The car spins smartly between the mountain tops, the country around is green. We talk. I can be protectively hard with her – a true pain in the ass, actually. At some point she literally tells me to f*ck off.
– What’s the distance between Lisbon and Manchester?
– I don’t know. Why?
– I don think I ever travelled this much to be told to f*ck off.
We laugh hysterically.
We both like walking and I knew we’d be doing this, but I couldn’t fit my trekking shoes on my cabin luggage. A. assured me my rain boots are just perfect.
There’s a track that goes over the riverside. A muddy slippery one. We start climbing and I’m not confident on my rain boots, but somehow they manage to feel safer here than in Lisbon’s streets. Being more of a urban trekker, I’m not exactly used to such muddy trails, but my confidence builds in fast. I keep a faster pace sometimes so I get to walk alone for a while. I have iPhone on plane mode. I travel with no boundaries, yet again. I missed this.