Daral Boles
PORTFOLIO:BEFORE
A steep walk up the mountainside from the nearby (relatively speaking) town of Melo is rewarded by spectacular views of the valley, spread out like an undulating carpet below.
This is the Serra da Estrela in all its glory.
Just down the mountainside from the center stand the ruins of a tiny agrarian village. Like much of the Serra, Regadas lost its population in waves of emigration and displacement. A devastating fire that tore through the region in 2017 finished the job, leaving an eerie, evocative ghost town.
Any drive up the mountain ran the risk of a herd encounter and a lengthy stop, the sheep parting like water before the prow of a slow-moving boat. The scene, much beloved by retreat clients, is deceptively pastoral: that ram’s horn is sharp enough to key a car door.
Folgosinho, perched on an adjacent ridge, is typical of surviving towns in the Serra, its narrow streets lined by whitewashed stone houses with red tile roofs. The extravagant carpet of yellow Scotch broom beyond is both beautiful and deadly: this invasive species, ubiquitous and nearly ineradicable across the Serra, is also, in times of drought, frighteningly flammable.
Spring in the Serra da Estrela is wild, and beautiful.
This chapel is typical of many unexpected and felicitous discoveries that turned up as we explored the Serra. Unmapped and unmarked, its story remains a mystery.
The church in Linhares da Beira is a well-maintained model of Portuguese Baroque architecture, circa 1750 or so. I loved the strong, simple elements of its façade; the cacophonous, colorful décor within, not so much.
Spring hikes to Folgosinho, though beautiful, were also treacherous. Lush grasses and Scotch broom hid the trail, and it was all too easy to turn an ankle, or step into a boggy rivulet running down the mountainside.
When I stopped in to schedule a little bang trim, the barber obliged, on the spot. Having burned out in a high-pressure career, he retrained and returned to open a shop in Gouveia where he spent childhood summers. When I asked why he charged his clients so little, he waved at an elderly woman just leaving the shop. “It’s what they can afford,” he said.
Ingenious hydroelectric canals run like veins down the mountainsides, part of a sophisticated web that is more than 100 years old. Newer fencing stands as a kind of warning, or memorial. Designed to prevent the catastrophe of 2017 when vast numbers of wild animals drowned in the canals as they fled the fire, the fences are supposed to funnel animals to tiny bridges that cross the canals. But it is too late: the only large species to survive the 2017 fire is wild boar.
Who knew kiwi grew in Portugal? I certainly didn’t, though I learned to look for the vines, many ancient and untended.
In the early weeks before guests arrived, all staff pitched in. Here, we are unpacking dishware in the dining hall, masking mandated by Portuguese authorities.
Part of the rich heritage of the Serra is its wool industry. While the big industrial-sized plants are long since shuttered, there are a growing number of small artisanal factories, reviving the art and preserving the machinery of the past.
Our neighbors and their charges could be found all over the mountain, grazing at the side of the road or flowing down a narrow hiking trail from one abandoned field to another.
Many of our hikes took on the quality of a forensic investigation. In this abandoned mill, for example, we asked ourselves: what did they make here? Who put up the newer concrete plank ceiling? What is the story of this place? Alas, there were no witnesses to tell us.
Incalculable hours of human labor went into the construction of these dry-laid walls, here delineating groves of olive trees that appear to be only lightly tended.
Many farms in the Serra are now semi-wild, their owners absent. We learned to read the landscape, looking for untended orchards and vines ripe for foraging.
Rainbows were a surprisingly frequent feature of our valley.
The last, steep assent to Linhares da Beira runs up a Roman road, an ancient byway likely constructed by enslaved local peoples.
Larger than many of the ruined farmhouses in the region, this manor house near Melo had a grand, albeit faded appeal. Buried beneath the weeds were the remnants of a formal garden.
Although constructed of more finished stone than the walls lining orchards and farms, this ‘urban’ wall is similarly dry-laid, its blocks separated by pebble infill, no grout.
In the spring, the sound of water is everywhere, streams rushing down the mountain to join the Mondego River far below.
The chattering rush of a hydroelectric canal accompanied a gently descending trail above Seia.
Tilework along a sidewalk in Gouveia is typical of the blue pottery for which Portugal is famous.
Many of the thin, terraced fields that run along the mountain’s flank are now left fallow; the former farmers are now elderly, and their children and grandchildren have often moved away, some to the United States.
Dramatic patterns of light and shade are formed by vast, often fast-moving cloud formations.
The first, winter view from my first room in December, 2022 was bleak and yet beautiful.
A nightly spectacle, sunset never failed to astonish. Here, the sun sets behind the town of Folgosinho with its distinctive Crusader-era guard tower.
