Europe > Portugal > Northern Portugal > Peneda Geres National Park > Articles > Dying Embers of Portugal’s Traditional Rural Lifestyles

The road has narrowed to a single track, its surface now rough and bumpy. As our car claws its way up the winding cobbles, the corners become blinder, the drop-offs into the green valley below steeper and more life threatening. We are heading deep into the Peneda-Gerês national park in northern Portugal – not a true wilderness but in parts very remote and inaccessible.

Humans have inhabited this corner of Europe for 7,000 years and some of its isolated settlements have remained virtually untouched by modern civilisation. Their seclusion has preserved centuries-old traditions, including a community-based lifestyle founded on hill farming and barter. But all this is now under threat. Road access, along tracks such as the one we were now struggling up, and electricity, both provided during the last decade, are killing off this way of life.

The mountain populations in Peneda-Gerês have always survived mainly from communal shepherding. Villagers take turns at moving the combined herds, distinguished by different ear markings, to lush grazing on upper slopes. The peasants traditionally maintain two homes: a lower inverneira, their main low altitude home used in colder months; and a branda, a mountain home used when grazing herds on high pastures.

Parking the car in the small village of Ermida (which appropriately translates to “hermitage”), we walk to its upper village – Branda de Bilhares. The stone track we are following is decorated with tiny mica fragments which glimmer brightly in the afternoon sun. To the side of the path are small fields separated by well-maintained stone walls and fed by tiny streams of water trickling down irrigation channels.

Bilhares comprises a crumbling cluster of small, low-ceilinged barns and cottages constructed from uncut blocks of stone. Its Bronze Age heritage is captured in stone carvings dating back to 2000 BC, which are displayed in the lower village.

There is little evidence of recent occupation. The new track has enabled villagers to return to Ermida by night rather than have to stay in Bilhares. The lessened importance of the summer village is evident in its disrepair. Many of the buildings have lost their thatched roofs or have had them replaced by crude sheets of corrugated iron. Tellingly, the best preserved building is used for storing the tractor.

The landscape in the Peneda-Gerês is mostly lush and green, reflecting high rainfall levels which can reach 2-3 metres a year. In some of the wilder, uncultivated areas the terrain is more bleak and sombre. The patchwork patterns created by terraced fields separated by dry stone walls, thick eucalyptus forests and rocky outcrops, interspersed by a dense network of rivers and streams, produce a rich texture against the hilly landscape. Oak trees abound, as do cluster pines with their large cones and light brown-coloured shoots, which resemble candles on a Christmas tree.

The heavy rains encourage profuse growth. Brambles, gorse and broom rapidly overtake untended ground and soon create an impenetrable terrain - ideal habitat for furtive species such as the wild boar and Iberian wolf which survive here.

The peasants’ fear of the wolf is embedded deep in the subconscious through centuries of terrifying encounters – real and imagined. Although only a small number of wolves prowls the park today, the mentality of fear persists. The mere mention of the name is frowned on in some communities.

Ermida is located in prime wolf territory. Its inhabitants, who number fewer than 200, raise cows, sheep and goats, and never leave their herds untended. By night, the animals are returned to secure barns built below the village houses.

Villagers cultivate maize, wheat and barley on verdant hillside terraces buttressed by stone escarpments. Other fields and cottage gardens grow grapevines on overhead trellises, the soil beneath the arches being densely planted with cabbages and other vegetables. Women skilfully carry heavy loads on their heads.

We return to Ermida along a stone path which bears the grooving of centuries of cartwheel use. Several water mills stand forlorn and redundant nearby. We walk through the narrow streets to the home of the “Honey Lady”, on the way setting off a chorus of animals calling from their barns. The Honey Lady is in her fifties. She has strong weathered features and wears a heavy skirt and headscarf. Her small porch is brightly decorated with flowers. Fluttering inhabitants occupy birdcages at either side of the porch. A boar skin hangs behind her door.

My guide David has visited this village many times before. He is well known to the Honey Lady who warmly welcomes us into her home with large cups of home-made wine. Claudia, the Honey Lady’s granddaughter is also in the house. A pretty girl of ten, she is one of only three children who attend the village school.

David has brought a selection of clothes for Claudia and her sister Simone. In return, the Honey Lady gives us a large jar of honey and is busy filling a bucket with fresh eggs. After animated negotiations, David finally convinces her that his cholesterol levels can’t take such a feast and she reluctantly allows us to leave with only a dozen.

Villagers share resources and responsibilities in time-honoured fashion. The village council dictates their day-to-day work activities. Even Claudia and Simone have taken their turns at herding goats to pasture. Everything is grown for subsistence rather than sale. Gorse and broom are used for cattle bedding and eucalyptus for firewood. Since production is carried out on a communal basis, there is little need for money. Any transactions that are necessary are often concluded by barter.

We are introduced to a blind man who runs the café opposite the small church. His tiny counter with its paltry shelf of snacks is the only place in the village where it’s possible to spend money. We drink coffee and watch as cattle wander lazily through the streets, some freely, others hauling carts. Villagers occasionally pass by bearing farming implements and agricultural loads.

After coffee, and with Claudia as our enthusiastic guide, we visit several of the older houses in the village. Built of uncut granite above animal barns, their tiny living quarters are no larger than a couple of double beds. Though long abandoned, the floors are still covered with straw and bear evidence of previous occupation: a folding bed; the odd boot or shoe; a rusted tin.

We continue to the plot where villagers build their espigueiros, small sheds raised on stilts and used for wind drying corn. Claudia clambers into her family’s and, after some scrambling, emerges triumphantly with a couple of cobs of rare and highly prized red corn which she gives to us.

The young girl brings us back to a barn opposite the Honey Lady’s house in which lives the cow she looks after. I realise I have parked the car in blatant contravention to a “no parking” sign posted on the barn. I think it’s strange there should be such a sign in a village which didn’t seem to have any cars. I don’t think I caused an obstruction - for other cars at least, although I might have forced the odd cow to take the long way round that corner.

Loading the car with our cargo of eggs, honey and corn, we wonder how long Ermida’s unspoilt, self-contained lifestyle can survive contact with the outside world. These peasants, who for centuries haven’t needed money, now mostly have bank accounts to pay in EU subsidies. When Claudia leaves the village school next year, she will travel to a school two hours away in a town which will seem like a different world.

As we bump our way back down the track to return to modern Portugal, I reflect that the gift of honey is particularly precious. A few years ago the Honey Lady had tens of active beehives. But the bees have mysteriously been disappearing and she is now left with only one. The bees have clearly abandoned Ermida to its fate. It’s hard to see how Claudia and the remaining children can be far behind. What price progress?

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