After an endless search initiated by a Spaniard and a Portuguese, magically appear the number 116 from the Santa Maria street in Funchal. It’s the foster home of two unusual groups, the "bolo do caco" and "mad space invaders". Come and follow me through the raise of a building full of stories to tell.

Hidden among white umbrellas we reach an entrance, two facets of the human being, night and day, the spirit and the flesh, that will invite you with a Mona Lisa smile to open and the door to a staircase that leads to an area fractured by time, by the vicissitudes of its own existence, covered with waste from other experiences that cover its uterus. They are tons of cardboard, lost objects, sand, and stumps of wood that fills the 13 meters by 60 meters square, which must cease to exist in number 116. Xavier throws the challenge enthusiastically, a week at the most to carry out a general cleaning. Impossible! Think the three "Fatima" on call. There is much to do and they do not even know very well where to start. The young dreamer insists, it is possible, we can. All unbelievers look at what appears to be a daunting task worthy of a Hercules, a mountain of debris that reaches almost to the ceiling, but if they had doubts those were left at the door and the work begins. The mostly female elements of the two groups armed with an infectious enthusiasm work with the precious help of the team cleaning team of the town hall of Funchal. In the ranks of these men there is a titan of almost two meters in height and considerable weight, little given to conversation, affectionately nicknamed Obelix, who simply raises the rafters with more than 5 meters long left to oblivion, as if they were feathers. His colleagues accustomed to his almost supernatural strength, laughed, praising the qualities of the man and still encouraging him to take on more weight. The colossus doesn’t hesitates, grunts something between his teeth and went for a play even heavier for enjoyment of his peer and general astonishment of the volunteers. His only magic potion was ... water! Were you waiting for something else? Yes I now. I'm sorry. I bet you were not expecting this huh?

It is a fictionalized story about the feeling that invaded the Portuguese when they heard the word revolution.

The first question that is asked in our country when dealing with the Carnation Revolution is: Where were you on April 25th of 1974? The answers vary for those who were near or not this historic moment. No prospective is equal to the previous one. What is never mentioned the thousands of Portuguese who were immigrants. What did they felt of such a radical change on a country so silent, so quiet and embarrassed by fear. The answer? Perplexity and a certain distrust of an event at least unlikely. A revolution in Portugal? Nah. I was so skeptical that the end of the workday I even called my sister, Maria does Amparo, to see if the news was true what was in the newspapers. I heat it and yet dared not to believe the unthinkable, that my people had hardened put an end to the regime and just once and for all the misery of life in which we lived. Many confirmed also, like me, the courage of those who remained, wept tears mixed with joy and sadness. Freedom had come to our country planted near the sea at the same time they recalled the painful path that had brought them this far.

It is one of the most beautiful cities in the western Algarve. In the past it was the capital of the Muslim kingdom in Portuguese soil.

The history of Silves is written in stone dating back to the Phoenicians and later the Romans, but it is their Muslim heritage that has left its mark on the highest hill of this timeless city. The red castle dominates the urban landscape, a silent witness thru centuries of immense social upheaval and bloody battles between Arab and Christian kings who aspired to conquer this rich trading post at the mouth of the river Arade. The interior is dominated by a giant tank with a dome bulged and five round arches. At the top may be see the city and the surrounding hills, prefiguring the difficulty of its conquest, which almost led to its destruction such was the violence of the attacks. But were not the human forces which have destroyed and dictated the decline of al Xelb carefully planned by Muslim caliphs, was the 1755 earthquake that devastated this metropolis which have since been losing its splendor and influence.

Only later in the nineteenth century with the implementation of the cork industry is that Silves gets a new breath and resumes his old lost proudly. Of its glorious past beyond its mighty buildings are the legends of Moorish kings and Christian princesses that are perpetuated in the children’s imagination. There’s one, I will tell by its charm and odor, once upon on time Ibne Almundim, king of Silves and poet, found among his prisoners of many battles a Nordic beauty, with golden hair and blue penetrating eyes named Gilda. Moved by her opaque fragility morning mesmerized by her strange beauty, the Moorish monarch decides to marry this woman who came from the Far North. After the denouement, she falls into a deep longing, sighing thru the corners of the palace, longing for the white landscapes of her homeland she never saw again. The king sends sensitive to her pain order the plantations of almond trees until the end of the kingdom. In the next spring, the queen, before a sea of ​​white flowers retrieve her forces and the joy of living. Of this story the only legacy that still remains are the almond blossom and also the delicious sweets recipes that are a genuine ex-libris of Algarve cuisine.

It is a time capsule in the first person about life on an island mislaid in the ocean.

40 years ago I lived in a world lost in the waves of the sea, of south winds and embraced by torrents of mist. Everyday life was temperate, as the weather, neither too hot nor too cold. The hours were lost in their wandering, there were no clocks, and the awakening depended of the dawn and the cock crow and the resting on sun sets hiding behind the line drawn in shades of blue by the ocean. The news from the mainland came through tampered letters immediately burn, without really having accomplished its mission. Fear has no borders, was bigger and wider than the distance that separated us from the nation's capital.

We lived pretending we were first class citizens, but we were mere islanders who depend on themselves to survive in a kind of floating big rock. The nature and the seasons were our allies in this fight, but the island also required sacrifices that were printed in the form of white crosses in the cliffs. Poor souls who stumbled into the end of the basalt camouflaged by late morning on a journey of arduous toil to forward the precious water that would kill the thirst of the small harvests. The land was fertile and there came the livelihoods of households consisting only of mothers, small children and the old. It was a place almost devoid of young men, forceful and able. The ships were to blame; they journeyed towards a new world with promises of abundance and wealth, catching our fleeing men in search of chimera that would bring more wealth and less deprivation. But, enough memories whispered. But, they insist, and I remember how the light was scarce on the horizon and tried to finish sewing the sheets for the trousseau of my dream daughter, did not know yet the face of his father, nor her name, but she will sleep in my arms one day, as my mother knew I would be born and my grandmother sensed that she would deliver a girl. There will always be a Mary in our family, except perhaps my future daughter. It was necessary to prepare everything before your arrival, so your life won't be as hash as mine. I recall that once a week had to go into the city at the time it took over an hour to arrive. It cost two escudos hoarded with great sacrifice. It was an undulating trip, made of curves, counter-curves and stops along the way to gather more grow that shook to Funchal in search of sustenance. Halfway the overload was felt. The machine resented spewing black smoke and a smelling of burning oil that accompanied us until the exit. Finally, we arrived to our destination; there was much confusion bags of sackcloth and wicker baskets full of fruits, vegetables to be sold at the Farmers Market. I waited for my turn, pushes and cries of impatient for my precious pack wrapped with meticulously care containing the embroidered cloths, with the exception of yours, those they were kept in a chest with scented moth balls to avoid being eaten by moth. In return, the money from my work though meager, was used to buy more fabric, flour and yeast to kneading bread that your grandmother would shape with her skillful hands. And time goes by, forty years to be precise. I too left the Madera and have returned, everything changed for the better. Modernity has left its mark in the corners of the island. But the islanders, this islanders, these remain lost in the mists of fog, still without being sighted on the distant mainland.

It is one of the most beautiful villages of our country, full of stories to tell.

Situated on the slopes of Goshawk in the center of the country, this historic spot unlike many who strip themselves over time, it is not inhabited by ghosts and ruins, but by proud people of its past and its traditions that have not left to die. Piódão is not easily accessible, with persistence you need to climb the winding access is difficult like a woman that needs to be seduce, is like a growing fascination that invades us, it drives you into an indomitable will to know it, to see it. Remembers a bit Madera island with its terraces retained by centennial rocks and sunk homes in the mountains blending with the landscape that decorates the hills with its earth tones, with their camouflaged green lichens.

His architectural legacy is its most fascinating treasure; the houses are made of gray scales, ancient ones that argue the weather of the mountains and at the same time makes them unique with its blue thresholds. Looks like a Christmas crib in real size, is necessary to raise its narrow alleys to capture the deep past in our memory and we don't need our imagination to make a trip back in time toward a lost time before the Lusitania nation. These buildings are silent and proud witness of an older age, where time was unchanged, only the perceptive by the passage of the seasons. The Mother Church of Our Lady of the Conception of the seventeenth century resembles the south with its whitewashed facade. Another appeal of the mountain are your footpaths from Foz d'Égua and Chãs d'Égua, a route that does not present great difficulties we went through the midst of their deep valleys and cliffs overlooking the untamed nature dotted with heather and coots and decorated with their towering oaks and chestnut trees. The silence is only broken by the wind whistling through the crevices of the rock and rushing waters that descend in cascades. Some of the abandoned houses crossed our way, reminiscent of the old site and grazing in the clearings we saw hives full of honey, which in the return will comfort our stomachs barred in freshly baked bread. The air of the mountain awakens our senses; stimulate the appetite, fed by the many stories of hungry wolves and demons disguised as animals that kept in suspense the village, counted the joyful and vivacious Aunt Mary of Piódão of course.

It is one of the most fascinating cities of the Iberian Peninsula and charged with a multicultural historical past.

Seville, the capital of Andalusia, is like an enchanted city populated by Moorish memories and knights. Of the languor of "Carmens" we found in every corner, swaying slow bathed with their long black hair and piercing glances eyes concealed by their fans. It also the arena of "Don Juan" with their blatant masculinity flashing eyes at all times, offering sparkling flirts to any beauty that walks them by. They are as scintillating as this metropolis that welcomes us in its quiet splendor graced by a warm breeze with a smell of sea, although there's no sign of the ocean, we can see the calm Guadalquivir that welcome us.

Strolling through its narrow alleys, we entered a maze of narrow streets covered in delicious and refreshing shadows, one of the entries of "Reales Alcazares", always accompanied by a joyous racket that hypnotizes us not by sound but by the Arab reminiscences that decorate the arches of the pressed buildings. We lose track of the time. It is quite superfluous. We must look so we won't forget the facades decorated with strapping colorful tile and white lacy that leads to the cathedral of Seville, one of its ex-libris, and its Giralda. The Gothic splendor shameless dominates the urban landscape of another time Moorish mosque. We have to queue to enter the religious temple that challenges the sky by rising to the heavens, so much that you can climb to its summit in search of redemption. Next, the "Avenida de la Constitución" populated by colorful facades until losing sight, so that the stomach makes announce itself with loud protests. Not on purpose "100 montaditos" the brewery is just around the corner, with small sandwiches and beer, a very low cost price, much to the like of the Portuguese. But attention you have to go early, the demand is high and the waiting time is immense.

In the center of this melancholic metropolis, is the Spanish square, dominated by ocher stone arches that we endless need to walk gracefully. In fact, you must not "live" Sevilla in a fury, the rush is your worst enemy. The old new world comes to us through the tower de Oro, witht the river looking out, built in time Almóades, but currently houses the naval museum, filled with the exploits of Columbus and other navigators who paraded the Guadalquivir in search of the sea , towards the route to India. Walking along the banks we have now arrived to the famous Triana, the medieval bridge that leads us to the other side, the calle Betis and one of the most famous neighborhoods of the city, Santa Cruz. It is impossible to be lost. Just follow the aroma of the flowers that fall in cascades by the balconies. The sunset arrives, he too is coming slowly and it is time for tapas, Flamingio music and the good company of tourists and young people invading the streets of Seville. And here I am, languidly. Until departure, postponed, as was expected.

It's a journey through the bowels of the laurel forest. Follow me through this green delight.

It is one of the most enjoyable journeys of the laurel forest. In my barometer of risk, from zero to ten, eight. Stay! I promise not to scare you this time. Well, maybe a little. One of the attractions of these routes is the tourists. They are a very funny "fauna", unpredictable and irresponsible, because they never hear the warnings provided for free about the dangers of the mountain. Rule number one, as a precautionary measure you should never go alone, you can be lost and nobody knows where you went, two people call more attention and help each other. Second, the bag must have the essential warm clothing because of the unpredictable weather of the island, food, a canteen, a camera, a flashlight, a phone, a stick and a map. Third, appropriate footwear. Now we are ready for another adventure. However, this tour I have to step back in time. At time ago I was a scout and as such participated in many camps and walked thru many turns and paths. My pedestrian feats were always engage with a fabulous group of friends, which I highlight for this story, one in particular, Miguel. In all the tours we did, my friend and hiking companion took extra weight on his backpack, a first aid kit and strings, if there were some unfortunate incident. Well, as you all must be tired of knowing, (and I assume in my insane modesty that you read the other chronics), one can "slip" through the recesses of the fascinating mountain, get distracted and... upps happens a potentially deadly fall.

Enough being said about this time pre-sequel, back to the path of 25 fountains which starts at Rabaçal in Calheta. It is incredibly easy to find the trail, because it has a wooden plaque marking the beginning of an unforgettable journey. It is a path of water. Not literally, but in the historical sense, since the island depended of this aqueducts for hundreds of years ago, to irrigate crops and for domestic consumption. Now imagine the almost superhuman strength of thousands arms digging with picks hanging by ropes the volcanic rock that would channel through a huge network of aqueducts, that liquid so precious to the human being that is water. It seems unreal, is not it? And every ones say the extreme sports were invented in New Zealand. Bahh! I've strayed from my path.

It is one of the most beautiful and dangerous routes of Madeira but it plunges into the laurel forest.

When I was younger (and I am not old as you might think!) there was only a single map with that described all the paths of the island, called the bunnies map. It is true, do not laugh yet! In it contained a legend in the figure of a rabbit in different colors designating the degree of danger of a pedestrian path within the island. The colors indicate the degree of hazard that each journey involved, were the easiest and the most difficult green covered from yellow to orange and this last animal color designated the most dangerous track of the island. This famous map was very easy to anyone, which by the way strangely enough is no longer printed. Do not ask me why.
It's one of those winding and violently beautiful and orange paths that I am going to speak about. The walk begins in the forest park of Queimadas, in Santana and now a warning never let the weather condition of Madeira, or the area where you are staying influenced your departure, due to its several micro climate both rain and fog may happen in one extreme of the island, as when we go in opposite direction we are warm up by the comforting sunlight. That said we continue forward without no fear, as one of the characters of Herman Jose says. Where were we? Ahh in the beginning of the path. Another warning and I swear it's the last one if you're claustrophobic, if you suffer from vertigo and your heart is weak you simply cannot contemplate such beauty. I'm sorry. The reason is before our eyes, before you reach the waterfall we walk a trail with 5.9 miles of distance between tunnels, which the locals affectionately designate as drills and winding twists and turns that adorned the laurel forest to open little by little to a show of cliffs and deep canyons of rock with no end in sight. Until the green cauldron the route is relatively flat, in fact it is so crowded that the greatest danger we face is driven by a fall due to an educated passage that we give to other hikers in a hurry. There are so many foreigners moving on this path that gives the distinct impression of being busier than certain streets of Funchal. It's crazy. When you see the waterfall we are confronted by the magic of light that break down into multiple colors.

A small town that belongs to the municipality of Braga, St. John Souto, is mostly inhabited by women.

When we visited St. John Souto what we see? Women and more women, of men hardly a signal. According to statistics of the last census in 2011 this small locality in the heart of the city of Braga is that has the largest population of females, are in all 725 residents of whom 481 are women. The why of this phenomenon? Nobody knows for sure! The fact is that they are a majority and are here to stay. Although much of the female beauty is an excellent reason to visit, it is not the only attraction of this place. St. John Souto has a great artistic heritage that persists proudly silently through the streets, lanes and alleys. They are secular stones that tell the history of our country over several centuries.

Follow me for a trip through the rehearsals of an unconventional poetic performance, staged by the theater group the Corner House, which will be on tour thru Portugal and Galicia.

I find myself with a potential theatrical setting devoid of meat, where I only envision bare walls and a kind of makeshift bar where now echo the steps that flood a space that was mute before. Bit by bit, they start building a stage, gaining a consistency based on a structure surrounded by wires, lights and benches that will allow you to create a dialogue between the actors and the public. The island as they call it made of stacked chairs and a light to mimic a lighthouse. The mirror will reflect little or nothing it will show only glimpses of two shadows. The black volcanic sand and pebbles round off the scenario almost look like a land surrounded by sea. Before beginning the rehearsals all the material is tested for the tonight show, so there is no contingency. The acoustic guitar emit sounds foreign to its nature, seem whinnies, hisses and punches, which are slowly transforming itself into a rhythmic melody that serves as an introduction for the words and also to exalt the silences.