in search of the stones.

16th AUGUST

Evora. we made it.
the not so insistent but still gets everything wet rain of Almograve yesterday morning that drenched the second journal, the ink has run but not me –
we cycle to Iberian megalithica tonight, i am excited, from tombs built out of bones (Capela dos Ossos) to midsummers sunrise.
the drive yesterday, after i almost packed my bags and left, with a bit of herb, the lovely hostel dorm with a balcony we had all to ourselves last night after a goodmeal – today beer and bread and cheese in the shade of the fountainhead – I tell Nelo about Irish fairies and fairy trees – the Roman temple here is consecrated to Diana and the moon – new moon has passed and the lunar fingernail grows in glory – good cheese from the market – long-legged children and pot-bellied pigs – or beer-gutted fathers –

the aqueduct – so i could open my eyes and imagine a Roman landscape – the horse languid in the field, bothered by the flies – the wrong kinds of questions – what do you think of Portuguese girls? so you cant compare with Portuguese guys? you can of course but its all the same when they come kangoing through the wall playing a mean guitar –

did you feel respect, for the bones? did you realise where they came from? is it in any way different, in the end? the graverobbing monks, the mason addicts, there but for the grace of god, this life is temporary but i would prefer my bones to crumble somewhere else, or to dust to dust, ashes rashes rashers and mash –

crawling into the aqueduct to try the water, washing the hands, i wanted to throw pennies in but money should not be my symbol or my offering. ribbons on trees, Lunasa, the days are getting shorter already, the dark half of the year has already begun – 

people who talk because of their fear of silence, searching for something worthwhile to transmit, sifting through their audio debris is a nightmare

i keep dropping things – leaving things behind – i dropped the cheese i broke the jam jar (ameixa branca com baunilha) i lost the rolling papers –

the blue glow of the white houses at Almograve, as we emerged from the dunes to go to dinner – good sardines grilled over the fire and a jug of wine – the sangria was earlier and made me get my guitar out to sing – sangria always has that effect on me – instant happiness, in a cocktail –

FRIDAY 17th AUGUST

Fields of dead sunflowers, their burntblack heads dragging to the ground, sad, not the kind of sunflower field i want to sleep in, Van Gogh would go mad for the lack of yellow being as it was his happy place, sungolden warm and safe –

last night we slept at the cromlech (stone circle) – not inside the circle but to the side, up high it was a windy night, clear sky full of stars and the Milky Way clear as mud running through, shiney things, shooting stars falling stars, there are a few – here the stones are not in their original positions, very few, most had fallen out of their sockets, like bad teeth – the 100 or so menhirs on a slope that runs down from west to east, one stone aligned with the midsummer sunrise, here at sunset we had just arrived and felt the energy of the dragons veins that rose from the earth, shimmering and solid – hugging the stones – gravity means little – heaviness – 

this morning we are arguing again – this isnt working – and he wants to leave ok i say you are free you need to do your thing but somehow we stayed together and are now in the car heading south to Algarve where i will give him the bicycle and we will say goodbye – Escape from Alentejo – on stupid roads with No Bicycle signs even though they have a perfect hard shoulder for cyclists –

i have no concept of what London will be like when i finally get back –

searching for the stones, we drove round in circles – 35 degrees too hot to do anything but be confused – 3 cromlechs and we found only one – no dolmen – there is a picture in my head, i am 10 years old or even younger, and my mother has permed hair – the world is green greener and we are having our photo taken amongst the rocks and moss and the sign that says ‘dolmen’ – but that was Ireland (Blarney Castle, probably), the Island of the Setting Sun that lies to the west –

I saw the Native American Eagle in the stars last night – or was it Inca Aztec – Cuba – Guadalupe – do you intend to come back here? i d love to but how the hell do i know what happens next – tracing the surface of the stones – granite boulders – you can see the quartz, mica, basalt – the stones are growing – lichen on turquoise and gold – they speak but we dont listen –
where are you going with this?

the shoplift was just an adrenaline hit – my new notebook is dark green and has a cartoon tank on its cover, a speech buble filled with flowers – Be at Peace but Think Like a Tank – 
seamonsters that stay wet for hours, out of the ocean – dust clouds rising from a herd of cattle – black cats that come into the museum – storks flying low over the car –
Portugal under military dictatorship until 1974 – military revolution – the signal being a song on the radio, Zac Afonso singing ‘Grandola, Vila Morena’
the river Divor that supplies the aqueduct – the river Mira that runs to Milfontes – where the asshole cuts the bungee cords on the back of my bicycle and looks through the pockets for cash – leaves the jacket –

Serra do Calderao – witches hills – the last obstacle until Algarve – the scenery is changing – or the sun is nearly down – the heat of the day dissipates and i dont need to squint so much –

conventional sweets – conventual – nuns high on sugar – a very scarey thought –