beautiful mértola

So lovely, it doesn't seem real.

hearty

Presunto, cheese and olives. Wine. We split a hare and bean stew. Pens.



Dessert. Jovial party of men offer us a spot of whiskey.



Paper tablecloths are a terrible temptation for artists.

earth, blue, and white

heading south

comfort food

While quietly creeping through the thin woods and cork trees in search of dippers, the sun fell behind the hills, turning the valley blue. Fingers became cold to the touch, noses and cheeks pink, and bellies began to call out for comfort— for something steamy and delicious.

In a little restaurant in Sertã, I was introduced to maranhos, traditional Portuguese comfort food. A mouth-watering mix of rice, chouriço and lamb, stuffed inside the stomach of a sheep and boiled in broth. It's simplicity and satisfaction with a touch of mint; the perfect way to get some heat into your fingers and toes, to hush that moaning belly.



Might I add that I just love the ever-present red clay olive dishes! 

piety

The little tiled niches depicting biblical imagery which I spied throughout my adventure in Portugal, reminded me of the mini shrines I became so familiar with in Nepal— minus the butter lamps, smears of magenta powder, and smoking incense. I suspect the niches are occasionally graced by a melting candle or two, and perhaps some flowers. This need to build a little space of worship, this common thread between such different religions and cultures which lie nearly halfway across the world from each other, is touching. I find that people are more alike than unlike. We just need to remind ourselves of it more often.

sossego

the doors of piódão

the goat and the pudding

Nestled in the terraced valley of the Serra do Açor, lies a storybook village of schist and lines of blue. Piódão is a stark contrast to the other Portuguese villages I came across, which were generally a collection of white-walled boxy houses trimmed in yellow or cobalt.

The quiet had a thickness to it, occasionally broken by a voice— human, bird or goat. I was taken by the careful layers schist and slate, the reverence of cobalt, the little hand-made crosses of twigs nailed above doorways. Climbing the narrow passageways between the ancient houses, I felt that familiar longing in my stomach.

We were beckoned to a little restaurant by an emphatic and convincing man, where we became the sole diners. It was decided that I must try the chanfana, a hearty and hygge (I must use the Danish here, as there really isn't an English word to describe the feeling of this dish) clay-pot stew of goat meat and potatoes, a hint of mint, generous in olive oil. This stew was made for bread-dipping, and my goodness, the goat... It just melted.



And the best way to end such perfection? A coffee, some rice pudding, and a few good laughs.

schist, and lines of blue

to the centre

One fine Sunday, bags were packed and thrown into the back of a car, coffee was drunk, and we headed east.

the spotting of a rare bird

Down the orange-tinted street, in the chilled night air, a voice, beautiful and haunting, halted our feet. A bundle of a woman, blind, with a donation box around her neck, was sitting on a stool on Rua Augusta, singing an aching song. In her hands was a simple triangle.

"It's Dona Rosa!"
"Who's Dona Rosa?" I asked.

This invisible lady, passed without notice, was none other than the famed Portuguese fado singer, Dona Rosa. Blinded by meningitis at the age of four, Dona Rosa lived in desperate poverty, attempting to make a living selling lottery tickets and magazines on the street. A friend gave her a triangle, and with it she took refuge from misery, singing to passersby, earning some extra money.

One day, an Austrian music producer happened across Dona Rosa, and invited her to sing at a music festival in Marrakesh, where she stunned audiences. Her unique voice, and the sincerity with which she sings, brings her to stages all over the world, accompanied by world-renowned musicians. Poland, Germany and Switzerland are soon to be graced with the presence of this incredible woman, and yet, here she was in front of our very eyes, singing as she had, years before. It was the spotting of a rare bird; an experience that stirred my soul.

"You can take Dona Rosa of the streets, but you can't take the streets out of Dona Rosa." 

Perhaps returning to Rua Augusta is in some way comforting. Perhaps it is habit. 
To whatever drives Dona Rosa to offer us her gift so humbly, I am grateful.
How lucky we are.



We jingled for change in our pockets, and with the clumsy clunk of the coins hitting the floor of her donation box, she paused ever so briefly, and said:

"Obrigada."

morality and sin

When I heard there was an original Hieronymus Bosch triptych, The Temptation of Saint Anthony, at Lisbon's Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, I felt a flutter in my belly. Somewhere around the age of eight, my mother gave me a collection of large art books on all sorts of artists. My favourites by far were Vincent Van Gogh, Toulouse Lautrec, and John Singer Sargent— but there was this unpronounceable name which captivated my imagination with twisted bodies and impossible creatures, horrible, violent scenes painted elegantly with a sense of calm. I would easily spend what could have been hours, examining all the details of his work with a thrill.



Hieronymus Bosch was a Dutch painter in the 1400s, whose highly symbolic paintings often illustrate religious concepts of sin and morality. I never imagined I'd actually see one of his triptychs—to finally stand in front of his colourful panels, was just such an immense feeling, I am struggling to find the words to describe it.