Summer Swallows and Other Visitors

Os emigrantes are back. The Portuguese ex-pats have returned for the holidays.

It is likely that the half constructed houses down thither and over yonder will have a little more work done on them. Our internet connection will be very shaky for the next few weeks as the system becomes overloaded. There will be nightly fireworks and, more importantly, the restaurants will be crammed to the rafters. It is, therefore, the season for picnics.

Dedicated

The Portuguese approach picnics in the same way that they approach any other food-based activity: with enthusiasm and generosity. No egg and cress sandwiches while sitting on a damp towel for them, oh dear me no. The most heroic I have yet seen was a family on a beach near Moledo. Grandma was carefully ladling a huge serving of feijoada à transmontana onto plates as mum was scraping the sardine bones of the course just finished into a bag. Dad, meanwhile, was barbecuing a batch of marinated pork chops. That's what I call dedicated picnicking. The whole family, of course, were as thin as rakes. It's worth going on a picnic to a proper parque de merendas just to see what delights the families clustered there have dreamed up for their al fresco meals. For our part, we usually mix it up, as befits our international status, and will include quiche among the panados, coleslaw with the chouriço, and sausage rolls to accompany the rissois.

A favourite among our local parques de merendas is to be found at the top of the highest hill in our concelho. Like many hilltops in our region, Viso contains a chapel built where a hermit once lurked. His lair, a remarkably shallow cave, had been hand-carved from rock so the resident hermit must have been a very small troglodyte. This stony depression is now incorporated into the tiny vestry of the chapel, a plain and simple granite structure lacking the usual baroque ornamentation so beloved in Portuguese churches. It therefore has a chance of being beautiful through sheer simplicity and, of course, its stunning location. However, it is also something of a weekend tourist attraction and so, for reasons best known to a higher power, they have completely ruined this touch of austere beauty by placing a very large neon sign above the altar. This glows in night-club blue and says Nossa Senhora do Viso. You have to shake your head in wonder.

There is a notice on the wall of this isolated place which implores the visitor not to break down the door of the church as no money or valuables are kept inside. That may well be the case, but it didn’t stop a team of well organised robbers from scaling the belfry one night and stealing the great tenor bell. The local priest mourned not so much the loss of the bell itself, but its sound which, he claimed, had been part of the daily life of all those who lived within earshot for generations. As fortune would have it, local benefactors were found quickly to replace the missing bong, not with just one fine bell but two. I hope they costed in some security too.

Stunning views

We stood outside the chapel atop the hill (technically a mountain) to admire the stunning views across the Tâmega valley to Marão and, it being a reasonably clear day, the peaks of the distant Gêres National Park to the north. Glowering at us from the south was the ancient seat of power for the area, the castle of Arnoia, sitting sullenly on top of its hill. We were careful not to stare back.

Just below us was the parque de merendas, populated with a number of hardy black oak trees offering ample shade. From it came the sounds of large families having lots of family fun. Most of the adults were shouting good-naturedly at each other in Portuguese and numerous kids were running around excitedly screaming in French. Smoke from the barbecues drifted up through the trees and under one of them, a man was playing an accordion and singing. He was mostly ignored by everyone except for two generous-looking women, who rocked in time to the music, crooning. A couple of older lads roared around the adjacent mountain tracks on quad bikes and covered everyone with dust and noise. Such thoughtfulness. Meanwhile, groups of men were throwing discs at wooden sticks pressed into the dust as they played jogo da malha. These days, I mused, you only seem to see these old traditional games when far-flung members of the family return home. Sitting on the edge of one of the rough-hewn wooden tables was a corpulent, red-faced feller who had a baby grasped firmly around the neck. The baby in question was um bebé de cinco litros - a five-litre flagon of wine. It was perched on his shoulder for ease of access, so that a slight tilt would dispense ruby red wine straight between his lips. It was only one step away from an intravenous wine feed. Altogether, the scene was a reassuringly normal summer sight. I just hoped he wasn't one of the drivers.

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