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Viana do Castelo, Portugal

The Hotel Baghdad comes to mind when I look around the Motel that we ran into when it looked as if the rain was never going to stop. We waited about twenty minutes in a garage shop, where the attendant was determined to show me in the local newspaper that this rain was going nowhere. When I walk into the motel room, my heart sinks. The bedroom was built for a Portuguese tannie. There is no way that I will be able to stretch out on the tiny little single bed. €30! As I turn around to go back to reception and ask them if this was some kind of joke, I notice the real bedroom: luxurious double bed plus another single bed. Sometimes in life one must just turn around. I have dinner with Marco, who seems to have found his second new best friend, Eckardt Tolle being the first. I get several lessons from “The power of now”, and while I absolutely appreciate his kind demeanor, it is not in sync with mine. A father of four, he works for the biggest provider of maintenance services for the German railways. I try my best, but everything in me rebels against company at this point. After dinner and a fantastic bottle of red wine (cheapest on the menu at €9) I make a quick escape to my room. I would have preferred to have dinner alone and write my blog. Anyway – such is life. I dream the most horrific dream of being in a war movie where I have to shoot some very dangerous and scary terrorists. I remember from my National Service days how I hated the feel of a rifle in my hand. (I almost called it a gun – which if we did that in our training we were made to stand on the parade ground, rifle in on hand and the other hand clutching your ****** shouting “this is my rifle, this is my gun. This is for pleasure, this is for fun). I just happen to be a brilliant shot (in my dream) and kill all the terrorists, getting everyone out of the building before it is blown up. The terrorists were suicide bombers who had massive explosives strapped to their bodies. Lucky escape. I wake up early (bloody hell – again!). It is raining. The green swimming pool bares testimony to to a soft rain pouring down. I know understand why the farmers were out ploughing, they obviously knew the rains were coming. The earth they tilled mist be rejoicing for this rain – I dread to think what it must smell like…. So today will have to be a day for rain gear. I dread having to tell Marco that I don’t want to walk with him. I rehearse how I am going to tell him this – over and over in my head. We meet for breakfast (another breadfast) and he has planned our day in detail, map printed out in the precision that only a German engineer can orchestrate. I almost choke on my bread roll. I realise what a bloody “people’s pleaser” I am. Somehow I find it so easy to say “yes, of course I can do that, it would be lovely. No it is no hassle, I would love that”. Can I say “NO”? No. I can’t. We eat our breakfast, and I give him my Buchulife ointment, as I noticed that he has the most terrible eczema on his arms. He is really a nice person. By the end of breakfast, I have not said a word about going on my own. ****! So back in my room, I know that he is going to skype with his family as his wife called during breakfast, their little 2 year old girl has a bad temperature. I get dressed, raingear and all, and quickly go and knock on his door to tell him that I am heading out, good luck, bom caminho and “I am sure we will meet again”. That was like doing the whole Mad Scene from Lucia de Lammermoor – I am exhausted, but just about run out of the hotel into the pouring rain. The look on Marco’s face is devastating. Within about ten minutes, I realise that my rain gear is not going to do the trick – I am sweating like someone on serious drug withdrawal symptoms, the sweat is POURING off me. I am literally more wet on the inside of my clothes than I am on the outside because of the rain. So much for “breathing Goretex”. My Goretex is dead. Morsflippendood. It ain’t breathing. In the next village, I stop for a coffee and cannot get out of the rain gear quick enough. (I think the lady behind the counter had heart failure when she saw me stripping like a demon had possessed my body!). Umbrella – I thought it was a silly idea when June suggested it, but realise it is the only thing that will help. Easy to manipulate, close and open when necessary, and put away when not needed. To get in and out of rain gear is like a full costume change. And just when you have taken it off, it ****** down again. The 5 euro umbrella is a life saver. It will most probably not last until the next village, but it is great to be able to walk in a T-shirt, not get soaking wet and not sweating like the pig. My expectation is that I am not walking the coastal route, that is what I signed up for. That is not what is offered. The route is constantly taking me away from the coast, up the bloody creek. Literally. It goes all along the outskirts of town, waaaay above the coast behind all the houses. Every time I get to a cross road, I think “YES”, we (Brierly and I) are now going to see a yellow arrow going LEFT, down to the coast. Nope, it goes right, into the forrest. And it is POURING down with rain, literally. The 5 euro umbrella is keeping the worst out, but the rain is getting in from the sides. Walking through one of the villages, I notice people going to visit family, a baked pudding or salad in hand, dodging the rain under (expensive) umbrellas, quickly disappearing into warm, fire-lit houses where family dinners will be served, with lots of wine and heart warming food. And I am walking in the rain like a total bloody idiot. As I pass one of the houses, a woman is loading her car with the produce for the family lunch. She looks up at me, I smile, and the next thing she returns my smile with a beautiful acknowledgement, offering me an apple with a meaningful “boa viag” (have a good journey). It takes me a while before I can eat the apple, I am so choked up by this random act of kindness from a total stranger. Not much further, a very elegant gentleman is standing in the rain waiting for his host to open the it for him. He gives me a wide, geniune smile, looks at my disheveled, wet clothes and asks, with a look of total disbelief, “Santiago?”. I reply, maybe even a bit over enthusiastic “Si si si”. He throws his eyes up to the sky and exclaims in the most endearing, respectful and saluting “meu Deus” (my God) that moves me to tears. I walk for a long while with this in my heart – it was so warm and comforting. I realise that I have one of two choices – the usual ***** and moan and groan, or just walk. I chose the latter. The minute I disappear into the forest, I am usurped by the magic of rain on the leaves and branches and moss and stone. it is truly like an Alice in Wonderland experience Kerry, as if I am swooped away from any reality, into a world of enchantment and magic. The pouring rain has metamorphed everything. A new green, new smells, the sound of the pattering rain on the cheap umbrella, streams forming through crevices. I am encapsulated, engulfed, absorbed, embryoed (I know there is no such word, I just made it up) by the forest. There is not another human being on the planet, it is just me and the forest. I walk on ancient paths – cobbles, stone blocks that were transported into the forest hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Who built this? How long did it take? How did they get it up here? And the packed stone walls, the velvet of moss in so many variations from green to bright yellow, new ferns sprouting, tiny little flowers vehemantly clutching to crevices in the rocks, determined to bloom against all odds. The leaves are now in their autumn splendour – warm ochres, auburn and deep red wine reds. Chestnuts are falling off the trees in abundance, cracking open their hedgehog shells to reveal perfectly brown nuts, ready for the roasting on an open fire. Outside Viana do Castelo, I am met by an excuberant comapnion, a lively, black, pointy eared dog. I immediately think his name must be happy. He runs circles around me, showing me the way, sniffing and lifting his leg against every pillar, making sure to ma
rk the way. When I am too slow, he waits for me. If I look as if I might stop, he stops, watching me all the time. Happy walks with me for a few miles. Judging by his collar and condition, he has owners that take good care of him. I would hate for him to get lost… After a few miles however, he discovers new excitement when a group of mountain bikers come down a steep hill. Barking and jumping up and down, he joins the race. I watch him disappear with the very friendly group of bikers, never to be seen again. Not far from where Happy left, I come across a deserted villa, Quinta de Cabanas, with a chapel attached to it. It is the most magnificent structure, built on a stream, with the biggest Magnolia tree next to it that I have ever seen. There is a plaque on the wall with what looks like a poem, an ode to the Magnolia. I am intrigued by the place, the eery emptiness, the grandeur of it, the sadness that it is now empty, the dreams and hopes that are locked up behind the wooden shutters. It is hard to leave the house, I want to stay and wait, maybe someone will open a window and let me in, tell me story of a love gone wrong. Maybe a Miss. Havisham is sitting inside, waiting for her lost lover who never returned after the war. I am so intrigued by the Villa, that I lose sight of the yellow arrows. I come into a village, as deserted as only these villages can be, more so on a Sunday afternoon. Against all odds, an old woman, in her “national dress” of a sleeveless housecoat and slippers with socks comes wlaking down the street. I greet politely and ask her “Santiago? Caminho compestella?” Well, I have never seen such disbelief and astonishment. In her fastest Portuguese she tells me (and this is what I make up from the facial expressions, the tone and the wild gesturing) “Santiago? SANTIAGO? Are you mad? S-A-N-T-I-A-G-O is in SPAIN! You are in Portugal! You are miles and miles and miles away from SANTIAGO! How can you ask me such a stupid question? On a Sunday afternoon when I am out walking? SANTIAGO? Really?” Midst this avalanche I think it better to save her from a heart attack and to just turn around and walk back the way I came. As far as I walk, I can her utter disbelief being expressed: “Santiago? Mumble rumble rumble…” Minutes later I find the arrows again, taking me deeper and deeper into the forest. Just when I think it could not get any more intriguing, a new path opens up. With just the sound of the rain on my umbrella, my feet swooching through puddles, birds cavorting in the trees, it feels as if I am discovering a lost world, something time and people had forgotten about, a secret place of mystery and wonder. And then, all too suddenly, I am in a village on the sea! The rain has drizzled out to reveal a sparklingly washed what I assume is Caminha, my destination for the day. It is not after 16h00, I made it in good time, and since I have not eaten anything since the breadfast this morning, I decide to stop for my “meie de leite” and something to eat. A very grumpy lady behind the counter is reluctant to leave her crocheting to serve me, I put on all the charm I have and get a life saving cup of coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich. (It does seem that it is officially Portuguese, since it is all that is on offer in many of these small little places. Other than of course my addiction, but I needed something savoury). The coffee seems to be getting better and better as I travel north, and I have to have a second cup, which pleases Mrs. Grumpy to no end. I log onto the internet, and start looking at google maps to find the youth hostel. To my horror, I discover that I am not nearly in Caminha yet. In fact, I am 7,2km away from Caminha. At that moment, I am seriously tempted to grab her crochet blanket, pull it over my head and crawl under the table, crying like a baby. I switch the internet on and off again to make sure that it is not a mistake. Nope. 7,2 km to go. Well, that’s that. All you can do is get up and go. I am wet, cold, and my entire body is screaming at me to stop, have a hot bath and crawl into bed for the next six months. To cheer me up, the route takes my down to the beach. A young boy herding his goats and sheep is skillfully training his dog to help with this task. Something so simple – a shepherd. And yet in that moment I am in awe of this simplicity. A young boy on the Northern coast of Portugal, herding his flock. I decide to take a break and spread out on a wall next to (yet another) chapel, to just take in this moment and store it somewhere for the rest of my life.

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