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 |   ON THE WRITE PATH: travel journal for Around-the-World in 2015, 16, 18. |
StephBee and Ẃeβ࿚ẂỉԎḈĥ This is the third entry for
🇵🇹 Didya see my butt sticking out da window? (Castro Verde, Portugal) Chasing windmills? The windmills of Don Quijote are found in the Alentejo region of Portugal southeast of Lisboa. It's hot. It's dry. A region of cork and olives, oranges, cattle and grains. Windmills ground grain.  Castro Verde itself is on a rise of land in the middle of nowhere south of Beja... which is just north of nowhere. It's inland with poor soils. Think cattle and mining. The term castro derived from the Latin castrum refers to a small military encampment or fortification, built of large rocks. Occupied since the times of the Neanderthals until given a charter in 1510 it's now just a small town of 7 thousand. It's still rocky. But that's not MY story... I left Silves by bus, almost losing my pants while boarding (remind me to pack a belt), to go to Albufeira through Tunes (roads partially blocked). After the short trip I sat in the bus station for over 4 hours. At least a small boy amused us by playing futbol with a crumbled piece of paper. Castro Verde was only an hour away! But... the bus driver blew right past the exit. We had to turn around in Entradas... arriving late. No one was waiting for me at the hostel. No answer to ringing the gate-bell or banging. Finally... The place was very nice, even has a pool for super-hot days. 90+ is common in the summer. I don't swim, but dangled my feet in the water. I had a room to myself and almost had the place to myself. A couple (British?) and two Portuguese workmen (only one night). Breakfast was decent. Ham, cheese, croissant, yogurt, coffee orange juice... in other words Portuguese. I explored town. Casa Dona Maria = closed. Windmill = closed. Two churches = closed. At least the tourist bureau was open and I had a nice chat. And I did find the post office with its adornment of bird nests (is the mail delivered by swallows?).  Back at the hostel... no one there. Not the couple, not the owner, nobody. Which wasn't a problem until I couldn't get into my room. The skeleton key wouldn't turn.  But... I had left the window open! I took a chair... and carefully... very carefully... climbed onto the sill and gently lowered myself to the bed on the other side. To no avail. Back out, back in, wondering whether anyone was watching (small towns can be nosy and protective). I finally had the bright idea of putting a spoon through the key to provide leverage. It worked. I told the owner to laugh before I told her my story. After-all... if the neighbors had noticed she could at least explain. So... Didya see my butt sticking out da window? There are no pictures, no proof... that I know of.  ~475 words 3040 views |
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