Marble Quarry

First north we went to a trio of marble towns. It is a little known fact, well perhaps not, but previously unknown to me, that Portugal is the world’s second largest producer of marble after Italy. And I’m not talking along the lines of Oregon being the second largest producer of crayfish after Louisiana with Oregon coming up with a paltry 5% of Louisiana’s catch. No, Portugal quarries around 80% as much marble as Italy. WOW! After traversing these three towns, Estremoz, Borba and Vila Vicosa, the third of which was the home town of the last two monarchs that Portugal had, I can certainly believe it.

First through Estremoz where all the window and door surrounds of even the most humble homes is of marble and where along with the other two towns, where the curbs are solid marble and the side walks made of crushed marble, the houses with a wainscot of marble, all of this is interesting enough but what really caught our attention were the quarries. Many, many quarries with multiple cranes, huge piles of quarried marble and mountains of scrap. We stopped at one right next to the road and watched for quite sometime as the quarrymen carried on their trade. Several were drilling with huge jack hammers, others were setting up a cable, that I imagine impregnated with diamond dust, to slice the slabs with an engine and pulley system and yet others were rigging slings to hoist the product up out of the pit. Very impressive, very industrial, very burley! Made me glad to be a humble carpenter carrying around little sticks of wood, light as a feather. Watching these quarrymen brought tears to Rosemary’s eyes as she remembered her father and his sand and gravel pit and how all he wanted for his birthday one year was a rock crusher and how, yes, he got it. A poignant moment.

Further along were other yards where the huge chunks of stone were processed into slabs, thick and thin and crated up for market. Mile after mile it is thus, quarries, cranes, finishing yards.

Also while driving through Vila Vicosa, Rosemary saw in our "Rough Guide to Portugal" the Nossa Senhora de Conceicao listed. A lovely church replete with 18th century azulejos, the blue tiles that Portugal is so noted for. After entering the house of god, even though a renounced Catholic, I dipped my fingers into the holy water and made the sign of the cross in memory of my mother, a non practicing Catholic.

There was a mass in process when we entered so we tippy toed down the side isle, admiring the tiles and ducked into the sacristy for a peek at the antique vestments and re-entered the church to sit in the back for a spell to listen to the mass during which the small congregation of perhaps 30 or so seeking souls broke into song. I can’t describe how beautiful this was. It was not a choir we were hearing but the voices were as lovely as any choir I have heard, the church was filled with the sincere song of the faithful, celebrating the mass in this living church, more than an architectural wonder for some passing itinerant sinners.

Monsaraz
Motoring through the Alentejo, through an incredible palate of orchards, fields and forests, we eventually espy Monsaraz, a very fortified hill town, high upon a promontory over looking the once hostile border plains of Spain and Portugal, known to the locals as "Ninho das Aquias" - Eagles Nest.

City Gate

Arriving at the gate of this tiny village, we park outside it’s walls as during the day it is an auto free zone. Due to this lack of 20th century conveyance, one feels having gone back in time as we trod the cobbles made of locally quarried slate, the same slate that makes up the walls of the city and the castle that once guarded against first the Moors when the Knights Templar and their later successors the Order of Christ ruled the land and then against the intentions of Spain which were eventually stopped when the Spanish Monarchy’s attention was occupied with rebellion in Catalonia and Portugal successfully pressed for it’s independence as a nation in 1640. From Monsaraz you can glimpse the Rio Guadiana which now composes this part of the border between the two nations.

Monsaraz Street Scene

Having penetrated it’s fortifications we made for the turismo which is located on the village square near an ancient pillory. When asking about accommodations in this white washed village of 100 souls, we were told that the hostelry we had in mind was full and that the next on our list was way above our stated budget and guided to the Casa do Embaixador across the way which we were assured had a room at the top end of the range I had indicated we wanted to pay for lodging. We checked and sure enough there was a room at the inn. A charming suite actually, composed of a living room with fireplace, bed room and bath for about $36 U.S. A lovely open beamed headquarters for out stay as temporary locals. We were shown our rooms by the ancient Rosa and after retrieving our bags from the car outside the walls, settled in.

Building Slate Roads the Old Way, by Hand

Our first evening in Monsaraz I decided to spend fasting alone, feeling a bit under the weather and suggested that Rosemary dine solo. When she suggested to our hostess that they go out together, se demurred but invited R. to dine with her so that Honerata could practice her English, which to my mind was, if halting, quite good already.

Imagine my further surprise when Rosemary returned bearing Portuguese penicillin in the form of chicken soup and grilled rabbit that her husband Manuel had shot that day while out hunting with the boys. the soup was great, but the rabbit, basted in olive oil, garlic and cilantro, was superb!

Having fully recovered my stamina the following day was spent searching out every nook and cranny in this self contained village, in drawing and painting and in marveling over the fantastic views afforded by it’s site. Views of vineyards, olive groves, cork tree forests and a patch work of agriculture stretching to the far horizons over the rolling hills of the country side in every direction. With only a few other villages in the distance, we really had the feeling of being lost in time.

Torre das Ferticeries

The "Torre das Ferticeries" (witches tower) dominates the castle which looms over all at one end of the village. It is now used as a bull ring when they can afford bulls and as a soccer field when they can’t.

We wandered outside the walls, where another 49 citizens live and down the hillside to the Igreja Santa Caterina, a crumbling ruin of a church built by the Knights Templar in their usual octagonal shape. We ankled our way down via an ancient path lined with stone walls, olive and cork trees, halting while a lady goat herd guided her flock, festooned with bells, up to whence we had come. Along the way we explored an interestingly small slate quarry, idle on this Saturday, with stacks of slate ready for transport.

Igreja Santa Caterina

After visiting the ruin of a chapel of unknown name and then Santa Caterina itself, we observed one farmer repairing his goat barn and another leading his donkey cart down the hill accompanied by his ever faithful dog.

Lingering here a bit further, we drew Monsaraz from afar, to be painted later in our rooms and then returned to the village, by the same path on which we had come, to dine at Resturante Lumumba. Recommended by our hostess (and now it turns out by us) even though it is not theirs which is closed for vacation, this being the off season between the end of summer and Christmas. At Resturante Lumumba we had a superb lamb stew. The lamb and potatoes on a platter and a tureen of broth and crumbled bread, accompanied by an ensalada mixta and the local red wine, vino tinto, under the Monsaraz label. Quite tasty if not profound.

Megalithic Site near Monsaraz

Wandering further afield we visited two of the several nearby megalithic sites. One in particular was quite impressive being a large square of upright boulders 3 or so feet in height and the whole about 50 feet on a side, surrounding an erect monolith in the center of perhaps 12 feet in height. Here we had a pic nic and wondered why these sites were created in pre-history, wondered about their function. Religious? Calendars? Dios sabe.

Kale, a hardy winter  garden crop