Celebrations for the Feast of Saint Sebastian
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| A still from the video of the procession |
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| Bunting made from plastic bottles |
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| A church with a view just outside Almodôvar |
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| A corker of a photo taken in Almodôvar |
 Clothes-drying in Bernados
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After limited sleep on Friday night (I blame the blogging) we had a late start the next morning and I, again, found myself in Mrs Fatima's kitchen. Each one of us at our designated positions around the table, I was, again, at the receiving end of more tales of her life whilst the chores were left to wait. Harry remained hidden in the cave that is the annex, washing and hanging up clothes, having a few quiet minutes to himself. It wasn't clear we'd make it to Mass at 10am in Gomes Aires but, as it turned out, Mrs Fatima was quite happy to miss Mass and catch the procession only. We were aligned in sentiment and after walking Ichiro and feeding the two lambs she drove us all to the village. We parked at the top of a side-road where one of her nieces lives, as we had done a few days before. At the top of the incline, the road runs out to meet the familiar brown hilly expanses decorated with drought-resistant trees. There is an all-white modern house beside the parking bays, all shuttered-up. It feels like a missed opportunity to have such a comfortable-looking house unoccupied. I'd like it for myself and say to Mrs Fatima as we pull up, 'Oh, look, there's my house again.'
Moments after we get out the car and potter down the hill back towards the main road, the procession suddenly appears below us and we break into a canter to meet it, I with mobile phone and gimbal in hand. I filmed the next half an hour through the streets, round the roundabout, back through the streets and into the church, perhaps in the hope the procession would burst into some other, more exciting, activity. It did not. I convinced myself that at least the recording could provide future generations with a virtual time-capsule of their ancestors' traditions.
Yesterday saw higher temperatures and being out in the sun was getting uncomfortable. Mrs Fatima, using one of the many gesticulations in her repertoire, swept us away from the procession to take a short-cut back to the church. We entered and hovered by the side door. The indoor shade, together with a constant breeze, quickly cooled us down. The procession first made a stop outside the front of the church and hymns were sung. I never did work out who the lady was (there's always one) who led the singing, who had a more confident, less self-conscious timbre. However, even after everyone was back in their pews, odes to the saint continued to be belted out as though someone had forgotten to press the stop button on a loop recording. I could hear the word 'alentejano' being sung and thought it was odd that the Catholic canon would allow special mention of this region in its rites. It even sounded as though the village's name featured too. When the refrain would end, a brief feeling of relief would start to wash over me: the service was finally reaching its conclusion. But, before the stragglers had had a chance to take a breath, the leading lady would pipe up again––SA-OON S' BER-SHTI-A-OON...––and the congregation, somewhat begrudgingly to my ears, would go along with her for another rendition. This happened several times over and mild despair began to take hold in me. After some ten to fifteen repetitions later the service did eventually end and we were able to leave. Drifting into the surrounding streets we found shade at the door of a line of houses and discussed the poster opposite which advertised the weekend's various festive events. We didn't fancy any of the activities left for the day. Mrs Fatima suggested that instead we head back to Almodôvar for another eat-out lunch.
On the way to lunch, Mrs Fatima took an uphill detour to show us the local 'miradouro' (viewpoint) before finding a rare spot of shade in town in which to park. Unsure where to eat we gravitated towards the central streets and saw one restaurant Harry and I had eaten at in May. The menu of the day, scrawled on a black sandwich board in the middle of the pedestrian street, enticed Harry with what he had been craving. I want something salty and meaty, he'd said in the car. There were pork cutlets which Mrs Fatima and Harry went on to enjoy, the former unable to not complain that she could have prepared the same at home, the latter about the stink of UK pork. Harry convinced an ambivalent me to go for the beef picanha instead. I ended up also eating half of Mrs Fatima's portion of unsmelly pork as hers was too much. The food was simply prepared but delicious and honest. Earlier, a middle-aged woman had demanded our order and, later on, my payment. I was terrified of her and wondered if she skipped the bit at business school about the customer always being right or, maybe, she'd dispensed with the customer services module entirely. 'National insurance number!' she yelled at me in Portuguese when I went to pay. I faltered, not being sure what she was referring to and why on earth she'd need this. The young waiter who had also served us in May could see my hesitation and explained in English that it wasn't obligatory but I could choose to share this. Although I have only Mrs Fatima as my source thus far, it is becoming apparent that the Portuguese state is a little over-interfering in the lives of its citizens, in this instance wanting to know what was eaten for lunch.
With our stomachs heavy with food and eyes heavy with lack of sleep we all went to bed once back in Bernardos. I had a lovely long siesta and we whiled away the afternoon doing nothing very much. In the early evening, one of the neighbours, Aníbal––Hannibal, as in Lecter––brought a newborn lamb home. I understand he works on a large farming estate and many of the sheep are birthing at the moment. This tiny little lamb was one of twins. His uterine room-mate had taken almost all the placental goodness leaving this delicate creature small, weak and frail. He would normally have been left to die but Hannibal had heard that Harry liked black lambs so brought this one back for him. "You're joking––not another one!" I thought, à la Brenda from Bristol. Mrs Fatima doesn't believe we'll end up with any of the lambs this year as the quinta isn't ready but I'm not so sure Harry won't find some way to expropriate at least one.
Given the day this black sheep was born, we christened him Sebastian.
