Travels in the Van 2024: Week Four

Coinciding with the dark story I’m reading, we're now in the hills again, passing through Penela to Castanheria with proper cycling again, exploring the countryside, enjoying the views and marvelling at the ancient engineering of the notable 'stone villages'. 

In this area of rural Portugal, we marvel too at the speed of a couple of farm dogs who spotted us on a climb, from their track, on the other side of a narrow valley. They shoot out from a standing start, like greyhounds from the trap and we're the lure that they'll chase until they catch us. Usually dogs will stop at the end of their farm track, but not these two. They hit the bend and pursue us uphill. It's the fastest I've ridden for awhile and Richard nobly has a stand-off with them while I get away and then resorts to his excellent missile throwing skills as their owner shouts feeble admonitions at them from the house. 

There are a few badly fenced in dogs around here and not just the pair of shepherd dogs that  give me a scare as we lock the bikes to walk up a steep climb to the top of the waterfall on an impressive wooden walkway. They come out of nowhere on a craggy steep hillside above us and can’t actually get at us but they look like they mean business. We’ve not even seen any sheep. 

The climb reminds me what altitude sickness feels like. There’s something mystical about dogs and architecture, agricultural traditions and mountain forests. This place is rich in that folky-fairy-story-like atmosphere, seemingly deserted stone villages, glimpses through trees of unnamed movement, the hint of wild animals animals everywhere. Humans are few and far between, builders with electric drills or saws, heard, but not seen and glimpses of someone closing a door or hanging washing out. I love it.

...

Don’t forget your key, he calls as he strides out towards the Stone Village with its cascading mountain stream. She lets him go and when ready, wrapped warm against the early morning chill, she looks but cannot not find it where she knew she left it. She hurries to catch up without locking the door. The noise of the rushing water makes it fruitless to shout. She enters the deserted village following the stony track and is startled to see a young woman in the doorway above a path in a white chemise, who smiles, and then disappears. She climbs, and as she passes the damp stone houses, the cobbles glistening in the morning dew, there is no sign of life other than a Woodman's axe she can hear somewhere near. There are no cats, no one lives here she thinks. Higher and higher up through the cold dark passages until she passes a grassy terrrace. There a young deer, helpless, panting, is caught in a tangle. Suspended, having slipped on the slippery wall, it's caught in the fence. 'Poor thing' she whispers, 'I will help you, be still.' 

She finds him, but the two of them are unable to lift the creature safely. So they descend in search of help. No human voices break the silence of this hillside village, just the rush of the stream. She looks for the maiden, but instead finds the woodsman and his brother, who listen to the  sorry tale. 'Yes, I saw that deer earlier, I thought it had headed back into the forest' he said. Armed with a knife, he joked that he would have a feast that night. But they climbed back up to the the now weakened dear and gently freed it, cutting through the sturdy fence. It tries to stand and flee, but fails. It lies, panting in the grass, calm and still, the fight lost while they discuss it's chances survival, knowing that unseen injuries might be too grave. 

Later in the day, the lost key that has alluded them, despite a thorough search and much distress, lies on a chair where they had already looked. She chooses to believe it is a gift in return for a kindness.

(true story)

... 

The weather is still being weather, but we’re getting more sunshine hours and my daily practices are working so I’m less anxious, silent or whatever it is I’ve been. I’ve had my brakes fixed by a sympathetic bike mechanic in Góis which makes me more confident, coming downhill, and Richard reminds me of a couple of bike skills I’ve forgotten about. 

This week we’ve stayed on a quiet, but pretty campsite, slept in a parking lot, and stumbled across a lovely restaurant in Paso de Régua and we finally reached the Douro wine region, and drink toast. 

...

The comfort of ordinary things

Living on the road, with fewer things than the abundance of superfluous plenty that smothers me at home, I am grateful for; 

The faux fleece gillet I bought at Christmas, just putting its hood up is like a mother's embrace, 

The sheepskin that I threw in at the last minute, that I can rest against or use as a yoga mat, toasting my toes like a heated bathroom floor,  
The colour of the pair of socks I’ve just finished knitting, like a jewelled prize,

and my L-shaped pillow that I can pull and push at night all I like, unlike the long suffering body by my side who tolerates cold feet and fidgeting up to a point.

(promt from The Patience of Ordinary Things by Pat Schneider)