A Far Way Place

A faraway place I lived in the interior of the Algarve for many years in a converted stable made into a cottage that was smelling of mules when it rained. After the heat of summers, winters were, if not Welcome, but accepted as good for the land Rain and damp, how great to have a wood burner and a gas stove for cooking when electricity broke down as it often did. International problems of the time had a feel of distance, nothing to with us away from the braying crowd and the insanity of pop- culture Walking in the woods reclaimed by nature once small homesteads were here, people lived in need, till they gave up this unequal struggle and left to find their luck in the USA or Canada Domestic trees grew wild was oddly shaped cottages reduced to heaps of stones under which rabbits had found homes; and to not forget the boar is not hunted, getting bothersome. When my dog crossed the railway line and not looking, I sank into gloom, the romance had gone I had not succeeded in my endeavour, time to leave; eventually, everything comes to an end, only time remains and is silent.