It wasn’t Stewe’s voice from Family Guy screaming “Are we really doing this again” in my head, no, this time it was the beautiful baritone of Leonard Cohen declaring “I ache in places where I used to play.”

The Zebra and Wilderbeast are back. That beautiful reciprocal relationship, congratulating one another on stamina, and complimenting sartorial choices.  The Zebra is once again looking down for chards and the wildebeast, eyes forward keeping us on course and out of traffic. However, unlike our last episode of Zebra and Wildebeast go walking, Wildebeast isn’t using those beautiful feet to Balanchine down mountains, these paths are straight.  While no less demanding , the ryhthm is a steady beat on long expanses of meandering paths.  To reflect this new mission I have given my sweet Wildebeast a more culturally appropriate name –  Vasco da GamBa.

Our routine is essentially unchanged from previous walks. We rise early, furtively crawl around the room like hermit crabs gathering and sorting our belongings.  The all important foot care preparations cannot be rushed.  Like a Japanese tea ritual, all elements must be observed and respected.  So far (for OnlyFans) feet good, starting with 10 fresh toenails, only two are AWOL.  We pack up our bags for pick up and transportation to the next destination by 8 am. 

At breakfast we review our route. While Vasco da GamBa carefully reviews his meticulous plan, Zebra, so trusting, scrolls through the phone looking at Kathy Kou home furnishing options; wow those end tables are really well priced.  As result that 34 km 11 hour walk was kind of snuck up of a shock. At the end of the day we were broken.   In our defense it was day 4 on trail and our training strategy was the previous 3 days.

This walk, the Camino Portugues, from Lisbon to Santiago de Campostela, is a very popular Pilgrimage route and we have met many fellow walkers from many countries. Each of us are uniquely and personally  motivated to this undertaking.  There was a lovely declaration in a church: “We walk together with hope.”  And perhaps that is true but maybe we express it differently.

John, from Ireland, expressed his motivation: “I get up each day and I say to myself ‘Ok let’s get this the fuck over with’.”  Whatever works.

We also met a young Italian couple that Vasco calls “ragazzi”,  or Italian for kids, who gave us a wonderful complement: “When we get old we want to be like you.”  And I’ve also detected some motivated by revenge walking.  For example, Wayne from Montreal, recently divorced, seems to be walking it off. 

I definitely underestimated this walk.  I assumed from its popularity the trails would be  simpler, safer, and a better designated route. But, like the the Via Francigena, there are stretches along busy roads. My pace is direclty correlated to the danger I’m confronting. It is amazing how faith can be found or affirmed in the spray of an 18-wheel truck.  Following a week of beating against the wind and rain, we are back in shorts walking in sunny bucolic countryside, surrounded by working farms and vinyards, with large trees shedding cork and delicious oranges.

The Portuguese language is impossible.  The people are wonderfdul and truly generous to the many pligrims trudging through their country, but, forgive me for noticing that so many of the women bear a striking resembance to Colin Firth’s girlfriend in “Love Actually.”  As a good guest I try to speak the language but inevitably end up sounding like Hilaria Baldwin.

Unlike most pilgrims, we plan our overnight stays in the best accomodations available in the immediate locations, a one bedroom windmill, a room in a private home, or a 5-star hotel. In the more luxurious options we are a spectacle upon arrivial, not the appearance of a typical lodger.  Once our legitimacy has been confirmed we are generously welcomed. Our bags arrive independently ideally before us and are usually detained in a reception alcove. When we retrive them I am reminded of posters of sullen canines begging for adoption. Their unique patina and perfume justify the quarantine.  Some hoteliers are kind and brave enough to deliver them to our room. 

My highlight of the week is worth repeating.  Vasco and I were navigating an extremely rutted, muddy, and challenging path.  The mud, the color and consistency of potter’s clay was everywhere. Long trenches of mud and water 2 ft deep. The path seemed impassible and endless. After carefully navigating the morass for 20 minutes we pause to consider our options, none good. Behind us we hear the rumbling of an oncoming tractor, we step aside to let him pass.  The farmer pulls beside us.  Without words he gestures with his chin to the front loader bucket.  Vasco, always seeking clarity and being a tractor owner, asked “You want us to get in?”  The farmer, confirming with a nod, lowers the bucket. As we climb in we join the several bags of animal feed.   While clutching the teeth of the bucket we travel up the rutted path, outstretched legs just skimming the mud filled water.  Not a word was spoken until we asked his name: “Joao.”  And you ask why we walk?