Editor's note: Contributor Rita Beamish had the chance to visit Portugal's only national park, Peneda-Gerês, last fall, and jumped at it. What she found was a park decidedly different than what you might experience in the United States, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.
The dogs were large, with pointy ears, and they appeared suddenly along the cobbled path, barking furiously. My husband Paul and I paused, then slowly crept past them as we murmured pet-friendly reassurances at their bared teeth. They jumped around a bit but did not draw nearer; all bark, no bite. A cheerful man hobbled down the path on his cane, reaffirming this in Portuguese and gestures and tone that conveyed his meaning to our linguistically challenged ears. Chuckling, he waved us on our way from the tiny stone village into a sparse forest in Portugal’s sole national park—Peneda-Gerês.
Fish stalls in a Porto outdoor market do a brisk business/Rita Beamish
And he was right. We never encountered any of the park’s indigenous wildlife, not the Iberian wolf or roe deer or mountain goats, and the dogs in these ancient, cobbled villages were never threatening. And although the national park is home to some 9,000 people, it seems the dogs outnumbered the humans we saw during our hikes. Admittedly, October is not high season, and climbers frequent the park’s impressive rock faces, but we encountered only a group of four Dutch hikers, and just a handful of villagers. Their small structures were either thatch-roofed and crumbling, or buttoned up as if the residents were out for the day, an ostensible challenge on the narrow dirt roadways that twisted into the hills.
Yesteryear Vibe
Hiking in this national park (typically just called Gerês) is more of a time-travel experience than a wilderness foray. Its 270 square miles bend across northern Portugal, snug against the Spanish border. Medieval, and even prehistoric, features are interspersed with backcountry and other uses, including boating and horseback riding, farming and livestock breeding. We at times encountered a clatch of cattle or sheep wrangled by a herder wielding a stick. From high vistas the red-roofed villages—tiny clusters of stone habitations—seemed the very antithesis of modernity, without commercial eateries, coffee shops, or retail of any kind.
The few residents we did encounter—invariably helpful and friendly—likewise conjured earlier times. A leathery-faced woman in rubber knee boots and a widow’s baggy black attire and head scarf, walking with a hoe over her shoulder and pail on her arm, stopped when she saw our car stuck in a too tiny turnaround on a twisting street squeezed between haphazard houses. She cheerfully waved her arms and shouted directions to extract us—and then coyly protested, laughing, as I raised my camera for her photo. She hoisted her hoe and trudged off with a smiling backward glance.
Then, when we hiked across the main park road at Sao Bento do Cando and ventured thirstily into a small, empty bar, the 50-ish woman lounging behind the counter enthusiastically suggested we fill our water bottles outside, from a small pipe dripping into a rock fountain.
Hiking in Portugal’s sole national park means encounters with scattered housing and tiny villages tucked into the forests and hillsides, like these near the town of Gerês/Rita Beamish
Woods, Rocks, and Slashes
The national park tops out at 5,068 feet, with an average altitude of 2,300 feet. The hilly terrain makes for moderate hikes through granite-pocked open spaces, mossy woods, and winding dirt tracks. Trail routes merge cobbled paths with the occasional paved stretch or steep rocky haul, all mercifully well marked for walkers by slashes of yellow paint on trees, rocks and structures.
But more difficult than the actual hiking in Gerês is figuring out where to go, a problem heightened by the scarcity of maps of its sprawling trail network. Lisbon’s tourist offices and bookstores yielded nothing relevant. In Porto (the country’s second-largest city less than 60 miles from Gerês) we passed many tourism offices before standing in front of four idle clerks at a shiny counter. They were said to possess information about northern Portugal. Just one had actually been to Gerês, albeit 25 years ago. She produced a spectacularly non-detailed brochure map marking the park’s main villages. That’s it, she shrugged.
Cultural Verve
What they lack in Gerês intel, Lisbon and Porto make up for in verve—savory dining, centuries-old architecture, shopping of all kinds and pulsing crowds, all set to the emotional thrum of fado. Amid ornate churches and plazas packed with tourists, outdoor market sellers hawk menu fare ranging from the ubiquitous sardines and salted cod to creamy cheeses and strawberries, as well as delicately handsewn tablecloths and bedding.
Cuisine choices abound, and Portuguese vineyards produce an array of sip-worthy varietals. Salads are crunchy, olives are spicy, and along with the pork dishes, grilled octopus is a menu standard—particularly memorable at Downunder, a gourmet fusion restaurant we came upon late one night on a quiet Lisbon street. There, the Australian owner, like so many restaurateur/ chefs in Portugal, was happy to sit and chat with us about his establishment and life in general.
A hike up from Gavieira in the northern portion of the park winds up on tree-shaded cobblestones to an open trail and expansive views from a tiny village / Rita Beamish
Wayfinding
More productive was historic Braga, about 25 miles from the park, but only because we stumbled upon a topographic map—price, 13 euros—pulled from beneath the counter as a halfhearted afterthought by a tourism officer who’d initially offered nothing beyond the brochure we already had.
So, without other guidance, we started our journey in the park’s less majestic southern section, near the “spa” town of Gerês. There, our Airbnb host in Porto had booked us a basic overnight in an inconveniently remote guesthouse.
The trailhead at Campo do Gerês led us on a misty hike to a fog-blanketed lake. We looped past a small bulldozer that was clearing brush for a firebreak, the blackened patches still smoldering from the previous day’s forest fire. Smoky spirals rose into the mist. The sky eventually cleared for our scenic ramble down to a village road so steep and narrow that it seemed unlikely that a car could squeeze between the houses. Amazingly, we did see a subcompact muscling its way through.
Hiking some of the high country of Gerês/Rita Beamish
The drive from the south to the northern part of Gerês is circuitous and is actually best executed by crossing into Spain and then re-entering Portugal several miles to the north. There, more mountainous terrain gives way to rocky massifs with sweeping views. We made a wrong turn somewhere near the sunny vineyard hamlet of Soaje, which led us roundaboutly to remote Peneda, dominated by its historic church Senhora de Peneda. Across the plaza from the towering church is the granite-walled Hotel Peneda, a sprawling, 18th century lodge renovated—with clean lines and shiny wood floors—in the early 2000s by its Spanish owners. The onsite dueno sat and chatted with us in the small, nondescript restaurant, which served a menu of fresh, local meals with gourmet garnish and flair.
We wanted to check out day hikes, and our topo map turned out to be a lifesaver since the glassy information bureaus marking the park’s main entrances had been a bust. The first “gate” we visited, back at Campo do Gerês, was closed in defiance of its posted hours. A second gate had no information for us aside from a single trail map, one like ours, tacked to the wall. The third was similarly bereft of maps, but the attendant did helpfully direct us to a trailhead on our own map.
Horses, and horseback riding, are popular in the national park / Porto Convention and Visitors Bureau
On High
We climbed from the village of Gavieira on trellis-covered cobblestones, which gave way to a dirt path. We wound our way above the forest to small, greencarpeted pastures fenced by low stone barriers. The vistas were dramatic, beneath puffy gray-and-white clouds that floated against a deep blue. A smoky pall further south from the wildfires reminded us that the furious wine-country blazes back in the United States were just a few of hours from our Northern California home. More than one local had told us of the Portuguese belief that their blazes were often arson-caused by industries that stood to gain from clearing land or fighting fires.
But here in Gerês, tucked against a hillside, was the seemingly empty hamlet of Brando de Bosgalinhas overlooking the rolling countryside with peaks in the distance. Our path joined its steep, unpaved road and we climbed between the small houses and low stone fences. The only signs of life were some flowers on a windowsill—and two dogs who lazily wandered out to sniff in the direction of our boots—but not too close.
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