Castelo Branco to Graca . . .

Meet Goncalo, speaking English, Filipe, speaking French, with a French speaking Englishman, still struggling to learn Portuguese . . . met them yesterday on the way to the hostel, impressed with their project . . . Renascer - working with homeless people, ex-prisoners and others in Lisbon . . . they have a farm teaching land-based skills near there . . . and provide a route for students to become teachers, Goncalo being a great example . . . Filipe lived for a while in Switzerland, now working with this practical response to some of the problems exacerbated by the crisis . . .

At breakfast this morning there they were, having stayed for another fundraising stint today, before returning home later. A heartfelt connection, maybe with practical possibilities later . . . let's see . . .

As for the castle, which readers aware of latin languages might assume, wrongly, to be white . . . a walk up before catching the bus at 1pm provided another glimpse of Templar history and a great view of the city sprawling around the hill on which it stands . . . telecoms masts now stand above the castle keep . . . the new power, connecting us and surveilling us . . .

At the tourist info, an unusually miserable woman hands me a handsome brochure about this unlovely place, with its apartment blocks for humans like battery cages . . . decide not to ask whether she has personal problems or just occupational angst from her job promoting the dubious treasures of the city to the odd lost tourist . . . on their way to and from more beautiful places . . . on the plus side, the bus station is nice, the ticket person helpful in steering me away from the 3 hour slow service to Serta and kindly asking if I am 65 and eligible for a discount . . . a good counterpoint to my unserious delusion that the youth hostel folks think I am under 25 . . .

. . . and so to Serta and a lift from Jan to Graca and the simple home she shares with 9 dogs, 4 cats, 2 guinea pigs and 2 chickens . . . two of the dogs are only staying until Sunday, another two have been adopted and are off to Germany next week, two are long term fostered leaving only three . . . well they live in and around the house and I am staying in the caravan, as far as I know an animal free zone . . . let's see . . . meanwhile there are miles of forest tracks to wander . . .

Portalegre to Castelo Branco . . .

A morning's tourism, a look round the cathedral, guided tour of the town museum (and the amazing picture of God plus Jesus and the Holy Spirit) . . .  trying to explain the mystery is crazy enough, to present God as an old white man with a beard, looking a bit fierce, counter productive, to say the least . . .

. . . a return to the Tapestry Museum, to share contact details with Helder . . . since the resonance was so strong when we first met . . . his phrase "in the third dimension" was the early verbal clue, since it implies the other dimensions not generally discussed in polite company, especially not between English tourists and Portuguese museum guides . . . the planned few minutes and photo turned into another long, rich exchange, despite my comments that he was supposed to be working (don't worry, my colleagues are very supportive) . . . so whether or not we are both equally deluded, it was wonderful to share some ideas about what's needed in the world . . . and for me to find a Portuguese person very keen on the ideas of A Place to Be . . . if a project is to develop here it has to have local involvement from the beginning . . . shared ownership, shared values and for this country with its beautiful but suffering soul, an opportunity to pioneer communities reconnecting with Nature . . . to transcend the contrived "crisis", which is creating so many problems, creating new versions of old verities . . . where growing, preparing and sharing food is a foundation stone . . . spiritual development without barriers of fixed beliefs . . . international cooperation enabling it . . .

And so to Castelo Branco, no longer in the Alentejo region . . . a modern city with no pull for me, except to change buses and head to Serta tomorrow and my next assignment, staying with a dear friend and taking care of her dogs while she goes off the England for a few weeks to earn the money to continue her relaxed life in the sun . . .

to Marvao . . .

Yesterday evening I visited the tapestry museum, on the recommendation of Jose, and met Helder, guiding me round the exhibits . . . we recognised each other immediately, the way the frequencies align, and had a very interesting chat on things philosophical between finding out how the tapestries were made . . .

Joao and Jose sorted out the route to Serta, then mentioned the pilgrims who walk from Portalegre to Fatima in four stages along the River Tagus, walking in groups at night and resting during the day . . .

This morning's plan was to catch the bus to Marvao, look around, walk the 20km back . . . and before that managed a tour round the castle and a fun art exhibition, and a guided tour of the old monastery . . . it's a military school these days and the very friendly guide is from the Guarda Nacional Republicana . . . he is Joao and his son, Daniel, is in London, taking football coaching qualifications, following in the footsteps of one of the most well known living Portuguese people, Jose Mourinho . . .

The bus took 40 minutes on winding roads to the beautiful mountain town, with a stunning castle, with views to Spain . . . the walk back was four and a half hours, a gentle afternoon stroll in warm sunshine.

So, a combination of education, culture, fresh air and exercise on my last day in Portalegre . . .

Perspectives of Portalegre . . .

. . . Portugal, and perhaps people and places in general . . .

Arriving yesterday in low cloud and slight rain, Portalegre was a puzzle without an obvious centre, built on a mountainside, it took a while to locate the hostel . . .

Today it's sunny, with a few clouds and the hill opposite town, with church halfway up, 270 steps in 10 stages, seats after each stage to rest . . . two telecoms masts after the church, and at the summit a cross, with spotlights . . . an irresistible challenge . . . only 40 minutes climbing, but steep . . .

From the top, the town comes into perspective with the plain to the west, mountains to the east, roads in four directions . . . the cathedral and the Robinson factory chimneys, landmarks on the skyline from closer, are lost in the town from the hilltop . . .

. . . which sets me musing on the question of emigration and immigration in the local context: fewer North Europeans in evidence, estate agents' windows without translation into English, German, French . . . in the national context: the colonial period, Brazil, Angola, Mozambique, Goa, Macau . . . movement for work, adventure, new lives . . . economic emigration over centuries to France, Britain, USA, Australia . . . the absorption of returnees after Independence . . . the arrival of British business people, Robinson here (processing cork into tiles amongst other things), Mason in Mina de Sao Domingos (the company had its own police force to quell the sometimes rebellious miners, and polluted the Guadiana), Port wine people around Porto (my aunt was nanny to Simon Berry of Berry Bros and Rudd, though never went to Portugal as far as I recall - her claim to fame was to have curtsied to HRH Elisabeth . . . a willing servant and ardent monarchist, easily and often offended by my republican father . . . )

. . . my own perceptions of growing horror walking along the Algarve coast . . . the villas with high fences, thirsty golf courses, arrogant English expecting Portuguese people to speak our language in their country . . .

. . . hereabouts it feels friendlier; fewer foreigners, maybe Pedro from Evora's observation about tolerance affecting my perception . . . Jose, the father of Joao, helping with the hostel between running his electrical goods shop below, genuinely keen to help me see the best of Portalegre and surrounding area . . .

. . . and conscious too, that my commentary on the issue as an internationalist Englishman in Portugal, sounds similar to views I usually eschew in my own country . . . perhaps the focus is different, but I want to examine my narrative for hypocrisy . . . and for "bleeding liberal" tendencies as well as class war ones . . . what I observe is separation and fear from both sides which serves neither . . . and inequality, as always, is at the root of it . . .

As for historical perspective, a few hundred years helps reshape attitudes - who in England talks about the "bloody Normans, coming over here, killing our king, giving away the land to their mates . . . "?

An evolutionary perspective shows that humans are virtually identical, whatever language they speak (leaving aside for now theories of hominid infiltration) . . .

And an ecological perspective suggests that if we keep on acting as if there are unlimited resources on this small planet we call home, our evolutionary journey will end before the earth does . . .

Portalegre, meanwhile, calls for another day or two's exploration . . . maybe a bus towards the Spanish border and a saunter back . . .

Portalegre . . .

. . . of course ladies don't snore or fart, so sleeping with five of them could have been worse . . . though it was rather warm, since the heater was on all night . . .

. . . and tonight, another six bed dormitory, this time to myself . . . the only other guest in the Portalegre Hostel is Shawn, from Korea and he is in another room.

A wander round Evora, bus for an hour and a half to Portalegre, two nights booked at the hostel, some mountain walking, then wander across to Pedrogao Grande . . . maybe . . . lets see . . .

Evora people . . .

. . . well, strictly speaking, one local person, Pedro, who runs the Old Evora Hostel and who has promised me a photo in the morning . . . he seems to be doing his thing, looking after the guests, proud of his city . . . I ask him about the Portuguese view of the foreigners who have come and settled over the years, their separate lives. He says that the Portuguese are a tolerant people and like to live peacefully with whoever comes . . .

At breakfast I meet Benedicte, or Bene, 24, from Brittany . . . a graduate of fine art, who has been travelling in India for some months, including Auroville and is interested in new ways of living . . . and is planning a creative project in Toulouse . . . a good resonance and connection and we eat lunch and supper together, sharing ideas along with the food and wine.

Last night I had a four bed dormitory to myself; tonight it is booked and I move to the six bed one, which is also full, and the other five folks appear to be female. The perils of hostel life . . .

Evora

A stroll around Beja, bus to Evora, a stroll around Evora . . . resting from the relentless road bashing . . . Old Evora Hostel, cheap and cheerful, for a couple of days, then another bus north . . .

All the castles have brought into focus the Islamic history hereabouts . . . and the cult of St James or Sant Iago, the Knights Templar, their gnostic views clashing with the established Church, their role in promoting and protecting the Caminos to Santiago de Compostela, the supplanting of their pagan predecessors, the military clashes between Muslims and Christians . . . and the recent growth in popularity of the routes in contrast with the demise of organised religion . . .

Plenty of churches in Evora and a strong link with Santiago, despite not being on the recognised routes. Some relaxed research tomorrow, in this very beautiful world heritage city . . .

Mina Sao Domingos to Serpa . . .

. . . which is quite enough thanks . . .
another long slog beside the road . . . quiet, yet somehow separated from Nature, with the asphalt following Roman routes and no Albergues for spiritual enquiry with fellow pilgrims at the end of the long day's walk.

Each makes their own path, and mine is diverting to Beja, a short bus ride from twee Serpa and its rather expensive rooms . .  . a Pousada de Juventude, closed until April, with another in Evora to the north, hopefully open . . .

. . . suffering and certainties may be part of the Catholic Caminho, Camino, Path, Way or whatever . . . but Joseph Campbell said it for me, " with each step you take, your own path you make" . . . and fun in creating that path . . .

So, a hotel room, a meal in a restaurant with 30 Portuguese folks on a works outing on one side, 8 English lads on the other . . . I eat my supper in equanimity and isolation, invisible in the middle.

Tomorrow, all options open . . . for now, just glad of a hot shower and a comfy bed.

Mertola to Mina de Sao Domingos . . .

A 17.5 km stroll feeling like a rest day after the two 40s . . . warm sunshine showing Mertola at its best, a climb up to the plain and soon in Moreanes, more than half-way already . . . a coffee and chat with Vitor, who has walked to Santiago and recommends crossing to Badajoz in Spain and going North from there . . . they have albergues . . . here pilgrims can sleep with the bombeiros or firefighters, though not tempted so far, since my Portuguese is still poor and there is money for rooms . . .

Mina de Sao Domingos is interesting . . . a tourist town these days, with a beautiful lake, created by a dam to provide clean water to the mine which was operated by British company Mason and Barry for 108 years until 1966. The town was built around the mine, long rows of simple cottages, bigger houses for the managers, a palace for the owners, now a five star hotel. I am nearby at the Pensao, less posh perhaps, but clean and simple . . .

Tomorrow another long walk - to Serpa, 36 km . . .

Alcoutim to Mertola . . .

. . . well the morning brought fresh legs and the usual youth hostel breakfast at 8.30, so it was ten to nine before I set off for Mertola . . . climbing steeply to warm the muscles, cutting over the plain as the river looped east before swinging west to Mertola . . . the head was set for a brisk pace and the first coffee came at 9km and under two hours . . . met the first pilgrim on this caminho . . . Miguel, a young Portuguese, who left Irun last March, walked the Northern route along the Spanish coast, down to Fatima, across to Seville, up to Santiago again, now heading for Tavira, Cape St Vincent, up the west coast . . . with a very heavy pack . . . anyway, he was heading for Alcoutim, so we parted with "Bom Caminho!" . . .

. . . and on to Espirito Santo for a late lunch from a very friendly woman, who had served Miguel earlier and very tuned into the pilgrimage . . .

. . . into Mertola after another long hike, easier than yesterday without the head wind, a short leg tomorrow, so time for a look around, some photos, before strolling on to Mina do Sao Domingos, under 18kms.

Vila Real to Alcoutim . . .

Started early from Vila Real, on the Rio Guadiana opposite Ayamonte and after 40km more or less following the river and the Spanish border, arrived in Alcoutim, opposite Sanlucar . . . tired . . . it's roadside all the way, though the road was quiet . . . nine and a half hours including four short breaks . . .

Alcoutim is not only stage two on the Caminho, it's also the start or finish of the Via Algarviana, to Cape St Vincent 300kms south west . . .

The hostel is grand, 70 beds, though only six taken tonight . . . right on the river and a swimming pool too . . . considering another day to enjoy it before the 36 km to Mertola . . . let's see what the morning brings . . .

Tavira to Castro Marim . . .

. . . is the first stage on this Caminho, but since there is no accommodation in Castro Marim, it's on to Vila Real (and back again in the morning, to pick up the route to Alcoutim, already 40km . . . )

Legs and pack feel fine, striding out towards Cabanas, and Johannes joins me on the day's walking . . . so, a guide for the route and for historical information and a brisk pace . . . he was a Physical Education teacher and marathon runner and trainer, before a bad accident forced a change of direction . . . now a tour guide with a German company, he covers the Algarve and Andalusia as far as Malaga. His caminho work is voluntary and his passion . . . and a bone condition means he really needs to walk seriously as much as possible to stay mobile.

The Tavira caminho has a long history, he tells me. In fact there were two different routes leaving Tavira and he has plans to revive the second route too. He is a Catholic from Belgium and keen on the churches along the way. He also tells me stories of antipathy towards the revival of the route from local left-wing politicians.

In Castro Marim, Johannes heads back for his lift over the bridge and his home in Spain, promising to try to catch up for another day or half day's walking. I head into Vila Real, find a room in a hotel for €20, and have a look around town . . . last day on the Algarve coast for a while.

An early start in the morning and a head down and keep walking kind of day, to make Alcoutim by early evening . . .

Being Failures succeed . . .

. . . in making it to Portugal . . . Rachael and David, aka Ravid and Alvah, aka Being Failures, friends from Newcastle, are nearby, working on a quinta and we meet in Santa Luzia for a catch-up and to discuss how our projects are going.

The vision is the same, creating new ways to be, which step out of the madness and try to live lightly and deeply . . . implementation, as always, the challenge . . .

We agree that the Wwoofing/Helpxing model is rather fraught, with ownership issues and old expectations of cheap labour often getting in the way of a pure heartfelt exchange of energy . . .

Anyway, they are having fun there for another week or two, and I am wandering north in the morning, glad to be back on the road after the winter break.

resting, reading, readying . . .

Chris, retired teacher from Yorkshire left yesterday, his holiday over; Raymond, room-mate and retired engineer from Middlesbrough, left this morning, heading by train for Castelo Branco. He will be there today. Walking will take maybe 16 days and, all being well, will be the halfway point of the Caminho de Santiago from Tavira, starting Monday . . . and a few weeks house sitting nearby, before completing the route in March. Maybe.

Johannes and Inge, volunteers from the Association of Friends of the Caminho of Eastern Portugal, came to the hostel this morning with lots of information and pilgrim credentials. Yves, retired railway manager from Lyon, France, joined us . . . aiming to do the route on his folding bike.

Starting to feel like Spring, so good timing to be moving north. The legs are rested and ready to go.

Back to Tavira . . .

After eight days away, it's good to be back at the Youth Hostel, my Tavira home.

Monte Palmira was special, a piece of paradise, and the practically perfect job, walking two very friendly dogs, a little firewood collecting, reading Tich Nhat Hahn, talking with Jane about the Sangha and life in general.

This morning, with Look returning from Thailand today, the job is over, and I'm wandering to Tavira. At Luz station, bump into George, a Swiss farmer living in the Ardeche region of France. He's on holiday and having walked here from Tavira to see the church, settles for a look at the photo I just took and walks back with me.

So, it's an hour and a half along the cycle track, some philosophy, learning about his plans for walker accommodation on the farm, serving a new green route nearby . . . maybe running the path across his land.
Into town and continue the conversation over lunch. . . and on to politics and some divergence of opinion over the causes of the crisis . . . with specific reference to the French resistance to reducing government jobs, pensions and all the other medecine prescribed by the bankers.

Back at the hostel, Diana tells me about the comings and goings in the past week and the current residents, three of whom are English. More about them tomorrow.

The Almond Blossom Sangha

Marty and Camille's taxi came promptly at 8, to take them to the bus station for the Seville express.

After lunch, a short extra walk for Chico and Ollie, since we were going to be away a while. And since time was tight, Chico went wandering, returning all innocent just in time for Billy's arrival, to take us to the Almond Blossom Sangha, meeting near Loule, in a very grand yoga centre. Twelve people of different nationalities turned up and Jane led the afternoon's sitting and walking meditations.

Billy, a very keen student of mindfulness, came to Portugal with his wife 27 years ago, from the Black Country in the English Midlands. They brought up their two daughters here and they both married Portuguese men . . . and moved to England. Not the Midlands though - Bournemouth.

Back at the quinta, a late walk for the dogs, a blog catch-up, some reading (since Jane has plenty of Thich Nhat Hanh books) and the final, brief walk at 10.

Moncarapacho

Yesterday, Victoria dropped me off at the new Helpx place near Moncarapacho, as she headed north to Monsanto, near Pedrogao Grande, looking at land for her son, a somellier living in the USA, wanting a vineyard to play with.

Her project is so full of potential . . . her original plan was to own it with a group, but the others dropped out . . . now it is just her, with Helpxers passing through.

Bruno and Jenni were on the trip too, a six hour drive and two day stay. Lots of energy and ideas from them over the past few days . . . also seeking community life on a permaculture project, perhaps in Portugal.

Jane welcomed me, along with Camille and Marty, the Helpxers from Maine, USA, who I am replacing. They are off on the next leg of their extended break . . . to Seville, Cadiz, Barcelona, Italy, Montenegro . . .

The first hot shower for five days was wonderful. Everyone has their own level of "enough"; heating in the cold evenings and hot water is on my list.

Jane and Look moved here ten years ago and have made a simple and beautiful place, with guest house and caravan for visitors, yurt for meditation, fruit and nut trees of all kinds. They have spent a lot of time at Plum Village, with Thich Nhat Hanh, and have an interbeing sangha here, near Tavira.

The main task is walking Ollie and Chico, the two lovely dogs of the family, three times a day . . . good work for a dog-loving walker.

Tomorrow, Marty and Camille depart and I am on my own with the dogs. Later, Jane has invited me to an Interbeing event nearby.

And since the third, final, short, dog walk is ten pm, I am adjusting my bedtime a little . . .

A short walk to Santa Caterina . . .

Since the sun was shining and the legs were itching, set off to the nearest bread shop, which also has coffee and cake, in Santa Caterina, around 5km from the quinta, if you take the shortest route.
Which I don't . . . so a one hour walk became three . . . some great views of the sea and ready for coffee by the time I found the place . . . and cake of course . . . swung my thumb at the first car passing on the return route, a Dutch couple, going to Umbria, by the road I should have been on . . . just time to decline an invitation to paint their house in return for bed and board and we were home . . . where Jenni was busy rearranging the shed and Bruno was potting on cabbages in the sun, which seemed more fun, so joined him for an hour, before the official opening of the hot compost heap, turning and re-covering . . . it was steaming, so the mix of dry organic material, fresh cut grass and the contents of the toilet (shit and sawdust) was clearly right and cooking up the fertilizer for the coming crops.

Quinta Alvorada do Ouro

A quiet day in Tavira yesterday, lunch with Franck, a walk to Santa Luzia, a chat with Rene about her travel plans, which include Myanmar and China as well as calling in on family and friends in France occasionally . . . another talk with Paul, a psychotherapist from London, doing up the house he has bought in Tavira . . . then a lift from Victoria to the Quinta in the hills, with fellow Helpxers, Sebastian, Jenni and Bruno . . .

As a child, in Brussels, Victoria dreamed of being a farmer, then life intervened and five children, singing, midwifery, sacral-cranial therapy . . . then a mystery illness, told by doctors to expect a life in a wheelchair, took off for an Ayervedic approach in India, mostly cured and decided to take the opportunity to be the farmer she always felt she was . . . and moved here five years ago. . . without the wheelchair . . . translates from English to Dutch . . . the current job is "Consciousness is All", by Peter Francis Dziuban . . .

Helpxers and Wwoofers have come and gone . . . Sebastian left today, Jenni from Germany and Bruno from Belgium are here for another two weeks . . . work schedule very relaxed and open for new ideas . . . tomorrow - a pallet potato planter . . .

Permaculture, philosophy . . . and cats . . .

P.I.G.S. . .

News filters through of the Greek rebellion against austerity, or impoverishment . . . and Spanish demonstrations for a similar approach. In Portugal, the communists are promoting themselves as "patriotic and left" and making alliances . . .

The term P.I.G.S was coined by economists to describe the Southern European countries, lured into debt by easy loans, forced into crisis by the inevitable crash . . . initially the highly insulting acronym meant Portugal, Italy, Greece and Spain. Later, Ireland became involved and Great Britain too . . .

The whole charade is manufactured, of course, though it is interesting to note the moral high ground assumed by those imbued with the Protestant work ethic and those who prefer to enjoy life and relax . . . sometimes slack in paying taxes . . . climate plays a part and fascinating to note the Protestants head south for their brief breaks from slavery, and to retire to their villas in the sun . . . and golf . . .

The new Greek Finance Minister, an academic economist, is looking like a leader for southern Europe, persuasive on the case against austerity . . .

The Eurocratic Powers, meanwhile, are looking more and more like irresponsible lenders . . . loan sharks . . .

Beyond the politics, capitalism itself is rotting . . . a paradigm past its sell by date . . .

Silves to Tavira . . .

Silves joins Aljezur and Tavira as favourite towns in Portugal . . . so far . . . beautiful and slightly frayed at the edges . . . if it was a UNESCO world heritage site, like Evora, some of the dilapidated houses in the historic centre might find new life . . . maybe property prices killed them off . . . and if green tourism really takes hold here and the water supply to the golf courses is cut off, a little attention to the walking route to the train station, two km outside town, would not go amiss . . .

Yesterday, disenchanted with the Via Algarviana, I thought about taking the train to Tavira and skipping three or four stages.

This morning the idea was still strong, so I wandered the town, enjoying the ambience and a coffee, when a crowd of bright young cyclists, in bright, tight lycra, landed, spurring the cafe woman into action and making the next door one miserable in her empty establishment . . . hearing the bright, tight vowels of Oxbridge English, I asked who they were . . . Tri-Training Harder, English triathlon company, on six month work stint in Vilamoura, are in the red company colours, the rest are customers. The day's cycle route is 100 miles via Monchique . . . still working in miles . . . that's Vilamoura for ya!

A brief, warm and informative encounter with Sara in the tourist info, then to the train for the hour and a half trip to Tavira, skirting awful Albufeira, though the station bears the name, despite being more than five km away . . .

And so home to the Pousade de Juventude and a warm welcome from Diana . . . and Silvia . . . a new French room mate, Franck, 64, sometime yacht skipper, so well travelled, fluent in English, retired, spending winter in Portugal, off to Portimao to see Guy soon . . . and Rene, retired Frenchwoman, who sold her apartment and lives free . . . off to Georgia next (not USA, the one near Russia) . . .

Victoria messages from the Quinta de Alvorada do Ouro . . . to say she will pick me up after she has worked the market tomorrow . . . maybe five days there before going to Jane's for dog walking . . .