COUNTRY WAYS AND COUNTRY FOLK
The Portuguese peasants, dark-faced and unshaven, often
look such ruffians that at first, when you meet them on
some lonely country track, you would not be at all surprised
if they brandished a knife over your head with the blood-curdling
challenge of “Your money or your life!”
But in reality they are nice civil fellows, anxious to please in any
way they can, friendly and full of natural politeness. Do you ask your
way in broken sentences, your scanty Portuguese vocabulary helped out
with signs and gesticulations, the Portuguese workman will take the
greatest trouble, first of all to discover your meaning, and then to
help you and make himself understood, even going out of his way to
accompany you to some point of vantage, from whence he may the more
easily direct you. Then, with a smile, a bow, and lifted hat, he will
go on his way ready to act the good Samaritan to the next comer.
Would you like to imagine you are going for a walk in Portugal, and
that you see all the quaint country folk we should pass? Let us choose
a pretty walk--say down the valley to Collares, that little village of
vintage fame at the foot of the Cintra range of mountains, which tower
above us on the left, their summits standing out in bold masses of
rock, clear-cut against a deep blue sky.
It is spring-time, and all the fruit-trees are in blossom. Tender
spring colouring throws its veil of softest shimmering green over the
tall poplars, and wherever we look there are wild-flowers, springing up
in the fields and on the roadside and on the rock-strewn slopes of the
untilled land. Such wild-flowers! Vivid gentian-blue, and deepest rose,
and many that we know quite well, and cultivate with so much trouble
in our gardens at home. Tall, starry-shaped asphodels, slender white
lilies and large blue ones, snapdragons, lupins, orchids, gladioli,
blue and yellow irises, mallows, foxgloves, and many others; and
climbing among the cistus-bushes are wild-roses, and sweet-smelling
honeysuckle and everlasting peas, and there are the large, rose-like
white flowers of the cistus itself, with a handsome dark brown blotch
on each leaf. Brightest of all are the fields of blue convolvulus,
looking as though a piece of summer sky had lost itself, and had been
caught and held prisoner in the grass.
[Illustration: A QUIET POOL AT CINTRA.]
Down the valley flows a little brook clear as crystal, which goes
bubbling and gurgling along; gliding shyly round the big rocks as
though it wondered what it would find on the other side, and then,
grown bolder, leaping with a sparkle and a splash over some tiny
waterfall into a deeper pool below. There is an old moss-grown bridge
with maidenhair ferns peeping out from between the stones. We cross
over, and before long the footpath comes out into the dusty road.
Presently we meet a girl on a donkey, sitting sideways on a
funny-looking affair which does service for a saddle, and which half
smothers her small mount. She has got her best shawl on, and her
brightest orange handkerchief tied over her head, and because the sun
is hot (and perhaps still more because she is going to visit some
friends, and wishes to appear smart), she is holding up an old green
umbrella.
[Illustration: GOING TO SEE FRIENDS.]
Next, we meet another donkey, but he is a less prosperous beast than
his brother who has just gone by. Thin and tired, he droops his head,
and his ears lop sideways in a depressed way; and no wonder, for
hanging on either side of his pack-saddle are huge baskets filled with
earth, and piled above them and across his poor little back are great
bundles and sacks stuffed with green fodder. Perched, goodness knows
how, on top of all, sits an old country-woman. There is hardly any
donkey to be seen, except the head and legs, and a few inches above
the tail. We wonder how he can get along at all, but his mistress
won’t let him dawdle; and as her ruthless stick comes down with a
crack on the few available inches, we feel we would give anything
to save his poor thinly-covered bones.
Sights of this kind are the one thing that would make English boys and
girls miserable in Portugal. Kind as the people are to one another
and to their children, their poor animals are often most brutally
overladen, overworked, and beaten. No one seems to think that animals
need kindness and consideration, no one minds seeing acts of cruelty.
[Illustration: RETURNING FROM MARKET, LEIRIA.]
But let us walk on and try to forget that poor patient little donkey.
What is this coming down the road in a cloud of dust? A horseman,
cantering along with his heavy overcoat flying out behind him. He is
riding a pretty little bay horse, hardly bigger than a pony, with fine
legs and muzzle, long tail and mane, great big eyes looking about
him, and ears pricked well forward. What a strange figure the rider
makes! He is sitting on a very high saddle covered with flapping
goat-skins, and his feet disappear into the quaintest of stirrups,
veritable wooden boxes, handsomely ornamented with brass-work. He has a
brightly-coloured striped rug, with many tassels, rolled up and thrown
across the front of his saddle, and various other odds and ends are
swinging about. He is a young farmer, and thinks himself rather a fine
fellow, with his broad-brimmed felt hat, wide, magenta-coloured sash,
and thick black overcoat or cloak, with fur collar and scarlet lining.
It has, however, not struck him to shave since last Sunday week, and
his appearance is that of the villain in a play.