, we ate at a local restaurant sharing a meal of Portuguese tapas. We began with salad, followed by sauteed mushrooms, potatoes, and fried sardines. Despite the delicious meal and great company, my insecurities returned. I felt self-conscious and out of place. I struggle in crowds, finding it difficult to make connections. Even here, in my element on the trail, I often don’t feel like I belong. All I want to do is keep walking. Perhaps one day I will walk far enough to escape my demons.

Camino Portuguese Day 7 - Alvarieze to Rabacal 32km

I woke up early, around 5:15am and was out the door of the albergue by 5:40. The sun had get to rise and walked through rolling eucalyptus covered hills. Heavy fog lay low filling the air with a damp, fresh scent of toiled soil. I hiked at ease, alone and at peace with my body and surroundings. This is why I love to hike. Everything slows down. Your thoughts drift, and your heart finds a rhythm with your steps. I always hear of the struggle to live in the moment. Some seek that moment through yoga. I find it comes easily on the trail.

Before I knew it, I had walked 15km in about three hours, stopping in a small town for my first break of the day. I found a local cafe, ordered coffee and an almond croissant so fresh that it melted in my mouth. I sipped my coffee slowly, every ounce of stress leaving my shoulders. I sat in silence, smiling to myself.

Eventually, I picked up my pack, threw it on my back, tightened the straps and headed out of town, climbing a hill, passing a large school before, once again, being enveloped by trees and a dirt track bordered by ancient stone walls, flecked with moss.

An hour later, I walked through a small pueblo where a pack of snarling dogs approached me, fangs bared. You get used to dogs along the camino. Most venture no further than their master’s property line, cautiously warning you to keep walking, but never really threatening. This time, however, it was different. This was the first time, I actually thought they would attack. I kept eye contact walking past them slowly trying to show no fear.

I continued out of time for another hour until I found a bit of shade and patch of grass. I was hungry and decided to take a break to eat some lunch. I pulled out some rice crackers and a tin of spicy sardines, heaping them atop. As I ate, another pilgrim, a middle aged Irish woman will a wonder lilting accent stopped briefly. She had quit her job and decided to walk the camino to think about the next phase in her life, and find some purpose. Like most people I have met so far on the Camino Portuguese, this was not her first camino, having completed the Frances a few years back. We discussed the difference between the two, agreeing that the Frances still has something special about it. I told her of the Le Puy route, by far the most beautiful of the camino routes I have completed so far. Speaking about the Le Puy, I knew I would have to walk it again.

I finished my meal, said farewell to the Irish pilgrim and continued on. I walked the remaining 9km arriving in town feeling fresh, like I could keep walking for hours still. I consider going on, but stopped the Albergue. I was called Albergue Bonito. And, you know what, it truly was bonito. There was a pool, small cafe, and great beds. As I checked in, the rest of the Italians arrived. There is not much else to say, but bonito.

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.