January 30. In the green hills of Portugal.

The next couple of days I spent with my friends. It was a fantastic experience: just being around the house, giving a hand to he who needed it, walking the dog, discussing life and literature, and watching the day and some cultural heritage die away in front of the tv at night.

The first morning, I woke up late. My long, healthy sleep and the soft cushions blended in my mind with a protestant twist if you know what I mean, and I asked if I couldn’t do something. Fortunately the answer came “yes” and I went out into the hills to carry some wood. A slope had to be harvested the second time this winter. The work wasn’t too demanding fysically after all, since Bertu the wood-guy really had a mediterrenean working habit. Every twenty minutes there was a cigarette break, in which I sat down gazing over the valley at the Serra Estrela in the foggy distance. What a life, the life and times of me. Bertu drove an interesting kind of gasoline cart to get to the wood. He let me drive it, too and I enjoyed it a lot. The engine roared as we took the curve.

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