The Feira That Wasn't

I should have known better than to believe everything they told us on their website. It seemed too good to be true to learn that it would open in time for us to take a lunchtime trip and the reason for that was because it was too good to be true. We wanted to avoid the severe afternoon heat – it was even hotter down in the valley than up in our eyrie in the hills - so we tootled off late morning through smoke-tinged air, secure in the knowledge that we would be back home before the afternoon's serious broiling, following a successful trip. Ha, how I now laugh at our innocence.

All empty

We face ranks of shuttered booths, deserted praças, empty tables and . . . oh, hang on, there's someone at that makeshift eatery talking to a security guard. We go to have a word. Heads are shaken. What were we thinking of? Nothing opens before three. Even then, it's so hot that most of them won't open until much later. After dark. Sweltering under those toldos, it is. We can have lunch here, though. It's where the security people eat. Simple fare. Gastronomic? Not if we can help it, pá.

We wander off, chatting to the security guard who is going in our direction, not that we have a direction. He tells us a little about working on that site and complains about the heat. We agree; it's why we didn't want to go in the afternoon. The security guard goes off to secure things and we go over to the park to have a think. We wander down a lane between shuttered stalls. It's called Corredor da Morte and, spotting the bales of hay around the bases of trees, I conjecture races of some kind.

The park

The park is a heavily wooded area with a river and various streams, the site of various ancient watermills. It's a place to rest and get your bearings, though discarded beer cans on the ground tell of other ideas. There's a big temporary outdoor stage for summer evening shows next to the river and we go and sit away from it. Peacocks and cockerels from the nearby aviary compete for our attention. Two municipal cleaners, a man and a woman, come by with their cart and their brooms and they sweep away the beer cans and tidy up. Debris from the night before, we suggest and they shrug. They stop for a little chat. They are good-humoured and witty and leave us smiling.~

Returning to the market

We decide to return to the market and indulge in a spot of early lunch. The irony of a lack of gastronomic choices at a gastronomy fair appeals to us. No, wait, there is a choice. Two eating areas are open and we study the chalk board menus of both before choosing. Oh, sorry, says the waiter at the place we have chosen, we didn't bother to take down last night's menu and we don't have any of that. Never mind, they can do us some bacalhau. It has obviously been fried the previous night and reheated to serve us but the portions are generous and at least the chips are freshly cooked.

It's hot under the awning and we bat away flies. Lots of flies. I watch an elderly woman being seated at a table nearby. She has a lot of empty tables to choose from. She orders wine with her meal and I note that the waiter brings her a bottle. It's one of those places where they charge according to how far down the bottle you get, I decide. She has a prodigious appetite and I am fascinated to watch such a small frail frame devour so much so quickly. Before we leave she has drained the bottle. I wait to see if she'll order a second. I am disappointed.

The waiter is the owner and a chatty man. He's local and we swap horror stories of recent wildfires and shake our heads at the tragedy of it all. He also answers our question about Corredor da Morte. He points out that the barraquinhas lining one side of the Corredor are all dedicated to the supply of wine. 'Come back after midnight' he says 'and you'll see why it has that name.'

Going back home

We were back home in time for a post-prandial nap. On the short drive back, we reflected that we'd done rather well. If the feira had been open, then we wouldn't have enjoyed talking to the guard, the cleaners or the waiter (who would have been far too busy). As it was, we'd got a bit of an insider's view of the event. The way the fair had been organised with rent-a-barraca type furniture all in serried lines and, no doubt, overseen by someone with an MBA, well, we could half guess what it would have been like. The old school character of events like this in days of yore seems lost for now and they've all become a bit of a muchness. At least that's what we told ourselves and why we'd enjoyed our little outing to the feira that wasn't.