Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

When the traveller is far away, back in that great city he calls home, and has had a hard day, he chooses to remember the lake with its watery arms penetrating the rocky valleys, sometimes even the fertile lands and human dwellings; he'll see in his mind's eye the flanks of pine trees all reflected on that superlative surface and then, within himself, a sea of silence will form, out of which comes the murmur, as if responding in the only way possible: "I am. " That nature should be capable of permitting so much to a mere traveller could only cause surprise in someone who has never been to the Canicada lagoon. The traveller has to tell it how it is: any passer-by who merely congratulates himself by simply mentioning "I was there," or "I took that route," gets it wrong. Who could pass by without speaking the truth: "I didn't go to view it, I went to learn from it!"

The traveller reaches Geres by way of the deep valley cutting through the countryside towards Portela do Homem. Along the way he visits some early stately homes; he visits them to learn more about the taste of those times, and while perhaps their taste wasn't flawless, he can again confirm that whoever conceived, designed and constructed them did something above average, no doubt something more than all those who sat on the chairs, ate the food and slept in their rooms. Presumably there were exceptions, but not among the prosperous and opulent merchants and industrialists from the market-places of the North, who came to stay and take the waters with their dearly beloved wives but who, sooner or later, abandoned their legitimate partners to meet their true loves in these clandestine houses.