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June 2025

- A Very Special Day -

On June 18, 1982, I saw Odeceixe beach for the first time – and it was like love at first sight. I was standing high up on the cliffs to the south, letting my gaze wander over the vast panorama. Below me, a river meandered in a wide arc towards the sea. On the opposite bank, an old farmhouse caught my attention. White smoke rose leisurely from the chimney – surely fresh bread was being baked. The farmer was tilling his field with two mighty, light brown oxen. Wasn't he already too old for the hard work? There were three terraces in a cut in the steep slope, supported by sturdy stone walls. Young people lived here, individuals who wanted to get away from it all – like me. There was an orange-coloured tent on the lowest platform, a teepee made of pine trunks on the middle one – but the top one still seemed unoccupied. Was she waiting for me? A curious but warm, happy feeling arose within me.
Along the sandy path that ran parallel to the embankment, stood a yellow van, a red Combi and a small blue truck with an open top, loaded with wooden beams. But there was no sign of people. Further towards the sea, the path led to two flat buildings. I assumed they would be cafés or small restaurants. One was still locked, windows and doors barricaded with boards. At the other, two men were leisurely carrying tables and chairs onto the terrace. I was magically drawn to this hustle and bustle. Because I had spent the last two weeks on a deserted beach further south – I hadn't met anyone there apart from a lone angler.

But now, despite my heavy rucksack and bulky guitar, I walked light-footedly and full of anticipation down the slope to the river. How many times I must have crossed it since that day! Sometimes, as on that day in June, it resembled a trickle that I could wade through effortlessly. In winter, on the other hand, it swelled from time to time into a raging torrent that was risky to cross. And in some summers, it stretched surprisingly wide and deep – perfect for stand-up paddling or a refreshing dip in the ice-cold water.

The tables were now all on the terrace, one of them already set. I was met with friendly curiosity. "Come and eat with me!" the gestures signalled. I understood, even though I didn't speak a word of Portuguese at the time. And it was simply wonderful – after all the packet soups and meagre meals, I was hungry for something different, and the smell of the grilled fish was simply tantalising. "Saúde!" we toasted each other with a glass of red wine. At that moment, I thought of my father again. It was his birthday, but there was no phone to call him for miles around. He was 57 at the time and today, decades later, he could be celebrating his 100th birthday. But my father is long gone – as is João, who invited me so warmly back then, and António, who caught the fish.
Just as the river flows relentlessly, time also flows relentlessly. Gone are the tents and tipis, the two beach bars and the old farmhouse. A few friends from this verão de alegria – that summer full of joy, as I like to call it – have remained. When I look at the picture I painted of the northern cliffs in 1998, the memory of that moment comes back vividly. It was when I lost my heart to a place – and found my adopted home.

> order magnetic bookmark motif  'A Primeira Vista'

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