Open Writing

It’s getting dark now, much darker than it normally would at four o’clock in the afternoon, but there’s a storm brewing on the other side of the valley. I can see it coming from my viewpoint here, my eyes looking down, up again, and away to the left, to the ‘Ruin’.

A dramatic name: it’s not really a ruin, but if no-one buys it and rescues it soon, then it will be. The old woman died there about ten years ago, I believe, and she is still there, peaceful, serene among the abandoned furniture and piles of rumpled clothes that stand or lie where they were left when she died.

The outer door is laced shut with loops of wire. A rough ‘For Sale’ notice in Portuguese, on the wall next to the road, attracts attention as you drive down the hill from Codesais. From the road, it seems small, a curved cottage wall, no more, but climb through the undergrowth round to the back of the house, and the door is ajar.

Go inside - slide between door and jamb, and there you are, in her world, safe, secure, and not ever wanting to leave. I know, because I have been there many times. The first time, it was curiosity that took me there, the next it was a feeling of homecoming.

Slowly and carefully, I could walk from room to room, the light streaming through carefully-positioned windows, and once inside could see just what a mansion it must have been. There were two storeys, and out beyond the kitchen with its huge bread oven and lovely hexagonal shape, an open door led out to a long, curving veranda, unnegotiable now because most of it has fallen into a state of dereliction. This is where the main outer door comes in, and you can see the doors to several bedrooms if you go outside and look to the left. The furthest door is open, and a single bed can be seen, still blanketed, waiting for the sleeper to come. A flight of stone steps curves down to storerooms and animal shelters, but the tree ivy and brambles are in residence down there, and I don’t think I would have been welcome.

Between the living room and what I supposed was a storeroom the slates have fallen, the roof is open and there is the sky. When it rains, the drip, drip of the water is rotting the roof timbers, sliding down a few laths that have already been loosened, and soaking the floor. Tiny fungi are reaching up from between the boards, eager to spread and become a forest.

This is the saddest thing: the rest of the house is snug and solid, but here is the place where ‘Ruin’ will take hold, if no-one comes to rescue the house. I am told a relative of the owner lives in Lisbon, and only comes up here once a year. She wants a lot of money for it, but I fear it will soon become an unlikely possibility. I would buy it tomorrow. I would love to clear the courtyard of brambles, mend the roof, and take away the piles of Catholic magazines, the tin mugs, and the empty bottles that once held ‘moonshine’. I would make bread in the bread oven, clean the windows and let the sun in, and by some miracle I would have to remove the tall mimosa trees that now block the beautiful view across the valley. Oh, I would need ‘Superman’ for that.

Old pension books still lie in the open chest. Fir cones and bone-dry logs still wait for the fire to be lit under the oven; among all the paraphernalia of a peasant life, a brown and beige silk umbrella lies upon a table, elegant, timeless. It would have been for Sundays and going to mass.

The rain is here now. It swept across the valley from hills that were ablaze with forest fires last summer. I am safe and dry in the ‘Ruin’, leaning against the workbench in the kitchen. There is no sound except that of the falling rain and the steady drip drip through the roof.

When I next visit this unspoilt corner of Portugal, with its abandoned cottages and lost villages, criss-crossed with uncluttered roads, the rain will have done so much more damage. By then, I’m afraid the old woman will have to stay in the kitchen, by the bread oven, to keep warm and dry.