Land of Mountains
Monday was another one of those days I chose to wander. Unfortunately, late March can be tricky. Other years there would have been much more green. This year, however, green is starting to show its face along the warmer coast. Where I wandered, in the interior amidst the mountains, the green is still waiting for the white to melt. This prompted me to keep driving, and I didn't enjoy the trip as much, except for the moments of glee when I saw the highest peaks wearing their snowy hats.
My trip, this time, wound through the Xurés mountains, into Portugal, and back into the province of Ourense, through the Couto Mixto. I began the visit in Bande, and finished in Bande. After leaving the motorways, I stopped at the reservoir in Porta Quintela, Bande. That is where the remains of a very large Roman camp lie, Aquis Querquennis (water of the Quercenni, a local tribe, probably oak worshippers of some kind). Unfortunately, Franco's love of creating reservoirs swamped it underwater. On years of less rainfall, when the waters recede far enough, archeologists have worked upon it, and visitors have tramped the preserved remains. The Roman road that joined Braga in Portugal to Astorga in León used to pass through here, and, aside from barracks, there was an inn for travelers, and for those who stopped at the thermal waters nearby, where there is still a spa.
I continued south after that, passing through Lobios, and climbing higher into the mountains. I rounded a curve and reached a large esplanade, with a deteriorating structure in the middle, behind which were cement markers and another building. It was the border. The cement markers delineated the exact geographical spot where one country became another. The Spanish side was not impressive. The large building was losing its slate tiles, and was in very bad condition, even though it was probably not more than forty years old. On one side was the old customs house, built of stone, that still had the Franco era national shield in stone. That building was perfectly kept. On the Portuguese side, both the older and the newer buildings were in better condition that the new Spanish one.
I continued along a very winding road. Unfortunately, part of the charm was lost because of the starkness of the trees. There were many birches, but their thin branches merely created a veil of purple against a backdrop of naked twisted oaks and dark green firs. The waterfall at Portela do Homem was impressive, with a turquoise green pool where the water smashed. But there was no surrounding green. It's a drive to repeat farther into summer, or in September, to get the appropriate "ahs" and "ohs."
Continuing down, I reached a town, Vila do Gerês, where it seemed every other building had a sign. "Apartamentos." "Residencia." "Hotel." I suppose most hikers make that their base camp. When the road permitted, I could catch glimpses of a blue lake down at the bottom of the valley. When I approached, it was beautiful and evocative. I suppose it must have been the light, the blue of the lake and the green of the grass together, the houses spilling down the hillside, the different paint colors. It seemed very Alpine. I've never been in the Alps, but it reminded me of pictures I've seen, much like the square in Boston where Paul Revere's house sits reminds me of a European city. I wouldn't mind returning in the summer and renting a paddle boat at one of the docks lining the lake (which also happens to be a reservoir).
The drive continued. After I had left the lake behind, the road became the high road, and wound its way high above the Cávado river, the tall peaks of the Xurés scratching the sky's back across the valley, some with dustings of snow. The road resembled many in Galicia's Ourense province. This part of Portugal is different from the coast, where there are more differences from the south of Galicia. I turned north and stopped at Montalegre, where I decided to walk around the castle.
It was built as one of many defensive castles along the border with Spain, back in the thirteenth century, though people have been living in the area since the Iron Age. It sits on its hilltop, across from another white-topped humpback, the Larouco. Next to the castle is a church and a cemetery. This caught my attention because it's different from the ones just over the border. Whereas here we have standing boxes, there it's a hole in the ground covered by a slab. Instead of placing the name and picture directly on the slab, as we have on the few ground tombs, the name and picture are placed on what look like books propped up on the slab. A word on many is "saudade," which is close in meaning to "missing you."
Continuing north, the day clouded over, and I passed into the south of Ourense, into an area called the Couto Mixto. Strictly speaking, it's made up of three villages, Meaus, Rubiás, and Santiago. All are close to the border with Portugal. Once upon a time, this was the Andorra of Spain and Portugal. It belonged to neither, but was an independent territory on its own. I suppose it had characteristics similar to the old Swiss cantons. Every three winters, the heads of family would reunite in the church in Santiago and elect a Xuíz (judge). He, in turn, would select three men, one from each village, to assist him in administrative duties. They paid dues to both the Spanish and Portuguese governments, and to the House of Branganza, lords of the land. But in everything else, they were independent. They very much controlled the commerce passing through the area, and had a Camiño Privilexiado, which connected the villages with Portugal. Everyone and everything that travelled that way was protected and did not have to pay customs of any kind to anyone.
This semi-independence seems to have begun soon after Portugal's independence from Spain, in 1147, and came to an end in 1864, when present-day borders were set. At the independence of Portugal, the borders remained fluid in areas, and the residents of the Couto Mixto took advantage of it and became a sanctuary. No one could be arrested on its ground by anyone from either country. Its residents were free from military service, and the only recognized overlord was the Duke of Braganza. Years later, the knowledge of mountain paths made it the perfect place to smuggle in contraband during the post-Civil War years, and to smuggle out proscribed people.
I continued on my way, though not along the Camiño Privilexiado, which still exists, only to travel it one needs a very tough 4 wheel drive. At a crossroads at Santuario de Salas, I came across a very strange sight. A church had its front cut off, and the remains of arches stretched out in front of it. It turns out that the church was the original building from the seventeenth century, and the arches the intent to augment it in the nineteenth. The problem was that the parish ran out of money. Even back then the Spanish were overreaching themselves in the real estate business.
My journey came to an end at Santa Comba, on a hill above Aquis Querquennis. There, one of the last Visigothic churches of Spain stands. It has been dated from the second half of the seventh century. It's tiny by modern standards, but big by Visigothic, given that it was one of the first cruciform churches to be built, and has one chamber to either side of the altar. There are Roman remains in the church, including a baptismal font made from a Roman miliary (a stone planted by the Romans to mark the miles). There was said to be a small monastery in front of the church, but nothing is left now. Except for a few modern additions, the church is still pretty much the same as it was fourteen hundred years ago.
Since it was already past seven when I left the church, I went back home. If the weather allows, I will go somewhere with my husband later this week. If not, the next trip will hopefully be in June. There will definitely be more green then.
My trip, this time, wound through the Xurés mountains, into Portugal, and back into the province of Ourense, through the Couto Mixto. I began the visit in Bande, and finished in Bande. After leaving the motorways, I stopped at the reservoir in Porta Quintela, Bande. That is where the remains of a very large Roman camp lie, Aquis Querquennis (water of the Quercenni, a local tribe, probably oak worshippers of some kind). Unfortunately, Franco's love of creating reservoirs swamped it underwater. On years of less rainfall, when the waters recede far enough, archeologists have worked upon it, and visitors have tramped the preserved remains. The Roman road that joined Braga in Portugal to Astorga in León used to pass through here, and, aside from barracks, there was an inn for travelers, and for those who stopped at the thermal waters nearby, where there is still a spa. I continued south after that, passing through Lobios, and climbing higher into the mountains. I rounded a curve and reached a large esplanade, with a deteriorating structure in the middle, behind which were cement markers and another building. It was the border. The cement markers delineated the exact geographical spot where one country became another. The Spanish side was not impressive. The large building was losing its slate tiles, and was in very bad condition, even though it was probably not more than forty years old. On one side was the old customs house, built of stone, that still had the Franco era national shield in stone. That building was perfectly kept. On the Portuguese side, both the older and the newer buildings were in better condition that the new Spanish one.
Continuing down, I reached a town, Vila do Gerês, where it seemed every other building had a sign. "Apartamentos." "Residencia." "Hotel." I suppose most hikers make that their base camp. When the road permitted, I could catch glimpses of a blue lake down at the bottom of the valley. When I approached, it was beautiful and evocative. I suppose it must have been the light, the blue of the lake and the green of the grass together, the houses spilling down the hillside, the different paint colors. It seemed very Alpine. I've never been in the Alps, but it reminded me of pictures I've seen, much like the square in Boston where Paul Revere's house sits reminds me of a European city. I wouldn't mind returning in the summer and renting a paddle boat at one of the docks lining the lake (which also happens to be a reservoir).
The drive continued. After I had left the lake behind, the road became the high road, and wound its way high above the Cávado river, the tall peaks of the Xurés scratching the sky's back across the valley, some with dustings of snow. The road resembled many in Galicia's Ourense province. This part of Portugal is different from the coast, where there are more differences from the south of Galicia. I turned north and stopped at Montalegre, where I decided to walk around the castle.
It was built as one of many defensive castles along the border with Spain, back in the thirteenth century, though people have been living in the area since the Iron Age. It sits on its hilltop, across from another white-topped humpback, the Larouco. Next to the castle is a church and a cemetery. This caught my attention because it's different from the ones just over the border. Whereas here we have standing boxes, there it's a hole in the ground covered by a slab. Instead of placing the name and picture directly on the slab, as we have on the few ground tombs, the name and picture are placed on what look like books propped up on the slab. A word on many is "saudade," which is close in meaning to "missing you."Continuing north, the day clouded over, and I passed into the south of Ourense, into an area called the Couto Mixto. Strictly speaking, it's made up of three villages, Meaus, Rubiás, and Santiago. All are close to the border with Portugal. Once upon a time, this was the Andorra of Spain and Portugal. It belonged to neither, but was an independent territory on its own. I suppose it had characteristics similar to the old Swiss cantons. Every three winters, the heads of family would reunite in the church in Santiago and elect a Xuíz (judge). He, in turn, would select three men, one from each village, to assist him in administrative duties. They paid dues to both the Spanish and Portuguese governments, and to the House of Branganza, lords of the land. But in everything else, they were independent. They very much controlled the commerce passing through the area, and had a Camiño Privilexiado, which connected the villages with Portugal. Everyone and everything that travelled that way was protected and did not have to pay customs of any kind to anyone.
This semi-independence seems to have begun soon after Portugal's independence from Spain, in 1147, and came to an end in 1864, when present-day borders were set. At the independence of Portugal, the borders remained fluid in areas, and the residents of the Couto Mixto took advantage of it and became a sanctuary. No one could be arrested on its ground by anyone from either country. Its residents were free from military service, and the only recognized overlord was the Duke of Braganza. Years later, the knowledge of mountain paths made it the perfect place to smuggle in contraband during the post-Civil War years, and to smuggle out proscribed people. 
I continued on my way, though not along the Camiño Privilexiado, which still exists, only to travel it one needs a very tough 4 wheel drive. At a crossroads at Santuario de Salas, I came across a very strange sight. A church had its front cut off, and the remains of arches stretched out in front of it. It turns out that the church was the original building from the seventeenth century, and the arches the intent to augment it in the nineteenth. The problem was that the parish ran out of money. Even back then the Spanish were overreaching themselves in the real estate business.
My journey came to an end at Santa Comba, on a hill above Aquis Querquennis. There, one of the last Visigothic churches of Spain stands. It has been dated from the second half of the seventh century. It's tiny by modern standards, but big by Visigothic, given that it was one of the first cruciform churches to be built, and has one chamber to either side of the altar. There are Roman remains in the church, including a baptismal font made from a Roman miliary (a stone planted by the Romans to mark the miles). There was said to be a small monastery in front of the church, but nothing is left now. Except for a few modern additions, the church is still pretty much the same as it was fourteen hundred years ago.
Since it was already past seven when I left the church, I went back home. If the weather allows, I will go somewhere with my husband later this week. If not, the next trip will hopefully be in June. There will definitely be more green then.
I took the wander with you while drinking tea. Thank you
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