Loop hiking trail to Cabo Espichel. Portugal. Summer 2025

Twelve Kilometers on Foot, Twelve Kilometers by Thumb: What Will Make Our Day?

For mid-July in Portugal, it was an unusual day. Instead of sunshine, dense clouds blanketed the sky. On the bus, we noticed tiny raindrops on the windows, which is almost unheard of during the Iberian summer. When we arrived at the trailhead in Azóia, the ground was still dry, untouched by the drizzle. We set off toward the cliffs along a narrow trail squeezed between thorny shrubs.The descent was steep, and the loose stones wobbled beneath our feet. Hiking poles came in handy as we made our way down the slope. Though the clouds dimmed the view, we could still appreciate the vast expanse of the ocean and the quiet strength of the cliffs. Waves crashed against the rocks, and seabirds soared through the salty air. We paused at Arco da Pombeira, a natural arch sculpted by the sea, to take in its rugged form and wild beauty.

The weather continued to surprise us as we followed the winding, rocky path through the verdant landscape. Passing the imposing lighthouse and the abandoned sanctuary at Espichel Cape, we watched as thick fog rolled in from the Atlantic, blurring the line between sea and sky. The mist curled around the cliffs that dominated the coastline and soon swallowed the lighthouse from view. In this otherworldly atmosphere, we reached a spot where, if you looked carefully, you could see dinosaur footprints impressed on distant rocks. These ancient marks, appearing through the fog, deepened the sense of a shifted reality. Before long, humid whiteness wrapped around us, frizzing our hair and dampening our clothes. The fog clung to the tops of pine trees and crept down into the evergreen ravines. The air was filled with the scent of wild herbs mingling with the aromas of wet sand and salt as the drizzle turned into light rain.

By the time we reached the bus stop back in Azóia, the clouds had started to break, revealing patches of blue sky. We’d missed the bus to Sesimbra by just ten minutes, and the next one wouldn’t arrive for another hour. Rather than wait, we decided to try our luck hitchhiking. Within five minutes, a car stopped, and two women waved us in. They were exploring the area and heading to Sesimbra to visit the beach and the castle. The driver, a slender Portuguese woman in her late sixties, was from Palmela. Her friend, with her chestnut hair tucked beneath a gentle silk scarf, was originally from Pakistan and worked as a doctor in London. She told us she would visit Portugal to unwind when her English life became overwhelming. The two had met fifteen years ago in England, where they both worked, and had been close friends ever since. Maria, the driver, was like a Portuguese mother to her younger companion, reminding me of my own beloved madrinha, who had passed away two years earlier. As we got out of the car, it struck me that, despite all the kilometers we’d walked that day, it was this brief ride—and human kindness—that made our journey truly memorable.