Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

It's a bright morning but the traveller still hasn't got out of bed. He's delaying the moment when he'll draw the curtains on the two windows in his room. He's postponing the end of the pleasure he has had since arriving at the hotel in the depths of darkness. Perhaps he also fears a degree of disappointment. Light filters through the chinks and the traveller feels a weight on his heart: "Perhaps it's cloudy.? " He leaps out of bed, indignant at the mere prospect of how depressing it would be to see the countryside around Santa Luzia blanketed in clouds, and reveals the first window, overlooking the sea, with a single swish. The cold morning air hits him full in the face and he feels radiant with pleasure and surprise at the watery splendours of the misty coast, a meeting-point for river and sea in a single cordon of spray from waves crashing in from the high seas onto the beaches.

The other window is at right-angles to the first, the room has many corners, and-oh fine and splendid destiny-there's more countryside out there waiting. Words don't suffice to describe it nor paintings, nor music. A luminous mist suspended over the valley, the sun resplendent within it like a convector. The river, encircling numerous islands, flowing now towards the right bank, is easily distinguished from above, its liquid arms pushing into the earthy heartland and reflecting back the sky, between green fields bisected by coppery trees and dark verges. The morning smoke rises from house chimneys and greatly enhances the general beauty of a magnificent hour, against the gloriously smoky factory chimneys. The traveller is a lucky man: two windows on the world at a unique moment of light, the fresh air embracing his body. He clearly came to Viana do Castelo at the right moment, arriving as night drew in, and deciding to climb the mountain of Santa Luzia for a good night's sleep.