Picture pious young Fernando Martins, changing his name to Antonio and setting off for Africa to pursue his vocation as a Franciscan monk. Did he ever consider that he would never make it back home to Lisbon? That his ship would be blown off-course to Sicily? That he would be assigned to a hermitage in Romagna. That he would impress parishioners by eloquently delivering a sermon, impromptu?

Would Antonio have imagined what would happen next? Promotion by Saint Francis of Assisi himself; preaching and teaching at universities in France and in Italy; rising to become a papal envoy, whose sermons were much favored by the Vatican. That he would die, convulsive and grangrenous at the age of 37, after eating some bad bread? I wonder whether he would have struggled against the sin of pride, had he known the heartbroken pope would name him Saint Anthony of Padua less than a year after his death.

San Antonio di Padua, patron saint of Lisbon, lost souls, American Indians, amputees, and animals. Patron saint of mail, mariners, poor people, pregnant women. Patron saint of starvation, travellers, runts and revolutionaries. His name lives on from Texas to Teresopolis to Tamil Nadu. And at the small chapel I pass every day in Valle de Anton.

Think about the closest commercial crossroads to your home. You can tell a fair bit about your neighborhood and society based on what business goes on there. Does it consist of three shopping plazas and a gas station? Three specialty boutiques and a coffee shop? Two fast food joints, a hardware store and an empty lot?

My closest intersection features the San Antonio chapel carving a wedge in the calle El Hato road flanked by the estates of wealthy Panamanians. It is a modest pavilion with a façade covering wood pews, a crucifix and the porcelain statue of the saint holding a child. Alongside, in the shade of mango trees, are some skinny saddled ponies. Tied with lengths of nylon, they wait mindlessly for tourists. Tail twitches, hoof stomps, slim muscle ripples, flies buzz. To the right, a hole-in-the-wall barberia – I’ve never seen it open –  leads to an unpaved alley and the modest homes of the poor campesinos who tend to the homes and gardens of the rich.

One of the best things about having time, is taking your time. No need to power through everything El Valle has to offer, straight away. So for two weeks, on my way to and from town, I’ve bypassed the entrance to a path in the jungle just five minutes from the casa.

The trail is called El Pastoreo –  Google translates this as “grazing” but I figure it’s the pasture. I did not research it online, or ask anyone else about it. I went to see what there is to see.

Pastoreo got scrambly right quick. Plant your feet on slimy brown leaves, grab a vine or branch, step up, repeat. And then, out of the shadowy vegetation, you emerge onto a sunlit grassland. The trail, barely a foot wide, got steeper still and I gulped humid O2 until I reached the top of the ridge.

Cloud armadas gathered for battle in the blue sky. Around and opposite, dense, disorderly green cliffs. Below, scattered among the trees and fields, the town’s orange clay roof tiled roofs.

I sat, sweated and listened. Wind shoving the long blades of grass. Caustic jabber of wild parakeets, buzz of cicadas, chirp of frogs. From the fincas in the valley, a zealous rooster worked overtime along with the gardeners and their weedwhackers.