Castro Laboreiro: To arrive is to begin

The best way to enter this route is abruptly, through first impact — through what is felt at the very moment one arrives at the starting point. On a magnificent summer day like this, what occurs is a sudden discharge of wonder: mountains cut sharply against a sky of absolute clarity, veils of shadow gathering in the distance, fresh and scented air, and silence — wide, almost imperial.
Before any step is taken, the landscape is already speaking.

The impulse to move

Then comes the urge to walk. The primitive impulse to place one foot behind the other and advance — simply advance.
At first the movement is electric, almost instinctive, until the body finds its place and the rhythm naturally slows. In a territory like this, slowness is the most intelligent way of walking. It is worth stopping from time to time, letting the eye wander with surgical precision, attentive to details, shifts of light and the textures of granite.

The essential context

But let us step back for a moment, for the essential context is missing.
We are at the top of Alto Minho, in Castro Laboreiro — one of the most austere and, at the same time, most sublime mountain landscapes of the north-western Iberian Peninsula. Here the mountain asserts presence, density and a sense of permanence that quietly relativises human time.

Becoming part of the landscape

Once back on the trail, footsteps grow discreet, almost ceremonial. Conversation fades to what is strictly necessary, allowing the senses to synchronise.
Little by little, we merge with the landscape, dissolving into it, completely held by the enigmatic beauty of granite — a pure, almost perfect glimpse of eternity. There, that is enough. Everything else becomes redundant.

A suspension of time

At the end, back at the starting point, we redraw the route in the horizon of the mind and feel clearly that we have crossed a chamber of suspended time: hours have passed without announcing themselves.
Seated under the warm afternoon sun, we revisit the images now stored in the recesses of memory and breathe out quietly before the strange and moving beauty of small things.