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Porto, Portugal

Lupines that need to be sucked out of their shell, olives in coarse salt, fine white beans with crispy onion and parsley, a round of goat’s milk cheese with parma ham, drizzled with spicy honey served with fresh Portuguese bread, sliced carrots in a spicy caraway sauce, and a jug (a real jug this time) of red wine. On a sidewalk in Porto. Luscious, sensual Porto. Today I realised what a difference it makes if a city has a river. A real river (not like the Liesbeek…) that flows voluptuously through the city. Like Prague and Paris (and Porto). There is something incredibly feminine about a river flowing strong, carrying boats and vessels and cargo.

So my rest day in Espinho really restored my body – and did something quite extraordinary to my soul. I am not sure what – but suffice to say that I discovered the article by Ponte, who just HAPPENS so be Portuguese and who just HAPPENS to be in one of the villages that I will be walking through on the Caminho. And he just HAPPENS to talk about Suadade – a term used by the Portuguese which Helen de Pinho and I talked about earlier that day, and he just HAPPENS to talk about mysticism and synchronicity.

There is no train back to Velhada from where I left the Caminho trail to Espinho. So I either have to walk back to Velhada (no bloody way) or take the train to Porto. I settle for the latter. (Woe be upon me for leaving the path. Whatever…). The trainride is such a pleasure – literally hugging the coast all the way to Porto. When I get to Porto I go onto Google Maps, and see that there is an acutal boardwalk that goes all the way from Espinho to Porto. So – mind made up, tomorrow I take the train back to Espinho (maybe have a coffee and a pastel nata) and then walk my own path along the ocean to Porto. Sometimes one just has to take a detour. Make your own path. Leave the known road to travel your own path. All that stuff.

Porto is even more beautiful than what I remember. It is alive, vibrant, filled with contrasts of rich and poor, old and new, foreign and local. Up and down the river like an ever flowing presence in its glittering glory. I take the cable car up to the monastery, walk across the bridge, up and down the narrow little streets between tourist traps and locals hanging out their washing. I get a hotel with a private room. At this stage, I have not spoken to another human being (I spoke to a very scary ghost in my sleep last night) for three days. Bliss. I have not desire to meet other pilgrims and do the “kumbaya my lord” ritual. I treasure the time alone, my own thoughts and own experiences, not tainted by anyone else. Perhaps a bit narcissistic? Who cares? I am totally inspired by my time alone. Far from the “maddening” crowd, specially for you Sara Mills!

So after tomorrow starts the second part of the Caminho – along the coast (at bloody last) of Portugal. Up to now, there has been some very trying times. The heat, the flies, the stretches without shade or water.

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