The wind comes shrieking from the north-west. The oak and olive trees shiver violently and the eaves shutter and groan — anything not nailed down blows into the fields, lost in the brush. The months between now and May stack up like a brutal endurance test. Winter here is a rainy season, and the mud in Portugal is sticky like glue. Every morning and evening as we feed the horses, then clean up after them, we wade ankle deep — the wheelbarrows threatening to become stuck or their wheels to come off. Everything slowly becomes splotched and covered in mud - even clothes that have been nowhere near the horse paddocks or the goat and chicken yards. We come in from our chores with the stuff in our hair, in our ears, under our nails and down our shirts. I suppose the amount of effort expended on working a farm prevents one from noticing how much of it is spraying around while one goes about one’s labors.
The Darkest Season
The Darkest Season
The Darkest Season
The wind comes shrieking from the north-west. The oak and olive trees shiver violently and the eaves shutter and groan — anything not nailed down blows into the fields, lost in the brush. The months between now and May stack up like a brutal endurance test. Winter here is a rainy season, and the mud in Portugal is sticky like glue. Every morning and evening as we feed the horses, then clean up after them, we wade ankle deep — the wheelbarrows threatening to become stuck or their wheels to come off. Everything slowly becomes splotched and covered in mud - even clothes that have been nowhere near the horse paddocks or the goat and chicken yards. We come in from our chores with the stuff in our hair, in our ears, under our nails and down our shirts. I suppose the amount of effort expended on working a farm prevents one from noticing how much of it is spraying around while one goes about one’s labors.