ah, the sound of Benfeita, to be awoken not by the sound of bells, but, by the sound of someone walking past the flat, hoiking up.
Spitting in public is one of the first things that, and I don’t want to say ‘hits you in the face’ but it does seem one of the most appropriate sayings, hits you in the face when you arrive in the mountains here in portugal.
Umbrellas are very popular here. Initially, I thought, because of the amount of rain we get, but, on closer observation it may well be because of all the flying phlegm. when it’s windy, like today, watch out, make sure you have on your mackintosh, gum boots, and sou’ wester pulled down low over your face.
Hoiking up, isn’t, as you might imagine, if you’ve come from England, the sole domain of snotty kids, or rough looking builders like Rick, but is domain-less here, young and old seem to enjoy the sport, because that’s what it appears to have been elevated to. People from all walks of life, and of all appearances like to gob in the street, like it’s a hobby.
Strange it seems indeed, when that lovely little old lady, who sweetly smiles her two toothed grin turns her head and lobs one out. or, for that matter the pretty girl, the picture of decorum, the apple of someone’s eye, shoots out a throat oyster so big, had it come from the sea you’d have paid money for it.
Here, in the middle of winter, at the market, you could find yourself swimming in a sea of spit, bathing in a bath of bile, floundering in a flurry of plegm, or snorkeling through a snowstorm of snot.
you have been warned.