Our
last day before beginning the return trip was our wedding anniversary. Since walking is our shared passion numero uno, what more appropriate way to celebrate than a walk from
Montesiñho. As you might expect in this neck of the woods, the flagship village, officially billed (if you could detect the ultra discrete road sign) as “renovated”, was nothing
extraordinary. But a pleasant place, nonetheless. In the economically devastated area, it stood out from everything else we'd seen because most of the houses were not in ruins, people seemed to care about maintaining their property, and there was a modicum of tourist infrastructure: a couple of cafés and a B & B. The
“locals” often seemed to be returned émigrés who spoke better French than Spanish, comforted by the prospect of a French pension. Their granite-built homes resembled the Galician style,
with balconies supported by granite pillars.
It was when we saw the lines of windmills that we realised we were virtually on the Portuguese–Spanish border (windmills characteristic of Spanish, rather than Portuguese, investment).
In França our casa rural was run by a German–Portuguese
couple. They were away at the time so we never met them and the liaison was performed by their charming neighbour.
The house was cute, its extreme smallness acceptable as the Indian summer allowed us to take full advantage of the outdoor surrounds.
After our walk we sat naked in the secluded “garden” drinking Protos Ribera Duero 2011. My cute husband is apparently fluent in Portuguese as well as English, Spanish, German and French...
Driving back to Spain the following day the recent motorway stopped at the border. Somewhere funds have been found for this and the brash new housing developments around the city. What is going on in Portugal? A mystery.
Then a couple of days with Juan's family in Salamanca. And, too soon, it's all over.
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