Read "Journey to Portugal" by José Saramago online for free on Textopian. Full text with search, annotations, highlights, and AI-powered reading aids.
It rained overnight. Who would have thought it, only two days earlier, with the sun high in the sky, that the weather could turn so ugly. You could be forgiven for thinking that the traveller's spirits were dropping, perhaps you might want to send him home, but you'd be more than half wrong: this traveller is a man to withstand every enemy, preferring cold to heat, loathing fog only because it prevents him from seeing things. He makes his meteorological reflections on the road to Águeda whilst observing the countryside. The main road skirts the hillsides, and from their heights it's possible to look down on the flooded plains, fields of rice, orchards of luxuriant green. Perhaps the fog hovering over the tree tops emanates from the puddles' exhalations. All in all, it's a beautiful day.
The traveller went first to Trofa, a small village out of the reach of the main road running between Águeda and Albergaria-a-Velha. No-one in a hurry would be drawn to noticing the careful signpost showing the way, or, if he registered seeing it a little further on, he'd forget what he saw, unless he happened to move in the circles of paint-and-stone-lovers. Should he not as yet count himself among them, let Trofa provide the occasion of his conversion.