When I woke up and did my morning routine, I kept thinking that today will feel a tad bit different.
I wasn’t sure what to expect now that most people are gone. When I left Odeceixe, I didn’t see anyone I know and I was left wondering where everyone was. I felt a bit sad and as I walked through the track crossing a plain, leaving Odeceixe behind me, I kept looking back hoping I’d see a familiar face. But there was no one.
In the morning, I said my goodbye to the German guy on the lower bunk of my bed. He finally found his trekking poles: he left them at the pharmacy, it turns out. I left before he did because I was eager to hit the road while it was still cool. Just as I stepped out of the door, he wished me a good luck. “Maybe we’ll come across each other again, perhaps in the camino!” he said. I nodded, not just as a courtesy, but because I believe it could happen. I’ve experienced the camino magic even in my short time during the camino (Camino Portuguese, Day 6 - Padrón to Santiago de Compostela (25 km)), so there is nothing that can surprise me, really.
For the first 10 km, I kept walking with no one else but my own shadow. Sometimes I’d see other hikers but mostly people who seem to be doing day hikes, but none of the hikers I have come to be familiar with in the past four days, so there was no one to say good morning or bom dia to. I was right: the crowd did really start to thin out, and this quieter trail is exactly what I had wished a few days ago since I thought the trail was a tad too crowded for my liking. But I was wrong about how I thought I’d feel: now I was missing everyone and it felt really odd not to see anyone familiar until almost halfway.
I reached Rogil at around 2 and I started seeing a couple of faces the Italian woman with a man who seemed to pop out of nowhere yesterday in the hostel, then when I walked a bit further I came across an Australian couple that I’ve seen when I had dinner in Zambuljeiro del Mar (the Berliner who lived in Australia quipped when hearing their conversation, “that’s definitely an Australian couple.”). Further down the road was the German guy from the first day who kept asking me about my art, sitting by the bridge. I stopped by to make sure if he is okay. “I’m okay,” he said, and then he lifted his phone. “I’m just charging my phone because I want to take pictures!”
I thought I could use some break too, so I decided to stop for a break and we sat next to each other. The road ahead looked like a wide, dusty track, with no ocean in sight since Aljezur was actually inland, so the idea of taking a break here before tackling what looks like a boring road was very tempting. He asked if he can look through his sketchbook, and I walked him through it. “Do you have any exhibition in Berlin?” I laughed. That was flattering, but I had to remind him again that I’m literally just a lowly corporate worker. The Australian couple that I saw earlier eventually caught up with us too, and we all got to chatting on that small bridge. In a plot twist, it turns out they lived in Jakarta and Jember and met there of all places.
We all went our separate ways, the couple leaving first, then me. But the German guy and I kept running into each other as we were walking into Aljezur. He asked me where I’m staying, and when he looked at Google Maps, he saw there is a restaurant just across my hotel. “Let’s meet there,” he said. “I’ll be there!”
Due to its geography and history, it was no surprise that Aljezur reminded me of Morocco. At first I was a bit bummed at the thought of being far away from the sea, but as it turned out, the hilly terrain of Aljezur was a welcome change from the regular coastal views. After a quick shower, I made my way to the minimarket and then the Aljezur castle, located just a few hundred meters from my hostel, dating back to as far as the 12th centuries. I managed to find a place where I could sit by the roadside. It wasn’t the most comfortable sketching spot, but it’s not every day that I would find a castle to sketch on the Fisherman’s Trail (in fact, this may be the only opportunity).
At six I descended from the hill and went straight to the restaurant. I wasn’t hoping for the German guy to show up, but when I was looking at the menu, I heard a voice behind me asking if I had found anything to eat yet. I was hoping to get myself the bacalhau, because I haven’t had one since I got to Lisbon and I didn’t get a chance to try when I was in Porto a few months ago. But they sadly ran out of it so I settled on the tuna instead.
And so we had dinner and drinks and talked from when the restaurant was open until it was closed. His name is Claus and he used to study mathematics and went on to work on climate impact research as a programmer. He has hiked many trails, and his children also like to hike.
“How old are you?” he asked. I told him I’m 27. “I’m 27 too. Well, reversed, I’m 72!”
Despite having hiked so many trails, mostly in Europe, he told me he only started hiking post retirement which was a surprise. His first hiking trip was somewhere in Sweden with his son, and he said it was awful because of the torrential rain and his way too heavy backpack (a classic mistake that I also made during my first hiking trips!). I thought he had been hiking since his 20s or something, because he really seemed like he knew what he was doing, so this was a nice surprise and also an inspiration.
I got to know a bit about his family: his children, grandchildren, and an Afghan refugee he has been hosting in his house for the past few years. We talked about the German bureaucracy and how he had been struggling to get all the documents he needed for him to get his work permit, even with all the help that he had gotten from the family who hosted him, who speaks the language and knows the bureaucracy well. Stories like this I’ve read about from books such as My Fourth Time, We Drowned, but hearing an almost-firsthand experience is truly something else. It will stick with me for years to come. He will be walking a slightly different route tomorrow. This is where I learned that the Fisherman’s trail would occasionally intersect with the Grand Route—a network of long distance walking trails in Europe, whose trail is marked with the red and white marker (instead of the blue and green marker of the Fisherman’s trail).
After a main course and two rounds of beers we realized that the restaurant was closing down. He couldn’t find any accommodation in the next town, Arrifana, so he had to follow the Grand Route and maybe get back to the Fisherman’s trail the day after. I will probably see him in Carrapateira or Vila do Bispo or Sagres, since he’s planning to hike all the way at least to Sagres.
At this point, my awful third day already seemed so far away. I was more energized than ever, and I was no longer counting down the days. Perhaps I also did get some energy from the dinner and the conversation that I had with my new friend. The night was a great example of how you’ll never know what you will discover and learn when you go on adventures like this. If you told me a few weeks ago that I would befriend a really cool 72-year-old who scoffed at me for using Google Maps instead of OpenStreetMap, I would have told you that you’re kidding. But such is life, and I can’t wait to discover what else is in store tomorrow.