"It's Love, Bread and Wine..."

"...Four whitewashed walls,
a sweet smell of rosemary,
a bunch of golden grapes
two roses in a garden,
a ceramic statue of St. Joseph
and the promise of the spring sun
of finding kisses
in the two open arms waiting for me
This is a Portuguese home, certainly!
This is, surely, a Portuguese home!

In the comfort of my poor home,
there is plenty of affection
and the curtain of the window is the moonlight,
and also the sun, that shines on it ...
Just a little is enough to cheer
such a simple existence
It's simply love, bread and wine
and the cabbage soup, so greenish
steaming in the bowl."

Song: Amalia Rodrigues "Uma Casa Portuguesa"
Photography: Carl Joyce
All rights reserved



Portugal. June 2013. A month of festivals, festivities and feasting. A place of thousands scents and colours. You can almost feel the countless promises made under the sun lingering in the air and the wisdom settled after centuries of battles, invasions and collision of peoples. The contrasts is captivating. The energy is addictive. Portugal's ancient fatigue was courageously standing aside the rushing, adolescent Today. 

Long-forgotten stories are told by every whitewashed wall...

...by every quay...

...and every church bell that is still standing there as a tireless reminder of the time.

Bathing in sunlight doors and windows jealously protecting the comfort of the home, 

and yet implying willingness to share love, bread and...

WINE . 

The plentifulness of Portugal is opiating. The desire for discovering the new-old and devouring every
molecule of Her is prevailing over every reasonable sense of comfort, security and safety.

Our engine was the teasing curiosity to find the golden sweetness of the fruit...

...the simplicity and deliciousness of the street food...

...the strict heredity of the arts  and crafts

... the sound of the mournful Fado guitar 

nostalgically remembering of... 

...the bygone youth...

...faded love...

...or lost homeland. 

Portugal's various scents could be found on every square, street, house and harbour. The African wind often brings the scorching currents of Sahara accompanied by the smell of Arabic spices and music. And just around the corner the sudden Atlantic breeze informs about the charcoaled sardines and sangria as parts of the nearby street festival with deep religious origin. 

Of course, the scents of Portugal extend beyond the literally meaning of the noun, and the art-ethno-Afro-religious-aristocratic-trade heritage and customs of the country invade you just while exploring the narrow alleys. Sometimes, in the form built heritage ...

and others, in the form of Amalia's face in a dusty art shop.

As Rudyard Kipling shares, the first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it.

Portugal is impossible to understand...