Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

On waking up the next morning, the traveller foresees a disastrous day. If it was raining in Coimbra, in Oliveira de Azeméis it was bucketing down. All the way to the Vale de Cambra, it was impossible to see further than twenty metres down the road ahead. But gradually the weather started to lift, and he could begin to see what had formerly been lost to sight: sweeping countryside, mountainous but with wide, open valleys, its slopes all cut into deep green terraces, protected by slate walls. Its roads were as narrow and cultivated as the tracks of a country estate. On either side lay extensive swathes of trees, almost all eucalyptus, whose customary funereal, livid colour was happily dampened by the rain and the general humidity of the atmosphere. When he reached Arouca the skies were again clear.

It had to be one of those typical coincidences, or a prodigy rendered commonplace by the town that, truth to tell, three gorgeous girls-tall, slender, who seemed to belong to some other time either in the past or the future-walked by together at the instant of his arrival. The traveller watched them recede into the distance, envying the meteorological fortunes of Arouca, and went to visit the monastery.