Soft-stone Beiras, be patient
The Man Who Could Not Forget

«If the traveller were to set himself a test; he would fail it. A test as a traveller, of course - any other kind, he might pass or fail. But to reach Guarda after one o'clock on a Saturday night in the month of March, which is high season for snow in these mountains, and to trust that the patron saint of travellers would provide him with a hotel room, is sheer incompetence. At the first place he was turned away, at the next they did not open up, further on he was told not even to bother ringing the bell. He went back to the first hotel - how could it be possible there was not so much as a single room free in such a huge building? But there was not. It was perishingly cold outside. The traveller could have begged them to let him settle down on a sofa in the lobby until morning when one of the rooms became free, but he has his pride and so decided that his lack of foresight deserved to be punished, and tried to get to sleep in his car. He did not succeed. Wrapped in whatever he could press into service as protective clothing, nibbling at crackers to ease his nighttime hunger and to try at least to warm up his teeth, he considered himself the most wretched creature in the Universe through all the long hours of his personal Arctic winter. The first light of dawn was struggling into the sky, and the cold had become even more intense, when the traveller found himself faced with a terrible dilemma. (...)

(...) The traveller stores them in his memory alongside those of Arouca, and continues on his way until he comes across the museum, and goes in.

There are others that are richer, better organised, that follow the basic rules of museology more strictly. But given the limitations of the space, and with such a wide variety of collections, the traveller has to appreciate what is on offer, and does so. For example, this Romanesque “Our Lady of Consolation” from the twelfth century, carved from the same stone as the niche it is exhibited in (and which reminds the traveller of the St Nicholas in Braga), or this sturdy, rosy Baroque “Saviour of the World”, with a high bare forehead, the body clad only in a loincloth and a short red cape thrown over his shoulders, or the alms chests for souls in purgatory, or the small, hefty crowned Virgin, with an Infant Jesus whose face is an exact likeness of hers, or the seventeenth-century triptych showing St Anton, St Anthony and a bishop, or a painting by Brother Carlos, an “Adoration”, which in one corner has a reference to the village of Açores, a place that the traveller will visit without fail. Or the magnificent collection of arms, the Roman and Portuguese artefacts, the weights and measures, the carvings, and also some notable paintings from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Also of note are some mementos of the poet Augusto Gil, who spent his childhood in Guarda. All in all, the Museum of Guarda is well worth a visit. It's almost a family affair, which perhaps explains why it has a heart.

(...)

As he has started down this route, the traveller continues along the narrow streets leading to the main square where the statue to Dom Sancho I stands. They are quiet, narrow streets empty of people at this time of day, but in one of them the traveller saw something he had never seen before: an Alsatian wolfhound staring out at him from a shopfront next to a pile of cardboard boxes. The dog does not bark, merely looks; perhaps he is guarding his master's possessions and knows that no harm will come to him from this particular traveller. Guarda is a city of tiny mysteries. Why for example are its double-glazed windows lined with flowery wallpaper that make it impossible to see either in or out? What is the point of the windows being transparent? What are these inaccessible gardens meant to look out on?

There is the Cathedral at last. The traveller starts his visit on the north side, with its wide steps and Gothic doorway, above which rise one after another the forms that correspond in the interior to the side nave and the central nave, and the flying buttresses resting on their supports. The Cathedral is squat and solid at its base, even though higher up the features are more graceful, and if one looks at the façade face on, it looks like a fortress, with towers that are castles crowned with pinnacles. And since the entire building, except for the rear, is in an open space, this impression of size is accentuated. The traveller is beginning to like Guarda.

He goes in by the north door and is immediately caught up in the airy Gothic interior. The nave is deserted, the traveller can take all the time he likes, the pious old ladies from St Vincent will not be casting their suspicious eyes on him here - more than likely, the saint has given them a good talking-to. (...)

The traveller walks slowly down the three naves, peers up at two high windows or apertures the reason for which he cannot discern, but as the light they give is so favourable, it would be churlish to find fault with them. He has no desire to leave, perhaps because he feels at peace in this solitude. He sits on a stone step, can see in close-up the twisted strands of the columns, can think about the skill of the construction, the vaulting, the calculated distribution of weight in the upper structures: in short, he has learnt a lesson without a master. (...)

(...) It's twenty-five kilometres from Cidadelhe to Pinhel, and in those days it was nothing more than a stony track. (...)

The traveller returns to his room. He spreads out his big map on the bed and looks for Pinhel. There it is, and the road which heads off into the hills. At some point in this space a seven-year-old girl died; then the traveller finds Cidadelhe, on the heights, between the Rivers Coa and Massueime, it really is the ends of the earth, the end of life. If there is no-one to remember.

Bread, Cheese and Wine in Cidadelhe

The prima donna assoluta is the opera singer who only sings the principal roles, whose name is always first on the billboards. In general, she is capricious, impulsive, fickle. The traveller hopes that this absolute spring which has come early will not have the same defects, or will only show them later. On the plus side, he has already enjoyed two bright, magnificent days, the day before and this one. He descends the valley that begins on the outskirts of Guarda heading south, then follows the River Gaia. It is a rolling landscape, with farmland that is already showing green: the winter is really over.

Near Belmonte stands the Centum Cellas or Centum Coeli, the most mysterious monument in all these Portuguese lands. Nobody knows what this twenty-metre-high structure was originally: some maintain it was a temple, others that it was a prison, or an inn, a belltower, or a watchtower. There seems to be no reason for an inn here; if it were a watchtower it need not have been so elaborate; it could only have been a prison of very advanced ideas, because the windows and doors are so large; it might have been a temple; the problem is that we are always quick to put that label on anything we come across. The traveller feels that the answer must lie in the land around the monument: it is scarcely credible that it should have been built on its own, as a whim. So the reply probably lies under the ploughed fields, but unless it is possible to guarantee a serious, methodical excavation, with sufficient money and protection, it is better to leave Centum Cellas in peace. We have already ruined enough in Portugal with our lack of care, persistence, or respect.

Belmonte is the home of Pedro Álvares Cabral, who landed in Brazil in 1500 and whose portrait can apparently be found as a medallion in the monastery cloister of the Jeronomite brothers. It may or may not be him, because who can tell with these portraits of bearded, helmeted figures, but what is for sure is that here in Belmonte Castle the young Pedro Álvares must have played and learnt his first lessons as a man, as here lie the ruins of the house of his father, Fernão Cabral. Pedro Álvares did not have such a bad life: to judge by the remains, it must have been a magnificent place. The same can be said of the double Manueline window in the walls facing the setting sun. The walls themselves are extensive, surrounding a large area that the traveller would like to see kept clean and swept. Children from the local primary school are playing there, and their two teachers, who are hardly any older than they, are joining in as well. The traveller likes to see happy scenes like this, and leaves with a wish that neither the dark-haired nor the blonde teacher lose their temper if one of their charges cannot remember what nine times seven is.

(...)

This Pietà is the outstanding work here, but mention should also be made of the capitals of the nearby columns, of an arch in the main chapel, and the frescoes on the far wall. And if the traveller accepts these smaller pleasures after having enjoyed the main delight, in the sacristy there is a Holy Trinity with an Eternal Father with enormous staring eyes, and in the nave some Renaissance tombs, coldly executed, as well as an athletic, effeminate St Sebastian, with long hair cascading onto his shoulders and a gesture of mannered elegance. See all this, but before leaving the church go and stand in front of the Pietà again, and keep it in your eyes and in your memory, because you do not come across works such as this every day.

The traveller goes from Belmonte to Sortelha by roads that are poor and through landscapes that are worthy of admiration. To enter Sortelha is to enter the Middle Ages. When the traveller says this he does not mean it in the same way as he would on entering the church in Belmonte for example. What gives Sortelha its medieval appearance are the huge, thick surrounding walls, the rough, steeply inclined streets, and on its outcrop of rock, the castle, last refuge of the besieged - last and probably vain hope. To anyone who had breached the cyclopean walls below, this tiny fortress must have seemed almost a joke.

(...)

The traveller has an appointment this afternoon. He is going to Cidadelhe. To save time, he has lunch in Sabugal, and from what little he can see, it seems to be a noisy little town where everyone is either going to or coming back from market. Afterwards, he heads straight for Guarda, leaving out Pousafoles do Bispo, which he would have liked to visit to see what remains of land once owned by blacksmiths and to see the Manueline window that apparently still exists there. But the traveller cannot see absolutely everything, and even so he is far more privileged than most others who cannot explore at such leisure. So Pousafoles do Bispo will stand as a symbol of the unreachable that escapes us all. The traveller soon feels ashamed of this metaphysics when he wonders what has become of the descendants of those blacksmiths of Pousafoles. He blushed, fell silent, then went to the hotel to find Senhor Guerra of Cidadelhe, who was waiting for him.

As already mentioned, it is twenty-five kilometres from Pinhel to Cidadelhe. Add to this the forty between Guarda and Pinhel. That is plenty for a good chat, and it is well known that nobody talks as much as two people who do not know each other well but find they are travelling together. Before long they are exchanging confidences, speaking about their lives far more than one usually does, and discovering how well two people can get on simply by talking to each other, when there is no attempt made to fool the other by being insincere, which would be intolerable in a situation like this. The traveller became friends with the head waiter, he listened and spoke, asked and answered, and the two of them had a fine journey. In Pêra do Moço they passed a dolmen, and Guerra, knowing the reason for the traveller's journey, pointed it out to him. But this is not the kind of dolmen the traveller likes, it has no secrets or sense of mystery, it is simply there by the roadside in the middle of a field, he has no desire to get out and take a closer look. The traveller has seen dolmens on his journey, but he does not talk of them in order not to confuse his memory of the one in Queimada where he heard a heart beating. At the time, he thought it was his own. Now, so far from it in distance and in time, he is not so sure.

They have left Pinhel behind, the road has become nothing more than a track, and beyond Azevo the landscape is one of bare hills, cultivated as high up as possible. There are small fields: the deepest green is rye, the others wheat. Lower down potatoes and other vegetables are grown. This is a subsistence economy, people eat what they plant and grow.

Cidadelhe really is at the ends of the earth. The village stands on a rocky outcrop between two rivers. The traveller pulls up, gets out of his car with his companion. Within a couple of minutes they are surrounded by half a dozen little children, and to his surprise the traveller discovers that they are all goodlooking: a small, roundfaced sample of humanity that it is a pleasure to see. The chapel of St Sebastian is close by, so too is the school. The traveller is in his guide's hands, and if the first visit is to the school, then so be it. There are not many pupils. The teacher explains what the traveller already knows: the population of the village has dwindled, until there are hardly more than a hundred inhabitants. One of the little girls is staring at him: she cannot be called pretty, but her look is the sweetest thing in the world. And the traveller discovers that it is here that the school satchels of his own childhood have ended up: the city's leftovers for Cidadelhe.

The chapel was closed, but now it is open. Above the door in the porch protecting the entrance, there is a local mannerist painting depicting the Calvary. Although the porch keeps off the rain and the sun, it can do nothing about the wind and the cold, so it is a miracle the painting is so well preserved. Guerra strikes up a conversation with two old women, asks for the village news and tells them about himself and his family, then says: “This gentleman would like to see the pallium.” The traveller is busy looking at the painting, but from their silence he can sense an air of tension. One of the women replies: “That's impossible. The pallium isn't here. It's being mended.” This was followed by low murmurings, a stealthy conference in the subdued manner of these people.

The traveller went inside the chapel, and found himself face to face with the most extraordinary St Sebastian he had ever seen. It was obviously a recent creation, with bright pink colours freshly varnished, and the dark shadow of a beard. The saint has an arrow through his heart, and yet he is smiling. But what is extraordinary is the size of his ears, real fans, to use the popular Portuguese expression. The power of faith must indeed be great if believers can keep a straight face when confronted with this comical saint. And the proof of this great power is shown by the fact that four women are already praying inside the recently opened chapel. And the only smile to be seen is that of the saint.

The roof panels in the chapel depict scenes from the life of Christ in a lively rustic style. Apart from the effects of age that can be seen in some of the mouldings, the paintings are generally in good shape. They only need some filling-in to conserve them properly. As they are leaving, Guerra comes up, and the traveller asks him: “Well, Guerra my friend, what about the pallium?” “The pallium,” Guerra replies, embarrassed: “it's being mended.” And the chorus of old women, grown so large the traveller cannot even count them, repeats: “Yes, it's being mended.” “So it can't be seen?” “No, no, it can't.”

The pallium (the traveller already knew this, and had it confirmed by his companion) is the glory of Cidadelhe. To go to Cidadelhe and not see the pallium would be like going to Rome and not seeing the Pope. The traveller has been to Rome, and did not see the Pope, and was not particularly concerned about it. But he is concerned about Cidadelhe. However, what cannot be cured must be endured. Take heart and press on.

The village is entirely of stone. The houses are of stone, and so are the streets. The landscape is of stone. A lot of the dwellings are empty, many walls have collapsed. Where people used to live, now weeds grow. Guerra points out the house he was born in, the threshold where his mother felt the birth pangs, another house they lived in later on, almost entirely hidden under a huge barroco, the name they give in the Beiras to the boulders that are strewn all over these mountains. The traveller is delighted by some doorways that are sculpted or have decorative bas-reliefs: a bird settled on the head of a winged angel, between two animals that could be lions, dogs or wingless griffins, a tree spreading over two castles above a geometrical pattern of fleurs-de-lys and garlands. The traveller is looking at them in delight when Guerra says: “Let's go and see the Citizen.” “What might that be?” the traveller wants to know. Guerra does not want to tell him yet: “Come on.”

They set off down stony lanes. In a house along the way lives Guerra's sister, Laura by name, and his brother-in-law is there too. He is busy cleaning out the cowshed, and has dirty hands, so he does not come over, but greets them and smiles. Laura asks: “Have you seen the pallium?” Visibly uncomfortable, Guerra replies: “It's being mended. We can't see it.” The two of them go off to one side, and another secret debate takes place. The traveller smiles and thinks: “There must be something behind this.” And as they are walking up towards a church tower he has seen rising in the distance above the rooftops, he sees Laura heading off quickly down another street, as if she is on a mission. Strange business.

“Here's the Citizen”, Guerra says. the traveller sees a small arch next to the church tower, with on one pillar the roughly sculpted figure of a man standing on a half-sphere. On the other pillar can be read in large letters: “The year 1656”,. The traveller wants to know more and asks; “Who is this figure?” Nobody knows. For generations, the Citizen has belonged to Cidadelhe, he is a kind of lay patron saint, a tutelary god, fought over by the lower village (where the traveller is now) and As Eiras, the upper village, where the traveller first arrived. Apparently there was a time when the verbal disputes erupted into real fights, but historical sense prevailed in the end, because the Citizen has his roots at this end of the village. The traveller reflects on the strange love that links a village so lacking in material wealth to this badly sculpted, time-worn stone showing a human figure so roughly carved his arms are barely distinguishable, and becomes confused when he realises it is in fact easy to understand if we simply follow the essential paths, this stone, this man, this harsh landscape. He further reflects that one has to be careful in dealing with these simple things, one has to let them be and let them become what they may, not to push them, simply to be with them, and he looks again at this Citizen and at the happiness on the face of his new friend called José António Guerra, the man who has decided to keep all this in his memory. “What is known about the history of the Citizen?” the traveller asks. “Not a lot. It was found no-one knows when in some stones over there (he gestures down towards the invisible banks of the River Coa) and it's always been in the village.” “Why is it called the Citizen?” “I don't know. Perhaps because this is Cidadelhe.”

(...)

The meal is over, it is time to go. The traveller says goodbye affectionately and starts to walk down the street. Guerra is still talking to his sister, who says to him: “They're waiting for you in As Eiras.” What can she mean, he wonders. It does not take long to find out. As they draw near the St Sebastian chapel, he can see the same aged women and other younger ones waiting outside. “It's the pallium”, Guerra says. The women slowly open a big box, pulling out something wrapped in a white cloth. Then all together, with each of them carrying out their movements as if they were performing a ritual, they begin the seemingly unending process of unfolding the huge pallium of crimson velvet, bordered in gold, silver and silk, with its bold central motif showing the monstrance being held by two angels, and all around them flowers, filigree work, tin discs, a splendour beyond description. The traveller is amazed. He wants to see it better, and touches the incredible softness of the velvet. He reads an embroidered inscription: “Cidadelhe, 1707”. This is the treasure that the women in black guard and defend so jealously, even when it is so hard for them to guard and defend life itself.

On the way back to Guarda, at nightfall, the traveller commented: “So the pallium wasn't being mended after all.” “No. They wanted to be sure first of all that you were a good person.” The traveller was pleased that in Cidadelhe they judged him a good person, and that night dreamt of the pallium.»