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Azinhaga, Portugal

Vandag het Portugal haar teen my kom aan vly. Slinks, verleidelik, met die intense geur van vye wat soos ‘n eksotiese wolk wierook om haar walm. Want sien, ek is mal oor vye. Vroegdag hang daar ‘n mis oor die varsgeploegde velde, wellustig na die aand se donderstorm. Spinnekoppe het oornag hul webbe gespin – seker dié dat daar minder vlieë vanoggend is.

En toe die oggendson begin kwestend raak sweef daar ‘n meesleurende geur van vye intens in die lug. Mielies en tamaties en vlieë word vervang deur vye en granate en bye. Wollerige kwepers hang gul oor mosbegroeide mure. Suurlemoenbome is geil in hulle groen, en kneukelrige olyfbome hang dragtig met die nuwe seisoen se oes. Vandag is daar baie groot miere op die grondpad, geitjies wat teen mure bak en lawwe honde wat baie bly is om hulle ore gevryf te kry. ‘n Vaal katjie soek tevergeefs aandag agter ‘n gaasvenster. Ou tannies met bak bene en swart rokke stap mark toe, die ooms drink klein koffietjies teug-teug. Die posman is op sy fiets, die broodman hang weer sakkies vars brood aan hekke. Die keistene klink hol onder die karre se wiele.

I am not sure if it is the red wine or the good nigh’s rest that did it, but I am awake at 05h00, rested. After breakfast the lovely Helena shows me the way out of town via a back road. After that, the next almost ten kikometers are along a treacherous tarred road, with just about no edge. I have to decide which I would prefer – to be hit from the front or from the back. I think with a backpack it would help a bit if I am hit from the back. Cars and trucks whizz past at an unbelievable speed – I literally have to hold on to my hat. My coffee stop is at Golega, also known as the “horse capital of Portugal”. Obviously a more affluent town, it is a quaint place with lots of little shops. I settle for two coffees, and listen to the ladies nattering away inside the shop while I sit on the stoep. Their Portuguese does sound as if they all have badly fitting dentures as they all chat at the same time, laughing at their own jokes. (Well, it sounded like jokes). People are friendly – a wave gets a wave. I still get the Italian, Spanish en Portuguese mixed up… After my coffee I head of out town via another back road, the morning sun now chasing away the mist.

About three kilometers further, I stumble across the most magnificent castle, Casa Caetano, dating back to the times of the Knights Templar. The most romantic place, hugged by ivy and roses, all closed up and seemingly forgotten (albeit that someone is still feeding the cats). It is hard to believe that a building like this can simply be closed up and left to decay. I try to get into the gardens but it is all closed up – a truly mysterious place…

In Vila Nova de Barquinha I decide to take the extra kilometer or so to go and see the park. By now the sun is high, and doing all of its promised 30 degree thing. Of course I get it wrong first and turn left instead of right, have to ask for directions to the river, and walk all the way back again. Now under usual circumstances it is not an issue – with 9ish kilos on your back, blazing sun and dog tired body, every step is an issue. You do not want to go in the wrong direction for two steps! But hey – a sense of direction was never one of my strong points. The park is a welcome oasis of rolling green lawns and sweeping willow trees. I buy a beer and a breadroll. Heaven knows the Porutguese are not strong on fillings in a bread roll. This one comes with a sliced Vienna sausage and some of those small, thin little crisps that look line baby skinny fries. At least there is tomato sauce, mayo and mustard, I settle for all three to make life bareable.

I stroll down to the river, open my kikoi and decide to take a nap under the willow trees. No sooner had I settled in, or a bloody lawnmover appears over the horizon. Oh well – I tried. So I pack up again and make my way to Atalaia (2km further) where Ron and Blanca said they will reserve a place for me as well in the Alberque that they are going to – apparently highly recommended. Not paying attention where I am going, I go wrong again. No sign of no yellow arrow, I walk around in circles… Eventually a friendly man (who sells cheese from the back of a little van) shows me the way. Ron just happens to be in the road when I trek into town, and welcomes me to the most beautiful, cool Casa do Patriarca. Luisa – the owner – lived in Mozambique for some time and her second son was born in Harrismith! I even got a “goeie more” from her! AND – there is a swimming pool. Within seconds I am in the pool – words cannot describe the sensation of cold water on an overheated, tired, aching body. Life is good. Now for some more beer and another attempt at finding food. No home cooking from Louisa tonight sadly.

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