This time always feels like a border: the map of one year folding neatly, the next still blank. For most, it’s time to rest, to close accounts, to stop. For some of us, though, it’s the start of another kind of movement. Planning is already a form of travel, and I’ve never been good at staying still.
The anticipation is half the pleasure. I like to think that every journey begins twice: first in the head, then on the road.
2026 is already knocking. And my compass swings between two poles that seem to pull at the same nerve: the Mediterranean and my dear Portugal. One outward and open and drenched in sun and history; the other inward, quiet, earthy and familiar. I want both.
The sea keeps appearing in my mind like a promise. The blue between Portugal and Spain has a calm that hides its restlessness well. I imagine slow crossings along the coast, ports with half-sleeping fishermen and evenings where the light feels heavier than air.
But part of me also wants to stay close. Portugal still has corners I’ve never really listened to, like the Trás-os-Montes region. Montesinho, for instance, that northern hush where the mountains hold their breath. Rio de Onor, in the Portuguese-Spanish border, is another name that fascinates me. Two countries, one voice. It feels symbolic of what I look for when I travel, the in-between, the shared and the quiet defiance of geography.
The interior of Portugal is less dramatic and more patient. Walking there is a slow act of seeing. No need to hurry, no urge to record.
Maybe that’s what I’m chasing: contrast. The traveler’s mind, after all, feeds on tension: between motion and rest, discovery and return.
So this won’t be quiet. It’ll be full of outlines, maps, timetables, and dreams. By the time the year turns, the journey will have already begun, in the restless mind that refuses to stop travelling, even when the suitcase is still empty.
