1.19.2023

the windmill

Because the boys are built to be outside and in motion (or bent over studying moss) and because Tolliver in particular is prone to enjoy the delicious freedom of walking barefoot to select an orange to peel for breakfast, we based every accommodation on such criteria - which is how we ended up in a windmill in the Sintra Cascais Natural Park. The GR11 Atlantic path to Magoito passes nearby the property and we tossed down our luggage and took it immediately the evening we arrived. After about an hour through pine forest and along a bamboo-lined creek we were struck by a truly unparalleled stretch of sand and cliff, which we enjoyed until the sunset began to scream goodnight and even then it hadn't occurred to us that we'd be hiking home in the dark. Multiple creek crossings and rock scalings had been an adventure in the daylight, and the return trip (and our first fire salamander spotting!) will likely forever be a dried flower memory, pressed tight between pages of bunless hamburgers and tuna pizza.

Sintra, according to what we'd read, is magical and mysterious and also tricky to navigate without a guide. We spent an entire day with Bruno, who had been a high school geography teacher and provided historical context and cultural details (with lots of mythology and Disney and Broadway references) that captivated the boys' attention. He showed us two stunning palaces (Quinta da Regaleira and Monserrate), introduced us to legendary travesseiro da casa piriquita or "pillow of Sintra" pastries and also to octopus rice and fish eyeballs (he helped the boys order fresh pompano for lunch, overlooking Praia Grande). Our last stop with Bruno was Cabo de Roca, the westernmost point of Europe, and even though we had a far greater understanding of the region's unique mix of fishing heritage, 19th century grandeur and the animation of modern tourism, we felt like we had made a new friend, and wished we had more time with him.

I wonder what the boys will remember most - the bags on their backs, the world at their fingertips, the lush green landscape or the slower pace, the adventurous food tastings or the Aldi picnics. Despite the fact that his focus appeared to be strictly on pigeons plus the next gelato opportunity, Hank's first grade weekend report filled two pages and mentioned nothing more than the lady who delayed takeoff because there was a not a seat on the plane for her dog. Watching the boys stalk reptiles and spin the giant concrete mill mechanism, watching them descend in awe the eighty eight foot Initiation Well and underestimate every single wave, I felt implicated in their joy. They may not ever face the urge to lunge toward places away from here, but if they do, if they ever set off to find somewhere that might hold more of who they are or how they want to be, their wings will have had some practice.

1 comment:

Poppy John said...

This post makes Don Quieote and I both...
SMILE (!)

Hope you kept the "heart rock."