As much as I love humans, I really love solitude.
I am an introvert. Meaning, I get my energy from time by myself, when I can hear myself think, know what I feel, feel it all fully, and let myself slow into presence.
I'm working on keeping that integration in good company but it's something I have to really pay attention to. It's a retraining of sorts and kinda wears me out.
So. I run away sometimes.
Take a breath.
I had heard about a lot of various country hovels in Portugal. My introvert ears perked. I love hiding in mountains.
With the momentum of the retreat, I had sort of dropped the ball on travel planning a rural stint while in Portugal. The wifi was a bit unpredictable and I had a hard time connecting with a couple of leads I had found prior to travel. Ultimately, I found a Quinta, or a little medieval villa, somewhere in the countryside. It looked to be maybe 3 hours east from Porto, near the Spanish border.
We went for it.
As we got deeper into the Portuguese mountains-- more accurately steppes?-- wifi got less predictable. Ultimately, our GPS threw in the towel, which was great. We were winding our way on highway switchbacks and had no idea where we were going. The further you move from Portuguese cities the less English you hear spoken too. And DO NOT try to speak Spanish. They totally speak Spanish. But not with you. English. Thanks.
We pulled off. I readied myself for some solid charades at a gas station. I wrote stuff down. I drew maps. The amused country folks around me drank their beers, midday, at a gas station. Because, Portugal. When you pull off to get gas why not drink a beer or glass of wine?
Finally, I wrote down the name of the Quinta. Um. Everyone totally knew it. There were no labelled ROADS around there but they knew the names of estates.
They tried to give me directions, which was also awesome. They wanted to give me landmarks, like, over the hill, follow the river, when we didn't share a common language and I'm a very street sign oriented person. But you know. For my way that would mean there would have to be labelled roads and street signs.
Somehow, it worked! Further up the highway there was even a sign for our sweet little Quinta!
Dogs barked and chased our Algarve-dusted car. As we emerged from the car we smelled rosemary and the heavy sweetness of conchords overhead. A sweet older Portuguese woman emerged who happily spoke Spanish with me! I think she may have originally been from over the border!
She escorted us into our suite near her own living quarters. As we settled into the stone nooks and crannies of the Quinta, she rolled in a cart with cookies and port wine.
She told us there is nothing around here. You could see the valley through the window. A sprinkling of houses and a river. Farm estates between. I asked her where to go to breakfast. She shrugged and suggested we buy some rolls to tide us over. Or drive the half hour into Guarda. We asked her if anywhere served vegetarian meals for dinner. She looked nervous but said an estate down by the river might.
It's a good adventure.
We went back in time.
It got very still.
Something about sitting on a stone sill and watching the sheep go by. Nothing feels quite so important.
We read awhile. We shifted to slower, softer paced books.
Expectations lowered. A walk would be good.
Our host urged us to follow the old Roman road. Kevin was PSYCHED. As we set out, one of the dogs named Honey, accompanied us. Every now and then she would dart away and we thought she'd find her way home. Nope. She was a kind host and stayed with us every step of the journey.
Kevin tried to recall the purpose behind these old Roman roads. His understanding was that they guided merchants and troops so that navigation was unnecessary. Also, wheels could move faster over the cobblestones.
For us, it helped us not get lost. Down the hill to the river. Up the hill back to the Quinta.
The river felt like a sanctuary. We dipped in and said thanks for allowing us to be here. The trees arched over quietly.
