Life in Portugal (Articles)

Chapter Two: Good News & Bad News

Author: Sandra

“Would you like some refreshments?” asked Miguel; “there’s a café over the road.” “Yes that would be wonderful,” I answered, “but I’m worried about the horses, they need to stretch their legs.” I glanced at the horsebox, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the restless stamping of the horses. “Okay just a quick one,” said Miguel ” I can tell you about the plans I have made for you.” We all walked across the narrow cobbled street, and sat drinking coffee in the warm November sunshine, whilst Miguel told us his plans.

“About 3 kilometres from here is an agricultural college. They have plans to build a riding school, and are keen to have talks with you, would you be interested?” Our dream had been to set up a riding holiday business, leading people on horseback up into the mountains, picnicking along the way. A riding school sounded rather boring by comparison, but at the moment, we had three restless horses, no home, or land. “They have a field set aside for your horses,” said Miguel, seeing our apprehensive faces. For me that clinched it! I looked at Steve; he had already read my mind.

“Yes, we are interested,” he said. “Good, I’ll just go and get my car, then you follow after me.” He went to pay for the coffees, as Steve and I walked slowly across the road. “It’s a start,” said Steve, ever the optimist! “Lets keep an open mind.” I smiled at him, but inside I had doubts. The horsebox was still swaying, “nearly there boys,” I called to the horses, as we climbed into the vehicles, and the engines fired up for the last leg of our long journey.

We were now travelling along a narrow winding lane, with terrible potholes, Steve drove very carefully, ever aware of the three tired horses trying to keep their balance in the back, we edged our way through a tiny walled village, Steve and Craig had to pull in the mirrors of the truck to get through.

After he had successfully passed, I noticed different colour car body paints on the walls, where some drivers hadn’t been so lucky! We were travelling so slowly Miguel had to keep stopping and waiting for us. I was trying to take everything in, the valley was very steep and forested, nowhere suitable for grazing a horse, but as we manoeuvred around a sharp bend in the lane, the scene that unfolded before me was like something out of an Alpine holiday brochure. Towering escarpments surrounded neat green pastures, grazed by flocks of sheep. I was so enthralled that I nearly crashed into the back of the caravan as it suddenly pulled up.

There was a banging of doors as we all jumped out. The vehicles in front of me had been blocking my view, but now as I joined the others at the front of the horsebox, I could see a beautiful old building, with a huge cobbled courtyard. Through an old stone archway, I could see a fountain spurting water. On each side of the road leading to an old church, were orchards, containing scores of different types of fruit and nut trees.

“Well what do you think?” asked Miguel, Steve put his arm around me, “Impressive!” he exclaimed. “It’s beautiful,” I voiced, gazing at 10 acres of flat green fields. “This is the land of the agricultural colleges, and they are happy to lend it to you for a while,” he said, splaying his arm around 180 degrees, for us to take in the wonderful views.

Over our shoulder, he waved, “Hilario, Boa Tarde”. (Good afternoon.) We all turned to see a short moustached middle-aged man, walking towards us. Miguel introduced us; Hilario was the person in charge of the day-to-day running of the college. Miguel had an animated conversation with him, lots of pointing and arm waving, before turning to us to translate.

“You can park the caravan around the back close to the administration block. “OK, that’s fine, but at the moment, I’m more worried about getting the horses out.” I said anxiously. After more animated conversation, Miguel turned back to us. “Hilario says you can have that field over there,” pointing to a rock strewn field across the road. “Oh” we said, Hilario must have seen our despondent faces, and asked Miguel if everything was all right. “Yes, yes,” Miguel assured him, “everything is fine”. It wasn’t fine, but we were not in a position to argue, we had to get the horses out.

Steve unhitched the two-ton caravan, and jumped back into the truck to move it forward enough to lower the ramp. The horses had really had enough, they were kicking and stamping impatiently, the box was rolling from side to side, Miguel and Hilario, stood watching, I think they were interested to see what was going to come out! I’m not sure what they expected, but they certainly looked apprehensive!

We lowered the ramp, and I led Guv down, his head was held high, nostrils flared, he was an ex-racehorse, his racing name had been Knowhatimean, (stupid name!) the stable girls had nick named him Guv, as in the cockney saying’ know what I mean guv,’and the name had just seemed to stick. I thought about changing his name to something like Beauty or King, but was told that it’s bad luck to change a horse’s name, so as I’m superstitious, I decided to leave well alone, and anyway it does sort of suit him.

Hilario, who had never seen an English thoroughbred before, looked impressed, Miguel nodded approvingly. Guv surveyed his new home, all the horses had worn leg bandages, and a light rug, to protect them from knocks on the journey, Steve held him, whilst I took off his clothing. Next I led Smartie, he pranced lightly down the ramp, his intelligent Arab head taking everything in. Miguel helped hold Smartie, while I took off his travelling gear, then we led the two horses into the small field, and took off their head collars.

They both tossed their heads, and bucked before galloping off to the far corner, and simultaneously crumpling to the ground to roll, in sheer pleasure of being free. We had to be quick now, it sounded as though Roxy was destroying the box, he didn’t appreciate being left until last, but we had a problem. Roxy was a bully, the other two horses were afraid of him. In England, we got around this problem by erecting an electric wire across the field, so that he had his own space, but could still be close to the others, whilst they could feel safe and relaxed.

Now we had no time to unpack our electric fence system and erect it, Roxy was demanding attention! We made the decision to let him in with the others; we would erect the electric fence later. Steve led him out with difficulty; he is a Welsh Cob, very strong and bossy. He came crashing down the ramp, his hairy big feet sounding more like an elephant than a horse! Miguel and Hilario took several steps back, it was a struggle to get his travelling clothes off, Steve could barely hold on to him as he circled around trying to rear up in a bid for freedom. Finally he was free, he galloped off spraying us all with kicked up soil.

The other two horses had settled down and were grazing peacefully, they looked up as Roxy thundered towards them, they made a joint decision…run! These fields were meant to contain sheep, the fencing was low, and of no obstacle to two frightened horses, they leapt the fence easily, with Roxy on their heels. They galloped on over a low ridge and disappeared from sight.

Steve, Craig and I, scrambled through the fencing and ran across the field, breathlessly we reached the ridge. I couldn’t believe my eyes, instead of the carnage I had expected, all three horses were standing close together, doing what they do best, eating! My fears about bullyboy Roxy were unfounded, he hadn’t been chasing them, he had merely wanted to catch up with them. Guv and Smartie seemed a little nervous of their old enemy, but from that day onwards, the three have shared a field, and although Roxy is definitely the boss, he shows them none of his former aggression. The only answer I can find for this change of character is that after being locked up in stressful conditions for over 60 hours, he had established a bond, a need, for the other two horses.

Miguel and Hilario strolled up behind us, after a short conversation with Hilario, Miguel turned to us “Hilario says you might as well have this field seeing as the horses are already in it.” There is a gate at the other end near the administration block where you are parking your caravan, so access will be better for you. We were pleased with this change, because it was a much nicer field, although stony, and sparsely grassed, it was about four times the size, very long and narrow with beautifully kept olive trees down one side. We left the horses grazing in the late afternoon sun.

Steve re-hitched the caravan, and manoeuvred it into its final location. Miguel left us with the promise to return tomorrow, bringing an extension lead, so as we could plug into the college’s electricity, and to discuss our future. We had sold nearly all of our furniture in England, we knew we couldn’t bring it with us; we had each decided on one item that we wanted to keep. Steve had chosen his mountain bike, I loved my antique pine table, and Craig kept his old school desk which we had bought him many years before at an auction. It was a double desk with two lift up lids, (great for your pin up’s,) holes for your inkwells, and grooved pencil rests. The graffiti scratched wood told us Baz wos ere l972, I luv the Beatles l971, and of the undying love of Neil and Trish 1968. I wonder where they are now?

These items would have to live outside for now, there was no room for them and us in the caravan! We had bought a flat pack wooden sofa with us, Steve erected it while I searched for T bags milk, and cups, there was only one thing on my mind now, a nice cup of tea! We collapsed, exhausted, onto the newly made sofa, and enjoyed our first cup of English tea in Portugal.

We sat for an hour or so as the sun went down, a mist drifted lazily along the valley, the outline of the surrounding hills etched out against the darkening sky. It was so still; I could hear the horses grazing nearby. A cricket started up its evening serenade, within minutes it was joined by hundreds. We opened a bottle of wine, and drank a toast to our new life, surrounded by the lush green vegetation, enveloped by the warm star-studded night, had we discovered paradise?

The next morning I woke up to the sun streaming through the bedroom window, I pulled up the Venetian blinds, Roxy was standing with his head over the gate waiting for his breakfast, he would have to wait, I had no intention of getting out of bed yet! Living in the caravan was a great novelty for Craig; he volunteered to make us tea and toast in bed. What luxury! I lay there watching the horses from my bed, Guv and Smartie stood close together, their tails swishing gently. Roxy was alert, his ears pricked forward, he could hear our voices and see movement inside the caravan, he looked so lovely standing there.

The first time I saw him 12 years ago, he was just 6 months old. I had seen an advert in the local paper saying: Welsh cob foal for sale. Horses were often offered for sale in the paper, it was not uncommon, yet I kept returning to this advert, and re-reading it. Steve and I had only been together for a short while; I had my work cut out with two young children, a job and a pending divorce.

“I have no room in my life for a horse” I said out loud, as I went to answer the ringing phone. It was my sister Jenny. “Have you seen the advert for the welsh foal in the paper,” she said. “Yes Jenny, but its not the right time for me to take on a young foal, and anyway, I have your lovely horse to ride whenever I like, I don’t need any more responsibilities at the moment.” “Oh but he sounds so sweet” she cried plaintively. “No Jenny! I’ll speak to you later, Bye.” Steve, who had been out working, came inside and picked up the newspaper. After a few minutes, he said, “have you seen this advert for a welsh cob foal, isn’t that your favourite breed?” Fate was obviously determined to get her way! “OK, I said, let’s go and see him!”

We arranged to meet the owner at 3.00pm, but arrived early. “Oh look at him, he’s gorgeous” squealed Jenny, already halfway through the fence. I followed her through, and we approached the cute little furry foal. “Hello little babe,” I said, walking slowly forward, holding out my hand to him. To our horror, the cute little furry thing laid back his ears and galloped straight towards us. He took a chunk out of my jacket, then turned like lightening and kicked my sister. Scrambling our wits together, we made a hasty exit back through the fence.

A little while later, the owner arrived. She did not know that we had already acquainted ourselves with the monster, but it was clear by her body language that she was scared stiff of him! She grabbed some hay, ran for the stable, with the monster in hot pursuit, threw in the hay, and slammed the door shut. We all leaned over the door, watching him eat, as she told us her tale.

Her friend, had bought a horse in London, and had rented transport to go and pick it up. She thought it would be a nice day out to accompany her friend on the journey, so the two girls set off together. Whilst they were waiting for her horse to be loaded in the lorry, they went to stroke a mare and foal standing in a stable nearby. The farmer asked if they wanted to buy the foal, she knew nothing about horses, but what trouble could such a sweet little thing cause? He enchanted her; she could just keep him as a pet.

They agreed on a price and he was loaded into the box along with the other horse. The trouble started almost immediately, He neighed continually all the way home. By the time he was unloaded he was very distressed and sweating badly. He was obviously missing his mum, but in time he settled in with the other horse. After a while, her friend moved away, taking the horse with her, and that was when the trouble really started. He had become uncontrollable and aggressive, she realised what a big mistake she had made. The vet was called for routine injections, and aged him at about 6 months. By now she had owned him for 3 months, which would have made him only 3 months old when he left his mother. “That’s much too young,” I said, ” no wonder he has a chip on his shoulder, poor little chap.” Even so, I had been put off by our encounter in the field, we told the girl we would’ let her know’

I thought about him all night, there was something special about him; he looked identical to my first pony, which I had loved dearly, he had been a monster too! The next morning Steve went down on one knee, and asked me to marry him. I was flabbergasted, but accepted happily. ” What would you prefer, the pony or an engagement ring?” he asked. “The pony,” I said without hesitation, “I never wear rings; you know that!”

I was brought back from my daydream by a car pulling up. “It’s Miguel,” called Steve, who was already up and dressed. He stepped outside to welcome him, I guzzled down the remains of my tea, and jumped out of bed, I just had time to dress, wash, and run a brush through my hair, before Miguel stepped into the caravan. “Good morning Sandra, is the coffee pot on yet?” Just at that moment, there was a long Hooot… “Ah the bread van,” said Miguel “right on cue, let’s go and choose some cakes to go with coffee.”

We all strolled down to the bread van, Craig ran ahead excitedly, by the time we reached the van, a queue had already formed. It must have been the college staff’s coffee break too! Craig jumped up and down, trying to see what goodies were inside, some kindly ladies ushered him to the front. Apart from the fact that it was half filled with five litre wine bottles, this van reminded me of the one that used to trundle up our road when I was a child. Everything was sold by the kilo, even biscuits, which were sold loose, and looked homemade. We stocked up on a few items, bought half a kilo of cakes and some delicious looking bread rolls called paposecos, which translates as dry dough!

We sat outside on our new sofa, eating cakes and drinking coffee, the sunshine was glorious, even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning. The weather in England had been typical for November, rain and wind, now it felt as if we had stepped back into summertime!

We had an appointment to see Hilario at ten thirty, Craig and I went to prepare breakfast for the horses, who had given up waiting and had wandered off to graze, but on hearing the familiar sounds of grain falling into buckets, their ears pricked up, and they were waiting eagerly at the gate for us. As we walked to check the water trough, we noticed a little man limping towards us, “Bom dia, como esta`” good morning, how are you. “Estou bem obrigada” I answered, I am well thank you. Basic pleasantries were about as far as my understanding of the language went! This little man, who couldn’t have been more than about 4ft. 9 inches tall, didn’t know that, he was chattering away enthusiastically, pointing to the horses. I took a wild guess “Queres ver os cavalos?” Would you like to see the horses? “Sim Sim, Senhora” he said nodding his head and hobbling along behind us.

After stroking and admiring the horses, he beckoned us to follow him into the next field, which was hidden from view by bushes. There were sheep grazing contentedly, but with one whistle from the little man, they came trotting over, crowding around us. Craig was enthralled; he had never been up close to a sheep before, now he was surrounded by about twenty, their little noses, snuffling into his clothing, obviously looking for a treat! The little shepherd brought some grain from his pocket, and tipped it into Craig’s hand. The biggest sheep, whose name was Joaninha, (Ladybird) nibbled the grain from his hand. “It tickles!” laughed Craig. The shepherd told us all their names, how could he remember them all? They all looked the same to me!

Miguel and Steve were walking towards us, Toby came bounding up, his long pink tongue lolling out, he had been off in the woods, checking out his new territory, luckily he was well trained around sheep, and stood quietly beside us “Bom dia Pedro,” greeted Miguel, slapping the little man on the back. “Sandra we must be going, Hilarious is waiting for us,” said Miguel chuckling at his little joke! ( to this day we still think of Hilario as Hilarious!) “Yes OK,” I answered ” Pedro was just introducing us to his sheep.” Pedro was having an animated conversation with Steve, probably about sheep! Steve could not understand him, Pedro was frustrated, he stepped forward, as close to Steve as he could get, and shouted up at him (he only reached Steve’s chest) at the top of his voice. Obviously Steve would now understand him!

Luckily Miguel came to the rescue. “He says your horses are very beautiful, but too big, he prefers his sheep.” Steve smiled down at him. I think Pedro really thought that if he stood really close and shouted at the top of his voice, we understood him. Over the next few weeks, we humored him into thinking this was true!

Hilario told us, with Miguel’s help, that the council was funding a riding school. Building would start next week. There would be six stables, a hay barn, an office, and bathroom, plus a sand school. It all sounded ideal, and at the time we were happy to accept. Everyone seemed so friendly; Craig had already made a friend, a boy called Jorge. He was the son of one of the workers and about two years older than him. Within a week, Craig was waiting eagerly for him to come home from school every day to play. Jorge taught Craig Portuguese words, and Craig taught him English, it’s amazing how quickly children pick up new languages, I’m afraid the same couldn’t be said for me! One evening a couple of older boys came with Jorge to visit, they spoke good English, we did a deal with them, they teach us Portuguese, and I would teach them to ride.

The boys would write out a list of verbs, which we had to learn, but oh, my memory is so bad, I found it very hard to learn. Steve wasn’t much better, but he is more outgoing than me. Whenever we went shopping or had to try to speak Portuguese, it was always him that spoke, he got more confident, as I got less. The boys enjoyed riding the horses, especially Jorge, who was a natural. He was also very greedy, and had a habit of coming into the caravan and helping himself to anything edible he could find.

One day Craig was making himself a marmite roll, you cannot buy marmite here, Jorge assuming it was chocolate, stuck his finger into the pot, and the equivalent of about one teaspoonful of marmite went straight into his mouth. His cheeky look soon disappeared, his mouth dropped open and his eyes bulged as he ran outside to spit it out, “I’m going to die” he wailed, as he rolled up into a ball on the ground, we all thought it was hilarious, and offered him no sympathy at all!

After we had been there about 3 weeks, the boys asked us if we would like to go and see two horses kept about 500 yards from us. I could not believe it, I had not seen or heard any horses. We set off down a track and came to an old barn; the owner was not around. “Never mind,” said one of the boys, “I know a way in.”

Feeling like children scrumping apples, we followed the boys around the back of the barn. “In here,” they beckoned. We all scrambled through a broken window, into a very dark underground room, There, chained to the wall, were two Lusitano horses. Apart from the little bit of light through the window, they were in complete darkness, they looked reasonably well fed, but there was no life in their eyes. I approached one, a white stallion, he was very nervous; he edged away from me as far as he could, but eventually allowed me to touch him. As I stroked his face, and looked into his eyes, I had a strong feeling our paths would cross again.

We made a quick exit, and on the way back up the track, we bumped into the owner. He looked disapprovingly at the boys, but introduced himself to us, in English with a smile. Of course he knew who we were, everyone in the area seemed to have heard of us!

Next day was market day. Arganil is famous for its weekly market, where you can buy just about anything. For the people who live up in the little mountain villages, it is a lifeline, they come down into town in their best clothes, to gossip and sell any excess food. I’m sure in the olden days this would have included the odd goat or pig, but these days it’s mainly vegetables. I remember in our days at Arganil, buying fresh eggs and goat’s cheeses from a little old lady. When I returned some years later, I asked her where her eggs and cheeses were. She told me EEC rules banned her from selling them. Then, lifting up a cotton cover from her basket, with a beautiful twinkling smile, she asked what I would like? Inside the basket, were eggs and the little goat’s cheeses I loved so much!

The barbequed chicken lunch at the market is the best I have ever tasted, everyone sits outside at long tables made from planks that bend in the middle at the slightest pressure, on very uncomfortable plastic stools, but the atmosphere makes up for the discomfort! It’s a family affair, with the old mother, coating the chickens with a homemade sauce. They spit and crackle on the barbeque as wafts of smoke drift over the hungry lunchers. She will never tell her recipe, but it certainly includes chilies! Her son, the waiter, is a rotund, red-faced happy chap, with a joke and a smile for everyone. Other family members peel potatoes (no frozen chips here!) and prepare salad. During the school holidays the younger members of the family also help, serving drinks. The skinny street dogs look forward to market day too, gorging themselves on all the bones and leftovers.

We noticed smaller barbeques, literally two bricks with a rack across them, at ground level. We couldn’t work out what they were for, until an old man bent down and lit one, then, taking out a few sardines from his bag, he cooked them himself above the fire! It seems its perfectly legitimate to buy fresh fish from the market stalls, and cook it yourself if you don’t fancy chicken! The wine flows freely, (at 40p a litre) and people swap stories and catch up on gossip in the smoky air. EEC, it seems have now also stepped in here. It is not considered hygienic to cook and eat outside, so a new modern awful building has emerged where we are told we must now eat. The building stands empty to this day, everyone carries on as before!

Coming from England in November, with its storms and rain, we couldn’t believe the wonderful warm weather. We went walking most days, exploring different tracks. We often followed the sound of water, and had found some lovely ribeiras (streams) running through fields and woods. Craig and his new friend Jorge would jump in and swim in the freezing mountain water.

One day we heard a shout from Craig, “Look at this tree full of apples dad.” Steve went to investigate. He picked one, and noticed that the skin was leathery. Jorge took the fruit from Steve and smashed it on a rock, it split open and there on the ground was a walnut in its shell. Jorge broke the shell in his teeth and ate the nut. He grimaced and spat it out. “It’s not ripe yet,” said Steve, “It’s all rubbery,” the tree was obviously wild, so we picked a bagful to take home, “We’ll keep them until Christmas” I said.

On the way home, we got lost and found ourselves walking up a very overgrown valley. We knew we were going in the wrong direction, but we could see what looked like a building ahead and were intrigued, we walked on and found overgrown vegetable patches, and other derelict buildings, only one still had a roof, but the windows and doors had long since gone. It looked as if it was once a thriving village, but was now totally abandoned.

During our first few weeks at the college, we got on well with the little shepherd; our mutual love of animals seemed to transcend the language barrier. As time went on however it dawned on him that our horses were eating his flocks precious grass. He started to complain that the milk yield had dropped, and of our horses frightening his sheep, then one day Toby our dog, had a fight with his dog. He was furious, insisting that we keep Toby chained up. This bought matters to a head, and a meeting was called. Hilario explained to us that the main aim of the college was teaching young, would be farmers, how to look after land, and animals to make a profit. It specialized in sheep farming; the riding school was secondary. As soon as the stables were finished, the horses would be expected to live inside, giving the field back to the shepherd. We told him we would think about it, but I already knew my answer.

We were still looking at properties, but had found nothing suitable, my command of the language was still minimal. I was finding it very difficult to learn. How could I teach Portuguese people to ride, when I couldn’t speak the language? The sand school was being built, it was very small, I tried to imagine my horses trudging round and round in the hot summer sun. I didn’t think they would be too keen! And as for having no freedom, having to spend 24 hours a day in a stable, never feeling the sun on their backs, or rolling in mud, never tasting fresh spring grass, I couldn’t do that to them, they loved their freedom, it would be like condemning them to life imprisonment. Poor Toby was also miserable, sulking on the end of his chain, his head between his paws, he looked up at us without even a thump of his tail.

Miguel came to visit us saying. “I have good news and bad news! First the bad news!” We didn’t know what to expect everyone dreads bad news, but as he started talking, I felt a great weight being lifted from me. The decision was being made for us! Someone else had applied for the job of running the riding school, and reluctantly the college had decided to give him the job. It was the man with the two incarcerated horses down the track. We didn’t argue, we already felt that this was the wrong place for us.

“What’s the good news?” I asked, hardly able to contain my relief. “An acquaintance of mine” Miguel began, “is a council member for a town about 15 kilometers away. I have been talking with him about you; he has some land available, and is keen to meet you. I’m having lunch with him today, why don’t you come along.

Never being the type to turn down a lunch invitation, we followed Miguel in a direction we had not explored before, along a mountain road, as we descended into a valley we had wonderful views of the mountains. I was getting excited, everywhere was so beautiful, every piece of grassland I saw, I was asking Steve “Do you think it could be this field, or that one over there.” We passed a large flat field or about 10 acres. “Wow look at that field, look at all that grass.”

We arrived in town and Miguel led us into what looked like a hole in the wall, like a cave, dark and gloomy, there were a few old men perched on stools with a bottle of wine on the bar, one old man refilling his glass, noticed us coming in.

His face lit up into a smile, “Miguel, como esta?” (How are you)? There was much hand shaking and backslapping between all the men, “Quer vinho?” You want wine? “Sim faz favor,” yes please, we all answered. The bartender brought more glasses and the old man poured us all a glass from his bottle. While Miguel was talking with what turned out to be his great uncle, we noticed some large round cheeses in one corner. The bartender asked if we would like to try a piece. We are both lovers of cheese, and were soon conversing with him on the qualities of each one. Some of them were from his herd of goats, very matured and quite expensive; we decided to treat ourselves to a small piece from three different ones.

Delicious smells were coming from the next room, through the door, I could see a huge pan simmering away, and another with trout simmering in what smelt like vinegar. The cook, noticing me, beckoned me in; I asked what was in the pan “Feijoada,” came the reply, it looked like a bean soup with rice and pork, I noticed some strange looking cuts of meat floating about, he laughed at the distasteful look on my face as it dawned on me why he was holding onto his ear and pointing to his feet! It smelt delicious, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

A tall younger man, smartly dressed in a suit, entered the bar, Miguel introduced us to Roberto, and together we walked through to the dining area, which was better lit, but very small, just one large table and two smaller ones. Steve and I both decided to order the trout, which was so tasty that we asked the cook for the recipe to try at home.

Roberto was a charming man, who spoke good English. He liked the idea of having a riding school in his town, but the council had no funds to help us. We were again unsure about having a riding school, but, as with many other things in life, we realized that we might have to compromise. At least this would be our school, run on our terms. After lunch, he took us to see the land; it was the 10 acres that I had seen from the car, he left us there to explore. From the road, the land had looked lovely, but now standing there, we could see that the long grass hid the fact that it had been roughly ploughed, then left to nature.

Brambles reigned, their thorns digging into us from every direction as we fought our way through. Finally we came out on the other side of the property, and found a little house, right on the main road. There were steps leading from the road, down to the land. The roof of the house had partially collapsed, but there was a large barn next to it that was in quite good condition. Next to the house was a concrete parking area, which extended out over the land below, supported by concrete pillars. Immediately we saw the potential for three stables underneath.

Suddenly an old woman appeared with a key in her hand. She said we could look inside. The door opened on to a room full of seed potatoes that were covered in a poisonous dust to deter rats. It smelt awful! A mixture of old rotten potatoes, and moldy wood! We thanked her and quickly retreated into the fresh air. The room we had just entered was on road level; we suspected that there was another floor underneath, cut out of the rock. We were right! Hidden by a 10-foot wall of brambles; we could just make out a door. This project was going to be a big challenge, but we decided there and then to have a go.

A couple of days later, we went to see Roberto at his offices, to talk more, he was not available; we talked with his assistant in Portuguese. We thought he said we could have a contract for 5 or 10 years, we thought he said we could gut the house, and make a cozy cottage for ourselves; he seemed to smile and agree with everything we said! We made out a plan of what we intended to do; build a sand school, fence some land for grazing, build 3 stables under the forecourt, and if possible, do up the house. He said, he would show it at the next meeting of the council, and let us know. He was happy for us to start fencing straight away.

We left the meeting that day feeling daunted by the work, but happy. Steve ordered wooden posts, rails, wire, nails, two enchadas, and a rocadoura. An enchada is an essential tool; everybody has one. It is like a hoe but has a straight edge for digging the rocky soil. The Portuguese seem to be able to use this one tool for just about everything. A rocadoura is a vicious looking hook on the end of a four-foot handle, used for slashing at brambles and saplings. I was to become very familiar with the rosador over the next few weeks!

We decided to fence in two acres of the best land, which was at the back of the house. Steve set about digging 80 postholes,(luckily he had brought his post hole shovel with him from England) each two and a half feet deep, whilst Craig and I declared war on the brambles. We soon had the frontage at the lower level cleared, and we found two more rooms! They had once housed goats and other livestock; the old bedding was still down on the floor. Rats, mice, and the biggest spiders I have ever seen, were now the only inhabitants!

There were about 30 olive trees on the land. After the olive harvest, the trees are heavily pruned. The branches had been left lying where they had fallen, and over the years had accumulated. They posed a danger in a field were horses were to graze, so we had to clear them. What with all these branches and bundle upon bundle of bramble cuttings, we kept a bonfire going for two weeks! The remaining 8 acres looked much more formidable, with old dumped cars, engines, wheelbarrows, and all manner of scrap. We would just concentrate on the two acres behind the house for the moment.

We worked until dark every day before making the half hour drive up windy mountain roads, back to the caravan, to feed the horses and ourselves! Steve’s hands were blistered from digging holes and humping wooden posts. Craig and I had torn, weeping fingers from fighting the battle of the brambles. Toby, who had been coming with us every day, had made the most of his freedom, snuffling through the long grass looking for mice, or rabbits. His poor nose was so sore it bled, but still he carried on snuffling! Things were taking shape, the fences were built, the lower rooms of the house, which we planned to use as stables, to start with, were cleaned out. We started to plan our second move.

The horses were reluctant to go back into their horsebox prison, I can’t say I blamed them, and anyway we thought it would be fun to ride them the 15 kilometers to their new home. The day before we planned to leave, Guv lost a shoe. Now we would have to delay the move and find a farrier. We were in town that afternoon when we bumped into Miguel. We had been trying to make our own way a bit, and not rely on him for everything; he was always so busy. I just mentioned in conversation that Guv had lost a shoe. “Well what a coincidence,” he said, “only half an hour ago I saw a man riding a horse through the town, I stopped him to have a chat, and mentioned you two and your horses. I jotted down his number somewhere, yes, here it is, give him a ring, he speaks English”.

Steve phoned him that night; Albino did know of a farrier; he would call round the next day and take us to his house. He arrived in a 4-wheel drive jeep. After introductions, we all piled in and set off along dirt tracks, heading up the mountain. The day was clear and sunny, the main track that we were traveling along was criss crossed with smaller tracks. As we went higher, the trees were less dense, giving way to the most breathtaking views.

Albino stopped the jeep, and we all got out. We had our maps with us; Albino pointed out where we were, and the names of the villages below us. We were at about 900 meters; the air was so fresh and clean. Birds of prey were circling above us, the long winter grass swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. ” This would be a lovely place to come on horseback,” I enthused, “We could all ride up here together one day”, said Albino, “I’d like to try your thoroughbred!” “That would be great, I’d love it.” I said enthusiastically. “That village down there is where we are heading,” he said, getting back into the jeep. We all followed, and set off down the steep stony track.

We drove up the cobbled street of a very old village. Some of the houses were abandoned, no more than ruins, all of them looked very rustic, chickens were running in the road, and skinny dogs sniffed nervously at our heels. The houses were all made of slate and mud, with wooden shutters, only a few had glass in the windows. Albino rapped on an open door, and called out “Antonio Antonio.” A small (I was beginning to realize that these mountain folk are all small!) squat man of about 60 years, appeared from the dark smoky room. Surely this can’t be the farrier, I thought, but as we were ushered into the room, it was immediately obvious that he was! Every corner of the room was piled high with metal shoes, but what struck me was that they were all small. Albino chatted to the little guy, explaining our problem then turned to us to translate. ” He has only ever shod donkeys and cows, but as long as your horse is well behaved, he is willing to give it a try.”

“What about your horses,” I said feeling slightly alarmed, ” who shoes them.” “I have only had my horses for a month, and so far they haven’t needed to be re-shod, I will be interested to see what sort of a job he does,” he said, totally oblivious to my rising panic! Guv was to be the guinea pig!

Antonio was giving a very quick wash to a grimy little glass, before filling it to the brim from a dusty old barrel and handing it to Steve. Not being much of a drinker especially during the day, he tried to refuse, but realizing that it was the old boys home made wine, he took a swig, I could tell from Steve’s expression, and bulged out cheeks, that his taste buds did not appreciate the assault! As soon as the glass was empty, Antonio took it from him and eagerly went to refill it. “Nao, nao, faz favor,chega!” (No no, please, it’s enough!) Steve pleaded. Next the refilled glass was handed to Albino; he was obviously a bit more wily. After the smallest sip, he assured Antonio, that it was one of the best wines he had ever tasted, but he was the driver and had to keep a clear head! Antonio took the glass from Albino, and emptied it straight down his throat, saying, “If one dies, we all die!” Was he referring to the wine I wondered? I was glad that as a female, I am not required to go through this ritual.

Antonio did not have a shoe anywhere near the size for Guv, so we decided that if we all spread out across the horses field, and systematically searched, we should find the lost shoe. He brought all his tools; I was amazed to see that he had the same nails, special ones from Sweden that my farrier used in England.

Eventually we found the shoe, and led Guv onto a flat piece of ground. Now he was confronted by this huge horse, I could see poor Antonio was quavering in his boots, but Guv is a very kind gentle horse, and soon the shoe was securely back on his hoof. In England the work would have cost me about £10, the old man didn’t want to charge us, maybe he was hoping for more work in the future. When we insisted on paying him something for his trouble, he asked for the equivalent of 40 pence! We gave him about £3, he was happy and so were we.

Albino ran Antonio back home, I wondered if he would escape a drinking session as easily this time! Although he did a good job of putting on one shoe, the poor man was puffing and sweating, I couldn’t imagine him coping with 3 horses, that’s eleven more hooves!

The story continues …

• Sandra is looking for a publisher for her book, if you can help, please contact her through info@pureportugal.info
• Chapter One: Potholes & Bread Rolls
• Gois Valley Riding offers a selection of riding holidays, and a little guest cottage for rent, in a beautiful valley in Central Portugal.