Mystical moments in the Convent of Christ

Marvão was still covered in cloud when we left, but the rain had stopped and their might have been the suspicion of a blue sky above. Breakfast was very nice – I had the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever had – but there were walnuts everywhere, which made me somewhat nervous. It was all prepared by an omniglot goblin – who looked and acted like one of the characters from The Name of the Rose. She was 4’5”, and wandered around muttering words in all languages, gently haranguing guests with sentences like “eggs-Eier-oeufs-ovos-huevos-jajca”, and would then ladle out a plateful of the marvellous eggs whether the guests wanted them or not. And woe betide anyone who looked askance at her. Or touched the espresso maker. Whenever she left the room, some of the guests would quickly scrape the eggs into a bag or their pocket, and then make a quick getaway.
 
Making our own escape, eggs in pockets, we packed the car and then braced ourselves for the return journey around the city walls, down the steep slopes and through the Eye of the Needle. Mrs. Ottawacker placed herself in the back; Ottawacker Jr. was left to navigate the streets with me. By the time we had reached the gate, however, the cloud had dissipated; so, we stopped, got out, and admired the views we had only been able to see intermittently the day before. It was at this time that I realised the petrol tank was quite empty. We were headed for Tomar – but I had no recollection of seeing a petrol station on the way up and wasn’t sure how far we’d go. True, the Kia was claiming we had 60 km left in the tank – but Tomar was 130 km away. I had no idea of what the roads were like, the GPS showed no petrol stations between Marvão and Tomar, and I had no idea of how big the nearest town – Portalegre – was, and it was in a different direction. The potential for catastrophe was admittedly not huge, but you travel with the Ottawackers at your peril. We made the decision to head for Portalegre; after all, the locals had to buy their petrol from somewhere.
 
We navigated the gate to the fortified city of Marvão with the consummate ease of the seasoned traveller (i.e., at 5 km/h with pedestrians overtaking us) and set off again down the windy roads and hairpin bends of the N359. It had suddenly, below the clouds engulfing the fortress, turned into the most glorious morning. It may have been mid-November, but there was a warmth to the air, and we rolled down the windows as we returned along the road in second gear, blithely ignoring the signs that indicated our speed should be 90. (One day, I’ll launch a blip challenge for Pointless Road Signs: the worst are in New Zealand, but Portugal has some classics.) We found Portalegre with ease and, all of a sudden, the GPS was showing a proliferation of petrol stations. We filled up, got misled by the GPS into a side street with no exit, found the road again, and decided on a whim to head to Ammaia.
 
Ammaia, in case like me you didn’t know, is a Roman city, located alongside the river Sever, and which is completely dwarfed by the towering presence of Marvão on the nearby mountaintop. It is, however, an excellent morning out – and there is, the first of these I had seen in Portugal, an excellent interpretative museum, which is hosted in one of the old residences (called the “edifício da Quinta do Deão”). There is a brilliant (short) film, which shows you the ruins and then used computer imagery to show you what they looked like and how they reached that conclusion. Then it takes you through the town as it might have looked on a typical market day. Maybe the reason for this excellent interpretative explanation is that the site was chosen as an “open lab” for the EU-funded project “Radio Past”, and is used as a sort of test site for non-destructive approaches to complex archaeological sites. This is great, because there are some really interesting things to be seen, including an Arch doorway; a temple and forum; the Quinta do Deão, itself and a small baths area, near the forum.  We spent a happy couple of hours there, and thanks to the Portuguese policy of not ripping off people who are interested in visiting cultural and historic monuments, we all got in for the ludicrously cheap 5€ entrance charge. (When I think I paid $20 to get into Ottawa’s National Art Gallery to see second-rate Group of Seven paintings, it makes me want to take hold of Canadian bureaucrats and slap them around a bit.) After a quick sandwich in the car park, we headed straight off for Tomar. The roads were empty, despite this being a Saturday (or maybe because of it) and we made decent time (once we had left the hairpin bends behind).
 
Ah! Tomar, what can I say. It was well past midday, so we headed immediately for the big attraction, the Convent of Christ. I realise that all I have been doing on this trip is waxing lyrically about religious buildings – but it is hard not to, even if you are (like me) completely agnostic. There is so much to admire: even Mrs. Ottawacker, who is hard to impress at the best of times, has been blown away. Well, mostly. Portugal has thankfully been spared a lot of the damage caused by various recent wars – although it has suffered some horrible natural disasters – and this has meant that so many of these stunning historical treasures remain. And this, the Templar Castle and Convent of Christ, really, really is one of them. We found it thanks to the GPS – although it is on top of a huge hill overlooking the city, so I suppose I could just have used my eyes. We drove up narrow streets, and arrived to find a small parking lot with no space. There was a man dressed up as a crusader who waved cheerfully to me and gave me what I took to be a “thumbs up” as I furtively parked in what might have been a reserved spot. For a second, I had a horrible fear he might be an England football fan, but he could speak English and was sober, so I relaxed again. He told me to park where I wanted, the reserved spaces were merely “suggestions” and were never used. Then he told me parking was free (the idea of being able to park within touching distance of a major site without having to take out a second mortgage to pay for it still shocks me) and that the best way of appreciating the site was to go round the adjoining gardens first, and then make for the convent. Then he showed me his sword, gave it to Ottawacker Jr. and told me to take a photo. So, I did. And we chatted, and then he asked for a small donation, and I realised that once again, I (who pride myself on spotting a scammer at 100 paces) had been taken in. But it is all done with such bonhomie and charm that, quite frankly, it is worth a 2€ donation.
 
We took his advice and walked around the stunning gardens. So stunning, in fact, that the Lousa rugby team was also there, admiring the flowers and the architecture. It was quite the jarring juxtaposition, to be honest, watching 6’7” rugby players and officials posing next to citrus trees, but whatever. But as stunning as the gardens and the outside are, nothing prepared me for the inside. Inside, as agnostic as I am, could almost make me believe in the presence of a divine being. There is an octagonal church in the heart of the convent, which apparently the knights heading off on crusade would ride into to receive a blessing as they departed. It is absolutely breathtaking – and must have been, at its height, one of those constructions designed to make knees weak and jaws drop. I know that a lot of experiences people have – and you’ll have to allow me to universalise again here – are down to a combination of things: levels of fatigue, mood, ambience, company… we were coming off a longish day at the end of a hard year; and the Convent and Church just blew me away. We wandered round the building, dazzled by the light in the cloisters, the colours of the walls, the azulejos, the warmth of the sun… it was a mystical time we spent there. And we could have stayed longer than the 2-3 hours we had allotted. But we had to get to the refuge...
 
Quite justifiably, Mrs. Ottawacker was beginning to take my claims about the magnificence of the coming evening’s accommodation with a pinch of salt. This evening, I had booked us into the Refugio do Prado, which promised peace and tranquillity in a wonderfully peaceful and tranquil setting. We set off from the castle car park, waving farewell to the crusader, and headed out there, hoping to get there before darkness fell. Unfortunately, we trusted the GPS, which took us over a small mountain via a field. We did find it, eventually, not quite in Tomar as the address had led us to believe, but not quite in Porto either. OK, I exaggerate – it was just outside Tomar, and as we pulled up to the house, I began to understand why it was called a refuge. It wasn’t so much remote as isolated. It was the kind of place an astronaut might have come to for training, before heading off to Mars for a couple of decades. But, my God, it was beautiful.
 
We were welcomed by Luis, the owner, who gave us the key, pointed us in the direction of a local supermarket, and told us everything we needed was inside the house. “Call me if there is anything you need, anything at all,” he said. And then he was off down the road with his dog by his side. The refuge was stunning. A huge, open-concept place, with wooden floors and high beams; Luis had left fruit and his home-made brandy as a welcome present. It was clean and spacious and full of good vibes. So, we drove out to the supermarket, 5km away, in an excellent mood, and found it wasn’t so much a supermarket as a stand. But it had everything we needed. I bought some cheese. About 1kg of it. Because the old woman selling the cheese either didn’t speak English or French or Spanish or Portuguese, or she spotted a clown who had bought three bottles of red wine and likes his cheese. We bought dinner and desserts and were generally so happy to be in this out-of-the-way place, that we went a little crazy. To go with the cheese and wine, we bought steaks and vegetables and still had change from 30€. We drove back to the refuge giddily.
 
Even the induction stove failed to dampen our spirits. What was this strange thing – and how could a human use it? I had tried and failed while in Spain, so at least I knew what not to do. So, we called Luis, who came straight over and told us he had little idea what to do either, but he could try a few things. Sooner, rather than later, he had managed – and once he had gone, I cooked dinner and we played some cards. Then Ottawacker Jr. saw the television and, intuitively, in the manner of the young, knew that it had Netflix. Soon after that, he discovered America’s Got Talent, and we sat around laughing and cheering for a couple of episodes. Then, we cleared up, showered, and went to bed, where we dreamed of Knights Templar and Romans and of having to ride a horse around the narrow streets of Marvão.