the day I left Lisbon

I left Lisbon at 6am. the streets were deserted, my heavy treads on the cobbles disturbing a few sleepy birds. it was a cold dawn, clouds clustering the sky all grey and dark as if fearing to rain. scuttling by old tiled mansions, cracked and worn. dirty laundry flapping, dogs barked, single cars sped by in a hurry.  the port came first: heading out of major cities on foot you always hit the industrial unloved. lonely people waiting for lonely buses. old ice cream papers & cigarette butts. a train hooting the day. asphalt paths by graffitied walls. then to the sea, or the low marsh that it was. a casino, straight paths, a striding bridge across the water, straddling the horizon. the walkways were clear, casinos gambling on nightlife, not investing in dawn. sombre schools, kids laughing as if dared. worn parents, big cars, long roads. bursting out of a fine installation on a shiny seafront, four pilgrims appeared. bubbled and wrapped in glistening new gear, heavy laughs disturbing the dark tranquil morning. I hurried on, wishing to avoid. roads & traffic, still leaving the city. roadworks by roundabouts; queues heavy with frustration. the path was unclear, churned JCB's.  the four pilgrims again, yelling and waving as they turned onto the highway. I followed, reluctantly, turning back soon again. my instincts prevailed & the path appeared & then the country was there. huge and wide and green, the path littered by red poppies, purple thistles, yellow dandelions & more. a river hustled by, banks broken by tall wind-struck reeds. softer gardens appeared, remote dogs barking under clusters of hills. a blistered shepherd in jeans, almost embarrassed by his sheep. the path was dry, cracked grey mud surrounded by green: bursting, vibrant, alive.  a mistake, not easily solved - I'd avoided cafes for the first 2-hrs only to find that they subsequently avoided me.  I had 1.5 litres of chemically flavoured water and that was it, and I was starving. I stopped to sip and to vacate but then ... heavy laughs killed the fragile peace. three pilgrims, of the four, strode up the path as I struggled mid-stream. luckily no spillage evidenced my urgent rustlings and they passed on, noisily. I waited awhile, then after I went.   there in this land of old empire were solitary bricked walls, fine red houses with windows boarded & their tales never told.  paths in and out of hedgerows, by rivers, over streams, past huge estates dominating hills.  I moved in their shadows, where the life was.  then back into suburbs, treading the paved, a cafe at last. sweet juice, sour coffee & then braving the heat. my feet were like stones, heaving them forward, nails with squashed nerves. yelling stumbled rocks.  the pilgrims again, pleasantries exchanged, avoidance deep and planned. then into marshland where a wooden pathway was built. an hour of birds: of swallows and ducks and cries on dry wind. a white hat in the reeds like a new-fashioned nest. then to a train, the start of the town & my hunt for a bed. So it was, the day I left Lisbon.