Nothing dared, nothing snacked
Quem não arrisca, não petisca
Since the last uploading I have started online Portuguese lessons with the university language school in Oxford. Very enjoyable, very organised and the homework is encouraging me to do some studying. I thought that this Portuguese proverb was rather amusing as it had losing out on a snack as the existential consequence of not being brave and daring.
I have lots of photos to share, but not today. My favourites are of Ichiro sleeping on the floor on top of a towel, teddy for a pillow and an old silk curtain as his blanket. I joke that he wraps himself up when it's chilly (as it now sometimes is) but, in fact, it's Harry's inexhaustible doting. I'm not convinced Ichiro gets cold as he has a lovely fur coat on all the time but Harry says he shivers when lying on the floor and somehow manages to get a towel under him without getting him up. "Ichiro is cold! Put a towel under him!" How?! "How do you think they change the sheets in hospital?". I'd make a terrible nurse.
We had some storms about a month ago with soaking deluges giving the thirsty land a hefty drink. Hints of green started to emerge, dirtying the previously beautiful brown landscape. I made an eight-day visit to the UK and by the time I came back it was a bit 'Tah dah!' with cosmic colouring in. The luminosity of the greens in the bright November sun is stunning. Autumn is more like spring. It does, however, come with a drop in night-time temperatures which led to the resentful purchase of duvets. Knowing I have perfectly good duvets languishing in the garage in Oxford which we left behind. On some nights I had to put a mobile radiator on and pump-prime the bedroom temperature with a fan heater I bought. Strangely, after this 'cold snap', the weather warmed up again and is still holding out.
Nowadays Harry bakes our bread, varying the recipe and having decided he wants nothing to do with brown flour any more. He doesn't like the chaff. We stopped going out for food a long time ago and meals are now invariably a domestic affair. We have invited friends over a couple of times, most recently lunch for Gabi and Beate, our German friends. They have been visiting Portugal for years and have now bought a house in a village about twenty minutes away which they are waiting to be renovated. They've had a headache with the builder but hopefully it won't be too long before it can be sorted.
Due to issues with water, Portugal seems to be a fan of the dam: the barragem. There are several around here. One is the Barragem Monte Clérigo. One Friday I was not working and didn't fancy the gym (I've somehow managed to sustain my not fancying the gym for weeks...) but needed to get out the house. Out with Google Maps. What's this? Barragem do Monte Clérigo? So off I went for a walk. Marvellous. It takes about twenty minutes to walk there down country lanes lined with vineyards, olive groves, sheep, and a few farm-houses. The dam appears to be made of rocks piled up to form a ridge. To the right of the ridge the land falls away to what would have been the valley of a river, currently dry. To the left is the dammed up water, effectively a large lake. It attracts the odd angler but has otherwise been a quiet and isolated spot. I walked the perimeter of the water and saw many freshwater clam shells on the shores and the odd fish in the clear water. There is a collection of wooden cabins overlooking the cycling centre and surrounding countryside. They are part of a hotel but nobody seemed to be staying the few times I've visited. After I introduced Harry to the spot, he's been back on his motorcycle and we've taken Ichiro once (in Monty) for a change of scene. We spent the whole time trying to stop him drinking the water!
The other barragem we've visited was just today. A much larger body of water to the west of Almodovar (and the farm). Barragem de Santa-Clara-a-Velha. You will recall that one of the nearby villages which is the closest to the farm is Santa Clara a Nova. Well, the dam is named after the other Saint Clare––the old one. About an hour's drive from Almodovar you will arrive at a swimming point but this lies on the far side of the complex of ravines so today we went to the near-side with the destination being a picnic point as this was only a half-hour drive. When we arrived at the final turning, there was a fence across the dirt road. NO was the emphatic response to my suggestion we open the gate a drive through. Instead, we continued along the same windy road until we reached a small opening where we could park up. We wandered down to the water's edge. Harry found a group of turtles in what appeared to be a reptilian sex scene with the males chasing and latching on to the females. He also found shrimp under the rocks and stones he disturbed. Frogs bounced around as we walked across the fresh grass. There was a small snake in the water and perhaps some fish. I'm still impressed by how variable Portugal can be. Here we were in what felt like another country, only half an hour from Almodovar and probably twenty minutes from the farm.
Speaking of the farm, perhaps because of a tentative return of belief in Monty (he hasn't broken down again... yet!), we have visited a few times recently. Earlier this week we went not knowing whether there might be olives to harvest. There were a lot of olives to harvest. We filled two 6-litre water bottles from one tree and left it at that. We had time to walk across the various corners within the poorly-defined boundaries, going over the terrain to get to know it better. It's a bit like Portugal in microcosm with each slope, each nook, each cranny, having a different character. A patch with oak trees was shedding tonnes of acorns. Autumnal mushrooms liked it here. On another occasion we took Beate and Gabi and so we also went into the house. Farmer George must have been clearing as half the house was now 'entry forbidden' to chickens and looked very clean. Unfortunately, on opening the front door a dead chicken adorned the front room. Welcome to our home.
Last Saturday was the feast day of São Martinho, the patron saint of newly made wine (apparently). It was the same day Harry made a chicken curry with cashew nut sauce for Gabi and Beate. Our landlord's mother came by when she heard they were needing somewhere to stay as their renovations were delayed. I had messaged her to ask if she knew of any one-bedroom apartments or houses to which she replied, "I'm coming over". She joined us for aniseed tea and made attempts to find accommodation through her contacts but failed. "I've been to the chestnut roasting," she told me. I wasn't sure what she meant. Nearby, in a tiny square, the association of São Pedro were offering free roasted chestnuts, as they did every year, for the feast of São Martinho. She recommended we went. Beate and Gabi declined as they needed to get off. Harry and I went with Ichiro. I managed one chestnut before Harry mooched away to carry on walking the dog. I reluctantly caught up but once we were back home I affirmed that I wanted more to an unconvinceable Harry. So I went back alone. The sun had set meantime and now the coals lit up the little square in orange as people huddled or drifted around waiting for the next batch of chestnuts to be ready. An assortment of home-made and shop-bought wine in boxes sat on top of an old well which sits in the centre of the square. I'd already had white wine at lunchtime so thought it best to not mix things up too much and try the home-made white. It looked like urine and didn't taste much better. Thankfully I lied about it being ok with the neighbours with whom I'd struck up conversation just before the man who had made the wine appeared. As the supply of chestnuts ran dry, so did the supply of people. There are two café-bars adjacent to the square and some had disappeared inside to carry on their celebrations. One of the roasters, a very round man, accosted me. He asked me something like 'What are you doing in these parts?' He sounded very neutral about it all, neither particularly interested in the answer or bothered that I was there. I'm not sure what I said but it led to an insistence that I would join him and a few others from the association for linguiça (a type of sausage). About twelve of us ranging in age from teenagers to pensioners, filed into the association's kitchen/dining room where we enjoyed barbecued linguiça (using the same charcoal that had been used for the chestnuts), local bread, a hard sheep's cheese and more home-made wine. I made the switch to red and was rewarded with a rather delightful experience.
It seems that the risk I took in going back to the chestnut party really did lead to a snack. Maybe there's something to these Portuguese proverbs after all.
