Don Justo’s D.I.Y. cathedral

"How will people remember me? I hope they remember me as a Christian. And that's enough. A good Christian." In the small town of Mejorada del Campo, about 20 km from Madrid, Justo Gallego Martínez (aka: Don Justo) has been quietly plugging away on his obsession, his magnum opus, his mad dream, since late 1961. …

The Aliança Underground Museum

This past summer we spent ten days driving around northern Portugal. The smell and smoke of dozens of wildfires accompanied us on most of the trip. One day, heading south from Aveiro, we stumbled upon the sleepy little town of Sangalhos, population 4,000. I say sleepy, but we arrived at 4 pm on one of …

Four days on the Fishermen’s Trail (part 5)

Zambujeira do Mar to Odeceixe I woke up the next morning completely hangover free. It was a true miracle! Our Lady of Fátima saved me! Hallelujah! On this fourth and final day of my little Portuguese adventure the trail turned a deep shade of crimson and storks ever-so-gracefully soared overhead. There were more people on …

Four days on the Fishermen’s Trail (part 4)

Almograve to Zambujeira do Mar There were tons of acacia trees, an invasive species, on this stretch of the trail. The tree was introduced in the early 20th century for sand stabilization, but the aggressive, exotic plant has taken over large swaths of the coast and nobody seems to know what to do about it. …

Four days on the Fishermen’s Trail (part 3)

Vila Nova de Milfontes to Almograve Before leaving Vila Nova I had a quick look at a 16th century fortress that was built after an attack by Maghrebi pirates that caused the villagers to briefly abandon the town. You can’t enter the place as it’s currently a private residence. Imagine the kind of money and …

Four days on the Fishermen’s Trail (part 2)

Porto Covo to Vila Nova de Milfontes Ilha do Pessegueiro (Island of the Peachtree) near Porto Covo I noticed two things on the Fishermen’s Trail that first day. One good. One bad. First, the bad: hiking in loose sand is a real pain in the ass. I was using muscles I didn’t even know I …

Four days on the Fishermen’s Trail (part 1)

After siesta one fine spring afternoon I woke with a start. I had a wicked cramp in my right leg. I rolled off the sofa and spazzed out all across the living room floor. The commotion woke up Lola. It was inevitable, I had to climb over her to get off the sofa. She shuffled …

The craic was mighty (3/3)

Have you ever seen that funny map of Europe with a line drawn horizontally right through the middle? The word “Potato” is written across the upper half, the word “Tomato” is written across the lower half. That’s no joke. One day at dinner, during a week long workcamp made up of Spanish and Italian volunteers, …

The craic was mighty (2/3)

So here’s Fionn, all these years later, in the main square of Plasencia, inspecting the chunk of pig face on his fork. “Fuckin’ ’ell. I think I got the moustache.” He bit into it and grimaced. “Christ, that’s rough. No offense, Lola, but you Spaniards are rough. Rough as Christmas.” “Don’t talk to me about …

The craic was mighty (1/3)

We were full-on domestically blissed out one Sunday evening, all snuggled up on the couch, half mesmerized, half mortified, watching Adán y Eva ¹, when I got a text message from Fionn. “Yank, are you in Plasencia tomorrow?” This was pretty unusual since I hadn’t heard from Fionn in 8 or 9 years, plus the …