By luck or fate, it happened this way. In three days, on a Tuesday, a Wednesday and a Thursday, I found myself in Mafra, Setúbal, and Montemor-o-Novo. I didn’t travel far from Lisbon, yet I experienced three places of pure and privileged nature.
In the Mafra National Woods Park, I spent several minutes just a few meters away from a deer. I was staring at him, struck by the beauty of his fur, and he was looking at me, astonished perhaps. The twinkle in its eyes appeared to be asking: what kind of tree is this? Then, a snap or some tiny movement I cannot quite place, sent it bounding off, leaping over the bush. The harmony of that body, the coordination of long legs and a haughty neck, then seemed to me to be the most extreme elegance.
Encounters like this are not uncommon in the Mafra Park. It is striking to know that it was first created in the 18th century, it seems to have been there since the beginning of time. We pass the same pool where princes learnt to swim, a sign of its royal background, yet the overgrown moss everywhere also seems to hold a wisdom of its own. The leaves of the trees along the paths look as if they could reveal ancient secrets.
In Setúbal, in the Arrábida, there are the mountains, the sea and the sky. These are three solemn and intertwined presences; one is unable to exist without the others. They are like giants beneath it all, even when we are not aware of them, shaping what is said and thought, even the small gestures, the children’s voices on the beach, the seagulls flying weightlessly, carry that grandeur born on the mountain, in the sea, in the sky.
Far away, the horizon is a mystery. It lies open before our eyes, and yet it seems impossible, a line that can’t be touched with our fingers. The mountains, the sea, the sky, Arrábida is like a feeling. It transcends words, and yet it’s a clear and concrete feeling. In Arrábida, I felt that the mountains, sea, and sky existed outside of me, surrounding me, just as if they existed within me.
In Montemor-o-Novo, in the region of Alentejo, I walked along the eco-trail. Ahead of us, for fourteen kilometres, stretched the path of the old railway line. I set off from the surroundings of the building that once belonged to the station and continued along this path that guided me in the same way the rails once guided the trains. At that moment, I became the locomotive, I was also the wagons, the train driver and the passengers. The only difference was that I didn’t have to keep to a certain speed, the only timetable I needed to keep was my own will.
All around, there was the immense landscape of the cork oak forest of Alentejo, called the “montado alentejano”. For many generations, nameless people invented the “montado”. At that hour of the morning, counting all the cork oaks and holm oaks within sight would be like returning at night to count the stars. However, none of this triviality mattered to the cicadas, their song stretched into the distance, through shadow and light. In ancient times, the “montado” was designed to protect the cork oak and its precious cork. As I walked in Montemor, I felt that that path and that moment had been created to protect me.
On that Thursday afternoon, as I returned home with the memories of previous days, Mafra, Setúbal and Montemor-o-Novo, I was still breathing in the calm rhythm of these places and I knew that, in my country, there is nature for far more than just three days.
