It brought new life. Few in Mouzos have travelled widely, but now the world walks by their front doors, along laneways, and

through farmyards and small vineyards.

​

Now there are greetings, drinks, fruit shared. And for Jaime, appreciation of the work of his hands.

​

I sit awhile, savouring the atmosphere, thinking of the many for whom this section has been the highlight of their Camino Portugues. Their comments in the visitors’ book, messages of gratitude for ‘hospitality’, ‘love’ and ‘peace’.

​

A pine-clad ceiling. White walls. Carnations on a simple altar. And underneath, a holy Nativity family. The shepherds have

been and gone, the wise men yet to set out, journeying from afar. 

Her head tilted, Mary gazes on the child, lost in wonder. Joseph leans on his staff, perhaps wondering at hope arriving as a

vulnerable babe, entrusted to the poor and obscure, the least the first to hear – creating a whole new set of haves and have nots. Or perhaps he’s thinking, ‘What the heck do I do now?’

​

I ask the same question. 

​

More pilgrims pass by, written into the Camino’s story, even as it rewrites ours, telling us who we still could be. They walk

on to Santiago, but never really arrive. None of us do. 

​

* * *

​

I don’t want to go, but I have a flight late afternoon.
I reach out to shake Manolo’s red-stained hand.

​

‘Take as much as you want. I have to make a fresh batch.’
He’s right. We sample again – just to make sure.

​

‘Smooth, full-bodied,’ I say.

​

‘Yes, but not as strong as Albariño. You should stop driving, put your feet up and enjoy a bottle.’ 

​

‘But if I do that I may miss my flight.’

​

 He smiles, ‘Then you must come back.’