Caminha to Cerveira

A short stage, under three hours, some along the main road, then the last 4km on the ecopista along the river . . . which continues to Valence, so tomorrow should be easy too.

The friendship bridge is a good counterpoint to the forts on each side of the river and a walk across seems a good idea, since it is rather early to check in at the Pousada de Juventude . . . switching from obrigado to gracias, bom dia to buenos dias, is tricky . . .

So, once more, it's manana Espana and three weeks to home . . . which appears to be Stanhope . . .

Viana to Caminha

Into light drizzle after breakfast, with buns stashed for lunch, following the arrows through town . . . and having missed one made up my own route, keeping off the main road, dropping to the beach to see the old windmills, picking up a marked walking route and into Afife for a picnic lunch in a churchyard.

A rather poignant conversation with Carlos, 30, a teacher who gave up his job and feeling rather desperate . . . thinking about walking the Camino, but, but, but . . .

Still without yellow arrows, followed the main road a while, before picking up the camino again and the first glimpse of Spain, across the Rio Minho.

Caminha is a fine town with rivers on two sides and a square full of cafes.

At the pilgrim albergue, I am first, then two Brazilian blokes, Estela, a German woman and Jakob and Bartek, Polish students on Erasmus exchanges in Covilha, who put in a double shift today - nearly 50k.

Tomorrow's options were: the ferry to Spain and pick up the coastal route; along the river to Valence and the main Portuguese route; across the bridge to Tui in Spain, appealing for the symmetry of leaving Portugal exactly three months after arriving; taking two days to the border and staying at the Pousada de Juventude in Cerveira - reputedly one of the best in the country. The first option is out since the boat can't operate until the river is dredged . . . as for the others, as always it is clear in the morning . . .

Marinhas to Viana

The hostel at Marinhas filled up later, with Jessica from Korea, Christian from Italy, Estela from Portugal and a cyclist who arrived in the night.

I was first out at 8 past the church and following the yellow arrows along cobbled streets, with one village after another until a coffee stop, where the old lady kindly puts the television on for me. Palm Sunday live from Rome . . . looking very over the top. Lots of palm leaf carrying folks off to the churches I pass, including the one named for St Tiago.

This route has really been thought out, well planned, well marked, with occasional glimpses of the sea, forest tracks, small villages . . . then over the bridge to Viana and the Pousada de Juventude . . . a room with balcony overlooking the river . . . €10.80 with breakfast, just me in the 4 bed dormitory . . . no sign of Estela, who may be at the pilgrim albergue . . . Jessica and Christian were looking for a camping spot when I saw them in town . . .

Vila do Conde to Marinhas

Last night more pilgrims arrived: 2 Germans and an Englishman . . . all heading across to Barcelos and the traditional route.

Heading out along the coast, the Vila do Conde Povoa de Varzim conurbation goes on for quite a while. This part of Portugal is more populated and has a different feel. In Povoa I catch up with two young pilgrims, a Korean woman and an Italian man, who met in Australia a year ago and have been travelling together since.

At San Andre I am intrigued by a building housing a cafe . . . call in to find out more . . . Isabel tells me her husband Jose had the vision and built it when they returned from living in Canada. Just on the interesting side of kitsch for me . . . here it is . . . what do you think?

On through a horticultural area and a small forest before Fao and a lunch-stop . . . and a Vespa rally . . . to Marinhas and a pilgrim albergue, clean and comfy and donativo . . . only me so far . . .

Porto to Vila do Conde . . .

After a drizzly day wandering around Porto, it's an early start on day 1 of the Caminho Portugues, which has three variants from Porto, not to mention the Eastern route abandoned in Serpa and briefly re-visited in Covilha and Guarda . . . the coastal one appeals and the advice is to clear Porto and suburbs by taking the Metro to Maia.

Leaving the Pousada da Juventude at 6.30, an hour's walk into the centre and the Metro at Trindade . . . in Maia, breakfast and a friendly policeman gives detailed directions to the Caminho Santiago, which I pretend to comprehend and head off in the general direction he indicated . . . through the industrial zone and eventually onto the road to Vila do Conde, which runs straight, with towns and villages every few kilometres . . .and recognition for the pilgrimage from a baker in Vilar and a biker soon after . . . though no yellow arrows after the Cathedral in Porto until the bridge at Vila do Conde . . . where the beautiful Bellamar Hostel offers pilgrim rates of €10 for b&b, the restaurant next door, an Executive Menu of starter, main course, wine and coffee for €7.90 (and don't notice I am not an executive, despite the scruffy pilgrim persona) . . . the reward for skipping breakfast and hitting the road before sunrise . . .

This route promises gentle stages of 20 or 25 km and plenty of albergues . . . as for pilgrims, no others here yet, though since Santiago can be walked in time for Easter, there will be quite a few by Tui and Spain,no doubt . . . though this pilgrim may well slow down to avoid the Christian festivities, or divert to Finisterre on the ancient route . . .

Celerico to Porto via the Dao

Well the Rio Dao was never the destination, only the direction of travel . . . and since it was close, it seemed silly not to call by and say hello . . .

The bus dropped me in Mangualde and less than two hours walking along the road to Penalva brought me to a bridge over the river and a side road alongside came to the Chapel of Our Lady of the River in time for the 11am chimes.

So much for the Dao, on with the adventure . . . a quick walk back to Mangualde and the 3pm bus to Porto . . . and Cassandra, who has walked part of the Caminho Portugues, visited Taize in France and points me in the direction of the Youth Hostel, which is along the river Douro, near the sea . . . my room-mate, Roland from France greets me with the enthusiasm of someone who thought they had the 4 bed dormitory to themselves . . . three Italian pilgrims are friendlier . . . and there appears to be a group of young folks from France . . . young people, in a youth hostel, whatever next?

A day of sightseeing tomorrow, then on the trail to Santiago . . . again . . .

Guarda to Celerico . . .

The snow turned to rain in the night and that dried up in time for the start of the walk . . . and getting out of Guarda proved tricky . . . once that was achieved it was five hours plodding along mountain roads, and straighter ones in the Mondego valley.

The River Mondego joins forces with the River Dao before heading to Coimbra, and the Dao is tomorrow's destination . . . early bus to Mangualde, a few hours with the Dao, then maybe a bus to Porto and the Camino to Santiago.

Celerico is friendly and they have the iced yorkshire puddings in the pasteleria . . . they call them Cavaca and they could just catch on in Newcastle . . .

Covilha to Guarda . . .

Wandering out of Covilha, the plan was for a short walk to Belmonte, about 15km.

At the padaria, thinking it a long way to walk, the woman gives me a large cake to keep me going. Then, at Orjais, sitting in the square, listening to the church bell announcing loudly it's 11 am, repeated a few minutes later in case we missed it, and admiring the crocheted decorations on the trees, an old lady brings me three oranges in a bucket . . . I take one and thank her . . . todos, take them all, she insists . . .

Walking along in warm sunshine, it feels good to be back on the road. At Belmonte, a tourist place on a hill, the skies darken and I discover the Guarda bus is due . . . and since I don't fancy another 24 km today, especially in the rain, I'm on it and in Guarda by 3pm.

The cathedral is amazing, the old town interesting, the residencial cheap and comfortable, the precipitation thick and white . . . the first snow I've seen since arriving in Portugal on New Year's Eve . . . and it's settling . . . maybe the Dao tomorrow . . . an offer from Ourense to consider . . . let's see what the morning brings . . .

Graca to Covilha . . .

Back on the road after three weeks and a lift with Jan, who is pondering a move north and wanting to take a look around.
First stop, Penamacor, a quick tour round the pretty hill town, a coffee, then on to Fundao, observing the changing landscape along the way.

Fundao was rather dismal, a modern town without much heart . . . neither Fun nor Dao, which is still some way north. The high point perhaps was an iced yorkshire pudding, delicious and one to try at home.

Covilha, at the foot of the Serra da Estrela, where there is skiing in winter, is more interesting. Jan drops me off and returns to feed the menagerie, I eschew the youth hostel and seek out the hotel offering a room for €24 on Booking dot com, and since I have not booked, get it for €22 . . . a little luxury, feeling much more so after the caravan and its more rustic charms.

Wandering in town, an art exhibition, and one of the forty contributing artists, Carlos Silva, tells me about the theme, Sensuality, aiming to challenge some of the taboos still remaining in Portuguese provincial society.
And the very poignant true story of a young African woman from the Cape Verde Islands, exploited by her employer, who fell in love with a local artist, a relationship itself challenging some provincial taboos, challenged her employer, eventually deported when he dismissed her . . .

The hotel room is on the 9th floor with a view of Spain . . . and I am back on the route of the Caminho of the East of Portugal, which I will follow for a while . . . maybe . . . tune in again to the journey . . .

leaving Graca . . .

. . . last night a late drive to Pombal, to collect Jan from the Lisbon train and options for heading north: morning bus to Coimbra, evening bus to Castelo Branco, Sunday evening bus to Coimbra . . . this morning, after a long lie-in, recovering from an intense two weeks of live-in care, Jan proposes a drive north to Penamacor tomorrow . . . perfect - a chance to see more remote parts and a lift to Fundao, which despite its tempting name is not on the Dao . . .

The afternoon walk, with dogs released from confinement, includes visits to Paul, the helpful Welshman, President of the local dog charity and my support during the dog poisoning dramas (and his wife Carol who declines the photo), then round to Keith and Les from Blackburn, best pals since schooldays, pictured next to the Winnebago nursed here on its last trip, now serving as a comfy home while the house is built.

Tomorrow, now Spring has sprung, it's North with the other migratory creatures . . .

Jose and Lucinda

A pair of Portuguese peasants was the title suggested by Lucinda for this photo of the very friendly and kind neighbours.

thoughts . . .

There is a theory that thoughts are not just generated in the brain, but received and transmitted by it.

If a thought is a tiny unit of energy, and since energy cannot be created or destroyed, maybe every thought ever thunk is out there, in one or more of those dimensions the physicists tell us must exist beyond the three of space and one of time we mostly operate in.

What if the quality of thoughts we receive depends on the frequency to which our mind is tuned.

All sentient beings may have thoughts, humans are possibly unique animals in that they can observe themselves thinking . . . and adjust the frequency. Sometimes even the wavelength. Other animals seem tuned in to their particular frequency and live their lives consonant with that . . . except when they spend too much time with anthropomorphising humans . . .

Which brings us to the problem and the solution for human suffering.

Minds frazzled by circumstances, imagining that the thoughts are theirs, attaching to them, identifying with them, lead to words and actions re-inforcing the circumstances, which continue to frazzle the minds . . . the wavelength known as "normal" . . . probably the same one the brainwashing channels are set on (aka television) . . .

The solution, if the theory is right, is to adjust the dial, while observing all thoughts as they pass through without attaching to them or identifying with them . . . and simplifying, taking care of body and mind, finding channels more consonant with who you really are . . .

It's a theory hard to prove, though it may explain the phenomenon of childhood genius . . . the young Mozart picking up thoughts from Bach . . .

And whether it's right or not, taking care of our bodies and detaching from our thoughts can't do any harm. Can it?

Brit Day in Graca

Jan is returning early from England, missing her animals, possibly slightly worried about their survival in my tender care . . . so it's back on the road at the weekend . . . Spring is here, time to head North . . . first stop the Dao, since it is close, then on to Porto to pick up the Camino Portugues to Santiago . . .

A brief chat with local builders, Steve and Dave, doing up a place nearby for fellow Brit, Nick.

Terry and Mitch call by, en-route to town, wondering if I fancy a trip, which is kind.
Over coffee the subject turns profound, with Terry doggedly denying God or god, Mitch and I suggesting a mystery which some call God . . . Terry believes in Nature or nature . . . the spoken word is not capitalised and that changes the meaning. Giordano Bruno proposed Nature with a capital N and was burned to death by the established church, in the name of Jesus, for Christ's sake . . . better not to name or explain the ineffable, it only leads to division, violence . . .

The Dalai Lama knows a thing or two about Buddhism and other religions too (leaving aside for now the question of whether Buddhism is a religion), yet he asserts very simply that what counts is to practice kindness every minute of the day (not just on Sunday, as he cheekily told the front row of the audience in Inverness some years ago).

Some rather disturbing information from Mitch about a deal Monsanto did with the government here . . . leading to heavy pesticide use (and dog killing) . . .

Reflecting on the impact of immigrants here, mostly North Europeans fed up with overcrowded, over regulated homelands, with cold damp climates . . . arriving with funds to buy a piece of land, often abandoned terraced land with a ruin to be restored . . . learning how to live alongside the locals, many of whom have worked in those same Northern countries and returned with funds to do up family houses . . . it seems to be working better than the Algarve, though not calling me . . . let's see what's next . . . and home, which could be anywhere, feels like Stanhope now . . . and since Emily, my younger daughter, has her one way ticket and work visa for Australia lined up for the end of April, it feels good to be heading there (Stanhope, not Australia, which never appealed to me, though my brother emigrated there, and his children are happy to see their cousin).

creating our life dramas . . .

In some versions of reincarnation, between lives the veil designed to enable us to fully experience each life as if it were the first and only one, is pulled back and we review how we did compared to what we set out to do . . . before arriving, having set out the framework and conditions which would allow us to learn the new lessons as well as those we dodged or screwed up last time.

Within that we have the freedom (or the illusion of it) to choose the dramas, the roles, the scripts, the fellow players . . . all of which make up the chapters of our life.

I don't know about all that . . . what I see is roles, dramas, fellow players, sometimes not serving . . . and we know because we are uneasy, not at ease (which often becomes dis-ease) . . . or, to change metaphor for a moment, when the costume starts to itch, it's time to switch . . .

The opportunity is there to be not just the player, but also co-author and co-director . . . perhaps . . .  things are sometimes rough, sometimes smooth and too rough and too smooth don't suit me . . . I want to accept the challenges, learn from them applying the principles of compassion, simplicity and patience, then be open for the next act/chapter/voyage . . . whichever metaphor you prefer . . . and remembering that all attempts at explaining the mystery of it is metaphor, not the thing itself . . .

Peter

After Buster was re-united with Rose, and Erin returned from the vet with Paul, a space opened up and I wandered to Rui's for a coffee.

Outside the bar was a Land Rover with Austrian plates, inside two men speaking German, who soon realised that my chirpy "Guten Morgen" was about the limit and dropped into English.

Peter, the Austrian from the Tyrol, has a striking appearance, not unlike Gandalf . . . maybe there will be a photo next time.

We engaged very quickly, the way it happens when the vibrations align, and he had a lot of information about off-grid living, what's going on in the 3D world and all that crazy stuff.

His land and hut are 30 km away, his wood workshop is here in Graca . . . he's building a kitchen for someone . . . his partner, Barbara, is back home in the woods.

After passing a fast hour in conversation we exchange contacts and he returns to his kitchen, I to the dogs . . . now four and settled . . . the walking ban will protect them . . . and mean some more shit to shovel up from the garden . . . I am processing the new information and aiming to hook up again before heading North . . . in any case he issued an open heart-felt invitation to stay in his guest caravan anytime . . .

mutuality, reciprocity . . .

. . . enlightened self-interest . . . reflecting on these in the context of the journey and especially the breaks, brokered by Helpx, whereby service from the traveller is exchanged for lodging and sometimes food from the host.

Being vaguely aware that my monthly pension of €400 is less than usual expenditure, these breaks enable the show to stay on the road . . . and the savings cushion means my attention is not on want of money; indeed, with simple living, there is enough . . . sometimes for chocolate too.

And in each break there are opportunities to learn . . . from hosts and people around them.

This latest and longest stop is throwing up some interesting challenges, managing a menagerie of dogs, cats, guinea pigs and chicken. Since one of the dogs, Nessie, ate poison and died, the others have been on leads . . . not my favourite mode of dog-walking, but better than dead dogs.

Nevertheless, this morning, Erin managed to ingest poison too, possibly pesticide . . . she is still at the vets, but expected to survive . . . which means walks are cancelled until further notice . . . though not for me . . .

In return for trying to keep the animals alive, I have the use of a cosy caravan, where I can cook my own food . . . and a bonus as the Rio Dao approaches: Wayne Dyer's interpretation of the Tao Te Ching . . . perfect . .

. . . warm sunny weather to wander and ponder this journey . . . create some narratives to give some meaning . . . enjoy these days and imagine the ones to come: along the River Dao and on to Santiago de Compostela for the second time . . . maybe . . .

Isidro

Isidro lived in New York for fifteen years, working in construction, then at a plastics moulding factory . . . until an accident at work stopped him working . . . a friendly "no win, no fee," lawyer took on his case for compensation, for 23% of the payout . . . telling Isidro to return to Portugal while he sorted it out. Six months later, a letter from the lawyer let him know the case was closed, without compensation or even having been heard. The lawyer either assessed the chances of winning as not worth his while . . . or found the employer willing to fund the 23% without the need for court costs or the 77% for Isidro . . . who shrugged and said: The American Way.

Now he works in the local shop.

more off-grid and dog tales

. . . following the sad passing of Nessie, a new canine guest, Buster, a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, classed as a dangerous dog here, arrives, while her human and best friend, Rose, travels to Sutton Coldfield for a WRENS reunion . . .

. . . it takes a while for the pack to adjust and for Buster to overcome his separation anxiety, so not much sleep for either of us the first night . . . last night we all slept (or were quiet) from 9 pm until 6.30 am . . .

. . . some more info on poisoning from Jose, who suspects locals targetting foxes . . . this, politics, religion and the meaning of life over a glass of home made wine . . . in French, with Portuguese translations to help me learn . . .

. . . this morning, after a long walk with three well behaved dogs on leads, another chat with Chris and Hanneke at their off-grid place tucked away in the woods. Chris' take on equanimity and compassion is developed as he tells me he has a crossbow, which he would not hesitate to use to defend his property. Crikey . . .
. . . he asks me what I would do if attacked and I reflect a while, then respond: I will let you know if it happens . . . so far, walking alone around France, Spain and Portugal, it has really not occurred to me . . .

. . . the ongoing discussion with my psychologist friend on how detaching from emotional reactions is related to psychopathy takes on some new meaning . . . and the off-grid house, illustrating a recent FB post that off-grid doesn't have to be primitive, has a dishwasher as well as a fancy bathroom . . . what is enough for one being too much for another (never having seen the need for a dishwasher) . . .

Well, it's Brit night at the local bar and I am not tempted. Rui, the owner, when asked if it was a problem with the Brits taking over the bar and keeping out the locals, replied: Simple, you spend money, they don't, no problem . . . which, of course, means no problem to him . . .

Chris, Hanneke and I discussed the question of the movement of people around the world . . . the adjustments, perceptions . . . the terminology: incomers to the UK generally being referred to as immigrants, whilst UK folks in other countries are called ex-pats . . . also by the writer of this blog, as you may have noticed . . . it being a major theme along the way, since it is a possible option for the future and I want to understand it.

RIP Nessie . . .

Drama and tragedy here yesterday, during and after the early morning dog walk.

As usual, Erin was on a lead, Suki and Nessie were running free, in and out of the forest. After 40 minutes or so, on the way home, Nessie stopped, trembling, slavering and shitting . . . though making no sound.

I picked her up and carried her the mile or so back. Near home, Erin started wobbling too . . . and slavering. She made it home and lay down. Both declined to drink.

I rang Jan's dog-loving friend, Paul, who came straight round and whisked both off to the vet, while I fed the other animals.

Nessie died there, having ingested poison somewhere along the walk. Erin recovered, having apparently had a minor fit from the stress. So sad and difficult for Jan, working away in England.

The source of the poison is unknown. Previous cases in Portugal have involved dangerous dogs (Nessie is the little one in the photo), dogs roaming in bird-breeding territory, spraying against mosquitos and my guess, the Pine Processionary Caterpillar. The photo shows caterpillars near Portalegre recently. The local forest is mostly pine and eucalyptus plantation.

Now it's just two dogs walking, twice daily, both on leads . . . less fun, but they seem to accept it . . .

Sunday socialising . . .

. . . after Saturday without human contact, Sunday has been social . . . after the early dog walk, a wander by the off-grid dwelling of Chris and Hanneke from Holland, an invitation for coffee, then lunch . . . philosophy and a good connection . . . wandering back and Jose, the neighbour who has lived in France, lost his sight from using cutting tools, brought home-made aguadente, issued an open invitation, is outside . . . a coffee with him and his wife Lucinda . . . discussion (in French) about politics, what's happening with the crisis . . . a taste of home made sherry . . . and back for a long walk with the dogs . . . another sunny, summery day . . . and ideas starting to take shape about the places we can create in the marginal lands, where spirituality, self-sufficiency, sharing, synthesise in international collaboration . . . new/old ways of being in community . . .

life school in Graca . . .

Yesterday was busy, preparing for Jan's departure to England . . . some shopping in Figuero dos Vinhos (or Fig for short) for stocking the cupboards with Dao wine, avocados . . . though the local shop has enough essentials and luxuries for the three weeks . . . enough fuel to feel confident that the car will manage the return trip to Pombal comfortably . . . running cars on quarter tanks and less being a potential source of anxiety as well as pointless . . . the glass half full/half empty cliche illustrated in car form . . . fuel full means peace of mind . . . and there is enough for an occasional trip before the next Pombal run in three weeks time . . .

So, settling here, with several sentient beings relying on me, simplifying basic requirements, spending time wandering the woods, wondering which humans to engage with . . . awaiting the tests which are essential to embed the theoretical learning on self-suffiency, spirituality, psychology, philosophy . . . planning projects . . . practical ones right in front of me, which will make life a little easier . . .

Theory is mostly from Facebook these days, from sources which resonate, shared by friends, some of whom I have met, some not yet . . . J.Krishnamurti (too late to meet him in this life), Joanna Macy, Mooji, Ram Dass . . . and many folks not yet famous with experience to share . . .

Selection of sources is vital, of course; and sifting for previous (mis)information, no longer serving . . . building a body of knowledge on foundations of lies is like building a palace on sludge . . .

Meditation, mostly walking allows insights to enter occasionally . . .

And when life intervenes and problems arise, the choice is to catastrophise them or welcome them for their learning opportunity . . . either way they are there, and will keep returning in different forms until we accept them, solve them and welcome the next (and harder) one . . . how else will we graduate from life school?

Coimbra and Graca

Since the bus to Graca was at 13.30, the morning was free for tourism . . . including the university, a UNESCO world heritage site; the new cathedral, a surprising modern building in the style of the old ones, though less impressive; and the city museum, an amazing experience, with Roman catacombs at the base and priceless sculptures and other treasures, mostly religious, bringing to mind a quote from Pope Leo X in the 16th century, found this morning in the novel picked up at the car boot sale, The Last Templar: "It has served us well, this myth of Christ". The whole drama is well illustrated in the museum, with the most incredibly ornate carvings depicting the cast.

After the culture, a stroll to the bus station and a brief conversation with the driver, who worked in Hartlepool some years ago and was still amused by the monkey story. Hartlepool folk play along with it, even electing the football team mascot "Hangus" as mayor. I hear he did quite a good job . . .
Back to Figuero dos Vinhos and the return stroll to Grace . . . one more day and it's just me and the dogs, cats, guinea pigs and chickens . . . more pics to come . . . for now here's Suki, who is a cutie . . .

Coimbra

An early saunter to Figuero dos Vinhos, 6km along a quiet road, to catch the 9.15 bus to Coimbra . . . which is packed . . .

The city is small and manageable, with the river on one side and the old town, with ancient university and cathedral on the hill . . . lots of traffic free streets to wander in the warm sunshine . . . and very hot shower at the youth hostel . . . which is nice . . .

In the cathedral cloister, a warm encounter with a young Portuguese man, Diogo, a graduate in nutrition, now interested in other matters, notably scientific explanations of spiritual questions (he may like to correct me or develop this in a comment, since he has the blog address).

A few hours wandering in the morning, then back to the countryside on the bus, ready for my three week stint with the animals and local humans too . . . looking forward to it . . .

settling for a while . . .

Some good connections over the past few days . . . Bob, 50, from Somerset, who is a builder and friend of Findhorn; Chris from Holland, living off grid nearby; and very friendly neighbours Jose and Lucinda, who hijacked me after a lovely long walk in the forest, offered home made red wine and olives, plus Portuguese lessons . . . they lived in France for 16 years, so we can converse while the lessons progress . . .

. . . leaving Jan digging trenches and plumbing in the new toilet . . . very self-reliant and well aware of my DIY skills . . .

Tomorrow to Coimbra - 45 minutes on the bus and some tourism before settling down to Graca life and dog and cat care at the weekend . . . not forgetting guinea pigs . . . and chickens . . .

Optimal time for central Portugal . . . Spring beginning, mosquitos still conspiring or whatever they do before launching into action in summer . . . now, how far North is mozzy free, yet still hot?

Graca . . .

Settling down for a month in central Portugal . . . establishing the basics of water (cold and hot), heating (though Spring seems to be here), cooking (with gas) . . . a cosy caravan and maybe even flushing toilet soon . . . enough being enough . . .

A trip to a nearby car boot sale, a mix of English and Portuguese folks . . . and a few things to make my settled life more comfy - coffee maker, pan for veggie stew, some books . . .

The trip shared with Terry from Stockton, recently early retired, and Mitch from Tottenham, who has been here ten years . . .

We return with two extra cats (making six in total) . . . two or three dogs are leaving this evening . . . another possibly arriving soon . . . will need an animal inventory before being left in charge of the menagerie . . . in 5 or 6 days time . . .

All feels good, some synthesis time . . . good info from Jan, who has lived here a while . . .

Drawn to study the Templar story . . . and Portuguese (beginners class next week) . . .  and rest for a while, having wandered the south . . . Coimbra is close as is the Dao . . .

Hereabouts perhaps rather anglified for me, though reflecting on the paradox of desire for fewer English settlers as an English wanderer, wondering whether Portugal is the place to be . . .