Smoke gets in your ears

The event was the twenty-seventh festa da orelheira e do fumeiro in Cabeceiras de Basto, which is a three-day festival celebrating the wonders of smoked meat and pigs' ears. How could we not go? To be honest, it wasn't the first time we had fallen for that siren song, so we had no one to blame but ourselves if it all went wrong.

I think of Cabeceiras as being on the edge of the wild country. On our map, it is situated just under the 'g' where it says 'Here be Dragons'. It nestles for shelter in a horseshoe of rugged hills, the most northerly of the towns in the ancient Terras de Basto, a medieval judicial area. At times, it feels as if it is still the thirteenth century. I mean, a festival dedicated to smoked pigs' ears doesn't really seem to belong to the age of TikTok and ChatGPT. We live within the Terras de Basto region ourselves and even to us Cabeceiras feels different.

The Leilão de Orelheiras (pigs' ears auction) was one of the highlights of the final day, along with the Chega de Bois. The latter we refuse to have anything to do with as we have no wish to see two frightened bulls fight each other for the amusement of a Sunday afternoon crowd. The Leilão, on the other hand, is much more our idea of entertainment. It was all very festive when we arrived, in spite of the bitingly cold easterly wind blowing off the hills. Various ranchos de folclore were prancing around in proper Minho fashion outside the hall to the usual medley of accordions. I was pleased to see that a number of men of a certain age were wearing wide-brimmed hats, redolent of an earlier age rather than the more common flat caps. Everything seemed rather jolly, even when a group of female folcloristas commandeered the men's toilets for some urgent costume adjustments and a group of us men with enlarged prostates stood – or rather jiggled on crossed legs – outside the door with rictus grins.

Inside the hall, there were dozens of stalls with vendors selling all the delights of the fumeiro. I am a huge fan of smoked food and the Portuguese are supremely adept at the craft and here before us were chouriços of every description, bentrulho, celeiradas, bolachos, alheira, presunto, farinheira, sangueira, faceira, orelheira e cabeça, morcela, gaiteiro and, my personal favourite, salpicão. But there was, of course, the usual gaping hole. I've never quite understood why the Portuguese never went in for smoked fish. It would fit in neatly with their love of seafood and their skill with fumeiro so there seems to be an inexplicable gap in their cuisine. Perhaps I should help to fill it. Let me see: step 1, How to Build a Smoke House.

There were also lots of stalls selling things other than parts of the pig, though the only one that caught our interest was selling local honey and honey-based products. We noted in passing that the little stall labelled Therapy Doces wasn't doing too well and the two young women eagerly promoting their wares were being ignored by just about everyone. Conversely, the large stall called Palácio de Gomas was absolutely jam-packed with small children and their rather frantic-looking parents. We picked up some salpicão (of course) along with alheira, and four more bags of goodies to take home. That's our suppers sorted for a while.

Auction

By the time the leilão started, the clusters of men who had been standing around the snack tables sharing bottles of red wine since we'd arrived were in thoroughly good spirits. It being the post-Sunday lunch period, a lot of people – men and women (and probably some of the children too) – were walking around with that beneficent smile that comes from having dined and drunk well and as a result, the leilão was conducted in a haze of alcoholic goodwill and jocularity. The orelheira that were being auctioned were, sadly, all packed in white plastic carrier bags, though the auctioneer would hold up an orelheira from time to time, just to remind his muddled-brained patrons what it was they were bidding for. He shouted excitedly into his microphone and I could not understand a single word he said. This is not unusual. I have been to auctions in Britain and not understood a word said by the auctioneer. It's all part of the mystique.

Orelheira translates literally as 'ear muff'. In this case, what was being sold were a pair of ears connected by the skin that joins them. We watched one punter take an ear-muff from his purchased bag and put it on his head to shrieks of delight from his companions who, of course, had never seen such a thing before. Not in the previous five minutes at any rate. Well, this was all great fun, but we thought we'd better leave before the rosy glow of the red wine wore off and the next, rather ratty stage of inebriation took over.

Thank you, Cabeceiras. You didn't disappoint.

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