Hendons in Portugal

Most of  you know Trixie, our joyful goofy, three year old Vizsla.  A friend recently said of her, “She hasn’t a mean bone in her body; she’s a good natured woman.”  Good natured and no mean bones, yes, but Gawdamitey she’s an absolute sack of frightened bones!  Terrified bones.

 
We’ve just spent the entire night up and down trying to comfort her to no avail as racy little thunder cell after cell roared onshore and lit up the sky in huge, jagged, exploding streaks, dumped rain in sheets along with howling wind and then in about three minutes went quiet and calm, but there was no intermission in Trix’s mind.  Our efforts quickly deteriorated from comfort to restraint.  It is gut wrenching to see her so panicked, almost catatonic, and rife with doom, yet be unable to provide her any relief. 

Drug her you say?  I can send you a list as long as my arm of “calming” drugs we’ve tried…nothing.  Thunder Shirt?  She ate it.  Cannabis  drops?  Stoned maybe, but still scared beyond reason.  She is wired the way she is wired and we will live with it, stumble along from time to time, but we must try to live with it.

A couple of days ago, thinking that a few quiet hours to myself would be well spent by a drive into Spain, I took off on A-28 with great expectations. Believe in my near-conscious brain I formlessly expected I might run into haughty, corseted Spanish beauties with roses in their hair, looking with dark eyes over their fans, perhaps a matador or two…suit of lights and all that, a brace of Andalusian horses, certainly ancient windmills with jousting wounds, a few Basques innocently carrying bombs and quite likely Hemingway. eating an onion sandwich while counting his grenades.
And surely if I’d gone up through Caminha and stayed near the coast, all my expectations would have come to me, but I started out on A-28 and almost immediately dithered off numbly into the mountains and crossed the Spanish frontier inland by 20 or 30 kilometers. Crossed the frontier into the land of huge belching cement plants, rows of roadside trash and one truck repair cavern after another. I haven’t seen such squalor since my last trip through Tacoma.
It is very interesting to me that the Portuguese side of the border is so orderly and the Spanish side so chaotic. I wonder if that will prove a cultural phenomenon. Everyone I’ve spoken with about Spain raves about the food and glamor though, so I’ll go back for sure.
Back in Viana, I discovered the local rowing club which is just peachy keen. I say local, but the club is an amalgamation of two former clubs and between them the huge shell house and display cases are stacked with trophies from success in national and international regattas. The shell house contains 60 or 70 shells, yawls and ocean boats of every description and purpose and it is like walking through heaven if you are enamored of the sport. There are two types of membership, Competitive and Casual. I’m about as Casual as they come and indeed have some trouble walking sometimes, but once I sit down, Look Out!
Assuming I pass the obligatory class tests and get assigned to a geezer boat, there will soon be an 11 kilometer row up the Lima River and back in the company of other shells and support craft.
Who would ever have guessed I would be afforded the privilege of pulling an oar in a four or an eight, in the company of brilliance and in a setting of such magnificence. I believe this is part of the advice from a dear friend who said, “Don’t forget to enjoy the process.”
Dandy process.

The waxing moon will come gibbous this evening, always a pleasing juncture for me…it looks well fed, successful, shows ambition and purpose, puffs out a sense of well-being; maybe you can even call it reward from the efforts of it’s minnow-days as a sliver. Not only will it rise gibbous tonight, but this is the season of Verao de Sao Martinho, so it will hang in clear heavens for all to see.

Verao de Sao Martinho, The Summer of Saint Martin, comes from a first century AD historic event. Martin of Tours, as he was later known, was a Roman soldier born in what is now Hungary, but was raised in Italy by pagan parents. At some point he converted to Christianity and became very avid.

He fought in France and on a return march to Italy while crossing the Alps in foul weather, took pity on a suffering stranger and gave the man half his cloak, saving him from dying of exposure. And his legend was born, for immediately the sun came out and the Earth warmed as in summer for three days. Martin being a monomaniacal Christian in the way of so many converts, knew who had done this and as soon as he could, made his way to Tours where he founded the oldest Christian monastery in Europe at a French commune called Ligug’e. There, he lived in the service of others and ministered to the most unfortunate as the Bishop of Tours. What a guy.

Sao Martinho died on the 11th of November and was buried after three days to commemorate his days of summer as well as to fix his Saint’s Day. Seems to me he might be one of the very deserving saints.
Of course we’ve smeared old Marty’s tale with our scientific knowledge of the meteorological conditions that occur in the northern hemisphere in Autumn in which atmospheric heat loss and heat gain must reach equilibrium through an atmospheric adjustment, in most years resulting in a few days of summer-like weather. But it is much livelier and romantic to think of kind soldier Martin keeping that freezing man alive through an act of kindness as the true reason my new-gibbous moon will be seen this evening, will shine on roads that may well have been traveled by Martin and on which I walked just today.

This afternoon we attended our first Portuguese language class here in Viana. Our friend, Dona Flora, took us into the town center last week to meet the public language school director, who was in Spain at that moment, so she introduced us with a great flourish to the secretary of the public language school director. But we were in like Flynn and when we arrived today the Director made a terrific fuss over “Flora’s friends”. This class commenced on September 1st, so adding to my tone-deaf language abilities is the fact that the class was nine sessions ahead of us.

And so class started. I kept up through,

“Bom Dia. Tudo bem?”

“Bom! ”

“Obrigado.”

“Danada.”

“Muito Obrigado!”

“Danada! Danada!”

“Tchau.”

“Tchau!”

And then it fuzzed out into a sound torrent, but one with great animation, hand wringing and pointing over, under and beside objects as a visual aid. The instructor, who has a stentorian voice and the kind of expressive face usually associated with sign-language speakers, got louder and louder as she walked toward Linda and me to introduce us to the class. Once standing over us she let go a blast of high speed, high volume Portuguese interspersed with, “America”, “Retired”, “Linda”, and, pointing to me, “Gleek”. I corrected her gently, “I’m Rick, actually.”

“Yes, Gleek…Walcom, Gleek!”

“Obrigado!”

At that point, Trixie, who was lying at our feet, and who has recently changed dog-food brands from one sold only by vets to one sold in all stores, but containing the same ingredients, well, almost the same ingredients, squeezed off a couple of stinkies while lying there that caused everyone’s eyes to water. Several of my colleagues produced hankies and covered their noses and mouths and our instructor retreated to her lectern.

I took Trixie out of class in a cloud of shame to glares of relief by my classmates. Even outside in a brisk wind it was horrific. I think she’s still acclimating to the new food; no I’m certain of it.

Not having my Religious Holidays Pocket Calendar handy, I blasted across the bridge into Viana do Castelo a few mornings ago to our new favorite branch of Millennium Bank to do a little biz and it was shut up tight as a drum. Today is a religious holiday. They seem to occur throughout the year about every nine days. I believe this one celebrates the Miraculous Appearance of Our Lady of Pedestrian Bouquets. Yep, it’s that one. For the last several days there has been a makeshift flower market in town that seems to be selling only huge bunches of Chrysanthemums, and people, mostly older people, have been lined up right out into the street.
Turns out it’s actually Day of The Dead, when Portugal, or Catholics (same same) honor their dead. And sure enough the streets were clogged to a stand-still for blocks on every road leading to the ubiquitous little cemeteries sprinkled around the hills and valleys, and those same people who lined up to buy Chrysanthemums, now lined up to place them tenderly on an ancient’s grave. It is a touching ritual.
Much more touching than the ritual of trying to buy real estate. We had decided to buy a certain house and excitedly went in to see Pedro the real estate professional to write up a contract, but Pedro told us he had just found out the house was no longer for sale. Pedro is exactly as efficient and straightforward, well organized and professional as you can imagine. And now he’s howling, ”Ees not my fault. Yes but ees not my fault.” Ees his fault.
And here in Portugal they gang up on you…from three different agencies we’ve been treated to three different sets of Larrys, Moes and Curlys. There’s always one guy who found the house, one guy who is licensed to sell it and one guy who speaks a little English. Sometimes there’s also a guy who lives in France, but is here to offer assistance to his partner. All five, six or seven of us troop through the houses and then we stand around at the front gate with the owner and maybe his family while the realtors confer among themselves, smoking cigarettes right down to the filter and speaking a language, all at once, that makes them sound like a gargling trio….this goes on for about a minute while we look from one to the next like children who expect to be punished and finally, the one who looks Dr. Mengele sneers, “They say maybe,” and the realtors turn away and resume gargling. After a second cigarette, Mengele turns back to us with an ice cold stare and says, “They say no. You call you need anything.” And they go crashing down the cobblestones in their worn out Mercedes, cigarette smoke pouring out of all windows.
To offset some if not all of our realtor experiences, today we stopped for lunch at a tiny cafe in a little village not so far from here. We already had sampled this little gem two days ago, tasting their offerings of different meats. Today, though l/we went for the full meal deal. Or more accurately we just sat down outside the restaurant without speaking and food stated arriving. First steaming bowls of outrageously good cream-of-vegetable soup, then a bowl of olives and two big, soft rolls, with a pitcher of wine of course. Just as I was getting ready to leave, it became apparent that the lull after the olives was just that.
Our main course arrived! A heaping platter of braised pork, seasoned rice, sliced fresh tomatoes, roasted potatoes and a salad. And finally a tiny cup of God’s own coffee and the bill. It translated to $18.22. With tip.
Two days from now we will drive to Golega for the ten-day-long Portuguese National Horse Fair and drink in those flashy, muscular Lusitanos being ridden just for us. And then down to Lisbon to pick up our winter clothes that have arrived in huge steamer trunks, then back north, steeled against the next round of real estate rigamarole. Bring em on!

Both Linda and I have been closely involved with horses and dogs all our lives. We both grew up with animals and horses and dogs, particularly dogs came to be the pivot point of our lives, most notably and happily in the form of a small dog daycare and training facility, Gone To The Dogs, Inc. After we’d made the decision to retire to Portugal, we sold Gone To The Dogs, Inc. where I had trained dogs for the last sixteen years and Linda had run the shop. During the final few days of working I had an experience that served as a fitting and final punctuation mark for our work.
On a Spring afternoon after finishing with my paying clients I took my Vizsla, the ebullient TRIXIE, over to Bridgeport Village and sat with her on a bench in front of Peet’s Coffee House. Several people walked by and smooched her up to her great delight..
At last a very pale elderly lady came slowly down the sidewalk in a wheel chair pushed by an equally elderly, kind-eyed gentleman. They backed and filled with the chair until the woman was close enough to the bench to pet TRIXIE. I noticed at that point that she had probably recently fallen and was really banged up on one side of her face and I felt instant empathy although she beamed and seemed pleased to be out and about.
TRIXIE took one look at her, and starting at her fingers, licked her hand and bare arm all the way to the top of her shoulder and back down again. The woman was motionless, transfixed.
Finally she said, “She’s very loving and that is important…As a young woman I had a fine Morgan mare who would lick my arms and face, just like this…would lick me until I stopped her, and in all our years together she only kicked me one time and that was because the farrier frightened her.”
“I miss that little bay mare,” she said. And turning a bit toward me she asked, “Did you know her?”
Her husband said nothing, but teared up.
I could not speak.

Porto, Portugal — Our Airbnb apartment is in the middle of the old city and is 200 years old with 14 foot ceilings. It is about 15 feet wide and 100 feet long with eight huge opening windows, each opening onto its own minuscule wrought iron balcony…I wouldn’t dare step out onto them for fear the iron bolts, also 200 years old, would call it a day. The apartment is quite elegant with its good paintings, wide-board wood floors and Asian antiques.
It belongs to Kurt and Teresa, Kurt being the brother of Kim, whose dog is the massive Standard Poodle, Oliver, and who is a regular visitor to Gone To The Dogs in Lake Oswego. Smallish world. Kurt is loquacious and gracious, an enthusiastic gourmand. He told us about the Prawn-Beer-Halls by the commercial harbor in Matosinhas where we ate last night, and the braziers out on the piers’ edge that grill the day’s catch over special charcoal that comes from Cuba. Only Cuban charcoal will do. As one strolls past the octopus being sliced to just the right thickness for their place on the grill and the immense prawns being split and drizzled with oil, the flavors and rich aromas of cooking seafood are mesmerizing. Tantalizing. Beckoning…we’re going to one of the grills for lunch today.
The youth of Porto all passed underneath our windows last night, most of them singing as they went, others, I believe, arguing the ontological position or the cosmological stance. They seemed to be shouting all at once or toward the later hours just making the universal grunts and clicks we all make when we’ve had enough to drink. They stopped well before 3:30 AM however and it went dead still.
It was still dead still when I went out for coffee this morning, but I found a little place that was open and also offered ham and cheese croissants. There was a gaggle of last night’s revelers at the doorway and true to expectations, they all seemed happy to greet me. It’s a good day already. When Norwegie wakes up, we’ll ride the little cartoon trolly all the way to the beach and maybe later we’ll rent a car and have a look at the countryside.
This place, this ancient Portugal, may become our home.

While looking for a Dremel tool for Trixie’s nails we came across a ceramics show in what appeared to be a former church in the twisting cart-tracks of the Medieval Centre of Viana.  Huge stones, 10 meter ceilings with massive beams and a cavernous-you-better-be-good feel, you Portuguese sinners in this day of our lord 1400 AD.  For the moment though it is a gallery of quite vigorous work by student ceramicists from all over Europe…France, Belgium, Germany, Italy, they’ve come to a course taught by a noted Portuguese and all the work was accomplished here in Viana do Castelo in commercial factory kilns.  Very cool concept and the students were brimming with pride.

Then Linda discovered a beautiful dressage barn where she will commence lessons next week.  She is giddy and today we shop for boots, jodhpurs and half chaps.  The goat is the barn’s ambassador, although when new people come around she must be put away shortly because of her enthusiasm.  She’s very pretty to my eye; she has that, “Would you like to take me for a coffee perhaps, or a glass of wine?” look.

While this is a traditional dressage barn, there are two whole rows of stalls containing big elegant gray Lusitano studs and I noticed quite a few traditional Portuguese saddles and so perhaps Linda will become enamored of that style of riding.  While it is considered dressage too, or there is a bull-fighting style as well, the rider always remains very erect and the saddles have a pronounced cantle and more shape to them than a dressage saddle or even a hunt seat.  They also use much longer stirrup leathers, so that one has more leg on the horse and it is a position more similar to the western style Linda knows best.  It’s very handsome to see and looks to be more comfortable than conventional “English” dressage style.  But then, I’m from Texas; don’t pay me no nevermind.  But all this does make me want some of my horses back.

• 

• 

• 

• 

Yesterday while looking out over the beach, I detected some vague white spots, then a few more and finally a smear of them.  Got out the binoculars and made out a cloud of more than a hundred OPTIMIST class dinghies racing like mad ten kilometers north of the nearest shelter in the big swells and stiff wind of the open Atlantic Ocean.

 There were large craft positioned at anchor as turn markers and these little boogers were just hammering away on that big ocean, rising poised for an instant on the crests and then disappearing completely in the troughs. They are only about half again as big as a bathtub and these had to have been True Sailors of the first rank and while they are children now, they are surely destined to be voyagers. It’s still fashionable to run a mild mixture of Vasco da Gamma blood in these parts.

Viana do Castelo completely satisfies my need for a diverse and ever-changing working waterfront.  There are tugs and fish-boats, tankers and dredges, a good sized shipyard, two yacht basins and beaches both inside and outside the jetty.  Off to the south is one of the storied international competition wind-surfing beaches and it is almost always covered with parachute-shaped kites whipping up and down the beach.  This little port is as visually interesting as any I’ve seen and then when one turns and looks inland at the town, it is all white-washed and red-tiled-roofed.  This is a treasure I am quite grateful to have found.