Solstice in the Serra

Thoughts on home, belonging and the need for wilderness.

Jul 09, 2023

Summer solstice came along faster than anticipated, although I must admit that I have never made much of an effort to celebrate it before. Perhaps our modern cultural conditioning runs so deep that it is normal to notice the occasion and let it slip by, but this time I have different plans.

When people think of Portugal's landscape, they often think of coastlines, sandy beaches and clear water. While the coastal beauty of this country is surely undeniable, it leads to an aversion towards the positive attributes of the hills and mountains. I have no complaints about this however, since I am often the only one who is out running across the Serra. I relish the peace and tranquility that comes from the lack of development and human traffic. On the coast, there is no more space left to accommodate camper vans and tourists. In the Serra, there is another world to be discovered — one of space, stillness and views that stretch for as far as the eye can see.

Since late January, I have been living in the Serra da Estrela — a mountainous region in the Centro region of Portugal, named after the array of stars that fill the night skies. After the last two years of wandering across deserts, coastlines and rolling plains, it was inevitable that I would land in the mountains eventually.

I’ve come to appreciate the familiar routine that has developed in my intimate explorations of the Vale do Mondego. Every week I find new tracks and trails, many of which are overgrown and already reclaimed by the wild. Needless to say, I normally emerge covered in blood and scratches from the brambles, but there is a certain satisfaction derived from finding a different way of traversing your local mountain ridge.

Since I sold the van and relocated, I’ve made little effort to explore beyond these perimeters because there has been more than enough to satisfy my curiosity. In the back of my mind however, there has been a constant allure of what remains to be discovered. There is still a vast area of this mountain range that is beckoning to be explored and the turn of the summer season was the invitation to embark.

I must admit, the Serra is not a landscape that stands out for its numerical significance. The maximum altitude falls just short of two-thousand metres and the summit has been covered with tarmac and tourist shops. In terms of height and prominence, there are far more impressive ranges in Europe in the likes of the Pyrenees or the Alps. However, in my wanderings I have come to learn that statistical significance bears little relevance in the real world. No one can doubt the breathtaking beauty of the aforementioned mountain ranges, but it's in the lesser-known details that I have come to appreciate the understated mountainous landscapes of Portugal.

Where I was once drawn to peaks and summits, more often I find myself lured into the secluded valleys. Sheltered by the harsh winters, strong winds and summer sun, nature seems to thrive and offer its full displays of vibrancy down here. Nowhere else have I found such a quantity of wildflowers, butterflies and edible wild plants. Some people are oriented around the oceans, it seems I am more oriented around the valleys. This is where I am heading to celebrate the transition into the summer season. I load up the Panda, put the dog in the backseat and set off along the winding mountain roads.

After crossing the halfway mark, I drive past Manteigas, a town that the literal english translation would mean "Butters" — and continue through the glacial valley of Zêzere, named after one of the main rivers in Portugal which begins its journey up here in the high Serra. The main road that leads to my planned wild camping spot has been shut for months, apparently due to works that were being carried out because of the threat of erosion after last summer’s ferocious wildfires. As expected, it seems like nothing has changed since its closure. I have to take a detour.

I take the small and winding road up through the forests of larch, oak and sycamore. Continuing upwards, I am climbing continuously until finally emerging above the tree line and into the otherworld — the lunar landscape of the high altitude. Round granite boulders are the distinctive feature of this terrain, alongside the charred remains of a few pine trees, burnt in previous wildfires. Blooming flowers line the road with various shades of yellow, purple and blue. The displays of shifting light and cloud in the distance encourage me to pull over and soak up the scenery.

The road continues beyond where the tarmac ends. I remind myself that any true road trip requires some quantity of rock, dirt and gravel — despite my precautions over the old Fiat Panda. She floats effortlessly over the bumps and potholes. Feeling elevated both in mood and in literal altitude, I give thanks for the road closure and the opportunity it has provided to discover new terrain.

Eventually, the road follows along the edge of a cliff that runs parallel to the three big peaks of the Serra da Estrela — Cântaro Gordo, Magro and Raso. I am in awe of these natural wonders, towering like guardians over the valley below. A large waterfall in the distance looks miniature from this far-away perspective. I keep stopping the car to get out and look — a special feeling, derived from a sense of pure wonder at the marvels of nature.

I pull up in a small enclave next to the dirt road, where a group of silver birch saplings grow from the shrubs. The wind whistles by. Foxgloves grow from the ditches, reminding me of summers past in England. This seems like the perfect basecamp. After setting up, there are still a few hours until sunset. I decide to head higher up to chase the remaining daylight.

After following the dramatic hairpin bends that lead up to the summit, I reach the highest reaches of the Serra with panoramic vistas over the granite landscape below. A large group of swallows are flying in circles above me, seemingly rotating around the rocky monolith of Cântaro Magro, like some kind of mystical solstice ritual. Their wings cut through the wind seamlessly, creating whooshing noises that come from every direction. The swallow, or andorinha as it is called in Portuguese, is a symbol of the culture in this country. They represent family, home and belonging. As migratory birds, they always build their nests in the same place which they previously inhabited. There are a group of swallows that live above the front door in the farmhouse where I currently live, and I take a moment to appreciate the symbolic gesture.

Morning comes. I set off on a trail that zig-zags up the Cântaro, clambering slowly along the rocky trail. Juniper bushes sprawl over and in-between the boulders, with gnarled branches seemingly reaching into every crack and crevice. I’m following a trail through a valley that appears to have no name, which adds to the sense of mystery of this wild place. A series of crystal clear lakes seems to appear from nowhere, one after another. Up here, the water rises through the ground, creating small underground streams that can be heard trickling beneath the grassy fields. As far as hydration goes, nothing could feel more pure than drinking this earth juice that gives itself so freely to whoever and whatever needs it.

Pausing at the top of a boulder field, in awe of the pure wilderness that stretches until the horizon ends, I take a moment to reflect on what home is. I can't say that I've ever felt truly home in any specific country, especially not the one where I was born. I have come to interpret home as more of a feeling or sensation, and in this sense there many places where I have felt at home. It is wherever the wild nature is. Most often felt in the mountains, one of the last frontiers that remain from the sprawling urbanisation and impact of human beings. Here, in this unnamed valley, I'm reminded of the sensations felt in every wild place I have visited: a deep, embodied feeling of peace and joy that needs no further explanation. Not bound by national borders, it transcends the notion of country or even any singular physical place, since it can exist in many places simultaneously. It is this feeling that I have come to consider home, it is a place that I always return to — much like the migrating swallows that travel thousands of miles across the globe, following their unconscious, inner-compass back to where they belong.