My notes say "near Afonsim? between Vila Pouca de Aguiar & Ribeira da Pena".
Walking towards the brow of the hill, I contemplated that although I like wind turbines, they seemed alien here. The last village we'd driven through had been half derelict, some newer buildings, but mostly old stone constructions, huge square bricks that reminded me of the Incas, but weren't quite as easily tessellated. People had stared at us as they often seem to, but it wasn't Burt, there were lots of old Hyundii H100s around Portugal. Sometimes they had open mouths or frowns, and we were starting to feel a bit self-conscious.
This field of white monsters, almost dandelion seeds but not, was too modern, too sleek for this landscape. I was just thinking about all of this in the poetic voice I only get in my head when paper is far away; no matter how hard I try to hold onto its lilt, the words have always grown clunky by the time they scrabble out of my pen... I was thinking about all of this when I noticed the rock chapel and enormous stone cross in their midst.
The cross was polished, but the chapel could have been prehistoric apart from the engraving. The inscription, carved into the rough rock, was only from the early two-thousands, so I vowed to try and find out if there had been some tragedy that could have driven the extravagant task of building it.
It was an odd and slightly beautiful place to stay and I wondered if maybe the drive to keep wandering places which would never be my home stemmed from a desire to chance across things I don't understand; to untangle them, or not. The sun set and we were alone with the gentle murmur of the machines.
Previous (more useful) posts about places we've found on this trip...