WILD FLOWERS IN THE WIND

Sometimes in our travels we come upon scenery, sights and vistas that overwhelm us with their beauty.  It seems that more often than not, this happens when we least expect it.  It is one of the reasons we like to travel with very little itinerary,  sometimes  even without a destination (and sometimes totally lost.)  Today, totally unexpectedly, we found ourselves driving through vast swaths of wildflowers.  Watching the windblown wildflowers got me to thinking about how much our lives, experiences and even history are shaped by forces like the wind.  Our lexicon is full of references to the wind;  the winds of change, throw caution to the winds, three sheets to the wind,  a bag of wind, and... breaking wind.  As we are blown down the road  (of life),  I feel like we are wildflowers in the wind.

The drive south from Lisbon through gently rolling wildflower covered hills was  a wind blasted challenge.  Our tiny rental car was rocking with each gust and I wrestled to keep the car on the Autoroute.  After an hour drive on the high speed toll road, we branched off onto a narrow two lane road, slowed down, and literally took the time to stop and smell the roses. 

As I step out of the car I am buffeted by a strong wind.  Before me is a broad meadow of yellow and purple flowers. Waves of tall  rye grass roll on an ocean of mustard yellow.   A dappled horse eyes us with curiosity from the top of the meadow.  Above a  brilliant blue sky is torn by clouds racing on the wind.   A narrow dirt track meanders between  meadow and  stout wire fence.  Over the fence a grove of fig trees with leaves like giant hands quake in the stiff breeze.  The meadow rises up to low hills that mask all but the tips of giant blades of windmills that surreally rotate into and out of view.  Behind me the narrow two lane road winds towards the coast.  After several minutes of revery, a passing car reminds me we have miles to go before we sleep.  Reluctantly we climb back into the car and continue on our journey to the end of the world.

We drove past  carpets of yellow or white flowers as far as the eye could see.  Reds, brilliant blues, oranges and practically every color of the rainbow painted the hillsides and meadows. Here and there  small whitewashed villages with red tile roofs interrupted the sea of flowers.  Occasionally,  we would spot an old fashioned masonry windmill with white sails billowing in the wind.  We were on our way to the end of the world.

Old windmill minus its sails

Back in the dark ages, the end of the world was thought to be just over the horizon.  On a windswept promontory that is the westernmost point of Europe, it was generally accepted that the ancient town of Sagres was at the end of the world.  

Until the early 14th century, few sailors  ventured beyond the sight of land for fear of falling off the edge of the earth. The birth of Portugal's most famous son Henry the Navigator, in 1394, changed that.  

 Henry the Navigator became a brilliant scholar who hypothesized that the world did not end at the horizon line. He challenged the generally accepted beliefs that limited knowledge of how big, or even what shape the world was.  (Today, I also question what shape the world is in, but that is a topic for another day)  Henry did more than anyone before to dispel myths and misconceptions and literally launch the great age of discovery. Throughout his life he pushed sailors to go further afield (or a sea as the case may be).  While many of those sailors never came back, the ones that did were a wealth of information; information that Henry used to develop some of the first accurate charts of the ocean and expand the known world.  Henry started a navigation school where some of the most famous seafarers of all time were trained in his navigational techniques.  Names we all learned in school like Magellan, Vasco de Gama and Christopher Columbus passed through the doors of Henry’s school.

Henry founded his school at  Sagres, an ancient town revered by the Greeks, Romans and Phoenicians as a sacred place of the gods;  hence the name which loosely translates as sacred.  We found that Sagres was not only a powerful place, but it seemed like a pretty good place to launch a sailing ship.  A sheltered harbor to the south was a few puffs of wind away from the strong winds that sweep Portugal’s Algarve coast.  Strategic location plus brilliant deductive reasoning plus leaps of faith (coincidentally Henry was very pious) launched the great age of discovery.  (Sorry if I ran on too long with the history lesson, I find the discovery of new places and new ideas very interesting and exciting.  None of my readers would probably ever guess that of me.)

At the end of the world

When we arrived in Sagres, the wind was so strong that it rocked our little rental VW Up like it was a toy.  Stepping out to view the large bastions of a fort built on the end of the peninsula, Deb and I were nearly blown off our feet by the strong gusts.  Wisely, we got back in the car to save our visit for another day.

My lady of the flowers