Portugal

Day 1

Before I begin writing, two caveats. First, I am using a Portuguese keyboard and second the internet connect is lousy. I will clean this up later and add photographs!

The oddest thing about Portugal is that I am so used to being in developing nations that I view Portugal as one. I have to continually remind myself that this was a world power centuries before my country even existed. The vegetation and architecture don't help either. Half the time I am in South American where they are speaking a particularly odd dialect of Spanish!

Flying into Portugal, I get the impression of hardness. In the misty light of dawn, it is hard to distinguish the hard outcroppings of rocks from the myriad of high rise apartments, all approximately the same color.
The airport is very old and functional without decoration and standing in line to go through Emigration is good training for the rest of Lisbon. Scan, stamp, pass. No communication with the guards.

The next line is for buses. I opt against a taxi ride as my inherent cheapness makes that too expensive. The driver crams as many tourists and luggage aboard the bus as he can, note not as many as will fit. Also good training for the rest of Portugal. I get to ride for free as someone handed me a ticket and walked off. Apparently having purchased a very expensive ticket, it is good for all day and I am a victim of random kindness. So far, I have heard every language I can recognize plus about a dozen more. English is apparently the lingua franka and everyone speaks with different levels of success.

The bus rattles through traffic that would terrify me if I wasn't so tired and busy trying to keep from crushing anyone. Block after block of military style apartments and businesses. There are no apartments in ground level, sometimes an open space which >I assume os for parking. Every once in a while is a building rendered breathtaking by the ugliness surrounding it. The tile covered buildings are beautiful.

My B & B host, Luis, has warned me that his place is up a narrow stair and baggage might be an issue. Once I get off at my stop and orient myself, which involves sitting on a bench and fending off sunglasses saleswomen, I being the trek upwards. The sidewalks, all 18 inches of them the streets and the stairs are covered in tiles or cobblestones or rocks f varying sizes. This is not a city for high heels. As I drag my bags up about three blocks of stairs a young waiter from the restaurant below the B & B takes pity on me and drags it the rest of the way up. I am breathless and drenched in sweat. Whose stupid idea was it to wear a sweater, anyway?

Up to more flight of stairs, so narrow that I have to walk sideways, I am in a simple and elegant room filled with Americans from....wait for it....Alabama. They are also horse people. We come out flashing pedigrees and since Miles has none, I concede that they win. My room happily is ready. I can have a shower and a cup of 400% caffeinated coffee. Up yet another flight of stairs ' what is it with the city? - to my room where I refrain from collapsing on the bed. I shower the grime o airport travel and head out.

Day One requires a strict exploration of three Lisbon neighborhoods and I start out, determined to accomplish all my objectives. The walk starts with a climb up yet more stairs, than along a street about 10 feet wide allowing two lanes of traffic including buses and a sidewalk so narrow I can hold my arms up at should width and touch both the building and the buses going by.Obviously, not a city to have a dizzy spell in!

My desire to do museum tours vanishes as I get to the first stop, and so I don´t go in. Plus it is closed. My lucky day. This is a very old city and the buildings are hard used. The first walk is on one hill, the Chiado, heading down toward the river the the Biaxa and then up the second hill to the Alfama. In Chiado, I am ravenously hungry and stop for a meal served in a square with street musicians. The meal involves frango or chicken, a sorta~salad and tea. The bread is excellent - rustic I think we call it - the stuff Home Bakery used to make.

My self imposed tour takes my through a fancy district and then using a mall´s elevator to get to the bottom of the hill. At the bottom of the hill, I catch the Number 28 bus to the top of the next hill. We are crammed in like sardines, yet again. The hill I am traveling to is the tallest in Lisbon and overlooks the river and all the rest of the hills. At the very top is the Castelo Sao Jorge, once a hotbed of fighting and Moorish invasions and overlooking the peaceful park where the auto de fe took place after the Portuguese expelled the Moors. Now it is nothing more than walls and cobblestones with a stunning view.It is easy to imagine what is must have been like when it was an active castle, filled with people, animals and noise. Now a few cats and peahens snooze in the landscaping. Within one of the keeps, a musician plays fado. Lonesome, haunting and so romantic.

From the castle, I try to follow my plan but am soon completely turned around. The Alfama was built to repel invaders and it works for me. Tiny narrow windy alleys lined with doors open into courtyards that in turn give access to more twisty alleys. I know I can find my way from the river up and wandered always downward, until I reach the main street and inadvertently complete leg three of my journey. Hot, tired and approaching evening, I find my way back to the B & B, drink an entire carafe of water and fall asleep on my balcony while a band somewhere below plays Broadway melodies. Once the dinner rush starts and the alley below is filled with people eating outside, I stagger inside and sleep for the rest of a blessed 13 hours.

Day 2

The next morning, the smell of rich, dark coffee provides the impetus to go downstairs to breakfast. Luis helps me to plan day 2, a day trip to Sintra, once the summer home to kings, now a tourist destination. I add on a round trip to Cascias and Estoril plus a stop in Belem, mostly because I am a glutton for punishment! Luis has agreed with my assessment that "you've seen one pioneer cabin, you've seen'm all" even when it comes to palaces. Conveniently, the train leaves from lone level below the B & B. I naturally miss the entrance and end up in Rossio, asking directions form a very patient pharmacist who has apparently heard this question before because he draws me a map.

The train travels through the outskirts of Lisbon, all very poor and worn down. There is graffiti everywhere, but am told that this is not sign of gangs of bandits like there are in the US, just stupid, bored kids. Another person suggests that because the wealthy never left the center of Lisbon, the poor never moved into the downtown, but settled in progressively poorer rings around Lisbon. At any rate, every space of ground that can grow a vegetable, is and every window sprouts laundry or flower boxes.

Once in Sintra, I follow the crowd through the ticket booth - no one cares if you get on, it's the getting off that counts and then walk along a street the skirts a gorge. The National Palace rises above us and further on above us, looms the Pena Palace. This was once the summer and hunting home to royalty and I tour the National Palace with it's breathtaking beauty. Signs warn that there at 100 steps on the tour and there certainly are, all narrower than my feet, plus doorways with a clearance of 6 feet. I am constantly checking my head room, not wanting to experience Portuguese medical care up close. The palace is amazing - the tile work ranges from simple glass mosaic flowers to giant billboards in blue telling stories of royal life and conquest. The ceilings are so ornate that I almost want to lie down and just look at them. At one point, I find a chair with a leather seat from some distant age. The carvings on the leather would be right at home on a western saddle. I amuse myself by whisking in my imagination though the hallways, dressed in a mantle and brocade.

After the tour, I explore the "Jewish" section and debate whether or not to explore the other palaces and gardens. Debate continues through lunch of fantastic bread, tomato and cheese, plus an amazing ice tea that I crave the rest of the tour and fail miserably at finding. Having left my wallet lighter and backpack heavier from a shopping spree (not to mention using an ATM for the first time since 1988), I head back toward the bus station to catch the bus to Cascias, a beach town that supposedly retains the flavor of a small fishing village. The bus ride is a white knuckle experience. Vehicles here must go through brakes and clutches at n alarming rate - and as we scream down one hill into a round-about, a car is in the wrong lane! Shrieking brakes, panicked drivers, missing the car by mere millimeters, we careen down into Cascias, where the bus dumps you out at the end of the ride, no signs, no guides. The sea is probably downhill and so I walk downhill, eventually ending up at the wharf.

We are almost at the mouth of the Tejo and may as well be looking out over open water, the other shore is so far away. A few hardy souls beach and swim in the harbor mouth where the water is an icky color. From here, looking east, a promenade runs along the river front to Estoril and I wander that way. The beaches, once away from the harbor are lovely, the people tanned a rich mahogany brown and since I have no desire to get nicely burnt just before spending a week on horseback, I keep walking. At one point, I stop for a badly needed drink and, being deeply suspicious of any carbonated fruit flavored drink, end up with a Sprite and a meringue. The sugar rush alone keeps me going.

Eventually, I find a train station, this one without a word of English to tell me who to buy a ticket. I perceive that coming from a society with limited public transport has left me unaware of how to actually deal with said transport. A very nice Portuguese girl comes to my rescue and helps me buy the ticket. Since the only station name I recognize is Belem, I decide to get off there.

Belem is o the river Tejo and has a number of tourist sites, most of which involve much walking. I try out the Discovery Monument and walk across tiles that are set in a wave pattern. The pavement is level, but try telling my brain that. A few times, I misstep on the pavement, thinking I am stepping down or up, and decide to go home. However, I can;t find the train station (yes, Luis, I now know what they look like!) and end up on an appalling expensive tourist bus to the Commercial park, a short walk from home. I can use the ticket the next day, a fact which keeps me from having a hissy fit over the price.

The streets are filled with angry people carrying red flags and wearing stickers, the only word of which I can read is No! Since, in general, where there are red flags, Americans are generally not welcome, I take the Elevador de Gloria up a level. My instinct proves correct as this is a rally hosted by the Communist Party to protest the fact that the Portuguese government is taking away the 13th month paycheck that Portuguese take for granted.

The Elevador is a dedicated tram that carries people u the hill from Biaxa to Chiado. The tram is permanently leveled to be flat going up the hill, otherwise, we'd end up jumbled on the downhill side going up or crushing the driver on the way down. The occupancy signs read 0-21 seated and up to 22 standing. And, by God, the driver crams 44 people on board before we go up. Either we will make it or it will be a very exciting ride as the brakes fail and we rocket down into Liberty park. Of course, we are all crammed in like sardines, so the landing will be soft for those at the front of the tram. I, of course, am at the back.

But we arrive at the top and I walk, downhill this time, to the B&B where Luis invites me to tour his new guest house, complete with a pool. It is literally right around the corner from the B & B and probably shares a common wall with it. The guest house is a square with the pool in the middle and the city noise fades to almost nothing. Luis tells me about the adventures of opening a B & B in a city where there is no such designation and that he had planned to live at the B & B, but couldn't because of Portuguese regulations. He comes every morning to have breakfast with his guests and while his guest house and apartments are great, the B & B is his baby. We then go for a drink at his favorite local restaurant, conveniently located between the guest house and the B & B.

Drinks are margaritas, made from freshly squeezed limes. Seated at the outdoor tables, looking uphill is a beautifully tiled building. Downhill and across the valley, the Castle of Sao Jorge dominates the skyline. As night falls, the castle is lit up with flood lights. The air is soft, the drinks and companionship is good, and as Luis leaves for a dinner engagement, a couple from the B & B, an American man and his Russian fiancee, who live in Kiev, joined me for dinner and a grilled about American politics, a topic on which I have great opinions but limited concrete facts.

Dinner is a salad served in a bowl the size of the one I make a double batch of pancake batter in at home. And it is full. On the very top, a fried egg rests of prosciutto style ham which is layered over thinly sliced potatoes, over mixed greens with Portuguese cheese. I eat every bite, wash it down with another margarita and then a chocolate bola (a torte style cake) and go back to my room in a very happy and contented frame of mind.

The Ride

My intention had been to document each day’s ride as they happened but now that I have some perspective, a summary will serve my purposes better.

The Horses
I’ve spent my time on dude rides and riding dude horses and I figured that, whatever the word for dude is in Portuguese, these horses fall into the same category. It wasn’t as if we’d be put up on someone’s prize show horses. Having possibly the most comfortable saddle and least comfortable horse, I was worried about how well I’d stand up to the opposite or worse, negatives in both category. And lastly, there is always concern for the horses’ well-being . Were these treated like some of the miserable dude string or like companions?

My initial assessment of the horses was one of doubt. The saddles were old and somewhat dusty. My horse was covered in bot fly eggs, something I would never tolerate on one of my own and the flies were unbelievable. However, the horses didn’t seem to mind and what would have driven my horse to a bucking fit, didn’t seem to bother them at all. When I asked for fly spray, I was told they didn’t need it and that in the super-sunny weather, that the horses stood a chance of developing skin cancer, a claim I have not yet researched. So, I climbed aboard.

The saddle was amazingly comfortable, although I would not think that in a few hours. The Portuguese Cavalry saddles were old, that was true, but they were well constructed. These were used 142 days a year and cleaned regularly. I was told that the maintenance once the saddle was reconditioned was fairly minimal. The dusty came from the general conditions we were riding in. The tree was hinged so it would adapt to any size back and could adjust to differences in horse conformation. The foam covering the seat was not standard issue back in the cavalry days, but it certainly made the saddle comfy. During the ride, it took a conscious effort to shift my legs out of position and my seat was secure. In many ways, it was as comfortable as my saddle at home. The bridle was a heavy field style leather. It was much looser than I am used to, almost hanging in the horse’s mouth. When I attempted to tighten it, my efforts were immediately undone with the suggestion that I leave it alone. I assume that the loose fit made it more comfortable for a horse that had to endure many different hands.

Once I climbed aboard, a much easier task that heaving myself up 16 some hands, we started out. Her walk was smooth and sure footed, almost gliding. I did attempt to ride her, flex the neck, sidle over, and eventually gave up. In some ways, this was a dude horse. Straight ahead, nose to tail. As I ended up being the sweep rider, I also retrieved dropped objects, and the horse and I had a few battles over turning around and going back. Battles that I won by the simple event of getting off and leading her back. Had I had a dressage whip and more time, I think I could have convinced her to be ridden back, but again, not my horse, not my training issue. Eventually it was reins on the buckle, even when we were galloping down the trail, although that took a little time for that trust to develop.

And then we started to trot. It was so smooth as to be almost gaited. Used to Miles’ huge scopey trot, I had to work to post. It was almost easier to sit the trot. And then the canter. We were not fast, in fact we ended up at the back and finally just got into the habit of letting everyone else go first. But it worked in my favor. By the time we passed though the dust cloud raised by ten horses ahead of us, it had pretty much died down and I didn’t get the spa treatment of derma-abrasion that the other nine did. At one point, we were bombing down a road, over rocks and sheets of rocks and around corners past barking dogs. I was terrified. My horse kept looking at the distractions and I rode in constant readiness for a spook and crash. But she never wavered from her course and in time, I came to trust her absolutely, even when we rounded a corner and someone was standing in the middle of the road. We shot past them with a hearty “Bom dia” and kept going. The only time she spooked the entire ride was when someone coming out a side road drug a gate across concrete and rocks, making an awful screech. Even that spook was moderate, made scary only by the fact that we were on pavement and I could hear her shoes skidding.

On the first day, we rode into our lunch site and were greeted by full water buckets. After each horse had drunk its fill, we untacked them completely, no mere loosening of saddle girths. The fussing on the long lines was loud and obnoxious. When we were handed full feed tubs, we discovered why. Each and every horse got a noon meal of feed and electrolytes and they looked forward to that! Once lunch was gone, they settled down and took hip-cocked snoozes in the shade. After lunch, the horses got more water and a good brushing before tacking them up. I fully believe that a good horseman takes care of their horse before themselves and that is one difference between a rider and a horseman. Not a single person on the ride had to be admonished or encouraged to take care of their horse. It was a pleasure. After each and every ride, the horses were given a shower, even when water had to be trucked in. And each horse got a full complement of feed before being turned out to graze on some of the sorriest hay. This is a dry and hard country and the hay reflected that. At one point, I insisted on my horse being given hay, only to be told that the straw she was standing in was hay. I must admit that I did not see a single horse that looked unhealthy. They weren’t fat, but they all carried more weight than hard-keeping Miles.

In ways, these were dude horses, but their pleasant gaits and attitudes coupled with the care that was routinely given them made for a lovely and enjoyable experience.

The Terrain

My impression of Portugal from plane, train, car and horseback was uniformly one of antiquity and hardness. This was a very old country, very much hardscrabble, dry and poor. Flying in from the west, the early morning light picked out the apartment buildings and sheer rock outcroppings with a rosy light, making everything pink. Hill after hill marched away into the distance, covered in green.

Lisbon is a port city, sprawled along the Tejo, a river which dwarfs the mighty Mississippi. The Lisbon hills run perpendicular to the river on the north and peering across this very wide river and pollution, on the south as well. Where we crossed the river east of Lisbon, on a very long bridge that brought to mind the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, the land spread out into marshes and rice paddies.

Driving south to Cruz de Jaoa Mendes, we crossed through bottom lands made rich and fertile with liberal application of water, and dry scrubby land filled with pines, cork trees and funny looking lollipop pines. I liked the lollipop pines very much as they looked like trees drawn by a three year old. I later discovered that these were pinon pines, much larger than the pinon pines of New Mexico. There would be no beating these trees with brooms to collect the nuts. Instead, harvesting pine nuts was a very hazardous profession. Miguel mentioned that in the last harvesting year, a number of men had died falling from the trees.

Our first day’s ride from Cruz de Jaoa Mendes to south of Santiago do Cacem took us through cork forests. These are a variety of oak with a particularly think bark. The trees take 30 years to mature and the first harvest of nubby cork is made into shoes, belts and other interesting items. The outer bark is removed without damaging the cambium and the tree then regrows a harvestable layer in nine years. When the outer bark is removed, the tree is left a beautiful shade of ocher-red which fades as the new layer grows. The last number of the harvest year is painted on the tree trunk. There were a number of confused trees with four different numbers painted on trunk and major branches. The cork is made into everything from fine wine corks to cork boards, insulation, and flooring. Even little scraps are collected.

Miguel explained that the hilly terrain we were riding through should have been denuded, so that the cork trees would get all the moisture they could. Based on that, I suspect that the climate is remarkably dry, otherwise what little top soil there was would have been gone. Although, conversely, maybe that is why there was no top soil. At any rate, it seemed a little counterproductive. In addition, cork trees are fairly fire resistant as long as the insulating cork is present. Part of the forest we rode through had been torched a year or two ago right after the harvesting season. Many of the harvested corks were dying and those that had survived would have to regrow the less valuable cork, putting the trees 18 years behind in their usefulness. The complaints about moisture or the lack thereof seemed to imply that this was a dryer than normal year. The horses were equally as anxious to find greens, event o the point of eating bamboo leaves.

We rode out of cork forests to hard shale type mountains (my rock identification is suspect from 8 feet off the ground). One of the trees was a nere tree, a member of the locust family (Parkia biglobosa) from Africa. The beans were used in horse feed and trying some, I remembered having it in Guyana, where I had thought it was some sort of dried blackened banana paste. The horses adored it. At one point we galloped on a track through a small village, across rocks and shale faces. Rarely have I been so convinced that I was about to die. But my horse never paid any attention to the shifting footing.

Our second day took us 16 kilometers south to the Begem do Morgavel, a reservoir of some of the only water we saw. We went through sheep and goat fields that were filled with a star shaped weed that promised to be remarkably uncomfortable is fallen into, rather like tumbleweeds on steroids. There was nothing green or even vaguely edible in the pastures but the animals looked healthy anyway. The sheep that were kept for breeding purposes had their tails docked. The slaughter animals had full tails. It was a bit odd to see sheep with tails, but a pretty quick way to determine who went to the abattoir.

The roads to the reservoir led through eucalyptus forests and open fields. The forests looked wild until the trail crossed the line of planting and then the trees ran in straight lines with enough room to drive a small car between them. Oddly, it didn’t smell. Apparently, it was not wet enough. The ground changed from a grey soil to more white talc-y type. I was very grateful that my horse was so slow because I avoided most of the dust kicked up by 40 hooves. Once we reached the reservoir, we got to swim, a relief and novelty to be able to swim in someone’s drinking water. Here I found pink granite type rocks and claystone.

The third day, we turned west and rode from Santiago do Cacem to Santo Andre and again, the terrain changed. These were forests of tall pines, probably Maritime Pines, cultivated for turpentine. The trees would have a section of bark hacked off and a bucket nailed to the tree. Slowly, the bucket filled with sap which was then distilled into turpentine. At one point, we rode past a logging operation and much to my amazement, the loggers stopped their equipment so that the horses could pass without spooking. This area was much flatter than what we had seen the two days before. Again, it didn’t smell like much and I think that was due to the lack of moisture. Since this was a short day, we spent half of it on the water, watching dolphins, possibly the most magical part of the entire trip. We were in Setubal Bay, south of Lisbon and again, a river of monumental proportions.

Day four brought us to the beach. We rode down roads, with cars passing in very exciting ways, until we reached the entrance to Santo André and Sancha Lagoons Natural Reserve. From there we rode through dunes to the sand. Bill Bryson makes a point in his book “A Walk in the Woods” that Europeans have a better ability to incorporate environmental protection with use and this was a prime example. I am not aware of any nature/beach preserves that would allow horses or other animals on it. At any rate, we rode for miles without seeing anyone. My horse adored the water and would wade up to her knees in it.

As we rode north, the number of people increased and much to my amazement, the beaches appeared to be tops optional. Miguel thought it funny when I commented on the fact, saying I should be there when the Scandinavians were there since they were completely clothing optional. I think that most of the prudes were transported to the United States a few centuries ago. There are a number of lagoons along the way and there were many, many birds. Unfortunately, time didn’t permit bird watching. Riding back on the inland side of the lagoons, the hills were much less rolling and the bottoms were filled with rice paddies. There were also some drainages filled with lush grass and cattle.

The last two days, the long ride inland from Santo Andre to our starting point and then in a large circle to the north around Margarida da Serra was much the same as the first day. We rode through one heavily cultivated area that turned out to be a spinach farm. As we made the big circle, we were cresting the hills that overlooked a broad valley. The plants here were slightly different, more scrubby bushes. Beyond the valley lay more hills and more as the land lifted up into Spain.