Autumn harvest

The cockerel’s rude awaking is carried upon the still mist as the early morning fog awaits the warmth of the sun’s rays. It is 6.30, the peasant will breakfast upon “panada no pão” home baked sausage in bread, or “arrufada” sweet bun, washed down with a strong, short bica before donning his worn flat cap and setting out into the damp morning.

Visibility is but ten metres and the vines are on high ground some 2 kilometres beyond his humble cottage. The green grapes are already en route to the distilleries, the purple-blacks are at their peak, heavy with bitter-sweet juice and glistening with dew, they drag their heavy branches down, burnt red leaves kiss the red soil beneath. The thick mist that shrouds them seems not to perturb the men as they pull up alongside the neat vineyard and, with expert ease, manoeuvre the ancient tractor and trailer to the point at which they had finished the previous day. Rough, dry, calloused hands, scorched by the sun and stained by years of ingrained grime work the secateurs , snipping the bunches at methodical speed yet placing each upon another in the trailer with gentleness as if placing an infant in a crib. By 8 o’clock the mist has evaporated, the sun drinks the last of the dew, and warms the backs of the bent pickers. The men’s voices are low and droll as they talk of previous crops and the success of past vintage.

Soon they are joined by their spouses who arrive on the back trailer of another mechanically challenged hybrid tractor; the pitch of their chatter breaking the calm of the morning. They bring with them flasks of sweetened bica and “pastel de natas”, the small sweet custard tart that is easy to eat in one mouthful and still a favourite traditional snack for many. The womenfolk have come also to crop in order to speed up the process before the day becomes unbearably hot – by 9 o’clock the temperature has already reached twenty degrees.

In the fields next to the vines, apple, pear, plum and peach trees stand naked with brown remnants of discarded fruit lying bruised and crushed at the base of their trunks. The warm air is heady with the perfume of distilled scraps and the buzz of wasps and bees bear witness to a great feast taking place. In another patchwork farther along the tracks, the sound of ploughs turning the soil from which was harvested wheat or corn just two weeks before is a reminder of the continuity of toil in the farmer’s calendar.

Baleal

Baleal Island, severed from the mainland by thousands of years of erosion, is a large rock no more than 1 kilometer long and half a kilometer wide. It is joined to the coastal resorts of Baleal and Peniche by a natural causeway upon which has been built a narrow road that runs between two wide beaches, one the Atlantic surf hits with vengeance, the other a bay calmer its waters broken by a number of rocks scattered at its mouth. Upon this largest of rocks, standing back to back, is an assortment of cottages a small hotel a few cafes and, at the very northern tip sitting upon a little plateau of its own, a tiny white washed chapel. Originally fishermen cottages they are clustered close, perhaps for protection from the wind or simply due to lack of space, some sit precariously close to the rock edge; one I note is built into the side of the rock the back of which is supported upon rusty steel stilts buried deep into the floor of the banks of the shore. One or two at the water’s edge stand to serve their original purpose the remainder are now expensive holiday cottages with add-ons (generally upwards), guest houses or cafes. So small is the island that the narrow thoroughfare is a one-way drive and the causeway itself is controlled by traffic lights limiting access, thus many visitors park their vehicles on the mainland and walk the kilometer causeway.

Mainland Baleal is a haven for the surfer, vast rollers crash onto wide beaches of soft sand; cheap hotels motels and student rooms beckon water riders of all ages and diverse nationalities to this hidden ghetto. Beach bars, cafes and inexpensive restaurants line the narrow cramped car park that accommodates more camper vans from around Europe than local cars and motorbikes. It is a beach-bum’s magnate. “Bar Baleal” constructed in dark timber and standing upon stilts into the sand, is tucked into the far corner of the beach and car park. A wooden walkway leads one from the tarmac across the sand and into the open bar that is protected from the elements with a heavy-duty plastic gazebo, the windows of which look onto the beach and island beyond. The remainder of the bar, which is open, sprawls onto the beach via a continuation of the wooden plank, the fencing of which is interspersed with tanned denim clad lads, legs dangling over the wooden structure, nursing cigarettes to the tips and hugging ice-cold beers. Further towards the calm waters are the couples entwined in love, star gazing, strolling or simply getting high on some weed or other such substance. The atmosphere is relaxed rather than feverish as the music might suggest.

For many a romantic the evening is idyllic. The full moon casts long shadows over the silver surf that gently laps the warm sands of the small bay. The prevailing winds of earlier have calmed allowing one to appreciate the stillness that is so rare upon these chaotic waters.

The Portuguese woman from this comparatively less cultured district is noted for her untamed curly brunette mane that falls over a low brow and heavy eye brows. Vibrant rainbow colours of the day’s beach-wear is replaced with something a little more somber; muted tones such as kaki, French navy or taupe becomes the uniform for the evening – complimented with jeans, of course. This evening’s damsels, twinned in tressles and cloth, toy with an iced glass of nothing stronger than a coke or Sagres beer, bored with their boyfriend’s car-studded stories, stare into oblivion as their bodies rock in time to the 80’s music that blares across the open terrace.

The bar which is managed by my friend Nelson, a 30-something Adonis with good calves who scrapes a living as a carpenter and antique furniture restorer in the daytime, and supplements his meagre income with long hours and a bit of fun during the summer holiday season at Bar Baleal. His camper-van, accommodating his 21yearold girlfriend and their respective young children, tucked further into the eucalyptus woodland and away from the masses, is his summer home for three months of the year. He signals to the DJ to up the volume and the beat. A buxom wench in a low cut maxi summer dress, high on a smoke or many beers is entertaining her 6 year old son who emulates her every dance move as she coverts the centre of the room where the majority of patrons are queuing for a drink. Dancing in a trance with sensuous moves, she slowly sways her round hips just slightly off beat, head tilted upwards her long locks caress her back where the cut of her dress meets her thick waist. Her eyes glisten in the reflection of the moon, her lips part with a satisfied smile. She is oblivious to the jealous stares of the young girls and the lusty thoughts of their boyfriends. She is totally enraptured with her young son’s awkward, jerky dance moves as he plays the fool to his mother’s encouragement. The next time I see her she is bent over where the waves kiss the sand as she empties her gut of the poison that has made her vomit, her son, unperturbed, kicks the warm surf that foams around his bare ankles.

By 2am the beach is swarming with sticky bodies as revellers spill from the bar, eager to cool down in the light sea breeze. The downturn tempo of the DJ’s “chill-out” music creates a harmonious calm; couples find a quiet spot in which to cuddle under the protection of a rock; small groups muster together upon the sand, light-headed and dizzy they gaze silently across the vast ocean, or simply fall asleep where they have fallen. The interior lights of parked camper-vans indicate a turn-in for those wanting to catch the early morning waves.

I down the last of my complimentary Beirão and head for the sanctuary of my cottage 25kilometres inland; here the silence of the night is deafening in comparison to what I left upon that beach. The wrought iron wood burner upon my terrace still has the red hot ambers of the roaring fire lit earlier in the evening. I add a few kindling sticks and throw in a couple of small logs, brew up a chamomile tea and, wrapped in a cashmere blanket dose off in my hammock until the light of the early sun and the cry of the neighbour’s cockerel declare the new day dawning.