Mar 12 • 4M

The End of the Road

Travels through Central Portugal

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Here I share recordings of my weekly writings for those who like to give their eyes a rest from the screen. They might be personal reflections, short stories, poetry, published articles. I look forward to connection and conversation.
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Driving the road we felt ourselves lean into each bend and curve, felt our ears pop as we edged higher and higher. Me and my girl, journeying to find the end of the road. I needed to find the end of the road because for a change, I wanted to be somewhere.
 
No onwards. No through. Just the destination.
 
When we reached the silent village teetering between mountains I immediately pulled a chair outside the front of the tiny schist cottage we were renting and let the sun warm my face. I could hear nothing but the tuneful church bells that rang every hour and the sound of a breeze blowing through the pine trees.
 
Pine River.

Shortly, an elderly lady strolled by in a black shift dress, jumper, wellies, and a hat pulled down firmly over her sun-darkened face. A bucket of greens swung in her right hand and her mouth sang a happy “Boa tarde”.
 
I smiled and thought, ‘this is just what we need: Silence. Gentleness. Simplicity.’
 
When you live at the end of the road it seems that nothing else matters because all life is where you are, and why go backwards? As I watched daily life unfold I wondered if I could live in such a place; if I might ever find myself contented at the end of a road.
 
One evening by the light of the Wolf Moon we opened the door to traditional singers who sang happy words whilst thumping a paper drum, holding out a cloth bag for pennies. Neighbours leant out of top floor windows to shower down coins and we stood, mesmerised, watching and listening as they trailed through the village along the narrow cobbled streets, great smiles on our faces.
 
The following afternoon as we walked our dogs around the surrounding hills we came across an old lady dressed all in black walking up the winding road back to the village, a two-foot pile of cabbage leaves tied to her head. We walked together for a while and with our combined Portuguese and Spanish abilities we discovered she was 82. When I remarked on how fit she was she told me it was the mountain air that kept her strong and stopped in the middle of the road to do a sprightly little wiggle, arms and thick-fingered hard-working tanned hands outstretched, her face beaming.
 
As I look around I see people that are always striving for so much more: more belongings, more speed, more space, more likes, more filling-in-of-time and so many of us are always pondering as to if we—and our life—is enough.
 
It seemed to me during my time in a village that the map told me was the end of the road, that enough is that which keeps us sprightly, makes us smile. And it seems that perhaps it is found when the road reaches its final destination and we stop, look around and say: ‘this end of the road will do for me.'

Thank you for reading Alice Griffin. This post is public so feel free to share it.

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