Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

The traveller is a native of the lowlands from far down south and, knowing little of these uplands, had hoped for something on a grander scale. He's already said as much, and now he's repeating himself. There's no dearth of exceptions, but all tend to prove the rule of relativity: height ranged only in relation to sea level, each peak shoulder-to-shoulder with the next in perfect profile. If ever one pokes out of line, sprouting up unexpectedly, then yes, the traveller is permitted a clear sense of their grandeur, less by approaching close to than from taking a longer perspective. Once the foothills are reached, he notes no great variation in size, but is satisfied with their distant and fleeting promise.

The railway line running beside the road looks like a toy track, perhaps something left over from the ancient of days. The traveller, whose childhood dream was to be an engine driver, fears that the locomotive and its carriages will turn out to be in period, museum objects the enveloping mountain wind still hasn't succeeded in blowing the cobwebs off. The line is called the Sabor, after the river which twists and turns, wending its way to the Duero, but where the savour of those covered carriages has gone is something the traveller fails to discover.