I’ve had a tumultuous time recently. On the domestic front, I moved to a new rented apartment a couple of months ago (which I have written about in my Substack ‘Notes’; I also made a video about it called ‘Home sweet home’). It’s a Portuguese ‘urban farm’, located in the suburbs consisting of a large quinta (country house), with vineyards, home grown food and an array of animals owned by an elderly Portuguese couple, whom I adore. I have learned a lot about Portuguese life and culture whilst I have been here, both good and bad. I haven’t talked about the latter, but it’s got to the point that it’s difficult to live with, so I will be packing my boxes shortly.

...The noise, oh dear, the noise! I lived in the countryside for many years in the UK, and I am fully aware that it is not as quiet as you would think. But it’s an entirely different thing in Portugal. The property sits in 2 acres of ground (about a hectare) and is surrounded by smaller properties, each with a small patch of land for growing food, keeping a few sheep too in some cases, and homesteading Portuguese style. Clearing the undergrowth is a ‘thing’ in Portugal prior to the fire season but the patches of land are small and do not lend themselves to tractors. So there is continuous strimming all around me, sometimes a discordant ensemble of several buzzing machines, mostly early in the morning and again in the evening, as it’s often too hot to work over the middle of the day.

Then my landlord, bless him, is in perpetual motion at the quinta, doing one project after another. For instance, building a patio at the back of my apartment, and a laundry room just at the front. Sadly, having endured the stone cutting, hammering and banging, I won’t be here to enjoy the benefits. As he doesn’t wear ear protection when using machinery, which he has used all his life, I expect his hearing isn’t that great. Mine, on the other hand, is razor sharp. It has been amplified over the years, as a result of several concussions from riding accidents. More noise (not just on Sunday) comes from the local churches that broadcast services, weddings and announcements to the community via loudspeakers, not to mention church bells that chime on the hour, every hour.

To add to the auditory assault, during July and August, it’s festival time. Events are put on in all nearly every village for the Portuguese expatriates who return home in the summer to visit their families. There is also a two week festival in the town nearby. Fire crackers proclaim the start of proceedings in the morning, usually around 9 am. Dreadful, crooning music plays on a loop all day (which can be heard for miles around) and continues for most of the night, too. There is a 20-30 minute fireworks display around midnight, sometimes as late as 1am, which reaches a climax that sounds like WW3 and afterwards, there is more music. I can just about block it out (unless it has a strong bass beat) by closing all the double-glazed windows and stuffing ear plugs as deep into my ears as I can bear. One morning, I woke at 6am, removed the plugs to have an hour or two more sleep without hearing my bodily functions reverberate around my head, only to find the throbbing music was still going. Beyond breathtaking! There are kids in the house next door that play (I am all for that) and scream (without any reprimand from their parents) until past midnight, most nights, and roosters provide an unwanted alarm call at 5 each morning. Worst of all, are the dogs.

Everyone in rural Portugal has dogs, generally several. They are confined on a chain (I am told that is illegal), or in a cage and many are never let out, or exercised – ever! The ones in cages or kennels are often on leads too. I understand the dogs are used as house alarms. If you are an animal lover as I am, it will break your heart. They bark, scream, whine, whimper, or cry nearly all the time (reaching fever pitch at the full moon, which is today), including those that belong to my landlord. I asked when I came to view the apartment if they had dogs. “Just two” they answered and “they only bark if there is an intruder”. I discovered another 10 living in kennels around the back, adjacent to my apartment as I unpacked my boxes. Obviously, they don’t count as dogs (or at least ‘domestic’ dogs), as they are used for hunting in the spring, and that is the only time they are released from their confinement.

However, it is the smallest canine, a terrier belonging to the woman next door, that causes me the most grief. His bark is so high pitched, it is off the chart. It makes me feel sick. Even shutting all the windows and barricading myself in the most distant room, I can still hear him. My ears hurt most of the time now - I suspect there is some damage to my inner ear or ear drum. It will repair, no doubt, but it has also affected my balance and the nerves of my teeth. I am tough but I have been reduced to tears a couple of times in the last few weeks. I don’t blame the dogs. I broadcast healing to them. The only way they can discharge their pent up energy is through barking.

There is nowhere to escape, no time to sit quietly or meditate (except perhaps for an hour around midday when there is a heat-induced lull). I frequently wear ear plugs to work, or headphones which take the edge off the most shrill noises, just a fraction. As I write now (late afternoon), the fourth or fifth round of fire crackers of the day, are going off. I am not complaining. I don’t do that. I am simply recounting my Portugal experience to you, warts and all. I almost moved out the day I moved in, but I managed to check myself. It would be better to wait until I was clearer about where to look for land, or I could risk moving yet again, and three moves in less than six months would be too much. The high season for holiday rentals is drawing to an end, so longer term rentals are coming onto the market. I am going to see one tomorrow. Fingers crossed!

Of course, no experience is wasted. I am clued up on all the noise hazards to avoid when buying a property. It has been a baptism of fire, but perhaps a necessary one to avoid making a costly mistake. And this brings me to the second ‘baptism’ - thinking I had found the right property. After deciding that the far north of Portugal and the centre were not going to work, I decided to focus on the area in between. I did as much research as I could but struggled to get adequate information from real estate agents, who were difficult to contact and mostly didn’t speak English. A long list of potential properties was eventually whittled down to just three which appeared viable, in that they were the right size, not too close to a cell tower, pylons, wind farms, a church or a lithium mine, didn’t have road noise, near neighbours (human or canine), but did have plenty of water, were south facing, had a ruin or a basic house and were broadly in my price range.

Satellite images online don’t always show the reality though, as they can be several years out of date. So two out of the three properties were eliminated on arrival due to factors I could not have pre-determined. The upside was that I didn’t waste time or energy doing battle with the undergrowth in an attempt to walk the land. (Most properties with land, in my budget, were abandoned years ago and are now in a jungle-like state of disarray.) The third property was of interest. The land was tended and productive. There were trees bearing a wide variety of fruit, a large vineyard, plenty of water, a ruin and a small house that needed a lot of work but was still being used by the elderly owners were cooking in it when they worked the land (as they lived some distance away). The land had a lovely energy, it was private and the terrain was varied.

On the downside, the access wasn’t marvelous but could be improved and there was a wind farm a kilometer away, high up on the mountain top above. I couldn’t hear anything (and I am the acid test for that), though I could see the top of one turbine from a couple of spots on the land. Not ideal but not a deal-breaker either. All in all, a fair compromise. I went three times in a week (the hottest week of the summer, so far) which involved a four hour round trip each time. A third visit wouldn’t have been necessary except that the friend who was coming to act as an interpreter on the second visit (so I could ask a very long list of questions) had a puncture on the way and didn’t make it. In the days that followed, my enthusiasm for the property grew and I began to imagine the Earth Collective being built there. As I let my imagination run wild, I started to fall in love with the place.

Before making an offer, though, I requested all legal documents from the agent so I could get them checked against the municipality’s records by an adviser. That revealed a few shockers. Most significantly, the main house was not entirely legal. Also, despite having asked the agent on first contact, if the property was in a conservation zone, to which he answered ‘no’, it turned out to be in the worst possible conservation zone – an ecological one. The adviser told me there would be no chance of getting planning permission, unless I met some of the listed exceptions, which on closer inspection seemed unlikely. I decided to get a second opinion. The next professional made enquiries with the ecological conservation department to find out exactly what could and couldn’t be done from a planning perspective. The conclusion was that it might be possible to do my project if it was submitted for tourism, but the amount of land I could build on was limited and less than ideal. Investigations took a week, incurred an amount of money and gave me a roller-coaster ride. The money was well spent, as it turned out and the experience gained, invaluable.

I let the information sink in for a couple of days as I chewed over how the project could be reworked within the limitations. I made an effort to detach from my love of the property which helped me to reach a decision. I would not proceed. The risk was too high and the bureaucracy too great, dealing with the local municipality and the conservation authority, which would also double the time-line. It didn’t have to be even more difficult than it already was, and I was sure I could fall in love again. So, for now, it’s back to the drawing board.

September is approaching and I am told this is a time when the festival-loving Portuguese expatriates who return home to visit their families, often make a decision to sell the farm they have inherited, or help their elderly parents move off the land they can no longer manage, and put it up for sale. I am hopeful and I definitely feel I am getting closer.

It’s been a baptism of fire all round. But a huge learning curve and I am grateful for that. I am armed with much more information to make a better choice of property for me and my project. The adventure continues, and I feel blessed to be enjoying the sunshine pursuing my dream.

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Footnotes:

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