The wrong turn
We are nearing the end of our Portuguese love affair and have only one week to go before arriving back into the UK. I have been spending much of today pondering a question posed by the late Sandy Denny: who knows where the time goes?
On Sunday evening we arrived into Vila Real. Making the longish journey up from Lisbon, where we left behind the last of the summer days. What a fun city Lisbon is, I cannot wait to return. Vila Real is towards the very north of Portugal, close to the Spanish border. Much of our journey was nondescript, driving for about 3 hours along the A1 Norte. When we finally turned off it began to feel like we were coming back into the mountains of central Portugal. The beautiful undulating hills in the distance and our view to both the left and right were being overtaken with pine and eucalyptus. We arrived into Vila Real late in the evening, feeling rather dishevelled and a tad hungover from the night before, we were relieved to find that Casa Agricola de Levada exceeded beyond our expectations. A perfect urban retreat, tucked away inside the middle of this small Portuguese town. We passed through a narrow gate and onto a tree-lined long and stony drive which brought us to the main house. The check-in was with a delightful Portuguese girl who could have been straight out of a film. She was very warm, enthusiastic and giggling at everything she said. She was obviously proud to work in such a lovely environment. She armed us with maps for the grounds and surrounding walks, and equipped us with a great many tips for our stay.
We went to our room, or rather beautiful large stone cottage and had a bite to eat before collapsing our tired bodies onto the extremely comfy bed where we slept deeply.
Back to today. I have been working hard throughout most of the day. I woke up at 8.30am, washed, dressed and took my first meeting. Leaving Peter in bed, I went for breakfast. A tasty spread of: breads, cheeses, fresh figs from the casa’s garden, homemade jams, water-melon and homemade granola and yoghurt. I washed it all down with delicious filtered cafe com leite e suco de laranja fresco.
Back at my work-station it was non-stop meetings, project management, marketing and HR dealings. I barely left my seat. So by the time the working day was done I was itching to get out for a walk. I jumped into the only appropriate attire I could find, which of course included a pair of shiny leopard-print leggings. We prepared ourselves with the map and off we jogged with Ginger (the cat who had been making himself a guest in our house for the last night and day) not far behind.
We wandered through the grounds of the gardens. Lush and green with beautiful tiers each with something different to explore. There were exotic plants and foliage, tall and slender trees, infinity pools, tee-pees, chicken coops and vegetable patches. Following our map we turned left onto a path that would take us down to the river. Ginger left us at this point, turning back toward the casa, adamant that he would go no further.
We continued along the woodland path behind the casa, it was beautiful, reminding us both of Cornwall, Devon and Dartmoor. There were huge draping trees with various fungi peaking from their trunks. Big rocks lay across the river bed forming stepping stones to take one across to the other side. But as we kept venturing forward I became increasingly aware of the sound of barking dogs, and the path was becoming thickened with forest, disappearing beneath our feet and being replaced with brambles and thistles. We kept pushing through, checking the map a few times to ensure we were heading in the right direction. We were nearing a large motorway bridge above us where the map said there would be a river crossing. We could see a few big boulders, so we manoeuvred our way across the river stepping carefully onto the stones and made it to the other side.
More dogs were barking, we saw one come to the gates of a river-side houses, a sweet harmless, golden spaniel type who barked us away from the house as best she could. We continued down the path which opened up to tiered gardens with rows of vines.
Along the way we got the feeling something wasn’t right, there did not seem to be anything much ahead of us other than the very edge of small town. We were not sure what we should be heading towards because the hand-drawn map had ended, but we were expecting there to be some small shops / restaurants or cafes of which there were none. The only sight we viewed ahead of us was that of a slightly intimidating-looking Portuguese man edging towards us with his even more intimidating-looking Portuguese dog. The man was pulling at the dog’s lead—a huge chain attached to a metal collar. We sheepishly passed, wide-birthing the teeth-snapping, snarling, dangerous killer.
We made it to the edge of the town and looked around to a bit of nothingness. A few cars came towards us at great speed, narrowly missing us and leaving behind a trail of dust encased with diesel fumes. “Oh my God—where the hell are we?” I asked. And then in a bit of a dramatic outcry I decided that I would not go any further. Unfortunately going back was not an option, as we made our way toward the river path we could see the savage killer-dog was now foaming at the mouth and roaming free off-lead. If we were to go down that path we’d surely meet an untimely end. So we picked up our pace and crossed a cobbled bridge to the other-side.
As we emerged we passed a large corner-house, only to be greeted by a gigantic Rottweiler guarding the entrance and tied to to a steel post with a chain. He was jumping about all over the place whilst barking and flashing his sharp white teeth. Jesus, is it a pre-requisite for everyone in this village to own a killer-dog? I was beginning to regret my outfit choice—what could be more aggravating to carnivorous, meat-eating monster than a pair of shiny, leopard-print leggings? The space between us and the dog was minimal, I kept on moving and did not look bag. I was starting to wonder if this could this could get any weirder, when I heard someone shout, “follow that midget”. Now what?, I thought, turning around to see, a little person (to use the politically correct term) hurry towards me, frantically waving his arms around and shouting something absolutely indistinguishable in speedy Portuguese.
To answer my question, (could this get any weirder?), I think it just did.
