It was such a tiny affair that I wasn't going to write anything about it, but then it started to write itself in my head. There's a play of words between 'Celorico' and 'Celeiro Rico' and our câmara took the cue and decided to promote a 'rich barn' of farm produce from the local area; micro markets selling the produce would appear in different locations around the concelho.

It was the turn of our corner of the municipality the other Sunday. They'd chosen the space in front of the bombeiros in Mota, the village just east of us and a place we know well because that is where our centro de saúde and nearest supermarket are located. Mota is a bit of a strange place and is marked by having some astonishingly ugly four-story buildings clad in bright red brick in what otherwise might have been a pretty enough village. I usually refer to it as Blota (as in 'blot on the landscape') but it is a useful and functional hub for a variety of local services that we don't have in our own freguesia, including, it seems, a Celeiro Rico micro market.

Easy access, but low confidence

We arrived to find it was easier to park than we might have imagined, which also told us about how many people might, or might not, be there. There were only half a dozen stalls offering goods to sell, but even so, there was an air of a festa about the whole business: there was some bunting and some music blaring out of speakers which, I was pleased to see, were powered by being plugged into the street lights.

There was also something different that struck me about the stallholders. Normally, when you go along to a regular market, the stallholders are well-experienced hawkers with a certain confidence and spirit that can, at times, seem quite overwhelming – and a vocabulary that might leave your eyes watering. These stallholders, though, were mild by comparison, ordinary Joãos and Marias doing something a little out of their normal routine. One or two of them even appeared to be a bit diffident – local producers slightly abashed at finding that they were selling what they had grown. We were told by one of the stallholders that the câmara had authenticated the provenance of the goods on sale and we could be sure that all the goods were Celoricense, from the broad beans to the licor de camélia and from the broa to the apple vinegar.

Barter

We live in a village where it is common enough for agricultural goods to be bartered, as I'm sure is the case in most rural locations. I was going to write 'given' instead of 'barter' but the truth of the matter is that should a bag, a bucket or a box of unasked for goods mysteriously appear on our doorstep one day, we will instantly know who they are from (only X grows cabbages like that; I remember Y telling me about these beans; I saw these on Z's trees). We will also instantly be thinking 'what can we give in return?' even if it's just a few jars of last year's pumpkin and lemon jam or a bit of help with that irrigation channel. There is no such thing as a gift without an accompanying thought concerning some reciprocal response; in other words, barter – but without the banter.

Joy of eating local products

There is an enormous joy to be had in eating meals where every ingredient is locally grown or reared, but, naturally, it's a bit of a hit-and-miss affair. Some weeks we can hardly get through the door because of the sheer volume of boxes and buckets of fruit and veg still bearing the loam of the fields hereabouts, while at other times it will be a trip into town to find something for dinner. That we could now mix the two situations by popping along to Blota, sorry, Mota, seemed to me to be a great big positive: instead of wondering what to swap or spend our money on at the shops in town, we can exchange some coins for produce grown by ordinary people living just around the corner. And, my goodness, there was a lot of good stuff to be found. Well, it makes sense – if you were going to be displaying wares for sale to people who are basically your neighbours, then you're not going to disgrace yourself by putting out any old rubbish, are you? We filled a bag with local goodness.

Surprising performance

A young couple had dressed up as old folk, both of them tottering around wearing clothes from a bygone age. They had bent backs and were using sturdy walking sticks for support, chatting with the various stallholders and pretending to make purchases. No one was fooled for a moment that they really were old 'uns, of course, but it was a decent piece of street theatre. This was especially true when they suddenly leapt into the air and started performing energetic dances, banging their walking sticks like the staves used by the Pauliteiros de Miranda or the less energetic Morris dancers in England. The music, sadly, was not folclórico but pimba. Well, you can't win them all.

Author

Fitch is a retired teacher trainer and academic writer who has lived in northern Portugal for over 30 years. Author of 'Rice & Chips', irreverent glimpses into Portugal, and other books. Also on Substack.

Fitch O'Connell