A postcard from Alentejo
Southern Portugal saw me grow up, and it's roots will forever intertwine with who I am.
The smell of sea. Glimmer between cork oaks just before sunset. Vast orange fields. The taste of homemade food. Sand between my toes. Inviting turquoise waters, yet freezing cold. The smell in the air at twilight. Lizzards sunbathing. The scent of gum rockrose, esteva, with the morning dew. Going out for dinner and the first thing that is served is olives. The sound of cows on the pasteur, with their bells. The lazy cat or dog lying in the sun. The calm sound of a heatwave.
These are just some of the things I miss from my childhood in Alentejo, where I spent my childhood from autumn to spring. Contrasting with the summers spent in Denmark.
As we start to look at dates for our yearly trip to Portugal, I started to dream, to remember, and to look forward to setting foot in a land I call home.
One of the things I had forgotten about was the way the end of day skies really get to me. It filled it with colours that could paint dreams, and brought back memories of my childhood. My eyes became teary, as I realise how much I missed it, but also how much I didn’t appretiate it. It is how life is, sometimes we can’t see what we have, until we move away from it. However, a late appreatiation is a wonderful thing.
The summer in Alentejo is an eternal heatwave, where everything stands still in humble obedience to the sun's might. At midday, the landscape becomes blurry as the hot air rises from the soil.
We sit in the shadow, on the terrace my dad has built, and I have a seat towards the garden. The lemon tree my grandfather planted and grafted is caving under the weight of the lemons. This is a true and humble meaning of abundance.
This is where I grew up.
It hits me, as if it was something I never realised before now. I grew up in the land of melons, lemons, oranges, olives and figs. I picked fruits straight from the trees as a child. My portuguese grandmother baked sweet potato and bread for us, in the old stone oven, which my dad has now painted yellow. A privilege I didn’t knew of. A privilege I am thankful for.
It is the small things that make a place missed. And this land is full of them.
Olives in olive oil and garlic at every meal. The sound of the Atlantic on a windy day. A coastal walk. The stork families living on telephone poles. Dogs walking themselves on the street, too busy to say hello. Fields and hills planted with olivetrees. The fresh smell of eucalyptus. Squid salad with garlic, olive oil, parsley, vinegar, and onion. Bougainvilleas adorning streets and houses. Old fountains in the middle of small towns. Sunsets by the coast, feeling the salt water in the air.
Blue is a colour that prevails in this corner of Europe. Blue painted houses. Like the sky, the river and ocean are different shades of blue. Small blue flowers. Geometric patterns in blue adorn Portuguese tiles. Blue reminds me of home.
Atop a hill, the landscape stretches as far as the eye can see. Cork oak and olives are the prevailing trees. The soil is dry and warm, inviting you to sit on a blanket, with a book, under the protecting shadow from the trees. I wish myself there. The scent of dry cork fills my nostrils, and I think of all the books I read as a teenager, in the presence of this scent. And how ants were attracted to my white pages, and I spent time blowing them off.
And so, memories are welcomed as old friends, in nostalgia and in gratefulness. I wonder for a moment, what if I had never known this country, and my even happier that I do, that I can have this duality, which hasn’t always been easy.
I can’t wait to see you, dear Alentejo.