Collecting Moments

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...

Chronicles of 49 hours and 50 minutes of spontaneity, apagão -lypse and quick decisions April 27th: 20:29 A guy named Raphael sends us an emergency request through a hospitality exchange platform. He missed the last bus, was stranded in our town and was looking for a kind soul to host him for a night. We checked his profile page and it was alarmingly empty. 20:30-20:47 We try to overcome a wave of suspicion and doubt, remembering all the horror stories about inviting complete strangers into your home (just like Swedes and Norwegians before they decide to pick up a hitchhiker). 20:48 We send him a WhatsApp message to ask for his whereabouts. 21:26 Raphael answers and we talk on the phone. He doesn't sound like a serial killer or even like someone who wants to steal our TV. 21:33 We send him our location. 21:56 We open the door to a smiling guy with long hair and a medium sized backpack. He's so laid back, chilled and relaxed that we immediately feel ashamed of ou...

Since we moved closer to the Atlantic two years ago, leaving the creeks and ribeiras of Serra de Estrela behind, I've missed the sound of bustling and plunging water. The ocean has its charms. It has a rhythm but lacks a flow. I’ve hiked to many large and small waterfalls during my travels, but I've never had the chance to stand under one. For a long time, I’ve dreamed of feeling the primal force of the current on my skin. So, when I found out about a hike along a cascading river just outside Lisbon—especially after the heavy April rains that filled all the waterways—I couldn't pass up the opportunity. To reach the trailhead , we took a bus from Lisbon to Loures, and then another bus to Bucelas. From the station, we followed a tarmac road that quickly turned into a dirt path leading to Ribeira do Boição . The trail eventually took us down to a swirling stream that we crossed via an improvised bridge made of a long wooden log. On the other side, a full waterfall awaite...

The forecast gave us no hope of sunshine that day—"Low clouds," it said, period. As we descended into the valley, the world around us seemed somber, damp and gloomy. The air was thick with the smell of wet soil, and even patches of green grass seemed tinted with gray. Soon, however, we began to notice splashes of vibrant color. Nature lured us with the lush green of vine leaves, the bright orange of ripe tangerines, and the delicate pink of almond blossoms. Ahead, gentle babbling of a nearby stream reached our ears. After recent heavy rains and violent storms, the water was cold and too deep to wade through in our boots, so we had to cross it barefoot. We couldn't help but envy mountain bikers gliding effortlessly across the creek while we dried our dirty, wet feet. Using a pair of spare socks for the task felt like a clever invention in the midst of our adventure. Steep, slippery trails wound through the dense forest, tall trees forming a canopy that seemed to close ...

Wherever we stay for more than a few weeks, we always find a weekend hike. It is usually an easily accessible trail of 15-20 kilometers with varied landscapes. When we lived on the edge of Serra de Estrela Park , we used to hike to an icy stream where one of us would go skinny-dipping in both winter and spring when the creeks were still full of water. Now that we've moved closer to the Arrábida Natural Park , we've begun to explore the web of trails that run between Setúbal and Palmela. The whole route is only between 9.5 and 10.5 kilometers long, but at least we can start it right from our doorstep. It has a nice climb of about 420 meters and goes over several hills. Just as all roads lead to Rome, this track actually connects two remaining parts of the Calçada Romana which once linked Equabona (Coina) to Emerita (Mérida). Depending on the weather and the season, we follow one of the four versions of the route. At different times of the year we can admire quince blossoms, c...

El Sur. O Sul. The South. A beckoning hand on the compass in winter. The magnet. The promise of gentle sun, caressing breezes and clear skies. Assuring a tranquil and carefree journey. The present. Forgiving for forgetfulness. Offering a temporary amnesia. Whispering: leave all your worries in the North, everything can wait.

We’re standing on land that once belonged to the sea. Beneath the sheer cliffs, the blue recedes to expose giant gills. They are blackened with age and jut out of the sand. The sea breathes with every wave and ebb.   It's the realm of gradual change that leaves its mark on the ground once covered by water. Time is revealed in the layers of rock.     We are here to witness, to observe, to contemplate as we walk along a soft, narrow path.       The floor of the bay is carved by salt. The turquoise lace of the waves blankets the beach. The ocean is gradually reclaiming what once belonged to it, licking the shores. These eroded cliffs yawn into eternity.         We are here to live the present as we move away from the coast and into the pine forest. In the morning we sit on a terrace overlooking the vast fields of the Alentejo. Th...

I am in Serro Ventoso, the interior of Portugal that never appears on colorful postcards in tourist shops. Here it is the realm of the green palette: pine, sage, emerald and their various shades. It is the land of white, milky mist that covers the hills. The thick fog that comes from the ocean and nourishes the soil, the locals say. People here are tough and resilient. The harshness of the landscape is reflected in their faces. They greet strangers with a piercing, stern gaze, not frowning, but not smiling either. For centuries, people have struggled in this rocky land, where rivers and waterfalls fill only after heavy rains. "When I was growing up, we had very little fruit. Only apples and figs in season. There was not enough water in this region to grow fruit," says 65-year-old Filomena. She and her nine siblings were all born in the same house where she now lives with her husband, their daughter and her boyfriend. The younger generation of the family works outside the vi...