Four youngsters approach me on a bridge in Covilhã. One fellow is blonde and wears a goatee. Another is lanky. The third a dwarf, and the fourth is olive-skinned and seems the leader of the pack.
I ask them if they enjoy living in Covilhã, a lively mountain town in Northern Portugal, near the border with Spain. “We are not from here,” the leader says in perfect English. “We are from the mountains.” And he points to the Serra de Estrella range, upon which Covilhã is built at the foothills.
I tell them that Jane and I are headed for those mountains tomorrow. These boys, maybe not quite eighteen, wear hand-tailored clothes. They are dirty kids, and you can see a mother’s stitching in their jackets and white shirts. Save for the blonde boys’ orange parka, their clothing could have been from the early twentieth century. They are like Portugal itself, comfortable and weathered and not in the least bit self-conscious.
“So what do you guys do up there in the mountains?” I ask.
“It’s very nice,” the leader says. “We like to climb around on the rocks.”
“So are your parents farmers?” I ask. “My father is a sheep herder,” the dwarf says. The others also nod their heads.
“For the cheese?” I ask.
