Dear ones, as always you are welcomed with a warm smile of thanks for your presence, you are very much loved!
For once no long pre-ramble about the day, the week, the season, the weather—I know…that subject! Though I insist on its bigness and beautifulness despite bad press!
Today my words, delayed as I gather them from above high, clouded Pyrenean peaks from flowing waters along the River Douro as we followed its glistening vastness on its way to Porto, write their own story.
I will just add this; I dream, often, of flight feathers and flying, of the limitless feeling of soaring through an empty sky, it’s enough… so, imagine me, in an airplane flying south-west to a distant city, perhaps you can, perhaps you can’t? I couldn’t until I was gripping my daughters hand, until my body, so long planted on this hill where my heart and bones hate to leave—but left anyway—sailed—yes sailed is what it felt like—through cloud, and turbulence she told me was my imagination, then, out into the clear blue vista that was the sky above bound for Porto…
The flight is scheduled to take one hour and forty-five minutes, as we board there is an angry woman screaming profanities at ground-staff; her baggage is overweight or outsized or too many, she is too many. I don’t want to be closed in a small space with anyone, I am overwhelmed by fear, an urge to turn back, fight my way through the next crowd of passengers waiting at gate thirty-nine, run like the wind for my safe and silent hill.
But, my daughter is smiling her sweetface smile at me and this is an adventure, her birthday gift to me, she wants me to be smiling too. So I smile. I step up onto clattery metal steps, stow my purpose bought, tiny suitcase—filled mostly with nine scarfs I couldn’t decide between—as instructed, take my window seat, open my book which is Samantha Harvey’s Orbital—odd choice, for a child of dirt and dust and brambles and trees and sheep, terrified of flying—and read, “The earth is a mother waiting for her children to return, full of stories and rapture and longing.” I become that child, hoping to return.
Airborne I watch, still trembling, mesmerised. Pyrenean peaks disappear and reappear, disappear and reappear between the weightlessness of flight and cloud over lush mountains. The boundless, beige aridity of the northern Navarre region of Spain, not a poem en-route but a eulogy, a famished reminder of climate and change and the speed in which it can do so. Then just as suddenly the landscape drifts into verdancy again along the banks of the Douro River; 897 kilometres of meandering history from its source in the Pico de Urbiôn Mountains to its estuary in Porto, a legendary division. Not five minutes further in time but a distance I couldn’t walk in five days, strange circular fields pass below then fade into haze behind me, villages, fincas, fazendas, unrecognisable in blurry terracotta transfused with ribbons of vineyards below, all pass at a speed unimaginable to any Roman or Moorish settler.
Despite my trepidations, my fearful trembling, the passage of time feels like mere minutes. Porto basks in evening sunlight ahead, the flight almost over. As the plane banks around the city is replaced by eternal blue, ocean and sky merge then separate again as we land. I am no longer trembling, diverted by Orbital scenes but relieved, so relieved to fold away wings.
“The earth is the answer to every question. The earth is the face of an exulted lover…”
Samantha Harvey
Amidst all the colourful hustle and bustle and sun-browned children and tourists—of countless nationalities—and ancient steps—hundreds of steps—mad azulejo tiles and baroque architecture and terracotta rooftops and seagulls—thousands of seagulls all shouting—and the dilapidation that is evident in much of Porto there is a latent, nostalgic charm, a sort of poetic chaos.
There are two ways to cross the undeniably jaw-dropping construction that is the Don Luís I bridge into the centro histórico. Either you wrestle yourself a place on the paved footpath of the lower crossing, stepping repeatedly up and down to move past future Instagram post perfection avoiding relentless traffic as you do, or, you climb to the higher crossing housing the metro line, dodging frequent trains but far less selfies.
We climb.
Above is less cluttered, the view panoramic, rabelo boats chug, in constant procession beneath.
Porto beguiles you with its contradictions, draws you in to the caress of its smiling, friendly talkative people, its myriad tiled facades, the elaborate—almost eccentric in places—leap in architectural styles, then slaps you in the face as you turn the next corner—all corners being too intriguing to ignore—with graffiti splattered walls, buildings in ruins, others precariously clad in scaffold half renovated with no visible rush to finish because somehow the city holds tightly and willing onto the simplicity of rural. Chickens and Muscovy ducks roam free with peacocks in the manicured Jardins do Paláicio de Crystal, between two dilapidated thrift shops, we find the grand shiny window of designer clothes pristine, enticing, proud to be there and yet somehow ignorant. There is an eclectic lack of perfection which is contagious, and, its obvious languid humour, as if laughing indiscreetly at the ridiculousness of the rest of the worlds cities with their big-city ideals, laudable.
The ancient Portuguese word Saudade has no translation in English—I have written of this before—and here, walking miles and miles of cobbled streets, along lanes far from my hill, its trees still whispering but so distant I no longer hear them, with the voice of Amália Rodrigues drifting, melancholic flurries of her Fado music—the epitome of saudade—from every open door, not only the word comes to me again but the feeling, the longing…
Think of a vague and constant desire for something that is most likely impossible to achieve, a nostalgic melancholy for something that exists outside of the present but pulls desire towards the past or the future; Not a sharp sorrow or deep longing, but rather a gentle, wistful daydreaming.
Yet still, in all its often surprisingly ruinous charm, its humdrum of trams and buses and busy cafes, in all the dramatically captivating scenery Porto offers, there is still a dignified gentleness to the ever changing ambiance of its faded opulence. To not be impressed by the numerous architectural achievements—even for those of more rustic leanings, pining for peace and space—is an impossibility. It is, after all classed as a UNESCO world heritage site for reasons other than geographical positioning.
As Rosie and I walk southwards, hair and skin prickling by an endlessly playful salted wind, along the banks of the brackish estuary, beyond the warehouses offering samplings of the fortified wine Porto is so well known for—that we don’t bother to taste, Port is for after, not before—past restaurants overflowing with scents and tourists sitting bikini-clad back to bikini-clad back, old fishing harbours and villages whispering of an age not so long passed but reluctant to catch up, boatyards whose contours are formed in nothing more than derelict, sea battered timbers of boats whose hulls have long forgotten the feeling of a crashing wave, then out towards wild again where the Atlantic Ocean meets sky in turquoise obscurity, it is only here we both let out our in-held breath to breathe freely with arms spread wide open, as if to gather in so much empty space will cleanse us of the constant city cacophonies. Here, we sigh our thanks for the geography, the geology, for infinite white sand and mythical boulders.
“my dear,
we are all made of water.
it's okay to rage. sometimes
it's okay to rest. to recede.”
― Sanober Khan
And here, beside perfectly wild and endless sand we are meeting friends.
Many kindred souls, through one lifetime, pass us by. Whether by inopportune timing or winds blowing southwards when we are being blown northwards we will never know, but when a whirlwind gathers up those destined to meet, entwines them in one place on a whim of offered kindness in a quiet but heartfelt message, then two beautiful souls drive two hours distant from their home to meet you—and two hours back again—you know that the moment will wrap you in a hug you don’t ever want to stop feeling the warmth of. Like the curl of steam from hot dark chocolate after a walk on a crisp winters morning or the first warm day of spring sunshine on your upturned face.
Sometimes there are no words sufficient for elation, for profound gratitude, such is the case on this balmy evening when Rosie and I, after a two hour sun drenched walk, sit together with Veronika and Joshua to eat a simple meal watching a huge sun dissolving into the deep, shimmering ocean while we talk, incessantly, human face to human face. There is no awkwardness as we meet, no silences begging to be filled, just the simple rapturous light that is the joyful discovery of kin holding us in a too short moment of time between smiles and sea and sand and hopes to meet again.
With orbital love dear ones
Some thing(s) magical from past days…
Hosted by
, a review of The Summer Book by Tove Jansson, (author of the childrens stories The Moomins) writes a deeply passionate and personal synopsis of a book that can be read over and over…
’s own eloquently written review says of Jansson;
Her art lies not in embellishment but in restraint, and the result is a story that shimmers with understated wisdom and emotional authenticity.
And, if you haven’t read the extraordinarily, humanly beautiful Orbital by Samantha Harvey, do it now, it will leave you breathless.
Susie! What! You met Josh and Veronika! How wonderful. Did you know them before Substack? I love this so much. I feel awe, and possibly just a little fomo. 😀
Your photo of Rosie is just gorgeous. So special those times. My daughter wrote in her birthday card to me this year ( both of us Geminis too), that she looks forward to travels in Europe with me - dancing and eating and drinking and soaking it all up. Not sure when that will be given it takes a bit of money to get there from NZ. It's on my dream list. Aren't we lucky that our daughters want to holiday with us. Not luck actually, that is years of hard work building a relationship of respect and friendship. Thank you for sharing your beautiful time. Much love xxx❤️❤️❤️
What a perceptive and tender rendition of Porto — the city from where ships and airplanes sail to many ports — "There is an eclectic lack of perfection which is contagious, and, its obvious languid humour, as if laughing indiscreetly at the ridiculousness of the rest of the worlds cities with their big-city ideals" — indeed, this eclectic lack of perfection, manifest not only as buildings "precariously clad in scaffold half renovated with no visible rush to finish" is a trait found all over Portugal, perhaps mocking the relentless striving found in the rest of the Western world.
'Com calma!' say the Portuguese, 'What's the rush?' Over the years we have found that Portuguese life slows you down to its own rhythm and pace. Life in the slow lane changes your priorities, allows the heart to speak louder than the head. This is a life where driving two hours to meet a friend whom we've never met — and two hours back home — makes perfect sense. A memorable gorgeous evening to nurture the soul and remind us (among other things) of the priceless gift of real human connection face to face.