Of Cephalopods and River Sheep

We've not yet given up hope for a table at the Tasquinha do Fumo but it seems if you want to enjoy Sunday lunch there, your grandparents should have booked you in decades ago. Ours didn't. What were they thinking of? Instead, we ambled along narrow lanes looking for another eatery that we had managed to book a table at, but neither maps nor Professor Google were enough to deliver us easily to the door.

We stopped outside a nondescript building in the middle of nowhere with nothing more than instinct to guide us. There were no signs, not even on the door, but some shifty looking character lurking outside assured us that this was the place. He turned out to be the owner. He explained that no sooner do they put signs and notices up than they disappear, usually overnight. Malignant elves? I have quite a soft spot for hidden away places so that immediately gained a point, as did the small notice just inside the door which informed customers that only folding money would be accepted and that they didn't want any of the electronic malarkey here, thank you very much.

Pre-order

We had pre-ordered our lunch over the phone and so, it seemed, had everyone else. The place was packed out and everyone had their names scrawled on the paper table clothes. It was so full that we were shunted into the annex which, like most annexes, lacked charm. It had the obligatory large TV screen on the wall, on which Sunday mass was being shown. The two points the place had already marked up, by being hidden and eschewing the wicked ways of electronic money, were now marked down. We were back to zero.

The people we shared the room with all appeared to be locals. Who else was likely to stumble across the place? There was a pleasant rough and ready bonhomie to be found but, as always when you find yourself in a small room with reflective granite walls, there was an older man with a booming voice who had no idea how loud he was. Bless. While we were waiting for our order, I glanced up to look through the small window at the outside staircase leading to an upper room. It was crammed with people going up. I started counting legs. I lost count. A coach had turned up, we thought.

We'd ordered octopus for the main course, sight unseen, when we'd booked the table. In retrospect, that had been a mistake. The problem with our eight tentacled friend is that not cooking it quite enough will make it tough and chewy, as will cooking it a little bit too much. Which kind of toughness they had achieved was unknown, but the tentâculos required a sharp knife and strong teeth. At least, they provided a sharp knife. Pity about the teeth. Thank goodness the generous red and green pepper sauce in which it all came bubbling was tasty.

Convoy

We were not blocked in by a bus as I had feared, but the car park was now chocker with dozens of brightly coloured and venerable Citroen 2CV cars. Obviously, our 'busload' of fifty plus diners in the upper room had all come via a very long convoy of ancient machines driven, if the legs on the staircase were anything to go by, even more ancient drivers. Hooray for them, we said.

We decided to pop down into the valley and visit the Ponte do Arco over the Rio Ovelha. We asked the man with the three dogs if the road (it was barely hanging onto that description at this point) led to the bridge and could we take the car and, just as important, could we turn the car around and come back again if we did? Oh yes, he said. Though it does turn into a dirt road, he added. I don't like driving our car down dirt roads. It isn't really made for it. We got half way down the precipitous incline where the road surface was little more than a collection of loosely adhering rocks and small stones when I decided to pull onto the side and park up. It was a two kilometre hike ahead down the steep track but we needed to work off the weight of the leathery lunchtime mollusc.

The bridge itself was guarded by two large and very toothy dogs. We thanked them for their services to the rural culture of the country and they backed off with growls and slaverings, but kept an eye from a distance. It's a strange pointy bridge - beautiful in a simple, austere way - but it was almost twee in its setting, as if from a scene in the Shire, perhaps, and we half expected Hobbits to be fishing from the bridge. We must have just missed them. Perhaps they had popped back home for their second lunch. Ah, but if there were hobbits around, was it possible that those dogs weren't dogs at all. Wargs, perhaps? Suddenly, the car, perched high up on the hill, seemed a very long way off.

Fitch is a retired teacher trainer and academic writer who has lived in northern Portugal for over 30 years. Author of 'Rice & Chips', irreverent glimpses into Portugal, and other books.

Fitch O'Connell