Soajo; where the past continues
We took a bus from Ponte De Lima to Arcos De Valdevez. Everyone we ask agrees that we can catch a bus there for Soajo, though no two answers are alike about where, when, the usual. At the bus station in Arcos we see signs for the bus ( circa 1996) but we meld all our information and decide that a bus will leave about 2pm. That leaves us several hours to wander by the beautiful river, buy sausage, bread and beer, and catch a snooze on a bench in the bus station. We are waiting in the wrong place for the single bus to Soajo ( goes there Mon,Wed and Fri, except for some Wednesdays ? )but at the last minute SC sees it about to leave and we hop on.
High into the mountains we go, into the Geres National Park,steep sides terraced with corn and vines. We get off in Soajo and are amazed. CT had chosen this place months ago, based on something she read, but it surpasses even her desire for isolation and beauty. We have booked a room at Casa Do Adro, and Maria Joquima welcomes us warmly. The casa is just a few steps from the church, and the harmonies of the choir drift over the courtyard, shaded by grapevines. The room is wonderful, inexpensive, and Maria tells us she returned from living 30 years in Rhode Island ( I think) to return to her home village. We walk up a trail from her casa, through the narrow, twisty stone streets, always heading up. Soajo has a population of 500, so it is impossible to stray too far.
The trail leaves the village and soon we are following an ancient stone irrigation flume,seeing abandoned corn grinding mills, granite stones turned by the water as it coursed down the mountain. Further up there are occasional cows with giant horns and sounding a cocaphany of bells as they wander around the abandoned stone huts.
And the views out over the valley are breathtaking.
For dinner we walked to Restaurantes Espigueiros, which is a charming little place, run by David and Rose ( they were raised in Boston, but have family ties here, and decided to come back to raise their young daughter and try to make it work in Soaja).
The dinner is beef braised for hours in red wine, deeply colored with rich flavors well combined. We discuss recipes for Kale, which I think must be the national vegetable, and David brings us a slice of his grandmother´s honey cake for dessert. He assists us in figuring out our hike for the next day.
The hike is marked by the National Park and there is a map, but many details are missing, so it is encouraging to talk to a person in English and establish that the trail does exist.
Next morning, we fill every bottle we have with water and head out. First we go down a steep gulley, with brambles ripping at our legs,and find the lovely medieval bridge at the bottom. Very tranquil and untouched by time. Then we scramble up the other side and cross to a trail that heads up the mountain. This time the trail markers have their fun with us. The mountain is criss crossed with hundreds of stone fences, that have been used for centuries to keep track of the cattle. There are animal trails everywhere, and brambles inbetween. Sometimes we hike in separate directions until one of us finds the next trail marker. At the top we find an ancient guard house, overgrown and tumbling but still providing shade while we rest, picnic and enjoy the view as far away as Spain. Across the valley are other tiny villages of stone houses with red tile roofs, clinging to the mountainside.
We eventually descend, not by the straightest line, and get to the highway leading back to Soajo. We are seriously overheated by now and have long ago used up our water. We plop down by the side of the road to share our last orange when someone comes along and points out to us that there is a cafe serving beer if we would only walk a little further around the next curve in the road. Oh yeah. Best beer ever.
Perfect timing. After hiking for 6 hours this was the first person we saw, but they sure had welcome information. Timing is everything.
We attempt to find the elusive Poco Negro swimming hole, following our handwritten map. No luck, but we find another spot down by the river to snooze and cool off. Then we hike the last few Km back to town. When we are almost there we see a sign with Poco Negro printed on it, and real steps leading down to the real swimming hole.
Oh well, we were refreshed anyway.
Back near Soajo we hike thru a collection of espigueiros. These are ancient corn cribs, built of stone and wood, with small vertical ventilation slots to air the corn but keep out the rats. Many pictures taken.
The small main plaza in Soajo has a pillar with a smiley face on top, and a triangle that represents hot corn bread that is cooling off. Kid you not. This is many hundreds of years old and at dinner that night David tells us the story behind it. Too complex to get into here, but ask us sometimes.
All the older women in the area wear nothing but black. Black full skirts over long black hose, black babushkahs and blouses. They are 6" shorter that CT, and totter up and down the steep streets, sometimes carrying bundles on their heads. They did not want to be photographed so just imagine them. They start wearing black when some relative dies ( like 4 years for a sister, 6 for a child, 10 for a husband, something like that...) so by a certain age they are just in black for the rest of their lives. And it is hot out there, folks. Soajo feels like dialing back everything.
People gave us oranges, cucumbers, herbs and of course, KALE ! We met 4 other hikers at Casa D Ardo, and lead them to Restaurantes Espigueiros to enjoy a fine meal and meet David. We also gave them encouragement to take the trail, even if it means meandering on occasion.
The next morning, we caught the bus out of Soajo and headed back to Arcos and eventually Lamego. ( Bus to Porto and train to Regua and another bus to Lamego).
More on all of that next time.
Soajo was dreamlike, and wedded us to northern Portugal. Seems like people (older) from small towns everywhere are fighting to maintain the beauty of the old ways and looking to other people ( younger) to make it happen. We can relate.
High into the mountains we go, into the Geres National Park,steep sides terraced with corn and vines. We get off in Soajo and are amazed. CT had chosen this place months ago, based on something she read, but it surpasses even her desire for isolation and beauty. We have booked a room at Casa Do Adro, and Maria Joquima welcomes us warmly. The casa is just a few steps from the church, and the harmonies of the choir drift over the courtyard, shaded by grapevines. The room is wonderful, inexpensive, and Maria tells us she returned from living 30 years in Rhode Island ( I think) to return to her home village. We walk up a trail from her casa, through the narrow, twisty stone streets, always heading up. Soajo has a population of 500, so it is impossible to stray too far.
The trail leaves the village and soon we are following an ancient stone irrigation flume,seeing abandoned corn grinding mills, granite stones turned by the water as it coursed down the mountain. Further up there are occasional cows with giant horns and sounding a cocaphany of bells as they wander around the abandoned stone huts.
And the views out over the valley are breathtaking.
For dinner we walked to Restaurantes Espigueiros, which is a charming little place, run by David and Rose ( they were raised in Boston, but have family ties here, and decided to come back to raise their young daughter and try to make it work in Soaja).
The dinner is beef braised for hours in red wine, deeply colored with rich flavors well combined. We discuss recipes for Kale, which I think must be the national vegetable, and David brings us a slice of his grandmother´s honey cake for dessert. He assists us in figuring out our hike for the next day.
The hike is marked by the National Park and there is a map, but many details are missing, so it is encouraging to talk to a person in English and establish that the trail does exist.
Next morning, we fill every bottle we have with water and head out. First we go down a steep gulley, with brambles ripping at our legs,and find the lovely medieval bridge at the bottom. Very tranquil and untouched by time. Then we scramble up the other side and cross to a trail that heads up the mountain. This time the trail markers have their fun with us. The mountain is criss crossed with hundreds of stone fences, that have been used for centuries to keep track of the cattle. There are animal trails everywhere, and brambles inbetween. Sometimes we hike in separate directions until one of us finds the next trail marker. At the top we find an ancient guard house, overgrown and tumbling but still providing shade while we rest, picnic and enjoy the view as far away as Spain. Across the valley are other tiny villages of stone houses with red tile roofs, clinging to the mountainside.
We eventually descend, not by the straightest line, and get to the highway leading back to Soajo. We are seriously overheated by now and have long ago used up our water. We plop down by the side of the road to share our last orange when someone comes along and points out to us that there is a cafe serving beer if we would only walk a little further around the next curve in the road. Oh yeah. Best beer ever.
Perfect timing. After hiking for 6 hours this was the first person we saw, but they sure had welcome information. Timing is everything.
We attempt to find the elusive Poco Negro swimming hole, following our handwritten map. No luck, but we find another spot down by the river to snooze and cool off. Then we hike the last few Km back to town. When we are almost there we see a sign with Poco Negro printed on it, and real steps leading down to the real swimming hole.
Oh well, we were refreshed anyway.
Back near Soajo we hike thru a collection of espigueiros. These are ancient corn cribs, built of stone and wood, with small vertical ventilation slots to air the corn but keep out the rats. Many pictures taken.
The small main plaza in Soajo has a pillar with a smiley face on top, and a triangle that represents hot corn bread that is cooling off. Kid you not. This is many hundreds of years old and at dinner that night David tells us the story behind it. Too complex to get into here, but ask us sometimes.
All the older women in the area wear nothing but black. Black full skirts over long black hose, black babushkahs and blouses. They are 6" shorter that CT, and totter up and down the steep streets, sometimes carrying bundles on their heads. They did not want to be photographed so just imagine them. They start wearing black when some relative dies ( like 4 years for a sister, 6 for a child, 10 for a husband, something like that...) so by a certain age they are just in black for the rest of their lives. And it is hot out there, folks. Soajo feels like dialing back everything.
People gave us oranges, cucumbers, herbs and of course, KALE ! We met 4 other hikers at Casa D Ardo, and lead them to Restaurantes Espigueiros to enjoy a fine meal and meet David. We also gave them encouragement to take the trail, even if it means meandering on occasion.
The next morning, we caught the bus out of Soajo and headed back to Arcos and eventually Lamego. ( Bus to Porto and train to Regua and another bus to Lamego).
More on all of that next time.
Soajo was dreamlike, and wedded us to northern Portugal. Seems like people (older) from small towns everywhere are fighting to maintain the beauty of the old ways and looking to other people ( younger) to make it happen. We can relate.
posted by Axolotl at 8:43 AM
1 Comments:
Wow - that sounds so wonderful. I'm so glad your persistence paid off. Please bring back recipes for kale - I'd love to know some new methods. Love You.
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