(So, this series will continue on, indefinitely, intermittently, as a record of account, a journal of our personal ruggedising, resilience journey; what is written in first person, as narrative construct, may somewhere, sometime, be turned into second or third, as it becomes more fictionalised. Names have been changed or not used at all, to protect the innocent and, you know, because some of us are stop signs…)
Morning sun rises slowly over a mountain range. Yet to be certain of its name, or those of the ragged peaks which form its contours. New to this land.
We have willed ourselves into it. At first tentatively, now immersed, a living part of our terreno. It nestles in a valley, one side formed distinctly, dramatically by the mountains.
Immediately beyond them lie the bounties and wonders of Peneda-Geres. I suspect their name forms one half of its, but have yet to confirm this, deliberately eschewing the distorted ease and ubiquity of digital connection, as we have. While we form the vital, life affirming connections we have come here to.
Now the bureaucracy has been navigated, preference rights respected, laws and contracts, process understood, we are finally, viscerally here. Sense of it, knowledge is clear to us.
It will always remain a privilege to have become, to be stewards of this modest quinta. Sitting snugly, sheltered between two others, on the northwestern side of a river, coursing clear, down to join with its more well-known counterpart, which lends its name to our nearest town, some forty kilometres away. As the crows fly, as the rivers flow.
A privilege to till its soil. To nurture its vines. To tell our small part of its stories.
To stitch our colours into the patchwork of this region, Alto Minho. Of this ancient and modern nation.
Autumn makes slow progress into winter here. Light bled into day for three hours or so, but Sol will not show above the range until the igreja bells, the church dedicated to a local patron saint, Sao Salvador, toll nine.
The last few days, according to our new friends, Joao and Gloria, have been unseasonably warm. Those are not their names. I have not asked their permission to refer to them here, to tell any small part of their story - as it seems I must, synonymous as it is, a proxy for that of this land – so anonymity is the least respect they should be afforded. It is, has been, reciprocal, for they have shown us so much, as they shared their journey, leading them ultimately to our meeting, redolent with ambivalence and poignancy as it has been for them.
Heat though, warm as summer when the seasons’ clock reads much later. Here, as everywhere, we humans have disrupted the most basic and necessary, natural rhythms.
It is evidenced directly, as all around us, locals engage in their long practiced and preferred methods of ‘limpar’, yearly seasonal clearing of their lands by burning. Received culture, resistant to climate science, to causes and effects.
Much as we respect the culture and traditions of place, as personal and academic anthropological values, despite the urging of unquestioning others, as we move through, on our journeys toward ruggedisation, marked now by our work with this land, of course we have remained steadfast in our resistance to this one. Cultural memories are obstinate too though, resistant to change, whether part of mass delusions or not. It may take some time for us to convince our neighbours of the error in their ways, on this at least.
We are new here, they are not.
All too familiar with resistance to prevailing dogmas and just as tied to this terrain, as they are, Gloria and Joao, were only too happy to help us purchase the hand tools we have begun to use as we conduct our first limpar. They were intent on ensuring the hardware store owners did not see us, with our basic grasp of the language and eagerness to shop, to act, local and think global, as easy, tourist marks.
As we’ve moved beyond initial exchanges, they appear to understand, almost innately, we are not that. In some ways, as we all may become soon and much more pressingly too, we are climate migrants, not tourists. Just as our friends were not when they fled to France and America, before coming home, returning.
As may be the shared experience of many, like them, for whatever reasons and to differing degrees, before us, around us, it has been a long and sometimes fraught process leading here, to sell their land to us. There is much to be admired in the legal rights and protections enshrined in Portugal’s ‘Codigo Civil’, even laid out, as its current foundations were, in the dying days of Salazar’s authoritarian regime.
As we have become more familiar with them, to this end, they have served us well. Somewhere, to this same end, they have done the same for Joao and Gloria now too. What went before definitively did not.
Whilst the political economy professor, at the esteemed University of Coimbra, Antonio de Oliviera Salazar entered wider public life as finance minister, under the ‘Ditadura Nacional’ – ‘National Dictatorship’, established after the 1926 military coup d’etat, our friends were young, fresh-faced, new lovers. They stole first looks then kisses as they tended these very lands and the livestock their families reared on them.
Their memories of then, though distant, retain sepia tones of nostalgia, for a pastoral rural idyll, which seemed would always be. Hard work but between times cooling feet while fishing for fat trutas in the Cabreiro river, constant and nurturing of everything around them, in their home. And falling in love too.
Although, in strict legal terms, under the pre-existing ‘Codigo Civil’, and changes brought to it by the new regime, these lands would remain theirs to inherit, would remain their family’s, as they had for generations before, their work on them, all they produced, their lives, would not. Everything seemingly inevitable changed and did so all too soon.
Within a year of appointment, given special powers, Salazar was credited with balancing the budget and stabilising Portugal’s currency, also producing the first of many budgetary surpluses. This gave him more influence in the new regime.
What then came to pass in these lands, within the borders of this imagined nation, as all are, as well as what gave rise to it, reflected much of the trajectory of Europe. The quiet parts, said out loud, barely heard above the cacophony of violent change.
Salazar promoted civilian administration and aimed for what he referred to as a de-politicisation of society. Generally opposed to the concept of political parties, when he created the ‘National Union’ in 1930, he described and promoted it as a ‘non-party’, asserting that it would be ‘the antithesis of a political party’. (Gallagher, 2020)
Becoming ‘Prime Minister’ in 1932, he reframed the regime as the corporatist ‘Estado Novo’ – ‘New State’. It lasted until the ‘Carnation Revolution’ of 1974, making it one of the longest-lived authoritarian regimes in Modern Europe.
The ultimate failure and chaos of the First Portuguese Republic (instituted following the revolution of 5th October 1910 and marked by ‘continual anarchy, government corruption, rioting and pillage, assassinations, arbitrary imprisonment and religious persecution’ (Kay, 1970) – led by the inauguration of eight presidents, 44 cabinet reorganisations and 21 revolutions, in its short lived 16 years), which overthrew the previous monarchy, laid the groundwork for social and political acceptance of National Dictatorship. It also sowed the seeds of Salazar’s personal convictions which led to later changes as the New State emerged.
A coup d’etat in 1926, which signalled the end to the First Republic was, at least on the face of things, welcomed by most civilian classes. The prevailing view was that the anarchy of the First Republic was brought about by political parties, seen by then mainly as elements of division, bringing parliamentary democracy into crisis.
This led to widespread tolerance, at least, and often support for the imposition of authoritarianism. Reflecting on the stark differences brought about by it, as changes took hold, Rendel (1957) said he could not describe the ‘political background as anything but deplorable…very different from the orderly, prosperous and well-managed country that it later became under the government of Senhor Salazar’.
Taking this post WW2 British establishment thinking into account, it should also be remembered that despite the outcome of two world wars and their impacts on European governments (as well as their economies, of course, stupid!), the rise of nationalism in the late 19th and early 20th centuries influenced them all. The nascent seeds of corporatism, sown by its emergence alongside the Industrial Revolution and its aftermath, grew into both fascism and capitalism.
This backdrop and roots of contemporary geopolitical perceptions allowed Portugal to remain nominally neutral during WW2, whilst still providing aid and assistance to the Allies. It also allowed for it, despite being an authoritarian dictatorship leaning towards corporatism, to take part in the founding of some prominent international organisations. NATO in 1949, the European Payments Union in 1950 and the European Free Trade Association (EFTA) in 1960.
The roots of corporatism, predominant throughout the Salazar years, underlying Portugal’s geopolitical involvement during them, derived as much from the dictator’s personal perceptions of politics as the social ferment which led to them. As a younger man, in 1921, he was reluctantly persuaded to stand for and was subsequently elected to parliament during the First Republic.
Struck by the disorder he witnessed and his perceived futility of contribution to it, he appeared once in the parliamentary chamber, in his role then, and never returned. According to Kay (1970), Salazar was convinced that liberal individualism had led to fragmentation of society and a perversion of the democratic process.
A few years later, after the coup d’etat of 28th May 1926, He briefly joined the government as Finance Minister. Other ministers would not accept the conditions he proposed to control spending and he quickly resigned, explaining that frequent disputes and disorder in the government prevented him from doing his work.
Salazar saw those conditions as fundamental to squaring the enduring and overwhelming circle of Portugal’s enormous public debt. In following years, as the deficit kept growing, he kept turning down entreaties to rejoin the finance ministry.
Having tried and been rejected (or seeing onerous terms proposed as unacceptable) for international loans, it was only when Portugal found itself headed for imminent financial collapse he finally agreed to become Finance Minister again, under a new president, in 1928. His conditions of acceptance included categorical assurance he would have full financial oversight of all government departments.
Within a year, budgets were balanced and currency stabilised. Salazar went on to oversee the first of many budgetary surpluses.
Through further, military based, governmental upheaval Salazar remained in post. He came to embody, for many, the financial and political solution to military dictatorship, eventually being appointed Prime Minister in 1932.
His right wing, authoritarian governing coalition repressed opposition and foiled several attempted coups, whilst laying the groundwork for establishment of the corporatist Estado Novo. Despite legislative and propagandised cover, in practice the ‘stability’ Of the regime was maintained, then and throughout, by suppressing human rights and liberties.
Leal (2016) describes its ideological basis as ‘eclectic and syncretic’, integrating a combination of ‘authoritarian, nationalist, conservative and anti liberal tendencies’, with ‘Christian and social corporatism, as well as…both reformist and traditionalist currents’. With the new constitution of 1933, it established an anti parliamentarian and authoritarian government which lasted until 1974.
Institutionalised, controlled, regulated and repressed leisure spread, alongside with and integral to it, throughout every interstice of daily life. Melo (2022) provides comprehensive evidence that even ‘subversive or alternative sociability and cultural achievements in some…elements of civil society were able to express open resistance and/or alternative views’ to the regime, without threatening it’.
The insidious nature of repression led to significant, mostly covert emigration. Figures from the first decade or so are hard to come by, largely due to the suppression of human rights which led to it and the regime not keeping, or at least not being willing to admit to keeping, any lasting records of such ultimate opposition to it.
It is estimated, according to what later records are available, that 1,815,000 emigrants left Portugal between 1950 and 1974 (Baganha, 1994). Many of those who left returned in years following the Carnation Revolution.
Their numbers were swelled by thousands of others who fled Portugal’s overseas territories, largely as destitute refugees, during the process of decolonisation, which both helped lead to and continued after it. This group became known as ‘retornados’.
Whilst most of them, alongside the others who returned and sometimes also found it used to describe them, came to see it as a derogatory term, others wore it as a badge of honour. The places they came from would never be as they should or could have been.
Everything natural to them had been extracted and exploited, every resource diminished. Retornados were not returning home but to the place which made them.
It too, though, was dwindling, exploited, diminished.
The accounts of history can never truly be settled. Points where roads forked cannot be returned to, other paths cannot be taken. They too have changed and now lead to ther places.
There were no surpluses in the dusk and dying years of Salazar’s Estado Novo. Just as an interregnum of chaos followed monarchy’s prestige, rooted in the exploitation which followed exploration and discovery, so too did the Carnation Revolution’s promise give way to a deep uncertainty, as the lie of authoritarian stability was exposed.
This was the Portugal Glória and Joao came home to. Not retornados but returned all the same.
We sit in a pastelaria they have invited us to, after signing over the terreno they call Cuedro to us. ‘Assinar’ was a strange process, seemingly as disorienting for them as it was for us.
We had all assembled at a prearranged time in the local notary’s office. In addition to us, Gloria and Joao, there was the solicitor, who had drawn up the deeds, the agent, who had, at least technically, arranged the sale, the notary and our friend Jose, who helped us navigate the process and had also agreed to act as translator.
He had become our antidote to the other agent, who, after we had found the terreno for sale on a website, appeared, at every stage, when offering advice or reassurance, to undermine it with almost every word or deed. Jose and he were polar opposites.
The Codigo Civil, often referred to simply as ‘the Code’, the constitution and basis of all legal, legislative and lawful interaction in Portuguese society, re-written during the Estado Novo and overhauled since, lays out how the sale of land should be conducted and the transaction managed. Sellers and buyers first enter into a promissory contract, a Contrato Promessa.
This establishes the basics of transaction, defines the area of land, the agreed selling price , deposit, proposed date of sale, agreement between the parties to sell and buy and any other terms either require and the other consents to. The Code also defines how deposits should be managed, to prevent bad faith actors.
If the seller chooses not to proceed with the sale, as defined by the contract and agreed to by signing, they must return double the deposit paid to them by the buyer. If the buyer pulls out, they forfeit all and only the deposit paid.
When the contract is signed, then begins a waiting period to allow for enactment of preference rights, or Preferencia. The Code states that a period of two weeks after notification has been received, in writing, from the selling agent, must be allowed for the rights of neighbouring owners of directly adjacent land to inform them they, becoming thus aware of the potential sale, would prefer to buy the land.
Neighbours choosing to exercise these rights on two previous occasions, regarding two other areas of land we signed Contrato Promessa for, a previously unheard of sequence of events in his fifteen years also as a real estate agent, was the reason behind Jose choosing to help us manage our current sale, even though the property was not his to sell and he had nothing to gain financially from it. It was also the reason we had come to consider him a friend.
Palpable, mutual disappointment, on his part not motivated by losing a sale because he would still gain from selling to the neighbours, but rather, through being our guide, a compassionate and professional navigator of real estate’s murky waters, he had come to understand our reasons for seeking land in the country of his birth. Ruggedisation, resilience and cultural reciprocation, not ex-pat, neo-colonial appropriation and extraction.
And so, returned to the Anthropocene floods of our homeland, eager, raised hopes dashed, twice, we persisted, bruised, tentative, and joined a wild frontier of online, international, small-scale land sales, with all its potential perils and pitfalls. When eventually we found another apparently affordable terreno which met our ruggedising criteria, made our enquiries and immediately became wary of its selling agent’s rogueish approach, Jose became our interlocutor.
From first entreated intervention, he agreed the other agent was exactly the type of reason why so many doubted the motivations of people in his profession. When he entered into it, exams and qualifications, demonstrating clear understanding of legal process, where the Code defined it, were required.
This was no longer the case. Payment of a small administrative fee was all it had taken for the other agent to join the fray and conduct business in as fast and loose a way as he did.
Lack of qualified oversight and what that encouraged, typified by it, offended both Jose’s professional and moral sensitivities. There was no question in his mind regarding intervention on our behalf. It was duty.
Not just that though. He seemed to genuinely care the two previous sales had not proceeded in our favour, disappointed in how his country’s legal system governs the sale of rural land had worked against us.
Not in how it worked overall. Like many Portuguese people, he spoke highly of the modern Codigo Civil and the Diarie de Republique, which enacted new laws into it, was proud of them. His disappointment arose from his compassion. It and professional duty were good things to have on our side again, this time around.
With Jose’s help, ajudar, we managed to navigate most of the process from the best o part of two thousand miles away. We fine tuned our own instincts and awareness of Portuguese legalities, became more familiar with appropriate areas of the Code, many of which he pointed us toward.
Ultimately, we re-wrote the flimsy (and dangerous, in so many ways, particularly given we still needed to pay a sizeable deposit with only it as protection) Contrato Promessa provided, apparently as his own boiler plate standard, by the other agent. At that juncture, it is possible to sign, to promise legally, in more than one language and to do it at a distance, via email.
Some months would transpire, allowed for in our stated terms of contract, before it would be possible, due to other life and work commitments, for our necessary return to Portugal. In person, witnessed, wet signatures are required for a final deed of sale.
We had written a due date into the promissory contract, in late October. No preference rights were exercised and the time came around sooner than expected when we did.
So, we found ourselves, duly gathered in the notary’s office. We were prepared for signing a deed but not for what it means when a deed is required to be read into law, according to the Codigo.
Following on from meeting Joao and Gloria, in person, for the first time, introduced to us by the other agent, as furtive seeming a caricature as we had imagined based on his actions and communications at distance before he introduced himself to us, process took over. We had also been introduced, by Jose, to the solicitor who it was necessary to pay for drawing up all of the necessary, legally endorsed paperwork.
The notary also gave herself a brief introduction to both sellers and buyers before taking all of the legally appointed persons aside, into another office, to check it and their understanding of it over, so things could proceed
A kind of short, preliminary, slightly awkward limbo descended as we, my partner and I, Gloria and Joao were left to our own devices in the meantime, deposited as we were on either side of a large, formal table, with enough seating and more for everyone whose presence would soon be required, in a bright, airy meeting and conference room.
In that moment, we knew nothing of the long, lived experience which had brought them there, their wizened, weathered faces, initially seeming passive, not guarded. Some shrewd squinting of eyes, tight lips and shared looks easily described a potential for it we could only make the barest beginnings to fathom.
Then, like the mid-afternoon sun, slanting in through partially open blinds and dappling the heavy lacquer of the table between us with its light, their breaking, ready smiles and tentative words, creasing around twinkling eyes began to hint at where they had arrived, beyond its complex vistas. Even the new to us, though clearly cast hard through their lives’ twists and turns, accents with which they spoke, suddenly bubbling with innate personal and cultural curiosity, leaned toward a depth of which we had not, could not have possibly, conceived previously.
To describe those voices, as we heard them then, almost inevitably, does them and their long lives lived through times and places we could, can, never fully comprehend, a deep disservice. Please then, Gloria and Joao, forgive this author’s ineptitude as I attempt its expression nonetheless.
He spoke, in broad strokes, a faltering, not through lack of competence or capacity but rather pausing and hesitating due to a deeply inculcated wariness, French-Portuguese accented English. She, with a more confident seeming, strident with running cadence underpinned by hinted at humour, American-Portuguese English.
Early in the conversation they both commented on how they had not been certain whether to address us in English at all. Listening to us talk, to each other, they understood only a few English sounding words clearly, heard some French like cadence and mush else entirely unfamiliar or understandable to them. We explained by recounting some brief events from the night before.
Dining in a very accommodating traditional Portuguese restaurant, a younger waiter approached us after initial interactions with a more formal elder Maitre d’, asking simply, ‘English?’. ‘No’, we replied, with a slight rankle familiar to many of our country folk but clearly a surprise to our genial, inquisitive host, ‘Scots’.
Before taking our drinks order, he could not help but report, by way of explanation, ‘I meant what language you speak, not what country you are from’.
He also clearly had some pause for reflection, returning quickly, having made requests of bar staff. Stating contritely, ‘I’m sorry’, he then asked, ‘I don’t know, do you have your own language in Scotland? Because you are not English but you speak their language too, right?’.
Now he had entered a particular corner of my academic and personal field of dreams. ‘Yes, we have three other languages of our own. Two more ancient languages, pre-dating union with England, both of which culturally and historically influence the third. The majority of people in Scotland do not speak them but significant minorities do. They are Scots Gaelic and Scots.
Most people speak localised versions of the third, which is known as Scots-English. It is most definitely not English’. He smiled and tilted his head, curious, so I continued.
‘Many of us cannot wait for the day when we can becomes country of our own again, so we can rejoin the family of European nations, which we voted to remain a part of, in our own right. Then our languages can be more fully recognised by our European friends, whose cultural values we share more in than we do with those of our directly southern neighbours. Maybe some will even learn them then too’, I concluded amiably.
‘Thank you for explaining my friend and please forgive my previous ignorance. I very much look forward to the day you describe too’, he smiled again, arms wide in a welcoming gesture. Then, with a simple affirmative nod, ‘Let me bring your drinks’.
We explained to Gloria and Joao how it was natural for us to converse together in Scots, as shared language, and in versions of our two differing regional versions if localised Scots-English. This also included indicating why it may have been difficult for them to understand our conversations with each other, attuned as their ears may be to Standard English, which, as it had been with our waiter friend the night before, used as an acquired and shared language for us too, we spoke them in.
Of course, I could have explained further, from a cultural anthropological and sociological point of view. Explained that, for us, it was not only a learned language but learning of it was state enforced, had been for quite some time, to the detriment of our other languages, none of which were taught, as a matter of course, in our schools.
Or I could likewise have deliberated further on the class structure, as continuing feudal, social and cultural exceptionalism which perpetuated and enabled that situation. An ethnology lesson for another day though.
Suffice to say, we recognised in each other a necessity of communication in languages not native to us most definitely not covered in online easy learning courses. Our travails, inclusive of personal and cultural linguistic understandings, could in no way be considered the equal of their long journey to here. A mutual respect and rapport began to form, which we were not to know then but would develop much more later.
In that short period, what we did learn about them seemed disproportionate to time spent waiting for the others to return. They spoke of their early years, expecting long days tending livestock, with brief respites soaking hot feet in the cooling waters of the Cabreiro, to stretch on indefinitely. Then came years of subjugation and inner turmoil, their labours enforced, with few fruits of them to share in, unrest and the beginnings of the Estado Novo, just as they both came of age.
Furtively, as the weight of years became more oppressive, stretched on and gave all indication of being without reprieve, like many others, they shared their unease. Over time, still holding tight to their young love and its loose hope, they devised a plan.
Here too, recounting memories, even in the simplest of expression, shared understanding of culture and language conveyed more nuance than we could have thought possible, before that unlikely room brought us together. What were really just snatched moments would been better extended as stories round a fire and, despite the actual environment, they had something of that conspiratorial conviviality about them.
Learning I had a decent gloss, if somewhat rusty through years lacking reciprocal conversation, of French, as he told us something of his initial escape, Joao would switch readily from his native tongue into it, his second language. It appeared regulating, reflecting the security, the haven its country of origin provided, words expressing more accurately, then and now, the range of his feelings.
There was something deeply poetic in the fleeting seconds passed as he searched for the right words, face earnest and mournful, yet thankful to a nation forged in, founded on, birthed into the modern era demanding liberté, égalité, fraternité.
Somehow, so soon after what began as tentative, slightly awkward, explorative smalltalk between strangers, we found ourselves transfixed, his eyes meeting ours, beseeching, seeking cognitive reciprocation, understanding, ‘Connais vous, pour nous, le monde était perdu? Dans l’ans d’Salazar, la France était la mère - you understand? For us, for people like us, in those days, when no one else cared, France was the mother!’
And just as we were held rapt, no equivalence or genuine enough reciprocation, no words to convey the depth of compassion his evoked in us, the spell was abruptly broken by officialdom’s bustle, the door seeming to burst open. The others filed in, ready to translate a different world yet again for us all, atmosphere subject to appropriate osmosis.
The notary, sheaves of documents in hand, arranged them efficiently, atop the table’s sheen, where a screen we hadn’t noticed previously also faced her. Briefly we were given pause to wonder if this was the same person who had greeted us on first entering the offices, so changed was her demeanour and not only by the large, square glasses now dominating and reshaping her face, though they certainly contributed. Everything she brought, tangible and intangible, to her seat at the head of this small gathering demanded its attentions.
As everyone else also took their seats, we soon realised our understanding of what was to happen next had been limited, circumscribed by a different culture of legality and language considered appropriate to it. When José had offered to be our translator for what he described as ‘the reading of the contract’, we had not understood this meant it literally had to be read into law by the notary.
This was why the final contract of sale could be in Portuguese only and part of the proceedings required us, as non-native speakers, to accept its translation to us as our understanding of the articles of law required for it to be binding. On the other side of the screen , whether an actual person or a recording device we did not and never fully knew, proceedings were written into law at what was referred to as ‘the Conservatory’.
Portugal is a civil law jurisdiction. The Portuguese courts operate principally under the the Code, as well as an adjunct Procedural Code, and the primary sources of law are laws and customary rules, as provided for in Article 348 of the Code and based on a social practice with a strong conviction of legality. The Conservatory enacts law and legality where courts are not required directly but which are subject to their oversight.
We have no equivalent in Scots or UK law. The closest thing to it is perhaps where local registrars are connected to the offices of the National Records of Scotland.
The Conservatory, though, is so much more. As an arm of civil law jurisdiction it is nothing short of being both an interpreter and recorder of account for everything administered and overseen by the Codigo Civil and brought into effect by the Diarie de Republique.
It struck us, in full realisation, sitting in the notary’s office, as being so much more palpable and understandable by anyone, any citizen who would care to garner such an understanding, than the vagaries of an unwritten constitution and legalities conferred by it we were used to. Moreover, also as part and parcel of accepting the legal context our lives were governed by, them being interpreted and precedent set according to the judgements, cognitive bias, whims of an elite and exclusive, excluding caste.
Proceedings began. First a signed acknowledgment that payment of the amounts determined as promise had been made by us and had been received by the sellers, without which we could not continue. Then the full names and legal roles of everyone present were read out and acknowledged by them, for the record.
Preliminaries concluded, the notary moved straight on to reading out the full contract, pausing intermittently for José to translate each clause or term for us.
Both seemingly interminable and yet surprisingly brief, the surreality of it all ended when copies of the contract were passed to Joao and Gloria, then us, por assinar, to sign. Only when this last, official, legal deed was done, with everyone else watching, waiting, the mood and atmosphere changed again, almost instantly.
The notary passed some other papers to us and spoke briefly. José translated. These were our payment agreements for the deed and notary fees, which we had already paid, as well as our land tax assessment, based on value of sale. It would be the first payment we would make to the Portuguese state using our NIF numbers, previously arranged by José.
‘So, Scotland…’, she said, ‘…I have always loved your country and wanted to visit’. It transpired she also spoke conversational English.
‘In fact, we are going, my family, later this year. For the party at New Year, in Edinburgh.’
We explained my partner was fro our capital city and we still retained her old flat there, which we used to work as holiday let, before the market became saturated, hollowing out the place, with little to no housing left for people to actually live lives in. Having contributed, in a small way, to its trajectory, we now let it out long term at cost, which works out at almost exactly half its current private rental market rate.
We had summarised, of course. Being a pet grievance of ours, the over-commodification of the city as a hyper-market for romanticised tourism, we didn’t want to burst anyone’s imagined bubble of the place. I may have slipped a little and used the word ‘Disney-fication’, which it seemed was only understood by two of the English speakers in the room, us.
It was not that everyone else was rapt or invested in our conversation, though there was passing interest. As Eva had risen from her chair, we were chatting with her whilst partially blocking the only door. Everyone was preparing to leave.
Eva continued, engaged enough but also in dating, body language all turned towards the exit, main business here concluded, she had other things to attend to as well. ‘Yes,’ she conceded, ‘It is so expensive there. Busy too. We could not find accommodation, in our budget, in a hostel. We will stay there only for a few nights, then we will travel north, to the…’, she paused, trying to find the right word, ‘…Highlands?’.
‘Oh…’, we enthused, ‘…there are so many beautiful places there. It will be so cold for you there, at that time of year. Honestly. Here we are, in November, in your country, and it is still twenty-eight degrees. Whatever you expect, it will be colder. Pack the warmest clothes you can find, you won't enjoy the scenery if you can’t feel your hands and feet!’.
Everyone, including Eva laughed at this, familiar at distance with Scotland’s notoriously wintered aspects. ‘Oh, yes, we have prepared, we bought new duvet coats. I ma not looking forward to the cold, but my son is obsessed with Harry Potter. So, part of our holiday had to be a journey on the train, over the bridge, from the films. You know it?’. ‘Ah, yes…’, we suppressed our ambivalence, allowing a child’s joy and excitement to remain conjured into the room, untempered by cynicism, ‘…the Glenfinnan Viaduct. It is beautiful, perfect for Instagram. We hope you and your family enjoy our country as much as we do yours’.
And with her smiling nod and ‘Thank you’, we all made to follow her indicated exit.
Probably because we were the ones paying everyone’s fees and sale prices, they all passed us by, with José now standing at our side, with handshakes, thanks and smiles. The other agent made a joke he had repeated previously and neither us nor anyone else in the room laughed, then or now.
It’s reference point seemed to be how his ears heard the syllables in my name as similar to how film versions of our countryman’s infamous fictionalised spy’s nemeses invariably seemed to greet him, ‘Ah, meester Jon’, he intoned, as if he was throwing an imaginary cat.
Also, incongruously, with our business concluded involving as little input from him as we could manage following on after initial exchanges, he chose then to hand us his business card and contact details. We could only think this was in hopes of as potentially easy sales, with as little effort required on his part, as this one had been.
He was also the only one dressed more formally. We had immediately found it endearing, making their profession seem more open and approachable, that those in other legal roles favoured casual attire.
The solicitor, dressed in a skinny jeans and Chelsea boots combo seemingly still favoured fashion among his age and class demographic, was next to pass. He shook our hands and paused to enquire, ‘I have to ask, how did you find Cabreiro? It’s small and remote, in the mountains. Usually when people from other countries buy property around here they go for places like Ponte de Barca, where it can still seem small, picture postcard Portugal, but is actually quite big, with access to amenities and shops?’.
‘Oh, we were looking for remote and quiet. Less people. Especially the type of people from the rest of the UK who consider themselves ‘ex-pats’, not immigrants. We also want to become self-sufficient, to grow our own food and contribute something back to the local community too. So, the rich soil, access to the river and the right exposure to the sun, not too much, were more important amenities for us. After looking for a year or two now, we thought we’d find them in some other places, where, when we visited before but didn’t. Then we found our perfect little spot, in Cabreiro, online, after we left disappointed before.’, we smiled back.
‘Ah, I think I understand. Online though, yes.’, he seemed to amuse himself thinking on it further as he left.
Joao and Gloria were, almost inevitably, the warmest as they thanked us, clasping both of our hands with theirs. Glória hugged my partner briefly too.
‘We hope to see you again’, she said to us both, ‘Many of the people in the village are our friends. We miss them and visit when we can. Maybe, if its ok with you, we can visit you on the land? We can take you further into the mountains, have a…picnic?’.
‘Thank you, that’s so lovely. Please, yes, come visit us!’, my much more sociable and amiable partner enthused. Tentatively, in his circumspect manner, Joao entreated me earnestly, while my hands were clasped in his, making just enough eye contact, ‘And perhaps we can continue our interesting conversation?’. ‘Thank you, I would like that. It has been much more interesting meeting you both than it seemed buying land would be. It has been so nice getting to know you a little. Ate la’
We all smiled at each other, genuinely and warmly and repeated the assertion together, ‘Until then!’. Unbeknownst to us all, as we filed out, us deferring to them, allowing them to go first, also with the ulterior motive of having one last look back into the room where it had all finally happened, it would be much sooner than we thought then. We closed the door as we left, sunlight still dancing in our eyes.
After a brief wait in the outer office, so other staff could provide us with copies of all the paperwork, duly notarised where necessary, with receipts attached, we quickly found ourselves outside on the typically small Portuguese market town street, saying our farewells to José, thanking him for all of is help and support.
‘It really has been my pleasure guys. Thank you for your trust in me.’, he hugged us both warmly, a familiarity between us firmly established. “Please do not hesitate to contact me if I can help with anything else, anything…’, he inclined his head, arms wide, in an ‘at your service’ gesture, only partly mock.
Aware of the fullness in our plans, he beamed a wide smile at us then and added, ‘And welcome to the first day of the rest of your lives!’. With that, he took his leave and we stood for a moment, letting it all sink in.
Characteristic of her, my partner was first to break the reverie, with a simple, ebullient, excited ‘Eeeeee!’. We hugged tightly then stepped back, still in our embrace, looking ta each other.
‘We did it’, I ineptly summarised, words just not enough, ‘We finally have our wee bit ruggedising land’. Then, characteristic of us both, we broke into an actual dance, much to the bemusement of passing locals and tourists.
Realising we were still in the doorway to the notary’s office, we set off in the direction of our nearby hotel, everything which had brought us here still running through our minds. This time, despite previous disappointment, we had put trust and faith in the process and people around us mitigating against its negative potentials.
We had previously also made a simple contingency plan too. If, for whatever reason, having paid half the selling price as deposit, anything went wrong, meaning Joao and Gloria had to pull out of the sale, Portuguese property law, the Code, written into a clause in pour promissory contract, meant they would be due to pay us back double the amount.
Such citizen-based consumer protections, foundational to legal transactions based on the Code, were also the basis of our trust placed in ‘the process’. If things ‘went South’, we would actually have more funds at our disposal. It would be a compound disappointment to have come this far, once more, and have to begin again, of course. But we were resolute.
With our hard-earned and saved remainder of the sale price, plus a little we had factored in for contingencies and extras, in our considerations of potential negative outcomes, added to a returned double deposit, the market bracket of land for sale would have shifted slightly for us. As exhaustive as we had been in our previous and recent searches, our criteria, with ruggedisation our aim, would remain the same but our budget would have changed, widening our scope a little.
In our negative outcome possibility planning, we had prepared to, if necessary, contact every local estate agent we had been able to find and organise viewings for the list of eighteen properties, which hadn’t been previously but would then become a possible consideration, we had already drawn up. Now though, our first immediate act was a retrial to our hotel, confirming at reception we would not in fact need to extend our initial two day/three-night stay, as we had allowed for if things did not go according to plan A. Well, plan A point three, if we counted previous times around.
We then went straight to our room and deliberately spent a few moments deleting emails and links we had sent to ourselves in our contingency planning. We secured our new deed and supplementary paperwork, after another, becoming steadily more credulous look at it, in the waterproof pocket of our almost fully packed and ready luggage. It stood waiting amid another clustered symbol of how well this shorter than previous trips was going, compared to them.
Ahead of it, we had been keeping a regular and watchful eye on a Portuguese based classified ads website, with some searches and filters relevant to our needs and budgets saved. Ideally, we wanted to find something we could legally place on our land, to start living in. It didn’t matter to us how basic it may be at first, it would be temporary start and, with the right find could also be restored or renovated and turned into a tiny house.
As with the land itself, we were prepared to wait for the right thing to turn up and work with contingencies in the meantime. We were planning for the long haul and this was not, in fact was antithetical to, consumer-based demand immediacy.
Some of our primary search filters were for a restricted surrounding area, where we could travel to for viewings using public transport, if necessary. At every stage, we hoped and planned to offset any seemingly necessary planetary impact from fossil fuel consumption, directly or indirectly. We had worked out, continued to work out as we made teaks to plans, planting offsets on our land if deliveries were required, even for use of devices in our searches, so of course we’d done it for every aspect of travel too.
Our secondary filters were for ‘caravanas usadas’, ‘atrelados usados’ and, again as contingency, ‘tendas usadas’. As our signing date drew near, no appropriate caravans or trailers had come up with enough time to navigate online or in person viewings and still make arrangements for either to be on our land and be even partly liveable. So we narrowed an intensified our search for used tents.
On some previous searches we had included sellers in Porto. We had a window of an hour or two between arriving there and making our way to the bus station for the only later bus for the nearest town to our land, Arcos de Valdevez. It had seemed a good use of our time to fit in a potential viewing of what might become our new home.
With a possibility now of collecting a tent before the next stage of our journey, we included it again and hit pay-dirt almost right away. Not ones for signs and portents, a few days before we were due to travel, we responded to post showing a four person, easy assemble, all weather tent, used only once, which the was selling for a modest price because the owner was leaving the country for work.
Unlike other ads we’d made enquiries about, this poster responded to our message, which had briefly described our situation, almost immediately. ‘If you want the tent for living on your land while you build, we also have all the other things you’d need. We attach photos, let us know what you think.’.
So, not only a tent but also everything we had intended a trip to a nearby camping warehouse to purchase too. Air mattress, sleeping bags, stove, lights, tables, chairs, stools, storage. We replied with haste and a tentative offer, having added up what the retail cost would have been and going in at a level which would be much more kind to our budget but, we hoped, still help the seller out. They hadn’t listed the other items, thinking the effort to sell them individually, or even we guessed as a collective ad, not cost or time effective.
Not only was it accepted right away, but a kind offer of delivering to our hotel for the cost of fuel followed and was gratefully taken up. So it was that on our first morning waking up in our room, the amiable and grateful couple arrived outside, as arranged, monies and thanks were duly exchanged and the next day we were stood looking at it all, ready to transport it to our newly signed for land, the next again day.
It seemed, in modest ways, after some diligent searching and perseverance beyond initial disappointments, fortune eventually decided to favour us. With one more, self set, preparatory task to complete, had we not decided to take a beat and return to town, after setting up camp, for it, after a first night, the next day, just feeling ourselves on the land, it might not have shone its light on us in another way too.
With all of the planning and ruggedising due diligence, it may seem neglectful, even reckless of us to have never actually visited the land in person before purchasing it. Time constraints, distance and our developed trust in José would be our only possible counter to the charge.
On previous, ultimately disappointing forays, visiting not a few properties in person, during which we had both taken substantial time away from our other work, self-employed and vocational rather than at the mercy of employer’s demands or in service to corporate ethos, we had some commitments to our third sector based, vulnerable clients to make up, after each, more extended trip. So, with José made increasingly aware of our criteria, budgetary and ruggedising, essential and hopeful, we trusted the information he narrated to us, from his and other agents' listings, during relatively extensive video viewings he recorded at a distance for us, the small fee we negotiated for his time and effort worth what it saved us on travel and our time.
Our trust seemed to have proven well-placed, but we still couldn’t still a mixture of excitement and trepidation as we finally arrived. The final stretch of access to the land is by footpath only and as we ferried our camping gear and supplies along it we could barely contain ourselves.
Path and gate were exactly where and as expected from our friend’s dutiful camerawork. So was our little, overgrown and unruly patch of discontinuity preparedness, by the Cabreiro river.
Its song greeted us, as light rain urged to to rush a little quicker, over long tumbled mountain rocks. Our excitement broke into wide smiles and incredulous looks at each other. We dropped everything a little haphazardly, just inside our gate, closed it and made our eager way along the top terrace, looking for the path down, toward its slightly distant but audibly present overtures, remarking on every long plated and natural find.
As advertised and reported, olive, cherry, walnut and hazelnut, both on the tops level and the much larger, lower one we could easily survey from it. Moving down a slope onto it, our seasonally anticipated bounty was clearly in even more abundance than we previously thought it would be.
I’d become something of a chestnut enthusiast, deep diving for as much information, about the varieties which grow across the Iberian Peninsula, as I could possibly find, before we set off. Chestnuts have been a vital food source in Portugal for centuries, particularly in ‘poorer’, rural areas, where they were and are abundant and readily available. They provide sustenance during winter months, when other produce may be scarce.
Generally larger than other variants, in common with them and other oilseeds, Portuguese chestnuts are packed with nutritional and health benefits. Like mono saturated and polyunsaturated fats, vitamins C and B and minerals, like potassium, as well as being a source of fibre and carbohydrates.
Containing less oil than other types of nuts, as well as being less caloric whilst also being more filling, chestnuts have been proven as preventative against obesity, helped along by their composition serving, when consumed, to aid balanced thyroid function.
They are also, for the same reasons, associated with preventing heart issues by improving blood flow. Antioxidant action and high folic acid have been cited in academic health studies, if consumed daily, to control high blood pressure and hypertension, to prevent strokes, prevent and reduce risks from diabetes and to have generally beneficial preventative neuroprotective effects.
Rich in fibres and minerals which act positively on the digestive system, they protect against gastrointestinal disease. They can also be used to make flour, producing bread, pasta, cakes, with no gluten content. Also rich in vitamin C, this humble nut helps with overall immune system improvement too.
Aware of their benefits for countless generations, people in the lands now known as Portugal have long developed means of preparing, storing, using and cooking with chestnuts. Native to higher altitude regions, they are well adapted to mountainous terrain and cooler climates.
They are particularly celebrated in Northern regions, where they became a staple food, especially when and where other crops struggled to grow. Historical reliance on chestnuts has shaped many of the area’s culinary traditions, dishes and local festivals.
Most recipes and preparations begin with roasting the nuts even for flour. As we moved down onto the lower part of our land, we could see them everywhere – scattered thick across the ground, hanging from a plethora of trees, falling around us as we moved, careful not to let their hefty, spikiness hit us. Our first harvest and we were keen to get it gathered, stored and roasted, try out the recipe list we’d made too.
Finally, embracing each other as we looked down the deep vertical embankment, stretching across the foot of our land, to the clear mountain waters of the Cabreiro, life and energy source of this place for thousands of years and now ours to share in, like the the thousands of beings who have partaken, partake of them, we could accept, this was it, where we should be. Where we could weather the now and discontinuities to come.
That evening, camp set, a little wood chopped and water carried, we gathered chestnuts. Freeing them from their mostly split, spiky outer casings, we scored them with an ‘x’, sprinkled pinches of salt over where it marked the spot and roasted them over a small fire we’d laid, to warm us against the cooling late October night.
Carbon released didn’t sit right. Solar panels and micro-turbines, always in the plan, jumped a few places in the priority list. For that moment though, we allowed the primal to persist.
Lying back, stars framed perfectly by an opening the canopy of trees, savouring their sweetness, feeling a deep connection to the past and future of this place, it all seemed profoundly reassuring. Not only could we survive what and will come here, we could prosper.
Next morning, late autumn sun breaking over the Peneda-Geres mountain range, dispersing low hanging mist from familiar seeming crags and small valleys, light evaporation rising from yesterday’s dampened soil of our terreno to meet it, to work, trabalhar, then. Breakfasting simply as the warming light grew around us, we then trod surveilling paths through thick clustered ferns and brambles, still laying their claim to here as they had clearly done for what we could only assume were more than a ew seasons, as profligate as they were.
Contrary to the most common practice of limpar, its heavy smokes beginning to rise form other small patches of terreno around us, in its self-perpetuating, self-defeating rhythms, initial, labour-intensive drudge would be necessary first and foremost. As we walked the land, taking care to begin pathways we would continue to follow, from where our tiny house would sit, to where planting beds would rise, to where mulch and compost would moulder, we prepared ourselves for what we knew would be a struggle against this land’s current, expropriating rulers.
Green and comforting as they might appear, they were draining every resource to only their own ends, achieving or in the process of killing off almost every other growth. Sure, burning them all down, as everyone around us seemed to think was the best solution, even now referred to as tradition, so deep ingrained in practice as it now was, had its simple appeals.
This was not least because we were also committed to, resolute, for neurological, as unlikely as that may seem if you haven’t really done the maths, and environmental reasons, to only use hand tools for the task at hand. Not fossil fuel driven, gurning machina, the next most commonly arrived at errant answer to the sum of factors stacked up in it.
Their persistent, driving drone and acrid stench, joining the blackening smoke, ripping up then burning dry and green alike, gathering around us offered staunch support to its own counter intuitive decisions. It compounded our resolve as we, our primary surveys complete, fetched our list of translated tool names from our bags, working at schemas, attempting to commit them to memory, adding them to our basic but growing practical Portuguese vocabulary.
Murmuring their syllables to ourselves, we closed down our camp, preparing to set off and catch the local, municipally funded bus into town, to complete our final preparatory task, before rolling up our sleeves and getting the fuck on with things. We were more than ready but also not quite too, not without it.
Much of our journey on it, winding down through other picturesque mountain villages, was spent in awe of our surroundings, interspersed with lingering frustrations when face with evidence of what humans were still doing to them. White- and pastel-coloured buildings, topped with ubiquitous terracotta tiles, clustered, some in unlikely placed seeming clumps, why there, amid the grandeur of high serras and long valleys.
Amidst some of our shared wonder, we continued to shape and prepare sentences, uncertain local hardware store owners would understand our inept renderings of syllables so familiar to them. All too soon, we arrived at town’s relative bustle, orienting ourselves toward their lojas.
Slightly confused, turned around, trying to acquaint ourselves with unfamiliar street etiquette, we paused at a corner to reattain our bearings, only to be greeted, almost suddenly, by two now familiar wizened faces, smiling at through what was only a hubbub in comparison to the still place we’d come there from. Gloria and Joao tilted their heads, greeting and inquiring, ‘Hello, our new friends! You are lost? We can help you?’.
When we explained why we were there, as well as our uncertainty around being understood as we went about it, they continued in their affability, ‘It’s ok, we will help you, ajudar. But first, you come for a coffee with us. This is ok, you have time?’.
We were more than glad to accept their kind hospitality, which extended a little further still than we expected doing so would. Soon, amid the sweet of the pastelaria they led us to, when time came to pay and we reached for wallets, insistent, reciprocal, showing our gratefulness, we thought, a brief moment of uncharacteristic taking of offence passed across their faces.
As it broke, tolerant as ever, Gloria explained, the moment passing realisation of a little cultural and social misunderstanding, ignorance, not knowing, on our part. She smiled, a little conspiratorially, inviting us into simple understanding, ‘Here, when someone invites you for coffee, they are extending hospitality, so it is customary, the people understand, the person who invites will pay. It is a rejection of this, their, hospitality if the person who is invited pays’.
We knew immediately where our misstep must be and nodded along our understanding, synchronous with her words. Offering our instant apologies, she smiled beneficence, continuing, focussing in with what we had come to realise, more and more, was the good-humoured lens she made a conscious choice to view the world through, a deep-rooted coping mechanism developed through much longer, much harder times, ‘So, be prepared. If you invite someone for coffee, you must pay. Maybe they order the whole menu, but still, you invited them, so you must pay!’, she gestured a mock shrug of acceptance.
Laughing along, we apologised again and insisted next time we would invite them and would be happy to pay if they ordered the whole menu. Even in our short time there, cementing first impressions gained jus what was anteontem, the day before yesterday, we’d learned so much. Culturally, socially and in terms of where compassion, personal, circumstantial, derives from.
More than that still, in what essentially became an ethnographic exploration, they had easily, seemingly without effort or forethought, in around twenty minutes, over coffee and pastries, helped us navigate local customs, social order and even municipal legislation. All whilst deepening our understanding of the town, the parish of which it was the capital and in which our terreno sat, its relevance to their country, its political history and what all of it means to its people.
Much of what’s is written here, of the Salazar years, is derived by extension into a less personalised history and lived experience shared with us by them, then. It would do their delve into painful memory a deep disservice to repeat it here, word for word. There are some things it is impossible to summarise, at that remove, without it though and for those we are certain they would not object to be being quoted in context.
Continuing our earlier conversation, begun around the notary’s table, Joao explained, responding to our questions, how, when things became too much for them, when the Estado Novo began to bite too much out of their lives and from what they for them, he was first to go. He promised to and would send word, somehow, for Gloria, when it was safe to follow.
He had quickly found work, with easy support and sympathy also found readily on a farm near the French border with Spain. This, of course, he explained, almost as an afterthought, distancing himself from it, was after a long journey, on foot, in as discrete and furtive a fashion as humanly possible, through terrain under the ultimate and absolute control of a different kind of authoritarian to the one whose insidious rule he fled. Only to then breathe, to be welcomed, his plight, his position and that of his people, his country to be genuinely understood.
When Gloria joined him, a little over a year later, his grasp of the French language much improved, they do not stay much longer than the same time again. The farming life that had left behind, now echoed painfully in the daily rhythms of life in what was now a temporary home for them, could not compare to the allure of something different, other. A conjured potential for more, which the United States, where a cousin had escaped to, held for Gloria and of which she convinced Joao.
So, following her lead and his love for her, he recounted for us how the spell was quickly broken for them, arriving, hoping, to be welcomed in the manner curated, presented to the world, at the foot of their great American monument to liberte, to freedom, which had taken the same route as them, insisted they would. ‘I said before, for us, for my people, then, France was the mother. She understood, she nurtured us, saw Salazar for what he was. The rest of the world, the United States, not so much. He was a corporatist, balancing the accounts, the economy, with our sweat, our tears, our hunger, our people made and kept poor by it. But America, of course, it loves corporatism. It is a corporation.
It’s people did not welcome us, did not understand. Because they insisted on u speaking their English, had little tolerance for Portuguese, or even French, it was difficult. Much more difficult than France, we didn’t expect this.’
‘Yes, it was not at all what I hoped for, came to expect’, Gloria concurred, also rescuing him from the pain of memory passing clearly over his face, hers uncharacteristically downcast with a shadow of culpability, of guilt. ‘We were not prepared for this, or for the cities, the industry, everywhere, for work in the factories. Everything so…impersonal. And cold, not just the weather, the people. So much…insincerity.
At first, we learned things mostly the hard ways. It was difficult to trust anyone, anything, quite soon, but still we made a kind of life there, until we could return home, until there was a home we could recognise. Always, it was still a wait, in hope, for our country, which the world had forgotten, to be become free, to become what it should. And it did, eventually, it did.’
“The revolution, yes’, Joao nodded now, ‘When we heard the news, of course, we were excited, but we knew, our country had many revolutions, when we were very young, we knew we needed to wait longer. Things didn’t get better before, they got worse, maybe they would again. So, we waited a little, but sooner than we thought, it seemed safe to return’.
‘Yes, but even then, it was difficult. Of course, the country was not, could not be, the same’, Gloria added. They returned to a place where those who stayed, many of whom had died, some worked into the grave, others meeting an end it was not possible to define, other than they met with, possibly not so, secret police, were wary, worn down.
Back in the village of their birth, they had thus inherited not a few patches of terreno, scattered around it. The one we had bought from them was the most easily accessible and directly resource rich. ‘The others,’ said Gloria, ‘They are not so nice. o body would want to buy these. When we first came back, we tried to work them all a little. Some they were still only good for cows. And us, we were already getting old’, she returned to her familiar jocularity, ‘When I was girl, all my life was cows. Why would I want only cows again!’.
‘Yes, it was sad for us too, to come back there, the missing years, the missing people. It is not possible to go back, to a turning in the road, and take another, not for history. It does not allow it. So, we sold some of the old family houses. It was sad too, but it meant something, it meant our families, they helped us buy another place, closer to town. And now, we find we are here’, Joao smiled, arms stretching wide, to encompass the pastelaria, the town, the parish, the country, place, time.
By then, rapt in their story, we had eaten the pastries they ordered for us, smiling along as we did, tasting of their place. One was traditional to the country, a ubiquitous Pastel de Nata, the other to the town, Charutos dos Arcos. It all fit.
Along the way, when our coffees came with them, they had called over the café owner and introduced us. He was, it seemed, part of their motives in taking us there in particular. He would be a useful contact for us, they thought, also being the mayor of our local jurisdiction, what we could only understand as a parish too, a sub-division of that encompassed by the town.
Even though clearly busy, he took time to have a pleasant exchange with us, also deferring to elders from the village of his birth, in a clearly pitch perfect, proud, only partially accented English. He welcomed us to his country, to his parish, to his village.
He seemed, to us, symbolic o f the nests generation born after that of Glória and Joao, facing a different struggle amid the tumult of bridging a troubled past to what should be a hopeful future, in an uncertain present.
Joao provided us with an augmentative précis, following on from our conversation with who he insisted on referring to by his official title, both to us and to him, as head of the parish council, Presidente. ‘He is a good man. He tries to balance the politics with the people, who it should serve. He learned his English at university, he was to become a lawyer. But his father, who opened this place, after the Carnation Revolution, he died. His mother was, is very sick. So, he returned too, in a different way, for his generation. Of course he did, it was his duty’.
During our exchange with the mayor, Joao had used it as an excuse to ask him a question to which he clearly already knew the answer, to make a point. It highlighted what still differed in his and Gloria’s residual, distilled conceptions of freedom. ‘Can you tell us, Presidente, our new friends here, they want to fish the Cabreiro for trutas, where do they get the licence?’.
Earlier in our conversation, before the entreated Presidente joined us, they had differed in approaches to this subject. My partner had explained, being a seafood lover, whilst my diet remained resolutely plant-based, how she had always wanted to catch, then eat a fish.
I had expanded, explaining how, as younger person, I had enjoyed the media that I’ve process of waiting then catching, preparing and eating plentiful fish taken from Scottish rivers and lochs. Adding, how previous work done in hotel and restaurant kitchens since meant I would still be willing and able to engage with the preparation part in both the same simple and more elaborate ways.
‘To do this, here though’, Joao rejoindered, ‘It is like it must be in Scotland too. You must have a licence’. He trusted in management of the land, its resources, by the Code, the constitution as agreed upon by the demos, derived for and by the people.
Gloria has scoffed a little at that. ‘It is your land. You have access, from it, to the river. It is your river. It has fish, they are your fish. You do not need a paper, a document, permission for this. It is obvious’, she shrugged.
After speaking to the mayor, Joao became more insistent than he had been then, ‘We can go now, with you, to get the licence. So, you can fish. And no one can trouble you, say you cannot do this’. We explained tat, of course we would respect all of the laws and bye-laws, local and national, but the licence was not a priority, right then. We would be much more grateful, in the time we had before returning to the land, for their promised help with purchasing the other tools we needed.
It had also been a previous conversational point emphasised to them. We intended to use only traditional hand tools, matched later with the right, sustainable, non-polluting technologies. They had been enthused, saw we would both respect the lands of their birth and try to bring new life to them.
And so, the coffee, cakes and conversation had ended. Our trip to the hardware store passed duly, without incident and soon we found ourselves wending our way back up the mountains, equipped, ready and reflective.
A memory lingered, a symbol of what had passed, a mandala of shared heritage, being of the land, of the world, of the planet and of people. We had described it Gloria and Joao how we were already excited by the possibility of our terreno’s bounties, finding castanhas so abundant on our arrival.
We had acknowledged how significant we knew they had been, how winter could be faced with what it was possible to make of them. Our description of simply preparing, cooking and enjoying them, for our first time, the night before made Gloria smile wryly.
‘Yes, sometimes it is like the people do not remember. In the cities, the people there, tourists too, they eat them like this. It is a treat they enjoy and they should. Back, before, in poor places, where we lived then, sometimes this would be all we would have to eat. This way you cooked, we call this ‘a Magusto’’.