There are many pros and cons to being a teacher. One oft-cited pro is our large amount of time off, which is usually referenced in an accusatory tone - something along the lines of “must be nice to have that much time off.”
Well you know what? It is. It’s very nice.
(It’s also very necessary, because for all its joys and wonders, teaching is a uniquely exhausting profession.)
At my new school, we get rather lengthy winter breaks. This year, it was three and a half weeks. That’s enough time to do just about anything short of long-form expeditions! And although I do love a long-form expedition, sometimes a shorter-form less-expeditionary journey is just as rewarding.

I decided not to go back to Canada for my break. This was for two main reasons, one being that I was just there in October to get my dog and bring him to Tunisia, and the other was that I am very prone to homesickness. I have been all my life. It’s one of the juxtapositions that exist within me - I love exploring and being in new places, and I also love my home and there is always, always a part of me that wishes I was there. I felt like if I went back to Regina so soon after moving to Tunisia, especially at a nostalgia- and charm-inducing time of year like Christmas, I would be absolutely levelled by homesickness upon my return to North Africa. So in an effort to preserve my own mental health, I stayed on this side of the Atlantic.
And what does one do with three and a half weeks off way over here, you may be asking?
To me, the answer was quite obvious; one walks about 240 kilometers through Portugal and Spain. Of course.
I have been interested in walking one of the Camino routes since I first learned of their existence - that is, in 2014 when my friend Sara walked the Camino Frances with her mom. I hadn’t heard of the Camino before that, but I was immediately intrigued.
There are many routes that fall under the umbrella of the Camino de Santiago, but all of them end in Santiago de Compostela, believed to be where the tomb of St. James is located. Historically, this was a Catholic pilgrimage, undertaken as a deeply religious and spiritual endeavour. But in the last 30 or so years, it has taken off as a popular way to experience Spain. People walk the Camino for all sorts of reasons, but chief among them is more or less the same reason I do most things in life - to have an interesting experience.
The most popular route, the Camino Frances, takes about a month from start to finish, and crosses northern Spain, starting at the French border. I didn’t have a month, so I opted for a different route - the Portuguese Way, beginning in Porto, Portugal and travelling northward, crossing the border into Spain at Tui and, of course, finishing in Compostela. Which, by the way, comes from the Latin phrase for “field of stars” and not the English word “compost.” Worth mentioning. Sets the vibe.
The Portuguese way can also be started in Lisbon, but that adds about 350 kilometers, and so I of course did not have time for that either. There are many, many other routes that can be taken, with these 9 in particular being the most popular. I chose the Portuguese Way because it is the second most popular, and I was hoping that A) things would be open in the off-season, and B) I might meet some interesting folks along the way.
On December 14th, my plane landed in Porto. I was falling asleep where I was standing, because I had flown out of Tunis at 2am. I got to Porto around noon and spent the day wandering the streets in a sleep-deprived trance, eventually tumbling into my hostel bed and proceeding to sleep for about ten hours. The next day, I explored Porto and got my last odds and ends together to begin my walk on the 16th.
Noteworthy events in Porto - ate my first authentic Pastel de Nata (Portuguese custard tart), had a pigeon land on my head (rather alarming), got free sangria at the hostel (10/10), and met a whole bunch of people from Winnipeg (Winnipeg!). All in all, Porto is a beautiful city. Would recommend. As long as you enjoy walking up hills, and if hills aren’t really your thing, then may I suggest… Winnipeg?


And on the morning of December 16th, I began my long walk north.
Outside the Sé Cathedral in Porto, I put my toe on the image of a scallop shell that was inlaid in the flagstones. The scallop shell is the official symbol of both the Camino and St. James himself, as it is believed that after he died on the orders of King Herod, his body was transported to the Iberian Peninsula in a boat made of a scallop shell. If you ever walk the Camino yourself, this emblem will probably take on a significance to you, even if it’s only for practical reasons - the image of the shell marks the route the entire way to Santiago, along with yellow arrows that can be found on trees, walls, telephone poles, and any other surface, indicating how to continue. I’ll be honest - after several months of teaching a new curriculum and adjusting to life in a new country, it was nice to turn my brain off and just follow the arrows.

That first day involved a very long walk out of Porto. Walking, as it turns out, is much slower than biking. I plodded along, taking in the transition from historic downtown to sleepy residential apartments to industrial zone to urban-rural fusion, and finally to just regular rural without the fusion. I saw fluffy dogs eyeing me from their porches and sleek cats sitting on top of fences. And I stopped for a pastel de nata along the way.
Aside from the walking itself, the main thing I had to accomplish was getting my “credencial” stamped twice. The credencial is the official document that a camino pilgrim must carry with them, stamping it at least twice a day to prove they have walked the distance they claim. You can get these stamps in many place along the camino - cafes, stores, accommodation, tourist sites, churches, and so forth. But that first day, I was completely stumped.

Every church I found was closed up tight. For some reason I had assumed that all churches in Europe were just… open? Like how the big cathedrals in the city are. I have no idea why I thought that and in hindsight it doesn’t make any sense, but on that day I was surprised that every church I came upon was closed and locked. So no stamps there. And for some reason I was nervous to ask random businesses.
But I needed that stamp! I didn’t want to be accused of being a phony walker. I was walking a rather long way, and I wanted proof!
So, about two thirds of the way through the day, I rocked up into the next cafe I saw and whipped out my best Portuguese, delivered straight from Google Translate. “Tem carimbo?” I asked with a distinct lack of elegance while miming the stamping of an imaginary paper. The elderly woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow and said no. I stumbled through asking her if she knew anywhere nearby that might have a stamp. She said no again while gesturing vaguely in no particular direction.
And so off I went, zero stamps richer and somewhat humbled. The woman in the cafe did not care about my heroic journey from Porto to Compostela. I regathered my boldness and marched on to the next town and the next cafe who - thankfully - did have a stamp. And I bought a lemonade to thank them for their dutiful stamping. After drinking the lemonade, I left and made it halfway down the street before having to go back for my hiking poles. And then I carried on.
When I finally made it to my destination for the night, I was about ready to collapse, having walked over 44,000 steps that day. My home until the next morning was Vilarinho, in an albergue housed in an 11th Century monastery. Albergues are basic guesthouses intended for the pilgrims of the caminos - they usually offer very basic accommodations with shared kitchens and bathrooms. This one, in my opinion, was a little more upscale - and because I was the only person there, they put me in a warmer room with extra blankets for the price of the big dorm. They were worried I would be cold in there all by myself. And they were probably right, because I was pretty cold anyway.

There were two people running the show at the monastery’s albergue. One was Carla, the nun in charge. The other was Julio, a volunteer originally from Venezuela. Julio and I chatted quite a bit, as we both turned out to be the talkative type and there was no one else to chat with. Julio was recently arrived in Portugal from Uzbekistan, where he lived for a number of year after leaving South America due to Venezuela’s ongoing social and economic crisis. After making a go of it in Central Asia, he finally decided the Uzbek and Russian languages were just too hard to master well enough to work professionally in his tech career there. So, he applied for a few visas - he got rejected by Canada, but ultimately was accepted by Portugal. He had accepted a new job and was starting soon in Porto, and was staying and volunteering at the albergue until he found an apartment.
Meeting people like Julio always makes me ponder my own circumstances. I like to throw myself into journeys and migrations, pilgrimages of my own choosing - but I’ve never been forced to move across the world because of the state of my homeland. It’s difficult to comprehend. I hope Julio lands on his feet in Portugal - he seems to be off to a good start.
After a cold sleep under a metric tonne of fleecy blankets, I woke the next morning ready to carry on. I bid goodbye to Julio and walked off into the early morning fog. I repeatedly muttered the Portuguese word for stamp (“carimbo”) under my breath so that I would be prepared when I next encountered a likely candidate for stamping. Out of the fog emerged my first yellow arrow of the day - so off I went.


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