#65. Hiking in Portugal: 10-11 July 2026

I planned to attend ICAR9 – the 9^th International Conference on Adoption Research – in Porto, Portugal, in early July. Surely there would be a way to tack on a day or two of hiking afterwards. Julie Hernandez questioned whether it would “count” toward the eight annual extraordinary outdoors excursions if I didn’t go with a friend or family member. I assured her it would. (Hadn’t I gone to Puerto Rico solo in February?

Portugal was a full participant in the sweltering European summer of 2026. The temperatures in Porto were in the mid 90s, less than ideal for any strenuous outdoor activity. Yet as the date of the conference approached, to my disbelief, the predicted highs for the week had dropped to the 70s.

The day before the conference opened, I texted the lead organizer Maria Acciaiuoli Barbosa, a Portuguese academic whom I’d met two years earlier that ICAR8. “I realize you have 1000 things on your plate right now, but do you have a friend or colleague who could advise me on hiking in Portugal?” Within minutes, she sent me the name and phone number of her friend Constança and let her know to expect my call. (If you want something done, ask a busy person.) When I spoke to Constança by phone, she confirmed that several tour companies would lead hiking trips to the Penenda-Gerês National Park, 1.5 hours from Porto. But she suggested an alternative: to walk for a day along the Caminho Português (the Coastal Way of the historic El Camino). Instead of choosing between the two, I opted for doing both, starting with the Camino).

Hiking el Camino dates back to the early 9th century and includes routes in France, Spain, and Portugal. “Pilgrims” (as those who walk the trail are known or peregrinos in Portuguese) have been using the Caminho Português since the 15^th century, for the purposes of penance, salvation, miracles, and royal devotion.  From the starting point in Porto, the Coastal route leads pilgrims to the shrine of St. James in Santiago de Compostela, Spain, 260 kilometers away. The modern-day descendants of these pilgrims often choose the Portuguese Way because it is shorter, flatter, less physically punishing, cooler, and extremely scenic compared to the routes through France and Spain. I chose it because it originates in Porto, and I wanted to get a one-day mini-taste of the experience.

I’d be doing el Camino on my own (no tour company). Between AllTrails and the helpful receptionist at the hotel, I mapped out a plan: to take a €23 Uber to the town of Vila do Conde (18 miles north of Porto) and walk south back to the city. When I descended from the Uber at 11 am, the conditions for walking were perfect: temperature in the 70s, skies overcast, and no hint of rain. I had brought a hat, snacks, and plenty of water with electrolyte tablets, and I promised myself I’d stop for a water break once every 30 minutes.

This route was perfect for the person prone to getting lost. It is one straight line down the coast of Portugal. As long as the Atlantic Ocean was on my right, I was on track. The path itself alternated between seaside boardwalks (wooden platforms a foot above the ground) and concrete sidewalks. In a few places where the boardwalk had broken down, one would walk for a few blocks through an adjacent town or even on the beach itself.

The towns furthest away from Porto were the most traditional. Several were fishing villages, with boats and lobster traps piled along the shore. Small cafes and snack bars catering to hikers dotted the coastline. Local boys had found a make-shift soccer field to practice their skills; were they secretly aspiring to play in the World Cup? (Portugal had lost to Spain five days earlier.) In several spots the beaches were full of kids (some as young as 3 years old), presumably attending day care or summer camp. The large buses parked along the shore were not for tourists but rather to ferry the kids back to their home base.

By noon I’d passed 32 hikers ranging in age from their late teens to their 70s, identifiable by good shoes and a knapsack; hat and trekking poles optional. I had a hard time using the word “pilgrims” to describe these REI warriors of multiple nationalities. We shared the path with occasional joggers, dog walkers, and older couples out for a stroll. By 1 pm, my count was up to 100 (and by the end of the day, it would be closer to 200).

From the little I knew about the Camino, many walk it as a personal or spiritual journey: to find clarity during life transitions, process grief, disconnect from technology, or seek a deeper spiritual connection. To respect this tradition, I resisted the urge to put in my AirPods and listen to the end of Regime Change by Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan. OK, I would at least hold off until the midpoint on the day’s hike, to reward myself for making it that far.

I was not far from that midpoint when a large gray Quonset hut emerged in the distance. I caught up to a local walker (no backpack, trekking poles, or hiking shoes) to ask him what it was, and he replied that it was the venue for a big musical concert. At least, I think that’s what he said, given that he spoke only Portuguese and I spoke none. We struck up a conversation of sorts, and he ended walking with me for over an hour. It proved to be a great diversion, but by then, the sun was beating down in full force.

After passing the two-hour mark without stopping for water, I needed to refuel. My fellow walker categorically refused to stop, insisting that these beach-side places were too expensive. I saw a convenience store 25 yards off the route, but he also vetoed it as too costly. Eventually we reached the massive Ponte Móvel de Leça (Leça drawbridge), where he prepared to send me on my way while he returned home. Fortunately, we found a small sidewalk stand where I bought a bottle of water. He refused to let me buy him anything, but I prevailed by telling the server that I was buying him a drink, whether he wanted to consume it or not. As he finished a small draft beer, we exchanged ages: he was 71; I, 77.

With every kilometer closer to Porto, the buildings became more modern. The Leça drawbridge marked a dramatic break between the tranquil seascape of the previous five hours and the massive maritime industrial complex that served the port of Matosinhos. The route for the Camino crossed this towering bridge, and using my iPhone, I found the staircase at the base of the bridge that would lead me to the pedestrian walk on the bridge itself. Alas, the entrance was barred off by wire fencing, with large signs indicating it was closed for repairs. This first and only crisis of the day was averted by a free bus that would pass every 15 minutes to take people to the other side. In the end it proved to be a blessing in disguise, cutting nearly a quarter mile off the walk across the bridge under the blazing sun.

On the other side of the bridge, I was back in Porto. My initial plan was to follow the route along the coast as far as possible to benefit from the scenic views, but I quickly realized that would mean walking several additional miles on scorching concrete under the beating sun. I also realized how easy it would be to call an Uber, which would set me back less than $15 and spare me the final two hours of winding streets through hilly Porto. But I resisted the temptation. Hadn’t I signed up for the full experience? I stuck with it, allowing my iPhone to chart the route back to the hotel, and seeking shade wherever possible.

Just under 7 hours after starting, I walked through the front door of the hotel, very happy to find my room, remove my hiking boots, and sink down into the cushioned mattress. After a shower, I mustered the energy to stagger downstairs, order a beer and sandwich, and watch a few minutes of the World Cup match between France and Morocco before calling it a day. I’d need to be up the next morning for a 7 AM breakfast and the second day of hiking.

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For several weeks, I’d had my eye on Peneda-Gerês, the only national park in Portugal, which is within striking distance of Porto. Of various tour companies, GetYourGuide offered a 10 k hiking tour in the park for 87 euros, with transportation from Porto. Bring your swimsuit.

After taking my preventative Aleve and pilfering enough food stuffs from the breakfast buffet to make a lunch, I made my way by Uber to the meeting point for the tour. There I met Miguel, our guide, and the other four in our group: a German couple in their 60s (well equipped with hiking shoes, knapsack, and hats) and a mother-daughter pair from NYC (originally from Ecuador), equipped only with their cellphones. No lunch for this all-day excursion? No hats? No sunscreen?

I arrived over-prepared for a few hours’ hike on a moderate trail: hiking boots, knapsack bursting at the seams, trekking poles, water, hat. Within minutes, it became clear that Miguel, our guide, would be quite the talker. He took one look at me and quasi-joked, “You know, we have to walk fast, fast on this hike, not slow, slow” (mimicking an elderly person barely able to walk). In my defense, I murmured something about having done seven hours on El Camino the day before. He took a wait-and-see attitude.

Since I was the only solo member of the group, I joined Miguel in the front seat of the van for the 90-minute ride to the park, split midpoint by a pit stop at a bakery. As we rejoined the road, he regaled me with anecdotes about guiding, and I asked a slew of questions:  about the park (temperatures are often higher than in Porto); social problems in Portugal (they don’t have any after they expelled the Pakistani migrants a decade ago); existence of slums in Portugal (there are none except maybe in Lisbon); the adequacy of the social security system to support the elderly (helpful but one needs to have saved up something on the side); the worst experience he’d had as a guide (a Russian lady vomited all over him in the front seat and didn’t apologize or tip). After every question, he’d mock-complain that I asked too many questions. Nor did I hold back in correcting his English: “winding” not “windy” roads.

We began the hike around 11 am. Already the temperatures had risen to the 80s, and the trail was fully exposed. The first half consisted of a section with a very moderate elevation gain; the group stayed more of less together, and I needn’t have worried about being the slowest. The German husband probably would have outpaced the rest of us, but he stayed back to accompany his wife. Kimberly, the Latin daughter, also hung back to keep her mother company. Within 45 minutes, the trail intersected with a dirt road, which would take us two kilometers downhill to a set of seven lagoons, the main attraction of the excursion. A constant stream of fresh water cascaded down the side of the mountain, forming this set of seven pools with crystal clear water. I wasn’t sure if I’d partake in swimming, but I’d brought my suit just in case. With 90 minutes to kill, I changed in the bushes alongside the lagoon, with the appropriate level of European modesty (practically none).

The water was divine. After the hour-long hike under the blazing sun, the cool water offered welcome relief. I figured I’d duck in and out, but it was so refreshing that I found myself swimming from side to side in the “deep end.” I couldn’t believe my good fortune: swimming and hiking in the same day?

The lagoons included shallow areas with slabs of rock just under the surface, as well as sections that were 10-15 feet deep. I gasped as a young guy jumped from a ledge above the pool and barely missed hitting the underwater rocks. (His friend took considerably longer to survey the area before repeating the plunge.) Finally, I reluctantly got out of the water to give myself enough time to get back into my sweaty clothes and eat my lunch.

By far the greatest incline of the hike was the one kilometer from the lagoons back up the dirt road to the trail, with the sun at its greatest intensity of the day (at least 90 degrees). Hoping the electrolyte-laced water would keep me from passing out, I put my head down and began this upward slog. Even I was surprised to find myself the first one to make it to the top of the hill, and Miguel begrudging recognized my stamina. Back on the final 3 kilometers of the trail, I fell in line behind him and the bantering continued. “Jane, you ask too many questions. You only have three questions left.” My reply, “but the German guy (who hadn’t said anything the whole hike) said I could have his questions.” Mid-point on the trail, I asked the others if anyone else wanted to take the lead for the rest of the way down. No one did. “What’s the matter?” Miguel asked. “No one else wants to be up here with you,” I replied.

On the homestretch, I asked yet another question, which I’d wondered about on the Camino the day before: how do you tell the nationality of the people coming the other direction, to know what language to use to greet them? Miguel insisted that he was an expert at this skill and immediately tested it out on each group that passed us. He nailed it on an American couple and then on 3-4 Portuguese groups. I then changed the rules that it would only count on non-Portuguese people, claiming that he had an 80% chance of being right by guessing Portuguese, given the composition of the hikers in the park. By the time we got to the snack bar in the parking lot, he had clearly won that contest. We all had a cold drink and piled back into the van for a non-stop trip back to Porto. This time, no more questions; I put in my Airpods and listened to the end of Regime Change.

As he dropped us in the central plaza in front of city hall (the very place we’d watch the Portugal-Spain World Cup match days earlier), we bid our goodbyes. Miguel didn’t need to tell me that he’d misjudged my hiking abilities, and as I tipped him, I got a big hug in return.

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