We own a few patches of woodland here and there, but the bit that gives us the most work is the one nestled near to the old primary school and bordered on another side by a couple of houses. Because of the proximity of buildings, we have to be extra careful about making sure the ground is properly cleaned. Apart from the safety aspects, have you seen the size of the fines they can impose for neglecting to do it?

I like this little wood. It contains a mixture of different trees, including some rather fine cork, a splendid old oak and some more recent umbrella pines. There are still some eucalyptus in spite of my determination to get rid of them all. I really can't stand the monsters. Anyway, there I was with the brush cutter, hacking back the brambles and other undergrowth as ordered by the law and stacking up the debris into piles to be collected later with the tractor. It was a bright but windy day and work was progressing quite well. I had just made a pile near to the road and sat down for a breather, staring at nothing in particular, enchanted by a blackbird singing nearby and the ethereal calls of an Iberian woodpecker coming from over yonder. I watched idly as a white van tootled past along the road and half observed someone flick something out of the passenger window. I thought nothing of it until the mound of cut undergrowth suddenly burst into flames. A sudden realisation: the passenger had thrown a lighted cigarette butt.

In less than a minute, the fire was roaring louder than a man can shout and, caught by the strong wind, it was already out of control. Flames were leaping to the crowns of the trees and some of the smaller pines were starting to blacken. I thought: why the pines? Why not the bloody eucalyptus? To say that I was alarmed would be an understatement. The conflagration roared up the hill faster than anyone could run. Luckily, I was on the leeward side but I had nothing with which to tackle the blaze apart from a spade, so, having called for help, I set about beating the flames where I could, not because I thought I could control it but because it was better than doing nothing. The neighbours were soon out of their houses in alarm and a hose was produced and the bombeiros called. There is a fire station almost within sight from our house, but, of course, that is in another district altogether and so instead of travelling just five kilometers, the shiny red machine was going to have to drive over twenty.

By this time, the whole of the undergrowth between where the fire had started and the houses up by the old school was leaping with cacaphonous flames. The blackbird, whose sweet melody I had been enjoying only minutes earlier, was now sitting on top of the school roof, screeching with alarm and indignation. A police car came along the road and slowed down. The two GNR officers took in the scene of the raging inferno and the doughty group of neighbours pitifully trying to beat out the flames. They pulled their heads back into the car and drove off. Coffee break time, obviously. A neighbour handed me a large glass of sweetened water as I stood sweating, hopelessly holding a garden hose against the mighty flames.

Saving the day

In the end, it was the cabbage patch that saved the day. One of the neighbours had planted a large number of couves galegas between the wood and their house and this acted as a fire break, roasted brassica notwithstanding. Ah! All that lost caldo verde. The flames died down almost as quickly as they had started and the roaring ceased, replaced by an ominous hissing.

Café com cheirinho break over, the police returned, and did what police always do in such circumstances: they demanded IDs. We explained what had happened and I showed them where the van had passed but could give no useful information. One of them gingerly picked up one of the makeshift firebeaters and patted some smouldering embers in a half-hearted manner. His companion looked bored and stared disdainfully at the whole scene, brushing ash from his shiny boots. He shouted to his companion, 'Come on João. It's nearly lunchtime.' João dutifully propped the beater against a half-singed tree and walked back to the car, lifting his boots high so as not to dirty them.

“How long before the bombeiros arrive?” we asked as they climbed into their car. They laughed. It was obviously a good joke.

A single fire engine eventually arrived and, naturally, they brought forms to fill in. The smouldering woodland was inspected and deemed safe but we were warned to check every few hours for the next couple of days. 'It'll burst into flames again when you're not looking, usually at night' said the fire crew chief. Well, I thought, that's one way to induce insomnia.

Author

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