Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

When he was young, the traveller possessed a gift he has since lost: he could fly. But as this was something that set him apart from the rest of humanity, he only practised this art in the secret hours of sleep. He would steal out of his window in the early hours and fly high above houses and gardens until, this being a magic power, night suddenly became bright day, thus correcting the only flaw in his adventure. The traveller had to wait many years for this gift to be restored to him, perhaps only for one night, and then thanks to a last-minute dispensation by Endovelico who, unable to carry out the miracle of lifting the fog in the physical world, did so in the traveller's dreams. When he awoke, the traveller could remember he had flown over the Estrela mountains, but since dreams are said to be fickle, he prefers not to say what exactly he saw, in order to avoid the embarrassment of having no-one believe him.

He opened the window-or rather, pulled back the curtain and rubbed off the condensation that had formed there during the night, and looked out. The mountains were covered with clouds that looked even lower than those of the previous day; there was nothing to be done. The traveller could not put reality to the test to see if it fitted in with the reality he dreamt. So he resigned himself to the idea that today he had to stay away from the heights, and started off by paying a visit to Covilha, a town only halfway up a hillside. He saw the church of St Francis which has a magnificent portico, but little else of interest except for the pointed arches of two doorways and the sixteenth-century burial chapels. The tomb effigies are fair enough examples of their kind, if a trifle cold, but the whole benefits from the half-light that covers this entire part of the church. From there the traveller went to look at the outside of St Martin's chapel.