COUNTRY WAYS AND COUNTRY FOLK (_continued_)
Next we pass a string of heavily-laden mules, and now a farm-cart drawn
by big, sleepy-looking oxen. The Portuguese have seen no reason to
change the build of their farm-carts since the old days of the Roman
occupation. The wheels have no spokes, they are almost solid, and
instead of turning round on the axle as ours do, the axle is fixed in
and revolves with them. The body of the cart is just a flat board with
upright sticks round the edge, against which side planks can be propped
if required. When first you see these odd-looking carts, they strike
you as having come out of some prehistoric picture-book.
Away on the right a field is being ploughed, and the plough, like
the cart, is of the same pattern as those used by the Romans--a very
primitive affair. Just a wooden spike shod with iron, which scratches
shallow furrows in the earth. It is being drawn by a great big ox and
a very small donkey. The ploughman has a little boy to help him, who
carries a long pole with which to clear away the earth that clogs
the plough. Man and boy have been at work since very early morning,
and they will go on till six or seven in the evening. All day long,
hour after hour, they sing a monotonous kind of chant in a minor key,
only about two lines, repeated over and over again, and it sounds as
though there were no real words to it. It is just such a tune, or want
of tune, as may be heard any day on the east coast of Africa, sung by
native boat-boys.
[Illustration: THE FARM CART OF THE COUNTRY.]
It is a legacy from the early days when the country was held by the
Moors. The Southern Portuguese more especially have retained many
Moorish customs, and the peasants have a very distinctly Moorish type
of face, with the inscrutable expression which may so often be seen
among Eastern peoples.
There are many Arab wells or _shadufs_ in the country. A beam is placed
horizontally between two pillars, and on this is balanced a long pole,
to one end of which a weight (very often a large stone) is attached,
and to the other, by means of a rope, a bucket. A pull on the rope lets
the bucket down into the well; when full the rope is let go, and the
weight at the other end raises the water.
With a few exceptions, in some of the larger towns, nearly all the
shops are Eastern-looking. They have no smart plate-glass windows in
which to show off their pretty merchandise; often they have hardly any
window at all, but just a big doorway, through which you look into a
dark passage, where the various goods for sale hang on the walls and
from the ceiling.
The Portuguese have many other Eastern ways: for instance, if they wish
to send you farther from them, they make a sign with the hand which
we should take to be beckoning you nearer, and if they want you to
approach, they would seem to be motioning you away--both of which signs
are entirely Eastern.
They have also retained from the Moors a love of coloured tiles for
decorating their houses, and even their churches, both inside and out.
There are many factories at Lisbon and Oporto where these tiles are
made, but they never now attain the beauty of the old Moorish ones,
which are still to be seen here and there throughout the country. It is
a lost art.
But we have left our plough far behind, and are coming to a few
cottages and a small wayside inn. A bush hangs over the door to show
that wine is sold, the time-honoured sign which was used long ago in
England, and from which the saying comes, “Good wine needs no bush.”
Outside, tied to rings fastened in the wall, stand two or three
donkeys, a pony, and a mule, all very tired and dejected-looking,
while lolling in the doorway, or sitting on a bench inside, are their
masters, drinking the good red wine of the country, of which they
can buy a large bottle for the modest sum of forty _ries_, or about
twopence.
They are fond of a glass of wine, but you will see little or no
drunkenness, except occasionally on a Sunday. Close to the inn is
the old stone watering-place, the _fonte_, as it is called, whence,
out of the mouth of a quaintly-carved stone head, a fresh stream of
water, cool and clear from the mountains, is ever flowing. All over the
country, wherever there are a few houses together, and at the street
corners in the towns, may be seen these stone watering-places and
fountains, where the brightly-dressed peasant-women fill their large
earthenware jars, carrying them away balanced on their heads, where the
lads and maidens wrangle good-humouredly over whose turn it is next,
where the children play and dabble in the water, and the gossips meet
to talk over the latest scandal.
There is a small boy running about on sturdy, bare brown legs, hands
thrust deep into the pockets of his ragged and patched little breeches,
which are kept up by the usual sash, worn by men and boys alike, and
wound round and round the waist. His shirt is open at the neck, and on
his head he wears the cap of the country, a long worsted bag, drawn
well over the ears, and hanging almost to the shoulder.
These caps are always either black, or bright green with a scarlet
stripe round the opening, and, as we are soon to realize, serve many
useful purposes, as well as that of covering the head.
The little urchin, seeing we are strangers, comes up to have a good
look at us, and out of idle curiosity we ask his name. He gives us a
string of them, which sounds fitting for a young prince--Henriques
Quintino Rodrigues de Monserrate, the latter being probably the name of
the village he lives in. Finding us less interesting than he had hoped,
our small friend proceeds to remove his cap and to play with something
at the bottom of it, which he exhibits with great pride to another
child who has come out of one of the cottages. He eventually pulls
it out, and we see that it is a _very large black beetle_! His hand
goes in again and draws out another, and yet another, and his three
treasures are put down to crawl about on the steps leading up to the
watering-place. At last, tired even of this engrossing amusement, he
grabs hold of them again, and drops them one by one into the recesses
of the cap, which he then proceeds to replace upon his head. When
remonstrated with, he quite fails to catch our point, and assures us
that there could be no safer place for carrying black beetles.
We have lingered enough, and must be going on our way. The whole valley
seems transfigured, and all things loom fairylike through a golden haze
as we look towards the setting sun. We wander on through an orchard of
orange and lemon trees, with their wealth of golden fruit and tender
white blossom, the fallen fruit lying beneath the trees, as do the
apples in an orchard at home when shaken by the winds of autumn. We
meet an old priest, in wide-brimmed hat and long soutane, who smiles
benignly on us. He passes on, and the sound of a church bell, calling
to prayer, floats softly up the valley.