Não espouse? não filho?

The freshly painted black terrace gates were open creating the curtains of the stage upon which I was most central, busy cutting the wood I had collected earlier that morning while the sun was still low and the air was cooler. The fellers had completed their task the previous year, and as oft times as possible, I would drive my car to the track that passed this land upon once stood tall eucalyptus and pine trees and where now only stumps, small logs and pine cones lay scattered across the steep land drying in the heat of the summer, perfect for my little fire. Wiping my sticky brow with a sweaty forearm and removing the hot plastic goggles I looked up from my labour and happened upon an elderly farmer standing at the open gate.

Although it was at least 25 degrees he was dressed in a long sleeved checkered shirt, shabby waistcoat, grey flannel trousers, heavy boots and grey flat cap, I felt quite indecent in my bikini top and shorts. Across his shoulder he rested a scythe and in his other hand a well-used knapsack.
His olive skin served to highlight his sea green eyes that sparkled with amusement between furrowed brow and wrinkled face mapped out of years in the fields under a blistering sun. His chuckle gave away his presence and I quickly donned my t-shirt before making his acquaintance.

He rambled on in his rough tongue using a local dialect that seemed to swallow every other word, between his four remaining teeth spittle escaped as he spoke. I could only presume from his gesticulating that he had seen me cart the wood from the base of the steep hill to my car, transport it to my cottage and now finds me using an electric saw to cut it to size for my personal use. Like many of his neighbours he could not fathom why it was I taking up such a task, did I not have a husband or son to do such labour? Perhaps he could send his son, a handsome strong man of 40 years to help me with such heavy tasks; he could bring me to meet Donna Eleanor his good wife and share a traditional dinner with good pork and much vinho tinto! muite gosta!! Ah Nina you should not have to take such tasks upon yourself! Oh why you do not have a husband I do not know!

Later that evening chuckling over dinner of aldeirão marisco (a wonderful dish of fresh seafood fish and rice served in a huge cauldron) my good friend Jorge the local GP repeated the current concerns of those in the saude of the English woman with no husband or son to cut her wood!!

Walker’s paradise

Early morning is the best time. The sun is gently licking off the dew from the leaves and the air is filled with pockets of exotic aromas. Rabbits, lizards and weasels scuttle away, confused by the vibration of boot on track at so early a time in the day. Eagles and hawks circle above the eucalyptus trees standing tall and straight their branches and leaves looking down upon ripening fruits in the patchwork of fields below. The plums are gone, peaches too; but between them the apples and pears, some rotting on the soil beneath their delicate foliage, send a heady reminder of autumn recipes. Vines, laden with purple grapes with promise of a good vintage, wait in turn for their harvest as their leaves turn into a sunset red. The air is still, expectant. The sun rises higher bringing the temperature with it as I continue uphill, further away from the village behind me towards the tiny farming hamlets ahead. The peace is gently disturbed by a farmer with his scythe, cutting back the tall corn sticks, the ears of which were plucked last week. Ahead a little brown puppy dog awaits my passing. He hears, and no doubt smells me before I see him. Already he has begun his little game.

Sitting neatly in the middle of the track, he faces my direction front legs straight under his shoulder-blades, head still, ears up. He waits. I approach, looking everywhere but ignoring him. It is my game too! He stays so still, but itching to move. Just his tail sweeps the sandy track behind his tidy little back. I arrive at his front. His is up and circling me, sniffing my boots; now gently, with claws retracted, his soft paws balance upon my knee as he nuzzles his nose into my hand that dangles by my side. He is demanding my attention and, eventually I relent with affectionate patting and stroking. The game is up and he darts about like a restless kitten, I continue my walk and he continues his excited escapade, sometimes ahead of me until I persuade him to return home….difficult with the language barrier!! But he understands the tone and, eventually, resumes his position in the middle of the road and watches until I disappear around the bend and out of site.

Now I am heading west, the sea air breezes through the valley from the lagoon, bringing with it the sweet smell of pine from the groves close by. The village is in sight some 2 miles away, white cottages with blue or yellow window frames, clamour for space on the hillsides, their shutters to the east open allowing the warmth of the morning sun to brighten their dark interiors. Dogs and cockerel compete for an audience that has forgotten their existence the fishmonger’s horn is the only sound that attracts the peasants, bringing them from their breakfast to his van for a dose of gossip and fresh fish. My walk is complete, my day begins. Portugal is beautiful.