Moving abroad is a time of change. You change your language, your culture, your food, your social circle and just about everything else. And with your new home comes the challenge of a new garden. There’s no point in trying to transplant your Northern European garden habits and ideals to a Mediterranean climate. Instead you should embrace the new opportunities being presented to you.

Why spend all your time, effort and valuable water resources on a large lawn, or on plants that need a moist, shady aspect? Now you can grow stately palms or architectural agaves. Maybe you fancy growing olives or citrus? Maybe, like me, you are a fan of succulent plants in all their infinite variety. Or using all those ‘hot’ colours that can look so out of place in dear old Blighty.

Look around at your neighbours gardens, especially the Portuguese, who have generations of gardening knowledge to fall back on. They have the experience of what grows well in your area, as well as an intimate knowledge of the weather, the soil and any locally prevailing conditions, and will be more than happy, in most cases, to chat away and pass that knowledge on to you.

You may be lucky and move to a virtually frost-free, subtropical Paradise, but the chances are that your new garden will have unforeseen problems of some kind. You may be battered by salt-laden gales near the coast, desiccating your plants. Or you might find yourself in a frost pocket, especially in valley floors where cold air moves downhill, but cannot escape once it reaches the bottom. Or you may find your self in a fire zone.

Out of all the problems you may encounter, this is the most serious. And your garden is your first, and possibly the last, line of defence.

After a fireYou may remember the firestorms in Central and Northern Portugal last summer, and you may be looking for advice or ideas to make your home and garden safer. Even if you are a long term resident, there is always something more you can do to make things safer, especially as the weather heats up and summer approaches. For this reason, I recommend that everyone who lives in a fire zone gets a copy of “Gardening with Fire: the essential self- help manual for Home and Garden design in areas at risk of fire” – not as a cheap plug for my endeavours, but in order to understand better the complexity of the role of fire within the ecology of the region, and for the extensive advice that could save your home, your garden and even your life in an emergency!

However, in this small article, I will try to outline some practical tips for you.  Lets start at the edge of your land or garden:

If you have a very large garden, or a farm or smallholding, you may think about having a firebreak cleared around your land. If you call in a bulldozer to clear a conventional firebreak, always remember the following:

Have the debris ploughed in or removed.
A cleared firebreak must be renewed every year to be effective. If this is neglected, the break can become dangerous within one season, as grasses, thistles and other flammable plants can take hold.
Clear your firebreak in late spring or early summer. There is no point in clearing over the autumn, winter or spring, as plants will grow back during the rainy months and all your hard work will be to no avail!
bullet Bulldozed fire breaks can lead to erosion on steep hills, although the chance of this is less if native plants take hold in the wet months, to be cleared again once the rains stop.

Future fuel for a fire

Try to make sure you have no trees that touch those in surrounding vegetation if you live near forested or overgrown land. If you do, try to reduce their fuel load by removing their lower branches and cutting out any dead or decaying wood. The spacing of trees and shrubs can be crucial in determining the spread of fire. Canopy fires, when flames have spread into the trees themselves, as opposed to surface fires along the ground, are difficult to control and highly dangerous due to the large fuel loads available, and the fact that the opportunity then exists for burning debris to be sent high into the air to spread secondary fires over a wider area.

Your firebreak should at least be as wide as the height of the surrounding vegetation.

With the edges of your land being safer, you can concentrate on other features that will lessen your risks within your garden. Let’s start with a rather wonderful little term I picked up from somewhere: FINGER FUELS!

This basically translates as clearing your garden of any dead, or dying, dry fuels that are as wide as your finger, or smaller. This means that those of you with big hands will have more clearing up to do! All fires need fuel to sustain them, and these small dry twigs, sticks and grasses are amongst the easiest to ignite. By keeping your garden clear of these you will be greatly lessening your risk of a spark landing on something very flammable, or a surface fire spreading along the ground.

Do you have climber growing up your house, or tall trees nearby? These issues are dealt with more comprehensively in the CD-Rom, but in a nutshell:  keep all climbers, if you must grow them against your house, away from your roof, and from the area immediately around your doors and windows.

Trees

Trees are a more complicated issue. How you deal with making them safer depends on a number of factors:

What type of tree is it? Some trees are very much more flammable than others. The most flammable trees in Portugal are generally eucalypts or pines and other conifers.

How near to your house is the tree in question? If it is less than its height away from your home, then you should, at least, look at some general maintenance. You could try thinning the crown to let in more light and air.

You should remove all branches to a distance of 2 metres from the ground.

Maybe your tree is of a type that would respond to coppicing, which means that a tall tree is cut back and new shoots grow from the base. These are then easier to control and maintain.

Keep the area under, and around the tree clear. Mulching with gravel, or growing a carpeting succulent plant beneath the tree can keep the cleared area looking neat as well as being safe.

These are just a handful of things that can make a difference. All aspects of home and garden design, including lists of suitable plants, ecology and habitat management, plus advice for emergencies, are all included in the CD:

Gardening with Fire: the essential self-help manual for Home and Garden design in areas at risk of fire

I thought it would be interesting to give a slant on my sometimes perhaps slightly rose-tinted view of our move to Portugal, so I asked her to write a guest post reviewing her first six months in this wonderful, sunny country! Here’s what she said:

Sunrise on another beautiful day

Being asked to write a guest post for my husband’s blog started me thinking seriously about how I feel about Portugal after six months of living here. It also made me think about the life I left behind in London.

It’s funny how quickly I’ve adapted to some things, while other things still take me by surprise every day. Greeting people in Portuguese and driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road felt natural within weeks of being here, yet I’m still surprised and overjoyed by how bright the sunshine is each morning when I open the blinds.

The cost of life in Portugal is also something I take for granted now. I was genuinely shocked at the cost of dinner out for two last time I was in London: £100 for the meal, plus the train there, the drinks before and after, and the £35 taxi back to the hotel. Here we can get all the fish we can eat for €9 per person – and that seems normal now.

It’s also strange that the things I miss are so different from the things I thought I would. Missing family and friends was always a given, but with regular trips back to England, having visitors here and the wonders of Skype, I don’t actually feel like I’m missing out too much. It’s the little things that I’ve been most surprised about missing – things like spring onions and Thai food (yes, I am as food obsessed as my husband!)

So, how do I feel about it overall after six months? The true answer is that I’m very, very happy to be here. I’ll gladly live with never eating Pad Thai again if it means that I can stay in

Spring onions – Worth Missing Out on

this wonderful country. The people are so welcoming and supportive of (well, amused by) my efforts to speak their language and settle in their country. Each day brings some kind of small triumph, whether using a newly learned word in conversation or making our first green salad with leaves grown entirely on our balcony. Life now is so far removed from those hours spent fuming in London traffic and feeling tired/stressed all the time that I can’t believe how lucky I am to be here.

Before this starts to sound too sugar-coated though, there are definitely some unexpected downsides to living in Portugal. Mosquitoes, for example. While numerous bite-riddled trips abroad have long since taught me that my blood tastes particularly delicious to these flying cretins, I’ve never seen mosquito bites as more than a minor irritation. Until I lived here. Now every bite brings with it ridiculous swelling, incredible itching and the feeling that my skin is on fire. All of which last for days. I suppose I should be grateful that this gave me the chance to put into practice the ‘trip to the chemist’ module from my Teach Yourself Portuguese CD. It’s hard to be philosophical about it though, when my arm looks like a balloon.

Another unexpected downside is… Hmm… Ok, so I’m sitting here stumped as to what else is bad about living here. I do really want to give a view of both sides of life here, but the only other bad thing I can think of is that shampoo is a bit more expensive than it is in England. As is conditioner.

I’ve thought long and hard whilst writing this about whether I have any regrets about leaving London to live in Portugal and the simple answer is no. For someone who values happiness over money and loves the simplicity of life in the sunshine as much as I do, all I am left wondering is why I stayed in London for so long!

Ben and his wife moved to “sunny Portugal from rainy London” in November 2009 and document their experiences at http://www.movingtoportugal.org

Monday, 18 September, 2006

I had to take my 7 year old (8 in November) for his 1st morning in school today. He was a brave little soldier until we got into the classroom. I nearly brought him home with me as not a person in his school speaks English. I dont mind admitting I had a good cry when I got back to my apartment, wondering what the hell I had done. I was dreading picking him up at 12. Anyway, noon arrives and out of the classroom he pops full of smiles and half a dozen Portuguese kids say “boa tarde Billy”. He was absolutely fine and even though he understands nobody he loved it.

Moral of that story I guess is, yes you will panic at first but don’t get yourself worked as it might be a total waste of time. If you need any help at all please don’t hesitate to get in touch. We have all been there.

Monday was not the best day in my life and probably one that will stick with me for a long time. It all started Sunday night, we had been out for a great meal in Monchique. When we got in Billy went to bed as normal but was a bit teary saying he didn’t want to go. He eventually nodded off to sleep but I didn’t as I was fearing the next day.

Billy woke up Monday and didn’t really eat his brekkie which is most unlike him. He started to whinge a bit as we left home. We walked to school (15 mins stroll) and I tried to keep him occupied along the way. But he kept saying things like “This isn’t a good idea Dad” and “I don’t want to go, they don’t understand me” etc, etc.

At the gates I decided to walk him into his class as he wouldn’t leave me. I waited for his teacher to come as he wouldn’t go into the class with the other kids. When she came I tried to walk away and he set off crying, so whe went to a receptionist who talks a little English. She asked me to leave which I tried but at this point he was lying on the floor in a heap crying and screaming “Dad, Dad, don’t leave me” (not the best feeling in the world). I walked away anyway.

Walking home I was glad I had my sunglasses on so people couldn’t see the tears rolling down my face. The whole day dragged as I wondered how he was. The only saving grace was that the phone didn’t ring so he must have been OK.

I picked him up at 3.30 and was very nervous about how he would be and how much he might hate me for leaving him. He came out and seemed ok. The teacher had paired him with the only other English kid in the school to settle him down and this has seemed to help.

He went in a little reluctantly this morning but no tears at least. I did wonder on Friday and Monday if i had done the right thing in making him go to a PT school even thoughI have said previously that I knew the first 3-6 months would be hard.

After today I am convinced in time he will be ok. He now understands when the teachers tell the class to stand up – little things like that. He also loves school dinners. Soup to start, then a main meal followed by melon or some other fruit dessert which he just loves. He gets a bit lonely at lunch time as I think 90 mins is a little too long for somebody who has yet to make real friends.

For anybody else out there in the same situation, just make a big fuss of them and keep saying how proud you are of them coz believe me for an 8 year old who doesn’t know the language it takes a lot of balls for both the parents and the kids. At least nowI have seen both sides of the coin. My little girl who is 4 is doing doing fine and doesnt have a care in the world, she loves the school she is at. If you have a young child and want to make the move in a few years, just have a think. Might be worth moving now and saving a bit of stress.

Friday, September 22, 2006

Well, its the end of the first week and I suppose it could have been worse. But it also could have been much much better. I guess I am a little angry with the school but then also a little angry with myself too for putting Billy in this situation.

The children have to buy their own meal tickets every Friday for the following week’s meals. If parents were allowed inside the school gates I would help him do it. But I was only allowed in the school on his first day which was last Friday. As I am not allowed in I wrongly asumed they would help him do this as he has no idea where to go or what he is doing once there. When he finished school today he had no ticket so in theory he will not get fed at school next week, but trust me he WILL be fed as I will make sure of it. Getting angry now as they really should (in my eyes) have made sure he was ok, or at least get somebody to “buddy” him so that he was sorted for next week.

However, at the end of the day he is the first full English child to go to that school, his teacher speaks no English at all and for that I feel it may also be my fault for putting him in that situation. Maybe the school has no idea how to cope with him either. But I will be trying to speak to them on Monday to put in place a plan of action to see how they can help with the language and also with a kind of buddy system as it seems he gets a little left out at play times too. Rather than help him mix they feel sorry for him and dump him playing spider solitaire on a PC instead, for me this is not the right way to go.

He still cries every morning when I take him to the gates and this too makes me a little angry as well as sad. I am obviously sad for him as I can see how upset he is. However I then get frustrated as he is upsetting me and his Mum, sounds silly I know. It’s just sometimes I think maybe, just maybe they milk it a little bit more than they have to for the sympathy.

He has a friend who plays with him at break times as he speaks English which helps but if he cant find this kid or he is in a game with others then it again makes him cry.

I speak to him very openly and its seems the 2 reasons he cries are
1) He doesn’t like me leaving him at the gates.
2) he doesnt undetstand a thing when people speak to him.
I guess a few more little things will sneak out along the way but I am also confident we can make it to the end as one of the problems can be sorted. I can’t really afford private after-school lessons but I guess I’ll just have to find the money from somewhere.

Not really looking forward to Sunday night as I know he’ll be worrying about school then. So I’ll keep you posted on Monday night.

I think this sort of move is definitely for only certain kinds of people. Many people tend to move and just look at the sea, sand, and maybe a peaceful country basic life. However I have stated many times that I expect this phase to last at least six months. But even on that basis I still believe that with the right kind of TLC it is possible.

We have a good talk at the end of every school day and we have even had a good talk tonight about me going to see his teacher on Monday. Some might say he isn’t old enough to be having these type of conversations but I disagree. As long as the conversations are constructive and put forward so that the child involved understands what you say and also understands that no pressure is being added then it can only be a good thing. I also think it brings us closer too.

I point out the good things to outweigh the bad things. For example, back in England I would be working 7am until at least 7pm or even later. Sometimes I didn’t even make it home. Yet nowadays he finishes school at 3.30 and its me who picks him up. By 4pm I am either in the pool playing with him and his sister, or at the beach. That just wouldn’t have happened back in the UK.

I can see both sides in this case. My wife has said many times that she is glad I took him in on his first day as she would have brought him home. I very nearly did myself. However, I am convinced that years down the line when maturity takes over he will thank us for being able to understand what people are saying when they don’t expect him to have a clue.

Many thanks to Pete (aka Diskwizz) for allowing us to reproduce his original posts on Expats Forum
Pete and his family own Dina’s Bar in Praia Da Rocha, Algarve.

Moving abroad is a time of change. You change your language, your culture, your food, your social circle and just about everything else. And with your new home comes the challenge of a new garden. There’s no point in trying to transplant your Northern European garden habits and ideals to a Mediterranean climate. Instead you should embrace the new opportunities being presented to you.

Why spend all your time, effort and valuable water resources on a large lawn, or on plants that need a moist, shady aspect? Now you can grow stately palms or architectural agaves. Maybe you fancy growing olives or citrus? Maybe, like me, you are a fan of succulent plants in all their infinite variety. Or using all those ‘hot’ colours that can look so out of place in dear old Blighty.
Look around at your neighbours gardens, especially the Portuguese, who have generations of gardening knowledge to fall back on. They have the experience of what grows well in your area, as well as an intimate knowledge of the weather, the soil and any locally prevailing conditions, and will be more than happy, in most cases, to chat away and pass that knowledge on to you.
You may be lucky and move to a virtually frost-free, subtropical Paradise, but the chances are that your new garden will have unforeseen problems of some kind. You may be battered by salt-laden gales near the coast, desiccating your plants. Or you might find yourself in a frost pocket, especially in valley floors where cold air moves downhill, but cannot escape once it reaches the bottom. Or you may find your self in a fire zone.

Out of all the problems you may encounter, this is the most serious. And your garden is your first, and possibly the last, line of defence.

You may remember the firestorms in Central and Northern Portugal last summer, and you may be looking for advice or ideas to make your home and garden safer. Even if you are a long term resident, there is always something more you can do to make things safer, especially as the weather heats up and summer approaches. For this reason, I recommend that everyone who lives in a fire zone gets a copy of “Gardening with Fire: the essential self- help manual for Home and Garden design in areas at risk of fire“ – not as a cheap plug for my endeavours, but in order to understand better the complexity of the role of fire within the ecology of the region, and for the extensive advice that could save your home, your garden and even your life in an emergency!

However, in this small article, I will try to outline some practical tips for you.

Lets start at the edge of your land or garden:

If you have a very large garden, or a farm or smallholding, you may think about having a firebreak cleared around your land. If you call in a bulldozer to clear a conventional firebreak, always remember the following:

Have the debris ploughed in or removed.
A cleared firebreak must be renewed every year to be effective. If this is neglected, the break can become dangerous within one season, as grasses, thistles and other flammable plants can take hold.
Clear your firebreak in late spring or early summer. There is no point in clearing over the autumn, winter or spring, as plants will grow back during the rainy months and all your hard work will be to no avail!
Bulldozed fire breaks can lead to erosion on steep hills, although the chance of this is less if native plants take hold in the wet months, to be cleared again once the rains stop.

Try to make sure you have no trees that touch those in surrounding vegetation if you live near forested or overgrown land. If you do, try to reduce their fuel load by removing their lower branches and cutting out any dead or decaying wood. The spacing of trees and shrubs can be crucial in determining the spread of fire. Canopy fires, when flames have spread into the trees themselves, as opposed to surface fires along the ground, are difficult to control and highly dangerous due to the large fuel loads available, and the fact that the opportunity then exists for burning debris to be sent high into the air to spread secondary fires over a wider area.

Your firebreak should at least be as wide as the height of the surrounding vegetation.

With the edges of your land being safer, you can concentrate on other features that will lessen your risks within your garden. Let’s start with a rather wonderful little term I picked up from somewhere:

FINGER FUELS!

This basically translates as clearing your garden of any dead, or dying, dry fuels that are as wide as your finger, or smaller. This means that those of you with big hands will have more clearing up to do! All fires need fuel to sustain them, and these small dry twigs, sticks and grasses are amongst the easiest to ignite. By keeping your garden clear of these you will be greatly lessening your risk of a spark landing on something very flammable, or a surface fire spreading along the ground.

Do you have climber growing up your house, or tall trees nearby? These issues are dealt with more comprehensively in the CD-Rom, but in a nutshell:- keep all climbers, if you must grow them against your house, away from your roof, and from the area immediately around your doors and windows.

Trees

Trees are a more complicated issue. How you deal with making them safer depends on a number of factors:

What type of tree is it? Some trees are very much more flammable than others. The most flammable trees in Portugal are generally eucalypts or pines and other conifers.

How near to your house is the tree in question? If it is less than its height away from your home, then you should, at least, look at some general maintenance. You could try thinning the crown to let in more light and air.

You should remove all branches to a distance of 2 metres from the ground.

Maybe your tree is of a type that would respond to coppicing, which means that a tall tree is cut back and new shoots grow from the base. These are then easier to control and maintain.

Keep the area under, and around the tree clear. Mulching with gravel, or growing a carpeting succulent plant beneath the tree can keep the cleared area looking neat as well as being safe.

These are just a handful of things that can make a difference. All aspects of home and garden design, including lists of suitable plants, ecology and habitat management, plus advice for emergencies, are all included in the CD.

Gardening with Fire: the essential self-help manual for Home and Garden design in areas at risk of fire

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.

I have always loved the satisfied hiss of air brakes on big trucks when they reach journeys end. Today, I liked the sound even more; it meant we had arrived. Steve, my husband, jumped down from the truck, and after stretching his limbs, gave a little sideways leap and clicked his heels as he walked towards me looking jubilant. “We’ve done it, we’ve arrived”. I wound down the window excitedly, and he leant in to give me a kiss.

“I’m off to find Miguel,” he said, I watched him as he loped up the street with his long easy stride. Craig, our 9-year-old mini Steve, was sitting next to me; he leapt out of the car to follow after his dad. I gazed tiredly at the back of our beautiful 25-foot fairground caravan, with its chrome panels and lace curtains, which was to become our home for the next six months. Steve had towed it behind our 7.5-ton horsebox. It was a sight I had become quite familiar with since we left the Spanish port of Santander, 26 hours earlier.

Steve had driven our precious cargo of animals, towing the caravan, whilst I did my best to stay behind him in our trusty old Vauxhall cavalier, towing a second smaller caravan. We had meandered our way slowly through Spain and Portugal, every town or village our convoy passed through, people in the streets shouted and waved to us, thinking the circus was coming to town!

Whilst Steve and Craig were looking for Miguel who was a Portuguese property agent we’d met in London, I reflected on our journey. We’d had our share of mishaps, starting before we even hit the road! We had estimated that our four horses would have to be loaded into the horsebox by 2.00am. which would give us plenty of time to drive from Brighton to Plymouth to catch the ferry at 9.00am. My favourite horse Roxy, indignant at being disturbed from his slumber, adamantly refused to go into the horsebox. It took us three hours and a vet’s tranquilliser to finally persuade him! Once on the road, Steve set a fast pace, but luck was against us; we broke down, it was nothing serious, just a wheel falling off!

When we arrived at the dock, we were greeted to the sight of the ferry already sailing away towards the horizon. In winter time the ferries only run twice a week, so we had three days to wait for the next one, and with four horses to care for, we had to get ourselves organized! After a few phone calls, we found stables willing to board the horses; luckily it had a campsite opposite.

After making the horses comfortable, we settled into the caravan for the night feeling very sorry for ourselves. It was freezing cold; we lit the wood burner in the caravan and were soon cosy. We had bought the caravan only recently from a travelling circus family, they had lived in it so it was well kitted out, with a full size cooker, a separate bedroom, and plenty of cupboard space. Above the fire was a huge cut glass mirror, which added to the feeling of space; it was really quite luxurious. There was a storm forecast; the rain was already pounding onto the roof and the wind was buffeting against the windows, but we were warm and dry, our dog Toby, a black Labrador cross, was curled up in front of the fire. We should have been on our way to sunny Portugal, but on a night like this, I was happy to be on dry land.

Next day, one of our horses, Tawny, was ill. We called the vet and he diagnosed colic. He treated him and left us to keep an eye on him for the next few hours. By mid afternoon the colic had not subsided, the vet asked us to bring him to his practise, where he could be monitored closely. At 8pm. We had a phone call from the vet, Tawny needed surgery; we would have to take him to a specialist at Bristol Vetinary University.

We arrived at the University at 2 am. Lights were ablaze; we were greeted by the surgeon, who led Tawny into a brightly lit padded cell. Bleary-eyed yawning students surrounded him. Tawny was a model patient even though he was obviously in great pain. We left him in the hands of one of Britain’s best vets with a 50 – 50 chance of survival. Thankfully the operation was a success and he survived, but he would need a long convalescence, and would not be coming with us to Portugal. Tawny belonged to my sister Jenny, she had decided to give him to us only because he and Roxy had been great friends for over 12 years and she didn’t want to break up their friendship. Ironically Roxy’s reluctance to go into the horsebox, which caused us to miss the ferry, had saved his old friends life. If we had sailed, and Tawny had developed colic on the boat, he would have died.

Steve spent the next day buying firewood and trying to find someone to sell us some hay. Between the showers, Craig and I walked the horses out for exercise around the pretty country lanes bordering Dartmoor. Storms and lashing rain meant that we could not catch the mid week ferry as the captain would not take animals on board in over a force 6 wind, so it was one week later that we finally arrived at the dock.

Craig and I drove onto the ferry in our car with the little caravan full of our worldly goods towing behind. Toby the dog, had to stay in the car, he was only allowed out for a couple of walks on the lower deck for the whole twenty-four hour duration of the journey. Luckily he had a strong bladder!

From the deck, we looked down on the waiting trucks. Our truck and caravan was dwarfed by the huge juggernauts parked alongside it. I couldn’t make out Steve, but knew he was sitting patiently waiting to board. I had a moment of unease at the enormity of our adventure as I stood leaning over the railings, but it was too late now, we were committed.

Truck drivers on the twenty-four hour ferries are treated like kings. Whilst Craig and I were eating cardboard tasting croissants, Steve was feasting on delicious muesli with fresh and dried fruits, smothered in yoghurt. His lunchtime buffet, included asparagus and artichokes, prawns and palma ham, with a huge bowl of fresh fruit salad and jugs of cream. Real coffee pots full of aromatic coffee were placed on the tables for him to help himself, whilst I sipped a muddy tasting concoction from a plastic cup!

A French steward noticed Steve smuggling food out of their dining room, and when Steve told him of his family starving outside the door, he threw his arms up into the air in mock horror. “Bring them in you fool, there is more than enough food here.” Craig and I, tantalised by the wonderful smells, entered the all male dining room. We were welcomed in and waited on by the truck drivers. I have never been so spoilt in my life!

We had a very good trip; the horses all travelled well and had good appetites (always a good sign!) But when we landed at Santander it was a different story.

Steve had spent time before we set out, studying maps and working out the best route to take, this part of our preparations was of no interest to me. I have no sense of direction, nor can I map read. I had never driven on the right hand side of the road before, or ever towed anything! I coped with this by telling myself that all I had to do was follow right behind Steve. I didn’t need to concern myself with anything else except keeping right on his tail. It had worked well on the short trip from Brighton to Plymouth but I soon realized what a short-sighted attitude this had been.

When we left the ferry, I had to drive off first, along with all the other cars. The trucks were the last to leave. I planned to pull in somewhere and wait for Steve, but it was totally impossible. There were police everywhere, guns resting passively in their holsters. We drove down a ramp, and more or less, straight into the flow of a huge roundabout. I was in a terrible panic, which way do I go? Which lane should I be in? Only Craig’s cool composure kept us going. “We will keep driving round and round until we see dad,” he said calmly. I kept getting into the wrong lane. Weaving from lane to lane with a caravan in tow, and in a state of near hysteria, is no joke! The Spanish drivers were great, I met with no road rage, just tolerance and patience. I suppose living in such a busy port, they are used to crazy foreigners trying to go the wrong way around their traffic system!

After what seemed like our tenth circuit, Craig spotted Steve disembarking. We raced confidently (by this time I was an expert) around the roundabout. “Follow that horsebox,” we cried joyfully, but the traffic lights were against us, and we lost sight of him. We drove through town, and were approaching the motorway, where I would have to make a decision on which way to go. Why oh why, had I not studied the maps? I had left it all up to Steve, and now I was paying the price for burying my head in the sand, something that I’m very good at!

We desperately hoped that Steve would realise we were behind him, not in front of him, when, hey presto, waiting in a lay- by, there he was. He had been wondering why we hadn’t waited somewhere for him, and had decided to stop for ten minutes before turning round to come and look for us.

After this I was determined to stay on his tail, but it wasn’t always easy, our old cavalier struggled up steep inclines towing its heavy load, whilst the horsebox was lower geared and pulled very well up hills, and we certainly met some hills! The horsebox engine kept overheating as we climbed for a solid hour up the Picos Mountains. We had to make a couple of stops to let her cool down.

The camaraderie of truck drivers is amazing. We had just stopped on one such occasion, with the rain lashing down, when a Dutch truck pulled in behind us. “Is everything all right, do you need any help” said this huge blonde handsome Dutchman, filling the doorway of our caravan. “No thanks we are O.K. The old girl gets a bit hot going up these mountains, but she will be fine in ten minutes.” “O.K. I hope you’ve got good brakes” he said as we told him where we were heading, ” be careful going down!” He waved cheerfully and honked his horn as he passed us.

At our next stop, an English truck driver pulled up, we were making tea at the time so he stopped to have one with us. He sat there, telling horror stories about trucks with brake failures going down the steep mountain range in Portugal, just after Guarda. I didn’t need to hear this so I went to tend to the horses, who were grateful for our regular stops, I fed them all some carrots which they munched happily, then, after saying our goodbyes to our new friend, we were on the road again. It was still raining, the wipers on our car have never worked so hard as the ten wheels of the truck and caravan constantly threw rainwater at my windscreen.

Finally, we pulled into a truck park at about midnight. I took Toby for a walk on some nearby wasteland, next to a restaurant. The next thing I heard was growling, and snarling as a dogfight broke out. Toby, in true British lager lout fashion had picked a fight with the restaurants guard dog, which was merely doing its job! We bundled Toby back into the car in disgrace, and after feeding and watering the horses, we had a midnight feast at the restaurant, before crashing out exhausted, in the caravan.

We slept for a couple of hours, but trucks kept pulling in and out all through the night, their drivers chatting, and slamming doors. Needless to say, we were all a bit red eyed in the morning as we set off on the last leg of our journey. At the Portuguese border, I drove straight through, but Steve was stopped. I pulled up on the other side, I was in Portugal, but they were in Spain! I desperately hoped there would not be a problem; we were only 80 miles from our destination. As I sat there imagining the worst, the horsebox with Steve and Craig both grinning from ear to ear, came rumbling past. “Whoopee, we’re in Portugal,” Craig shouted from the open window. I gave Toby a hug to welcome him to our new home.

Now at 2p.m. we had arrived. Sixty-five feet of truck, caravans, and car, nearly blocking the narrow cobbled street. It had been 3 days since we had left Plymouth.

Suddenly Toby jumped into the front seat, his lips curled up into a doggy smile, his tail wagging, I looked up and saw Steve, Miguel, and Craig coming towards me. “Sandra my dear, how nice to see you, we were expecting you hours ago,” said Miguel in his wonderful Latin accent. “You don’t realise how slowly we travel in our little convoy,” I said, as I got out of the car. He greeted me in the Portuguese way of one kiss on each cheek, this is done, barely brushing the cheek, and kissing the air, very difficult to master. I have, on more than one occasion, nearly knocked the glasses off of unsuspecting people with my clumsiness!

Miguel is an estate agent; we met him originally in London, at an overseas property exhibition. Steve and I had been dreaming of sunnier climes, and had visited the exhibition, with the idea of maybe looking for a house in France, as we have friends there. We were talking to a man on the stand for French properties, and telling him that we had horses and wanted a place with land, when my eye was caught by the man on the next stand, gesticulating for us to come and talk to him. He introduced himself in perfect English, and told us he specialised in properties around the area of mid Portugal. We knew nothing about Portugal, and hadn’t been considering it, but he was so enthusiastic that the area was perfect for us, that we agreed to go for a holiday and have a look.

We bought a camper van, and the three of us set off on our first big adventure. My two older children Paul and Mella, were busy with their studies, so stayed at home to look after the animals (and no doubt throw a few wild parties!) We travelled for five weeks, spending about ten days in France. We looked at some wonderful farms at incredibly cheap prices, but for some reason, we both couldn’t wait to get to Portugal.

We took the scenic route, wanting to get a feel for the place, you miss so much of the real essence of a country if you just stick to the motorways, and anyway our old camper van was slow, we had nothing to gain by travelling on the faster roads. The van had a roof, which was hinged on one side. When stationary, we lifted the roof to give us more height; there was also a little pull out bed for Craig in the roof space. The weight of the roof was supported by two gas filled pistons, (the same as on the tail gates of hatchbacks and estate cars.)

One windy night, I heard a little voice saying, “Mum, the roof has fallen on me,” In my half conscious sleepy state, I muttered, “be quiet and go to sleep,” “but mum, I cant move.” Turning over, warm and comfortable, I again urged him, more gruffly, to go to sleep! “Dad, will you believe me, the roof has fallen on me!” came the miserable sounding reply. Grumpily Steve reached for the torch, and got up to have a look. There was our poor son, trapped like a breville sandwich between the bed and the roof! Luckily he was only a skinny little 8 year old, but he never trusted the pistons again, and always had two sticks of wood wedged between the bed and the roof, to act as a back up system!

The roads in Portugal were, and in some places still are, terrible! Our camper van had back opening doors, and driving through England, France and Spain, we had no problems, but when we hit Portugal and the potholes, the back door would fly open without any warning every time the van bounced over a hole or a bump in the road! Anything that was not tied down would be strewn over the road behind us. On two or three occasions, we had to stop, and run back to retrieve, a bag of bread rolls or a pair of shoes, that had been bounced out as the van lurched over another pothole, and the door flew open!

Apart from the potholes, I loved everything about Portugal; the contrasts of mountains and valleys, so different from the rolling countryside back home. I felt like I had stepped back 50 years, to a time before great machines made it unfeasible to keep hedgerows, when you could look down on land as a patchwork of fields rotating different crops. Below me now, I could see maize growing, bordered by grapevines, olive orchards, with sheep grazing beneath their canopy. An ox stood patiently hitched to his cart as his owner worked in the fields. People were tending their fields, not leaving it to pesticide sprays. There was a feeling of life.

Miguel took us to see many properties while we were on holiday; we fell in love with one. It was about five acres of flat fertile land with river frontage, perfect for horses. Across a country lane, was another plot with planning permission for a house, Steve had often promised me that one-day, he would build me a house, here was his chance! The owners gave us a rough price that was just about within our pockets; the problem was twelve different factions of the family owned it, which is common in Portugal. A father will split his land up into however many pieces he has children, then in turn, a child who had been left one fifth of his fathers land, then has 3 children himself and splits that fifth up into thirds, and so on and so on. It can end up with one person owning two square metres of land, and no paper work! It’s crazy, and very frustrating for someone trying to buy.

Our holiday was drawing to an end, we had been told that the west coast was beautiful, and decided to travel on down, have a look and hopefully do some surfing, before returning home. The landscape became flatter and drier as we travelled south, a lot of new housing estates and hotels were springing up along the coast. As far as we could make out, the law in Portugal was that you didn’t have to pay rates on new houses until they were finished. This law meant that people didn’t finish their houses!

It could have had something to do with the financial situation as well; people don’t take out mortgages to the extent that we do in England. They seem to earn money, often abroad, then work on their house for a bit, before going away to work again, but it is not pleasing to the eye of the traveller to see so many unfinished houses with building materials and rubbish piled in the gardens.

We were driving down a coastal road when we noticed a track leading towards the sea. We bumped down it, holding on tight to the piece of string that was now holding the back doors shut! To our amazement we found a little campsite. There were picnic tables and about 50 tents sprawling among the dunes. Some of them looked homemade, some were like mini bungalows, some almost hidden by clumps of pine trees. It amazed us that people just left them there, probably returning for weekends or holidays. There were places where fires had been lit, yet the whole place was deserted except for a few skinny dogs. A bright green Iguana lizard about half a metre long stared at us in surprise for a second before scuttling off. We decided to stay for the night; we cooked a meal of pork chops and sat around one of the picnic tables.

The smell of meat was picked up by the sharp noses of hungry dogs, one of them obviously had a litter of pups somewhere, she was pitifully thin and sat quietly staring at me from a distance. I couldn’t bear her penetrating eyes, and took my whole plate of food over to her; she gobbled it down, watching me warily all the time, before slinking off into the twilight. We all walked along the sand, the moon was full, and shimmered on the now calmer ocean. I love the sea and have always lived near to it. Would I miss it if I lived in the mountains?

Next morning Steve and Craig put on their wetsuits and went to try out the surf. I dipped my big toe into the white frothing water; it was freezing! I withdrew to the warmth of the dry sand. We had brought body boards with us and Steve managed to catch a few waves, but the conditions were too rough for Craig. The surf was similar to that in Cornwall with waves breaking and galloping up the sandy beach. Craig could lie on the sand, and when a wave came it would carry him twenty metres up the beach, he thought it was great fun!

We spent two more days travelling down the coast, but the beauty could not be compared to the diversity of the mountains (also the property prices were much higher!) We drove back up to have a last meeting with Miguel and the owners of the land we wanted to buy, but you cannot hurry the Portuguese, nothing had happened in our absence. We would have to return home and leave the negotiations in Miguel’s hands, we were absolutely sure that this was where we wanted to live.

Paul, my eldest son, jumped at the chance to come with us, he was between college and finding a job, coming to Portugal and helping to build a house sounded much more exciting, Mella my daughter, was l7 years old and just starting at college in London, she was moving out of home anyway, and had made arrangements to share a flat with two friends, but still she was very apprehensive about us being so far away. Of course I worried about leaving her, but Portugal is only two hours by plane, she could come and visit during her holidays.

We put our house on the market, thinking it could take a year to sell, but as fate would have it, we found a buyer straight away, we sold our business, and were ready to go. One night, we had a phone call from Miguel. The Portuguese family couldn’t agree about selling the property, and the price they were now asking was beyond us anyway. We were devastated, but Miguel in his normal enthusiastic and chirpy way said “Come anyway, I’ll sort something out for you and the horses temporarily.” We must have taken leave of our senses, but that’s exactly what we did.

Chapter Two: Good News & Bad News

Gois Valley Riding offers a selection of riding holidays, and a little guest cottage for rent, in a beautiful valley in Central Portugal.

“Rome was not built in a day and Rome was probably not worth building. A sound self sufficient small holding certainly is” – John Seymour

Many people who make the move to rural Portugal aspire to a degree of self-sufficiency. For some a few rows of vines and a couple of chickens will suffice but others will settle for nothing less than full wine, cheese, oil, vegetable and meat production. Some are fulfilling a lifelong ambition and others a more recent dream. For me it was a little of both. I remember as a child drawing plans of farms with square fields full of matchstick cows and stables labelled “horsis” and “chikins”. But as I got older I bought into the ideals of society and soon forgot farms in my pursuit of money, motorbikes and a mortgage. Many years later I had acquired all three and, as a bonus, a boyfriend who made the first and last seem somehow less important. We started to ask “what is it all about really?” the question that leads to so many life-changing decisions.

BuildingA stop off at the Centre for Alternative Technology in Wales on a rain-sodden motorbike holiday brought all those forgotten childhood dreams rushing back and before long we were excitedly discussing smallholdings despite our complete lack of knowledge of animals or gardening. It was to be a few more years before we found ourselves in a position to live out the dream but here we now are with our own patch of dirt, the time to spend digging it, a great climate and supportive and knowledgeable neighbours. And what neighbours! It’s very daunting to watch them effortlessly grow all their own food, and enough for their menagerie of animals, milking goats and sheep and making cheese with one hand whilst pressing a thousand litres of wine with the other. They glide smoothly from season to season knowing exactly when to harvest the olives, when to plant each vegetable, how to prune vines and slaughter pigs without flinching and turn every last bit of the carcass into delicious food, not only enough for themselves but also for various members of their huge extended families working abroad in Switzerland and France and children in Lisbon, to say nothing of the bags, boxes and bottles of produce they pass our way. They make it look so easy. For any fellow would-be smallholders I would like to offer my warmest encouragement and a hearty pat on the back for having got this far but also a few words of warning: It is very easy to read books on animal care but very difficult to find yourself with an unwanted cockerel in one hand and a knife in the other. Gardening books will tell you when to plant a certain crop but an unexpected late frost can kill it or weeds will quickly engulf it or your animals will get to it and demolish months of work in minutes the first time you forget to shut the gate. A fox proof shed is easily constructed for poultry but if you forget to shut them in it, before dark, every single day, you might as well not bother. If you are not born to this way of life it is not easy at first. Those neighbours only make it look so because they were picking grapes and olives before they could talk and helping out in the kitchen and the fields since they were born.

StrimmingThere may be a breed of sensible realistic smallholders out there who pace themselves and get thoroughly to grips with each aspect of their new life before launching into it, people who spend years researching and working on other peoples farms before taking the plunge for themselves, who plan things carefully before carrying them out. If so I have yet to meet one. Chances are if you have gone past the stage of talking to other people and saying, “oh you are lucky” and “I wish I could do something like that” and actually bought some land then you’re probably insane enough to want everything now and believe that you can. But if you don’t want to end up more stressed than a stock-exchange market trader with a million pound mortgage then you really need to take it easy. Before you dash out and buy a hundred chickens, a flock of sheep and goats, and a rotavator and start ripping out every bit of woodworm infested timber in your house, wait! The main reason people cite for leaving the rat-race behind is quality of life but if you’re dragging yourself out of bed at six to start watering and working in the hot sun clearing brambles all day and mixing concrete and then sitting up sharpening tools before collapsing into a tent every night then you’ll pretty soon kill yourself, or each other. Start with small animals and only a few. Make sure you have suitable accommodation for them and that you can comfortably provide them with food and bedding and have the time to feed them and clean them out. Consider buying them young so that you can get to know each other. Time just spent in the company of your animals is not wasted. The more familiar they are with you the easier it will be to catch them when they get into your vegetable garden and the sooner you’ll spot any tell tale signs of sickness. Also it’s endlessly entertaining. Some days, especially starting in a new country, you’ll spend wrangling with setting up your new life, gaining residency, a postal address, insurance and the like. Treat this as time spent working – don’t force yourself into the garden with a hoe at seven o’clock at night because you’ve spent a whole day dealing with paperwork. Crack open a bottle of wine instead and appreciate the sunset.

BuildingCultivate a relationship with your neighbours. Here in Portugal they’re almost guaranteed to be friendly and helpful. They know what to plant and when, how to prune vines and olives – invaluable if you’ve grown up in a country without these wonderful things and where to buy healthy livestock. Many of them, having seen their children leave for the cities or abroad are delighted to see people enjoying the way of life they’ve been living for centuries and if you make any effort with the language they’ll try desperately to understand you and help you learn. That said, don’t be bound by everything they tell you. Although their farming methods are no doubt much more in tune with nature than your average factory farm they do use chemicals and you may have to stick your heels in to convince them if you don’t want to. Free range animals are something of a novelty and if you don’t expand on the local variety of crops then you will end up eating cabbage for four months of the year. We’ve found our neighbours to be baffled by but interested in us. If they also have a good laugh at us from time to time, well it’s a small price to pay for their support and advice.
But most of all – take time out to enjoy your new life. Eat proper food and take the time to enjoy preparing it. Stare at the scenery, catch up on reading and make time to spend with people. Don’t beat yourself up for what you haven’t got round to. Instead congratulate yourself on having achieved what most people only dream of. It’s not the Good Life if it gives you stomach ulcers.

BuildingIf you embarked upon your self-sufficient lifestyle with dreams of long walks looking for mushrooms, cosy winter nights in front of the fire and time to learn the guitar and have ended up wondering how you ever thought you were short of time when you had a “proper” job, don’t despair. Any day now you’ll get the weeds under control, your holiday let will take off and you’ll finally finish the bathroom and be able to take a wash. Until then – rest assured that you’re not alone. Plenty of other people are finishing a day clearing brambles that would have had Prince Charming pack up his sword and resign himself to a life of bachelorhood only to slump in front of an empty log basket and then think “oh stuff it, I think I’ll just go to bed anyway”. Speaking of log baskets – mine is empty so I shall go and chop some logs, and while I’m at it I should really feed the rabbits and the chickens and the geese and the goats need milking and you know I think there’s just enough daylight left to get out the cement mixer and lay the kitchen floor!

I’ve just been talking to one of the local shepherds. He wanted to know if we like sheep’s cheese, and because we do, he has promised to bring us two big cheeses next week, in exchange for us letting him graze his animals on our lower terraces. Standing there, in the sun, the sound of the sheep bells jingling I couldn’t help but think “what a fantastic life we live”.

We are lucky enough to live on a 2 hectare organic smallholding, with south-facing terraces, and a stunning view of two mountain ranges – the Serra de Estrela and Serra de Açor – in central Portugal. We grow much of our own veg, have 400 vines, 60 olive trees, chickens, geese, and ducks in a pond fed by a natural spring. Our water comes from our own well. We are 5 minutes from a thriving village, 10 minutes from a small market town, 40 minutes from the historic university city of Coimbra and 2 hours from Porto.

We’ve been working this farm now for two and a half years, learning as we go. It sure has been a steep learning curve – I’d never done building, farming, wine-making, vine pruning, olive harvesting or had animals until we came here. And let´s not forget learning a whole new language to be able to interact with the locals. We seem to be getting there with Portuguese, it is so nice to be able to chat with the locals, and actually understand what they are saying.

Yesterday we started our olive harvest. Last year we picked over 1000 kilos, which produced just over 100 litres of the finest, organic, cold pressed, hand-picked olive oil, some of which we sold to a London restaurant. Along with one of our regular WWOOF (willing workers on organic farms) visitors (this one is from New Zealand), we started on the trees around the house. First off we picked to make eating olives, around 30 kilos. These will be soaked in water for 10 days, changing the water every day. Then salt water is added, along with a wide variety of the herbs we grow, or that grow as ´weeds´ (we planted loads of different herbs, only to find they grow wild all over the place!). This salt water solution is changed every 10 days for 40 days, or until they taste just right – the most fantastic olives you have ever tasted!

Today it is raining. Much appreciated rain I must state, after almost 18 months without. The countryside is green again, and it is incredible how fast plants grow after the autumn rains start. If the downpour lets up later, I intend to go wandering around the forests, find us some edible mushrooms for risotto dinner, perhaps with a few glasses of our home-made red wine.

Meanwhile, sat here in the warmth of our wood range, its great to have the rain as an excuse to do some computer work. We became members of the Pure Portugal co-operative in 2003. Aware of the need to generate cash income, the plan was to promote small scale and eco tourism in this part of Portugal. We love it here so much, we thought others would appreciate it as a holiday location. And being “techno peasants” seems to work for us.

Many aspects of our life here are very basic. But Portugal’s almost complete broadband availability enables us to make a living and keep in touch with friends and family back in the UK. To me, it is a perfect mix, a near perfect life. The slow pace of life, clean air, fresh water, friendly neighbours, and plenty of outside work complements my computer addiction!

Downsides? Not many. The Portuguese driving habits take some getting used to. The summertime forest fires can be worrying, although the risks can be reduced. This is something else we are working on, promoting an information CD entitled “Gardening With Fire: the essential self-help manual for home & garden design in areas at risk from fire.

Do I miss anything from the UK? Not really, maybe the occasional pint of warm ale – but mulled wine, that I know contains nothing except grape juice because I made it, has to be just as good. And I certainly don’t miss the hustle and bustle of the UK rat race. Not saying there has been no stress in our time here, but it is a different kind of stress. A more laid-back stress, over solvable problems.

Well the rain has stopped. Time to go in search of those chanterelle mushrooms and to pick some veg from the garden.

www.portugalsmallholding.org

Beyond easy reach of international airports lie the true hidden gems of Portugal. Rumours abound of diabolical driving on hair-raising roads, but is it all just a hoax to protect the peace and tranquility that we’ve found out here, nestled in the hills? Not entirely. However, many of us have forsaken our homelands for a quality of life that otherwise would have been difficult to attain.

Around Arganil, Gois and Lousã, there is something to cater for all tastes, whether you want to escape from it all and live far from noisy neighbours, busy roads and other distractions or merely soak up that extra sunshine whilst you enjoy the unspoilt view from your own balcony. Both options and many more exist close to friendly, community based villages where people always make time for a glass of home-made wine and a chat. All this within a short drive of weekly markets where all the local craft and fare is on display for those who enjoy bartering in the open air for their weekly shopping. Take, for example, Arganil market every Thursday morning. On sale you will find everything from fruit and vegetables, seeds and flowers, trees and chickens, to farming implements that elsewhere have long been relegated to museums. Even locally made wicker furniture and baskets & bee keeping equipment can be found on stalls, or just lying on a blanket in front of a friendly face, who is generally willing to haggle for a bulk buy. Amidst the stalls you can also enjoy a freshly barbecued chicken or fish al fresco, washed down with more local wine.

These quaint old towns are a rich tapestry of old and new side by side, where you can stroll amongst narrow cobbled streets where traditional trades are still plied by honest folk. Local hardware shops still wrap your nails in newspaper and have patiently waited whilst I have drawn items that I couldn’t translate. Traditional barbers and cobblers are also still oblivious to time passing, whilst Intermarché and LIDL meet the needs of the customer with more modern tastes. Still, it’s hard to resist stopping for a coffee or beer in a street café to watch the world go by, old ladies with shopping or gas bottles balanced on their heads followed by an donkey and cart piled high with animal bedding being overtaken by a shiny new BMW. Getting here is an easy hours drive (less if you drive like the locals!) from Coimbra, on modern roads. So you could be sitting in your new home 2-3 hrs after getting off the plane at Lisbon or Porto. Whether the massive granite of Arganil or the slate of nearby Gois and Lousã, the houses of the area are built to last, though the last twenty to thirty years have seen a gradual increase of modern building surrounding these historical town centres

In the ten years since I arrived, it seems the local councils have taken an interest in preserving their culture. Arganil has an excellent museum, dating the use of many of the tools still being worked with in the local, near abandoned, villages. Old widows dressed in black, stooping under burden as they tend to their flocks hark back to the subsistence living that still persists. Few of us would choose the hardship they have suffered in their lives, and for this reason, most of their children have fled to the cities. Having myself originally bought a very isolated property, I indulged in the John Seymourian dream of self sufficiency from the land, believing wholeheartedly that this was the richest life of all.

Ten years on I find myself slightly more realistic, having understood just how hard this disappearing generation has worked and continues to. It is a common observation to see people in their eighties still digging the fields. My neighbour, who is 83, constantly pokes fun at me, when I choose to just sit and survey my land rather than dig it. As well as the local Portuguese friendship to be found there are also expat communities for those who seek such company, but many enjoy the celebrity status of being the only foreigners in their village and indulge in the generous nature of their curious neighbours . Now this is where a lucky foreigner can really hit the jackpot. Forget the view of craggy pine clad mountains and clean air, the olive terraces and vineyards, the goats, chickens and donkeys. Forget the gorgeous stone house replete with chestnut timber, open fires and traditional bread ovens and find yourself the right neighbour. Not only are the Portuguese wonderful storytellers and extremely helpful when you need a hand, but they have a wonderful array of home-cooked recipes beyond the infamous Bacalhau, from which there are supposedly 365 dishes to be made. Over the years I’ve been happily forced to try all sorts of freshly baked breads with meat or ‘chouriço,’ cakes and donuts made from pumpkin and stews concocted with every salvageable part of a pig.

Which brings us on to restaurants. Round here ‘Chanfana’ is one of the big regional traditions, to the extent that two local councils actually seem to be in conflict over which is the official capital of ‘Chanfana’ making. For those who are uninitiated in such delights it is goat cooked in red wine. Other treats include ‘javali’ (wild boar) and ‘leitão’ (roast suckling pig) as well as fresh fish and seafood brought directly from the coast (sardine lovers heaven) and the many traditional pork dishes. On one end of the scale the Brazilian restaurants are worth trying for those who love meat and more meat served by a waiter, in Ali Baba trousers, who delights in dramatically cutting succulent slices with his sword-like blade whistling past your ear. Nevertheless, some of the best food is still to be found in the humble backstreet restaurants where there may be only one dish on the menu and you might have to eat it perched on a stool at the bar, rubbing elbows with the locals, but the chances are it will be home-made, cheap, delicious and plentiful.

For those who like to get out and about, this region also hosts a wonderful selection of excuses to explore. It is rapidly turning into a popular leisure zone for the Portuguese. Lousã has a beautiful castle, where you can enjoy a meal in the nearby restaurant, barbecue your own, or follow one of the numerous trails that wind up the valley. Guided walks are plentiful, but one of the beauties of this area is the lack of boundaries. You are more or less free to roam the hills and valleys as you please, even if you do end up going through the middle of someone’s cabbage patch, as long as you make an effort at passing the time of day. Lousã is also a main centre for paragliding for those who wish to view the mountains from the sky. It is set in the foothills of the Serra de Estrela (the mountain range of the star) whose beautiful scenery, stunning walks and snow and skiing in winter are only an hours drive away. Coja hosts the delightful ‘Fraga da Pena’ waterfall and Arganil’s traditional slate village of Piodão, a spectacular tribute to the art of stone building that sadly elsewhere has too readily been rendered over.

Around Gois are some of the prettiest swimming spots that I have ever encountered. Before coming to Portugal, I was oblivious to the term ‘river beach’, but here every village has its favourite spot and recent years have seen the local councils enhancing these areas of natural beauty for easy access and enjoyment for all. Though I’m grateful that a few are still so far of the beaten track that they are rarely discovered.