Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

There are some who confess nothing without swearing to it and others who refuse to pledge more than a simple yes or no. Let's just say that the traveller falls between the two extremes, and for that reason alone makes no formal vow never to travel in the misty, rainy autumn seasons of the future, when the sky is hidden and leaves are falling. The summer is always indubitably beautiful, taking for granted sun, beaches, shady vines and cool drinks, but who can argue with a little track among the woods, where the mists form and disperse, at times blocking out the near horizon, at others vanishing into an apparently endless valley. The trees are of every hue. If there's a colour lacking, or gone into hiding, it's green, and where it still persists, it already assumes a first tinge of yellow, which starts brightly in most cases, before earthier shades surface, the chestnut trees turning pale, then dark, sometimes to the colours of fresh or congealed blood.

Every colour can be found among the trees, even providing ground cover for the many glorious kilometres the traveller would like to walk on foot, as far as the trail from Braganza to Chaves, his first destination of the day.