Golegã (say it Go-gan) is the Portuguese 'Capital of the Horse' (Capital do Cavalo), and has been the site for the gathering of breeders since at least the 18th century. Two fairs take place every November in Golegã: the Feira Nacional do Cavalo (National Horse Fair) and the Feira Internacional do Cavalo Lusitano, dedicated to the 'Lusitano' The Lusitano is an ancient Portuguese breed of horse that until the 1960's shared its registration with the Spanish horse, the Andalusian.

Both are sometimes called Iberian horses, as their land of origin is the Iberian peninsula.

These Iberian horses were developed for use in war, dressage and bull fighting.

A pencil drawing of a Lusitano stallion.
Subject and drawing are magnificient!

horse.

I think I made my position clear in the last post; I am no lover of the horse. I accept that I am probably in the minority with my take on equine hi-jinks, so I am willing to try to understand what it is that horsey-people see in them. However, being thrown together arbitrarily with these huge beasts by choosing to live in horsey-wonderland was not part of my plan.

Shit happens! But there again, horse manure appears to be a much sought-after fertilizer.

Determined to make the best of it I began asking questions about Golegã. It appears the little town is steeped in history. At this point I expect many readers of this post to switch off. History can really bore the pants off the masses. If it didn't, there would be as many historians as there are bloggers. So my task here is to try and hold your attention with a little bit of 'this' and a little bit of 'that'!

The River Tagus ('Rio Tejo') dominates the region. Along its banks, north and south, farming is the main occupation. Grape, olive and fig orchards are also in abundance. Local activities consist of wine-making and glass-blowing. Bullfighting is also a regional pastime, as you would expect in a horse-dominated region, but I shall skip over the subject here as that's a topic for a later date. There are several nature reserves in the surrounding area, dedicated to the heron and other migrating birds, and most of them are only a bicycle ride away from where we intend to put down our roots.

Apart from its horsey-status mentioned in the opening paragraph, the foremost historical sight of Golegã is its main church (Igreja Matriz da Golegã), built in the early 16th century in Manueline (Portuguese late Gothic) style. The remarkable main portal and the ribbed vaulting inside the main chapel are its most important artistic features.

The winner of the 1998 Nobel Prize for Literature, José Saramago, was born in the parish of Azinhaga in 1922.

One more significant fact. Located less than 5 kilometres from Golegã is the Quinta da Cardiga (the Cardiga Estate), on which a manor house with its origins in a 12th century donation to the Knights Templar stands. Originally the site of a castle, the property was remodelled in the 16th century into a Renaissance rural palace. Why is that important to me? Because the palace is only a couple of hundred metres away from where we intend to live after we have renovated the property that we've recently bought.

Enough, already! Time to insert a few pics ...

 

 

That's it for now. It was a simple tour of the area, and I'm sure I will come up with more in time ...

 

Holding on to anger, resentment and hurt only gives you tense muscles, a headache and a sore jaw from clenching your teeth.

Joan Lunden

 

 

Well said, Joan Lunden, but I am sure that readers have had similar experiences so I am not going to write at length about each darned obstacle. I shall content myself with mentioning a couple of examples of how things conspired to delay our move forward.

Dealing wth the bureaucrats was a breeze compared to dealing with 'The Bank'. Not our bank, but one that popped up out of the blue to tell the company that they owed them big bucks and would they please pay up immediately - or else! This bank, which will remain nameless, was the product of 5 mergers over several years. As banks go they must be considered efficient, as they trawled through all the records of the previous mergers and started to collect outstanding debts.

Years prior to Maria becoming the company's main troubleshooter and 'Girl Friday', way back in the dim distant past, they had borrowed a relatively small sum of money for a project, from one of the defunct (and now merged) banks. Over a period of time, with banks disappearing and then re-emerging as something else, the company also overlooked the repayment of the loan. Each bank reincarnated compounded the situation by omitting to inform the company of its responsibility. The new bank were much more switched-on turkeys, and were now being total bastards about the matter. They not only wanted the capital sum repaid immediately, but also about 15 years of unpaid interest, which by now exceeded the capital sum by a huge amount. The weasel-wording-winkers even had the nerve to magnanimously offer to negotiate the repayment period and terms. This prickly little problem landed squarely in Maria's lap!

You might wonder how this affected us. Simple. The bank now had a claim on the company and made it clear that they were calling the shots. The unspoken ultimatum was, "Do it our way or we will foreclose." For Maria to be able to produce the money (that the company did not have readily available) she needed to sell off company assets, mainly agricultural plots. But each time she negotiated with a prospective buyer she needed to get the nod from the bank before she could close the deal. This soon became a marathon nightmare. Negotiate a price, check with the bank, get the nod, sell the plot, pay the bank. And they still hadn't begun to discuss the small matter of the outstanding interest!

You are probably ahead of me by now. I've hinted previously that we had negotiated a very favourable price for the property, based on several factors like sitting-tennants, condition of the property, the split in valuation between 'rural' and 'urban', and several other smaller 'gotchas'. But if that 'firm offer' was referred to the bank, we were certain that they would reject it. So we had to wait, and wait, and wait, until such time as Maria could slowly, inexorably, clear the company debt. Long story short, she eventaully did it, but it took what seemed like an eternity. The one thing she was determined to do was to ensure that she could present herself personally at the bank to make the final payment. This was so that she could show them 'the finger' and tell them to 'get out of her life'! I wish I could have been there. Banking in Portugal is still a male-dominated sphere, and they don't like dealing with a female. Less so when the woman has managed to outmanoeuvre them!

The furstrations we continued to experience can be highlighted by mentioning one other, concurrent, episode that impacted on everything that was happening at the time. Maria managed to negotiate the sale of a small plot of land adjoining 'our' property (always the optimists, us). The deal was with a local landowner who wanted that bit of land to build half a dozen units to rent. We weren't too worried about his plans because the rented houses would be separated from us by a wall several metres high that he was prepared to erect as part of the sale agreement. The sale was completed (jumping through the hoops I've recounted in the preceeding paragraph) and the new owner started to clear the area. Maria, always the 'wheeler-dealer', had a quiet word with him and he agreed to divert his tractor, for an afternoon, free of charge, to clear and level the back garden of the first property. We still didn't own it, but we've always been optimists - and tenacious!

 

  
  
  

 

Continuing the saga: the new owner of that newly acquired bit of land was duly notified by the local council that permission to build was being withdrawn. They, the council, had reappraised all the properties in that area and in their considered opinion building in that area was risky due to the tendency for the river to flood once every ONE HUNDRED years! The new owner immediately asked for his money back, naturally, and Maria was sent two paces backward in this infernal tango. The decision by the local council was eventually overturned, mainly because they had no hard evidence to substantiate their claim, other than 'Urban Legend', and that allowed the sale to go through. But all this tap-dancing was eating up valuable time. Weeks turned into months, and months into years!

We were beginning to wonder whether somebody had actually hatched some sort of Machiavellian plot against us ...

 

Seeking means to have a goal; you are perhaps indeed a seeker. And in striving towards your goal, you perhaps do not see many things that are under your nose.

Hermann Hesse (1877-1962)

 

 

The hunt continued apace, but the results were disappointing. We were now visiting friends and family in the Algarve so frequently that they were getting worried about us. And perhaps even a little tired of hosting our regular visits. Hey, that's the price you pay if you class us as close friends or family!

Nothing. Nada! Not even close to what we wanted, or could afford. Seemed as if we had a better chance of winning the lottery. Now, there was a thought!

Maria was also regularly hurling herself up the motorway in a northerly direction to take care of business at Quinta da Cardiga (roughly translated, The Cardiga Estate), an old estate that has been allowed to deteriorate for reasons that I shall not go into here. Suffice it to say that the estate has stopped producing anything for which it was once famous. It now consists of vast tracts of agricultural land, a run-down Palace, a whole host of run-down estate buildings and the tidy little village called São Caetano that houses the ex-estate workers. The residents live in rent-free accommodation, a sort of feudal tied-cottage scheme that continues to be honoured by the company. When the current occupants pass on, the house they occupy will revert back to the company as it cannot be passed on to the children. The occupants, all pensioners and without any income except for a fixed state pension, are secure in the knowledge that they will always have a roof over their heads. Even if the company sells the property out from under them, it is their entitlement to remain as sitting-tenants.

Map of Portugal showing the
various Districts.

A good rule of thumb, if you
don't know and want a palatable
red wine, is to buy one that
comes from the Alentejo region.

Beja and Evora Districts make
up the Alentejo.

The estate is located in the Santarem District (the pale yellow one in the middle of the map) and is about 120 kilometres from where we live. Not too far for Maria to hurtle up there late morning and return early afternoon, having completed whatever it is she needs to do. On one particular trip she had a late afternoon appointment with a couple of legal-beagles closeted in the nearest town, so she took the opportunity to walk the village and chat with the residents. They love these visits as they can get all their complaints off their chests, something they would never dream of doing face to face with the owners. For her part, Maria loves the visits because she has a close rapport with most of the residents, some of whom she has known for more than 25 years. She uses these sessions to catch up on all the latest gossip which is essential for her to be able to 'administer' things without causing too much upset to the old dears. Since this meeting was scheduled for late afternoon her return trip was delayed a tad. She phoned ahead and I produced dinner. Please note, I did not say I cooked dinner. I trotted across to the local Cafeteria and snagged a couple of portions of one of their specialities and two helpings of their 'out-of-this-world' soup. The wine I already had! Maria arrived home, all wound up like over-stretched knicker elastic. I assumed her meeting had been a success and I waited for her to recount the events of the day. We had a late, but pleasant meal and the conversation and wine flowed in equal measure. Then came the "I have something to tell you." moment.

I listened intently. What else do you do when somebody has "... something to tell you."? As far as I recall I don't think I uttered a word, and moved only to top up the glasses with a fine red Borba.This particular wine from the Alentejo Region is a blend of mainly Trincadeira, Aragónez (Tempranillo) and Castelão, with some Cabernet Sauvignon and Alicante Bouschet.

The grapes are treaded by foot in lagares (the stone troughs that are traditional in the Douro for Port production) for 30 to 45 minutes twice daily until the end of the alcoholic fermentation.

The wine producer likes this method because it provides a large surface ratio of solids to juice, because the open top prevents heat from collecting in the juice and because the gentle treading pressure assures no destruction of the seeds, and therefore no leaching of bitter tannins into the juice.

The wine subsequently ages for a year in new French oak barrels.

We still reminisce about that evening 3 years ago, and it still brings a smile to our faces. Her "I have something to tell you." shifted gear into a series of rapid questions. Did I have my heart set on moving to The Algarve? Had I considered alternatives? What did I think about a possible move to São Caetano? And then it deteriorated into an even more garbled rush. She'd seen a lovely old house in the village. Did I remember seeing those houses on the edge of the village on the bit of road that ran down to the river (of course I didn't remember - I'd only visited the village once before)? Well it was one of those. And just think, only two hundred metres away from dangling a worm in the river. And oh, could we go and take a look, together, in a couple of days? Please. Pretty, please?

She then produced her 3G-phone and proceeded to flick through the various images she had taken. They were in no particular order, but I've reproduced a few of them below to give you an idea of the disjointed take a viewer has when faced by a series of camera-phone (or is that 'phone-camera'?) snapshots. Click on any one and it will give you an enlarged image and a slideshow feature.

 

  
  
  

 

Attractive enough, despite the low-res snapshots. I guessed I'd have to go see for myself. But I had a few questions of my own. Was that house going to be large enough? How much did it cost? What were the neighbours like - apart from almost certainly being 'old'? How much garden space could we expect? How much did it cost? Did the adjacent farm throw off nasty country smells (as compared to nasty city smells)? How soon would it become available? How much did it cost - errmm, had I asked that before?

Most, if not all the questions were deflected with noncommital answers and a cheshire cat Lewis Carroll's famous cat that appears in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

At one point in the story, the cat disappears gradually until nothing is left but its grin, prompting Alice to remark that she has often seen a cat without a grin but never a grin without a cat!

smile. It was becoming apparent that I would have to get off my butt and go take a look for myself.

I think that the quotation by Herr Hesse that I've used at the start of this post was aimed specifically at the two of us!

'Till next time ...