It seems we bring good weather wherever we go, and our second WWOOF visit was no exception. Most of Portugal had experienced massive rains and flooding in the two weeks preceding our visit, and heavy rains had been drenching the countryside right up until our arrival. But for the two weeks after we started our visit to Rio Torto in Valenca, it didn't rain a drop, the sun was out, and we were having lunch in the garden.
Our first day, however, didn't look promising, at least as far as the weather was concerned. Our hosts on the other hand, Norman and Noeme, owners of the Rio Torto villa just outside Valenca, proved to be just as charming as the emails we'd exchanged had suggested they might be. We had agreed that we'd call them when we were in Porto, before hopping on the regional train that would carry us to Valenca, and they would pick us up from there. It always amazes me how people can sound differently between different media of communication; on email, Norman sounded conservative and reserved; on the phone, he was jovial to the point of goofy, energetic and full of life. I was caught off-guard because we didn't do the traditional exchange of names and "how-are-yous" that seems to ground a telephone call; he jumped into how good it was to hear us, how much they were looking forward to seeing us and that he'd be there to meet us at the station. When I hung up the phone I had a moment of uncertainty that I might not have dialled the right number, but as I would find out, this is very much a part of who Norman is.
A short while later we were in an extremely rainy Valenca. It was the kind of rain that comes down in five minute torrents of hard-hitting rain, coming in at funny angles, and the fizzles out for ten minutes, only to do it again. Norman had no trouble recognizing us: we were the only western-looking tourists with front- and backpacks bearing Canadian flags to get off the train. Norman also stands out from the rest of the Portuguese: literally, as he's quite tall. Retired from the off-shore banking industry, he's full of life and exuberance, enjoying every waking minute of the day and not afraid to make a big fuss about it. This is underscored by, as he would soon tell us, a health scare that he survived, that has clearly led him onto the smell-the-roses and seize-the-day paths of life to which we should all be paying attention.
On our short car ride back to Rio Torto, the name of their house just outside of Valenca, Norm let us know a little about the area and how they came to be there. Northern Portugal is one of the poorest regions of Portugal, if not the European Union (possibly pre-Romania and -Bulgaria); consequently, if you have saved up a fair amount from working a job that pays you in English Pounds, your money can go quite a far way. Norman retired from his job and bought the property; by western standards it's fairly modest, but their Portuguese neighbours think he's really wealthy.
Their property was quite a contrast to our first WWOOF experience; where Honoré and Ronna have a working farm property that is their primary source of income, Norm and Noeme have (essentially) a house with a large garden, half of it ornamental and the other half undeveloped, but judging from the massive weeds that had sprung up in just six months, extremely fertile. The property has both a front and back yard, with trees filling the front (apple, orange, fig and persimmon) and the ornamental garden filling the back, with trees and smaller plants surrounded by rocks and gravel in an Asian-inspired capacity.
So our job was essentially to remove the weeds, and if we had time for anything else, perfect. I'll admit that the sight of the weeds made me question whether we would actually get them cleared within the two weeks we were to stay. I'm not kidding, these things were massive. The common weed that was completely spread out across any hint of soil was bracken, a brown fern-like weed that had fronds up to two feet in height. The roots of this stuff are very pernicious, burrowing deep into the soil in one long, rope-like tendril. To completely remove it you have to dig deep into the soil with a pitchfork. But the real shockers were a type of weed we couldn't find the name for: "gigantic fuschia mini-trees" might come close to approximating what they looked like. The stalks were indeed fuschia in colour, and for the larger ones, at least ten inches in diameter. The weed shoots straight up and then forks several times, giving it the appearance of a tree, but it doesn't really have leaves; rather, at the end of the forks you have big clusters of what look to be purple blueberries. We didn't try any to taste, but they did leave marvellous purple blots on our clothes.
We met Noeme as soon as we got to the house; much younger than Norman, they had met by coincidence when Norm bought something from Hong Kong, where Noeme was working. It must have been a truly excellent example of customer service as not shortly after Norman was taking a flight for a visit (many emails later, we're assured) and not long after that, they were married. She's a bundle of energy - not used to being retired yet, I suspect - and would often refuse to stop working when the rest of us had taken a break. With her dark hair and Oriental complexion (a bit misleading, as she's originally from the Philippines) she was very generous and lively, and the perfect foil for Norm's boundless energy.
A great example of the two of them together is on the car rides we would take: Norm can't drive what I would call a "normal" car, with the steering wheel on the left; his car is a right-hand drive (or is it left-hand drive? You know, the kind of car designed to drive in Great Britain, on the wrong side of the road). Thus, on certain corners, it's difficult to do a shoulder check to see if the way is clear, and Noeme would have to provide a second set of eyes. And constantly remind him to drive on the right side of the road. They have probably been driving for years, but still they're working out how to signal that the way is clear; it had been "yes" for clear and "no" for not clear, but there was at least one misunderstanding in which Norm had asked whether there were any cars coming and Noeme had replied "No" in keeping with the no-for-not-clear system and the car lurched forward a bit to a squeal of "stop stop stop!" from Noeme. It was only when I manned the passenger seat and was assigned the role of second-set-of-eyes that the "all-clear" rule was developed: that is, regardless of the question asked, the response has to be "clear" in order for the driver to proceed. I'm hoping they're still using this system... Actually, this system has its roots from our first WWOOF visit in the Ardeche, where a similar question would be asked by Ronna on our drive out into town. In typical Canadian fashion, I would respond "You're good" which isn't a very erudite or even grammatically correct way to answer the question. As a part of our long conversation about what makes up the "correct" usage of language, we determined that just answering "the way is clear" would be perfect.
After just the first day we found we had much in common with Norm and Noeme and got along extremely well. When we did start to tackle the garden, we worked mostly by hand to pull out the more tenacious pieces of bracken from the ornamental garden, moving around rocks to make the soil directly accessible. It took us a few days but it was extremely rewarding to see everything take shape. Meanwhile, Noeme started the arduous process of pruning the trees, and after only a couple of days things were dramatically transformed. In addition, we were building up some substantial piles of weeds, the intention of which was to reduce them to ash with some good bonfires.
The fun didn't really begin until we began to tackle the back plots which were slated for use as a vegetable garden. Being completely overrun with bracken and purple monsters, you could hardly see through to the end of the property. It was then that Norm brought out the secret weapon: a gas-powered brush cutter. Six horsepower of harness-carried swinging cutting power, it cut through the bracken like a hot knife through butter, and toppled the purple monsters in a single swoop. It didn't take us more than two days to completely clear the back plot and reduce it to four piles suitable for burning. Very satisfying.
The burning, however, would take some work. We had dreams of being able to throw a single match onto the dry bracken and watch a towering inferno reduce the weeds in mere minutes; this was not to be the case. Quite the opposite, actually. The bonfire strategy went through several stages, including adding various forms of starters (paper, rolled-up cardboard, unpaid bills) to the mix of weeds; adding various accelerants including alcohol, paraffin and petrol, in a pyrotechnic but highly-controlled (Mum, I assure you) way; to finally, constructing a stone "burning table" out of cinder blocks and granite pillars. This final bonfire was the end of a cumulation of highly unsatisfactory burns; the purple monsters were completely filled up with water, so we ended up separating them into a separate pile to let them dry out over the next few months. The main burning area was an area about thirty feet by thirty feet, in the shade of the house, to which they had been slowly adding burnables from last year. The result was a massive pile about fifteen feet tall filled with composting bracken, suitcases, sticks, twigs, tree limbs, and old suitcases. I realized this thing was never going to burn unless we separated it out and started over (I realized this, of course, from a previously unsuccessful burn). So separate it we did, into more or less burnable items, large and small, the purple monster twigs and the bracken. Then we reassembled it into what was going to be the final, "if this doesn't work, we'll bury it" effort, complete with five starter boxes (cardboard boxes filled with two wooden stumps for lasting power, rolled up cardboard, paper, and liberal splashings of petrol) on top of the stone table. I'm happy to report that the thing went up with a great vacuum of air, and a flash of yellow fire that would have been guaranteed to remove eyebrows and lashes if it weren't for the Tiki torch that was used to light the boxes.
Now, I know what some of the more organically-inclined among you are probably thinking: petrol and paraffin accelerants? Suitcases on the fire? Isn't this supposed to be "world-wide opportunities on organic farms"? Yes, there were some conversations about long term consequences, but we also decided to remove all the ash from the yard. It will be some time before the soil could ever be called organic, and my feeling is Norm, when it comes to maintaining the crops he will be planting, will not be adding pesticides or GMO fertilizers; rather, he's the kind of guy that will plant things and be happy if anything manages to sprout at all. And the soil is really, really fertile; there were the weeds to prove it.
In the end, though, there was no way that pile was ever going to burn without something to help it. Believe me, we tried. And the moral of the story is, if you ever have a hard time keeping a bonfire going, just add another suitcase to it; they go up remarkably well. Perhaps some brands better than others.
During our stay, we learned a lot about persimmons. I knew of the name, but couldn't pick it out of a fruit lineup if you paid me; we learned a lot about them because Norm and Noeme had two growing on their property and were wondering what the heck to do with them. So if you've ever wondered what a persimmon is, and what to do with them, here is a brief synopsis of what I learned.
It's a fruit that comes in many shapes and sizes, but mostly, you see a reddish-orange variety about the size of an apple. There are two main varieties: a popular variety which is ready to eat as soon as it is gently plucked from the tree; a sweet, juicy fruit with a few, small seeds in the middle. Unfortunately for Norm and Noeme, this wasn't what they had growing on their property. Rather, they had a variety which can't be eaten without further assistance unless it's so ripe it falls off with a messy splat onto the ground. It doesn't really get to this point because it's attacked by bugs and birds when it approaches this level of ripeness. If you tried to eat one before this, you'd find (as we did) the fruit is so astringent that as the fruit touches your tongue it drains it of all wetness available, leaving your mouth feeling as if you've been sucking on sand. I can't say I enjoyed it. However, the astringency can be removed in a variety of ways: freezing it, exposing it to carbon dioxide (such as the CO2 that's produced by a ripening banana) or letting the fruit ruminate in alcohol. In fact, for the British variety of the fruit, called "Sharon fruit", this is exactly what they do: treat it chemically to remove the astringency.
So, while we tried to come up with things to help them go through their crop of persimmons, I don't know how successful we were. I'm sure there is some more experimenting to be done, but from my perspective, the best thing about the tree is its look when it's hung low with fruit. As well, I'm told the foliage and flowers are nice to look at.
Or, maybe the neighbours will be interested in them, using a secret Portuguese method to turn them into something divine. It would be a very useful trade, and would leave Norm and Noeme feeling a bit better, as their incredibly generous neighbours have a tendency to shower them with fresh lemons, oranges, and eggs; Norm and Noeme haven't got anything to trade back yet, but do suspect that their neighbours happily helped themselves to the figs from their wonderfully productive tree when they were away last summer. So some guilt could be being assuaged here. In the meantime, the neighbours have been very grateful for Noeme's trade back, spring rolls she expertly creates with a delicious recipe.
The weed clearing took us through the first week, so we decided to plunge into the planting of a vegetable garden, to which I had been assigned to design and orchestrate. What the heck do I know about gardening? I think I helped water some string beans when I was four years old in my mother's garden, and remember with some fondness pulling half-grown carrots from the ground and washing them straight in the rain barrel. Apart from that, gardens are where people who know things about gardening, well, do their thing. So it was a bit of a crash course through the Royal Botanical Society's Encyclopaedia of Horticulture (a.k.a. the bible for all things gardening) and "winging it". I was assigned as leader of this particular project mostly for my optimism, not for any particular skill or talent, or even promise of such. In fact I'm sure if Amy had been the one to say "sure, I suppose we could try our hand at that" it would have been her coming up with a plot plan and an idea of what goes where.
Nothing was going to get planted, however until we turned over the soil. For that, Norman decided he needed to purchase one more piece of garden equipment: a rotovator (I think in Canada we might call this thing a roto-tiller). Picture an engine on two wheels, with a set of adjustable wheelbarrow handles that let you steer; beneath the engine, the main event, six coarse steel sickles, which turn at a high enough torque that the earth gets chewed up magnificently. It took a little while to figure out, but when all the parts were fitted together properly we went over the entire plot area, turning up the earth like a hot knife through butter (I'm aware I'm using the same analogy twice. But when something really does work that easily, it truly is the best analogy to use). I can't express the satisfaction I felt when the rotovator went over a purple monster root, bounced around like a bucking bronco for a few seconds, and then produced in its wake softball-sized pieces of root. Much better than spending ten minutes with a pitchfork and shovel to produce a sore back and a few pieces of root.
It was into this fertile, brown-as-chocolate soil that we were going to plant vegetables. What kind of vegetables? In Norman's mind, pretty much whatever he could get his hands on. We went to the market to collect some, and fifty-odd euros later, we came back with a car so packed full of plants and vegetable cuttings Amy had a lemon tree pressing her up against the back seat. We negotiated with the seller to buy dozens of cabbage plants, lettuces, parsley, broccoli, brussels sprouts, and cauliflowers. Our transaction was conducted in a marvellous trifecta of translation: French was our common language, and it required us to translate back to Norman, and the seller to translate to his partner in Portuguese. But nothing would deter Norman; with peals of joy and excitement, he would say "oh yes! Let's have a dozen of those!" and into a bag they would go.
We didn't end up planting all of the cabbage, as we soon discovered that each bunch of cabbage contained a hundred plants, and we had bought at least a dozen bunches. I believe a tribute was given to one of the neighbours of those that were left over from the planting. In the end we planted about three hundred cabbages, all the different varieties of lettuce, and about a dozen each of cauliflower, broccoli and brussels sprouts. Of course it remains to be seen that these plants are actually what they were indicated to be; we can't be sure of what we asked for in French, and what was given to us in Portuguese. We can't even be sure that we were supposed to plant them now or later. It didn't help that it started to frost in the mornings, and at least one of our neighbours shook her head in a way that suggested she didn't think much was going to come of this exercise. But we set up some fabric over top of the fledgling plants to help protect them from frost, and if we're lucky, Norman will be sending us some very promising photographs in the weeks to come.
Our stay with Norm and Noeme was very rewarding, again confirming for me that the WWOOF experience might not be for everyone, but for the most part, is an excellent way to get behind the veil of the country and see it from the inside out. Perhaps less so for this visit than with Ronna and Honoré, as Norm and Noeme aren't from the area themselves, but it certainly helped assuage the culture shock we were feeling in Portugal and was a welcome taste of home (or home-like). Were it not for our mandatory return to Madrid to collect our Indian tourist visas, we would have liked to take them up on their offer to stay over Christmas.
We flew out from Porto back to Madrid where we were pleasantly surprised that our hosts were awaiting our return and we had the same room as before. Our time in Madrid was almost purely devoted to awaiting our Indian tourist visas, us having booked cheap flights to the south of Portugal on the following weekend (we figured if it hadn't come through by then, we'd only be out a little money). So when the visa experience worked out as completely positively as we could have hoped, complete with smiles of recognition and being pulled to the front of the queue, we were at a bit of a loss for what to do with ourselves. In the end, we wandered, I took photographs, we read, we dined, we toured.
And in the end, we took a comparatively boring Ryanair flight to Faro, where we would spend the next two weeks in relative sun and surf in the Algarve.
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