Dates: November 22 – December 10, 2024
Route: Lisbon, Portugal to Santiago de Compostela, Spain
Distance: 628 km
Walking Days: 19
Average Distance/Day: 33 km/day
Longest Day: 54.2 km
Shortest Day: 18.6
Guidebook: Camino Portugués, by John Brierly
For this route, I followed the traditional Camino Portugués from Lisbon, and then diverted west at Santarem for the pilgrimage to Fatima (Caminho de Fatima). From Fatima, I took the bus to Tomar. This route is about twelve kilometres shorter than taking the Camino Portugués straight through to Santiago de Compostela.
Lisbon Hostel
I’m greeted on my first morning of the Camino Portugués by Maria, a lovely woman who works at the hostel and who smiles easily.
The coffee is already brewing and she makes me eggs long before the official breakfast hour.
Soft guitar music plays on the sound system.
I speak a few Portuguese words to our hostess and she says Portuguese people like it when foreigners try to speak their language.
Suddenly there is a problem with the cash register, a piercing alarm that Maria has never heard before and which has baffled both of us as we try to fix it.
Finally, she texts her boss for guidance while I finish making the breakfast.
Maria gets me a coffee and offers me a homemade heart-shaped cookie from a Christmas tin.
She has made these cookies herself, and they are delicious.
Finally, Maria manages to fix the cash register and the room is again filled with guitar music.
Soon, we are joined by a young Italian traveler.
We chat and she shows me her Camino tattoo, although on this trip, she does not intend to follow the Way.
Lisbon Cathedral
I get off to a late start on my Portugués Camino adventure, since the Lisbon Cathedral doesn’t open until 1000.
At 0900, I am at the Livraria Bertrand, the oldest in the world, established in 1732.
I buy a poetry book of famous Lisbon poets, which has the original poems in Portuguese on the left pages and their English translations on the opposite pages.
I get the book stamped by the bookstore clerk – “We hereby certify this book was bought at the oldest operating bookshop in the world.”
I also buy a postcard for a friend and ask the clerk to stamp it too, but she won’t because it’s not a book.
There is no stamp certifying that “this postcard” was bought at the oldest operating bookshop in the world.
At the cathedral – Sé Catedral – I buy a shell, a common identifier of the Camino de Compostela, and hang it on my pack.
I also get my pilgrim passport stamped, officially starting the Camino Portugués.
The route from the cathedral winds through beautiful cobblestone streets and eventually exits at a new boardwalk that parallels the Tagus River – Rio Tejo.
I end my day eating grocery-store sandwiches at a pension in Alverca do Ribatejo, where the lighting in the room is so poor that I need my headlamp to read.
No blisters, but the feet are sore.
Azambuja
In Vila Nova da Rainha, Portugal, I find a café and order three pastries, a Coke Zero, and a large coffee.
The two gentlemen working there are very gracious and we communicate well enough though they speak no English.
On the patio, a local man befriends me and we chat briefly, mostly with sign language, since he also speaks no English and I exhaust my Portuguese vocabulary in about thirty seconds.
He leads me to understand that mixing a Coke Zero and a coffee will make my stomach upset and make me sick.
It doesn’t, and I refrain from mentioning to him that his chain smoking is probably even less healthy.
At the albergue (pilgrim hostel), a young volunteer named Maria greets me and I’m delighted that her English is excellent.
Carlo, an older man, also a volunteer, joins us and I find him to be quite knowledgeable about Canada – he has friends in Ontario and Nova Scotia – and a very interesting conversationalist.
He is also a coin collector, so he is excited when I give him all of my spare change from my Eastern European trip, which he counts meticulously and then converts the money into Euros.
He insists on paying me for the coins, but I won’t take his money.
We decide on a payment of half the amount which, after we agree, he puts into the donation box.
We talk about the Cold War, back when we were both in Germany working in our respective armies.
He was also there when the wall came down in Berlin.
We are joined by a German cyclist, Michael, and the talk turns to etymology, the origin of words.
Michael studied linguistics in his undergrad.
He tells us about the origin of the word ‘discover’.
He says the word ‘discover’ is the same as ‘dis-cover’, that is, to take the top off of something to look inside.
Fascinating stuff.
Maria is fascinating and wise, currently studying biomedical engineering at university.
She’s not so sure it’s a good fit for her social personality, working in a lab all day.
She thinks it’s sad to have to decide what you want for your career at such an early age.
But she’s not worried; she will live as she wants and do things she likes.
I tell her I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.
She says that’s okay, that I have already done some things and I will do more things in the future.
Rio Tejo
I walk along the Rio Tejo through villages, but am intrigued most by Regueno, where there is a row of houses behind the levee.
Each house has a picture of a saint or a priest or a church.
The levee protects the village from flooding when the Rio Tejo gets anxious.
The levee is quite high, about the height of a one-story home, and is very close to the houses, with just enough distance to allow a narrow road to pass through the village.
One would have to climb to a second-story window to enjoy a view of the Rio Tejo or anything beyond the levee.
So far, we know the levee was built to exactly the correct height, because in 1979, the water rose to within a few centimetres of the top.
Beyond the village, in Santarem, I cannot find a simple café without having to walk all through the city.
I decide instead to take my coffee at a shopping mall, where I continue to enjoy those tasty Portuguese custard tarts – pastéis de nata; indeed, I have had them every day on the Camino and will continue to do so until I reach Spain.
I have not seen another pilgrim up to this point, so I am delighted to meet a South Korean gentleman named Park Yon-Jin.
He has been struggling with painful blisters.
I actually passed him yesterday while he was sitting barefoot and cross-legged off the trail, but I didn’t see a pack, so I didn’t think he was a pilgrim.
He tells me that when he saw me walking by with a strong pace, he was motivated to get back up and keep walking.
Monsanto
My new South Korean pilgrim friend prefers to walk alone.
He leaves our albergue before I even get out of bed, but I catch up to him before noon.
He is struggling and in considerable pain from his blisters, which are deep and cover all parts of his feet.
But now, he is suffering even more because he has severe chafing between his legs and is walking very slowly and with his legs as far apart as he can manage.
I can do nothing for his blisters, but I give him some cream for his legs and suggest he pick up some boxer shorts in the next town.
I tell him I used to also get chafing on my legs when wearing briefs and haven’t had a problem since I started wearing a brief-boxer hybrid.
When I arrive in Monsanto, I cannot find the only albergue in town, and it’s then that I realize I am in a very small rural town because there is no one who speaks any English.
Still, with sign language and some pointing at a map, I find the hostel and then finally the man in town who will give me a key.
I’m delighted to find my South Korean friend at the albergue and soon discover that his troubles with his blisters and chafing was only part of his problem today.
Sadly, he has also lost 180 Euros, a tidy sum, which must have fallen out of his pocket when he stopped to rest.
When he realized his money was missing, he started to walk back looking for it, but soon gave up because he was in too much pain.
He’s had a challenging Camino so far, but he’s still smiling.
He is well into his thirties but says that he hopes to get married one day, that marriage and a family is the one big thing missing from his life.
I don’t speak any Korean at all and Park’s English is very poor, so he translates everything on his phone.
We talk late into the evening and get a little tipsy on Portuguese beer.
A grand evening.
Fatima
Park Yong-Jin and I leave our albergue early in the morning while it is still dark.
I use the light on my phone at every crossroads to look for the fleche – arrow – to ensure I’m on the correct path.
Park prefers to walk alone, so he follows me for about three kilometers before he drops off.
I miss his companionship, so I linger at a café along the route for nearly an hour waiting for him, but he doesn’t pass by.
He has been in pain, and this day has had its fair share of hills and rocky trails, so he’s probably stopped more frequently than usual.
He said he intended to make it all the way to Fatima before the end of the day, about 26 km, and that he would stay there the night.
Sadly, I never see him again.
I was excited to finally arrive at the Cathedral in Fatima, but I didn’t stay long.
Although I arrived in late November, the Cathedral was still packed with tourists.
The parking lot was mostly full with cars and buses.
When I went to get my pilgrim stamp at the information office, I was jostled by tourists.
Even simple courtesies, like waiting one’s turn, are not necessarily observed, even at a religious centre.
It was nice to get out onto the cathedral grounds, into the open air, where I could find a quiet place alone.
Fatima, Portugal, is a pilgrimage more sacred to the Portuguese people than Santiago de Compostela.
It is purported that in 1917, the Virgin Mary, known as Our Lady of Fátima, appeared before three children while they were guarding their families’ sheep.
The children claimed only that they were visited by a lady in white, but then others witnessed her return visits with the children.
Beyond Tomar
The road out of Tomar is splendid, and most of the day, the Way follows hiking trails and forest paths before returning to the painful cobblestones.
The dining prices are fabulous along this stretch – three-Euro full breakfast – and in Alvaiázere, I have a full dinner, dessert, and some beers, with excellent service provided by a delightful mom and daughter team, all in for fifteen Euros.
I start pushing my distances each day because there is no one to walk with and, even with taking several rests during the day, I still arrive at my destination well before the albergue opens.
I admit I’m in a funk in the absence of other pilgrims.
One of the joys of the Camino is meeting other pilgrims as well as locals.
In Mealhada, I initially think to just stay in bed all afternoon and evening, eating cold sandwiches, but I drag myself off the mattress and pull on my clothes, and go looking for a hot meal.
At the grocery store, there is a cafeteria-style restaurant, something we don’t see in Canada anymore, but which reminds me of the cafeterias in the old K-Mart stores.
The price is right too – two pieces of cordon bleu, fries, rice, dessert, and a couple of beers for 8.95 Euros.
Even better than the price is my delightful server, Maria Manuel (her mother gave her a boy’s middle name).
I opt out of the spinach with my meal and Marie Manuel writes down a recommendation on a piece of paper, a better alternative to spinach that I can look for along the Camino – gulos – which is much harder to pronounce than it looks, and Marie Manuel smiles at me as I struggle to say the word.
She says gulos is better tasting and is used in local cooking in Portugal.
Maria Manuel has not completed the Camino Portugués herself, but her 65-year-old mother has walked it twice, as well as completing a walking pilgrimage to Fatima.
I thank Maria Manuel for lifting me out of my funk.
People and Animals
I walk the dog gauntlet frequently when entering and leaving villages, making it impossible to daydream.
My body tenses and I am on high alert for the inevitable dogs crashing against their gates and barking viciously at me, spit spewing from their mouths. There is no escaping them, and when one dog starts, others start howling all across the village.
I occupy my mind with visions of revenge against these dogs, but of course I do nothing; they are only trying to protect their homes.
Instead, I continue to get caught unawares and frequently nearly jump out of my skin.
In one town, an old man tries to run me over, presumably to try to teach me a lesson about walking on the road when there is a sidewalk.
But the sidewalk is made of painful cobblestones, and this stretch of wide road is pavement, which is easier on sore feet.
I hug the edge of the road, taking up almost no space, and cars don’t even come near me because the road is nearly three car-lanes across without dividing lines.
I have my head up and I see that the old man initially moves out to the middle of the road, but then changes his mind and aligns his wheels along the curb, driving straight toward me.
I hold up my arms and poles in an “are you serious” gesture, but he doesn’t veer away.
I wait until the last possible second and realize that indeed intends to run me over and wondering how he might explain that to the police, but I step off and watch the bumper slide by me a few inches away because, really, if he hits me, I go to the hospital, and he goes home for supper.
I get my revenge though; as his car slides by, I give it a good whack with my hiking pole and hope I put a dent in it.
I watch him after he passes and he takes the roundabout back along the same road, but there is a partition that separates the road and once he passes me a second time, I never see him again.
A strange thing happens as I take a break at a small outdoor table by a church.
An old man who is struggling to walk climbs up onto the platform where I am sitting.
I cannot fully understand him, but I think he is telling me he once completed the pilgrimage to Fatima.
I pull out my phone and show him a few pictures I took while in Fatima.
He tears up and holds out his hand; I think he wants to shake hands, so I reach out to take his, but then he grabs my hand and begins kissing it, still with tears in his eyes.
After a moment, he composes himself, and then points at himself and says, “Portugués”.
I point at myself and say, “Canadense – do Canadá.”
“Aah,” he says, nodding, and then smiles and wanders off.
The next afternoon, as I wander through a town, I hear birds coming from a café, so I stop for coffee and a pastry, and the proprietor gives me little slivers of meat he has carved off the leg of an animal, and which the other men at the café bar are also eating.
No charge for the meat; it is a gift for everyone there.
I hear the sound of birds again, and realize they are being made by a gentleman who mimics all sorts of bird sounds. What an amazing talent!
Ponte de Lima
On the road to Ponte de Lima, I finally come across another pilgrim heading in my direction, a young woman with a Canadian flag on her pack, which makes me think she’s American.
But no, she actually is Canadian. Her name is Malory, a brand-new doctor, and walking the Camino to settle herself following the breakup of a ten-year relationship.
She hasn’t seen any other pilgrims either in her last five days walking, so we talk all the way to Ponte de Lima, check into a hostel, and then go to dinner with a couple of other new pilgrims – Antoine from France, and Simon from Northern Ireland, who looks like a younger version of Jeff Bridges.
We eat too much and drink too much and the conversation mixes between joyful exuberance and soulful thoughts.
Simon is our spiritual guide and we all respect him immediately.
Later, we begin to speak of him as our guru – what would Simon have said? was our new mantra.
We only see Simon the one night because he is traveling from north to south, from Santiago to Lisbon, but he is memorable and the three of us talk about his wisdom all the next day.
It doesn’t take long for a romance to brew between Malory and Antoine, and soon they are off on their own, but by this point on the Camino, there are other pilgrims to keep me company.
Into Santiago de Compostela
Like a horse that can smell the hay, I begin to pick up the pace as I near Santiago.
I have a good long 54-kilometre day that leaves me feeling tired, yet exhilarated.
On my last night on the Camino in Padrón, I see no other pilgrims.
Most have stopped in Pontevedra for the night.
But I wanted to make it to Padrón because this is where St. James set up his ministry and where his remains were returned to following his martyrdom in Jerusalem.
Despite a late start in the morning, I still arrive in Santiago by the lunch hour.
I wander around the cathedral courtyard, wondering at it all, and then finally decide to treat myself to a private room and bath at a pension.
I spend the day in Santiago, exploring, eating, and relaxing in the courtyard, watching pilgrims arriving along various Camino paths to the cathedral, one of my favourite pastimes, watching pilgrims celebrating with their new friends.
I’m undecided about what to do next, continue on to Finisterre, or something else.
After a good night’s sleep in my pension and with the weather turning cold and wet, I decide to call it a day and book myself into a hostel for ten days until my flight leaves.
