Vultures

We ran towards São Domingos' mountains a few days ago. Ran right past the Pesqueiro João da Vó (John of Grandma's Fishing Place), into lanes that side bucolic farms straight out of Anne of Green Gables' pages.

The Pesqueiro has been shut for a few years now. I still remember when cars would drive all day past our guesthouse on weekends, heading for the Pesqueiro. People enjoyed spending hours there – football games on a grass pitch, beer, country music and all kinds of fish dishes. Then João da Vó's wife discovered he had a second family and a bitter divorce ripped the family business apart.

The Pesqueiro is now home to vultures. They sit on every fence pole, every tree overlooking the still, dirty artificial lake that borders the abandoned Pesqueiro restaurant. They congregate like penguins by the margins, silent and inscrutable.

As we walked past them, they took flight and complained. It felt like a sequel to The Birds. I stopped to take photos which I hoped to later delight my Instagram followers.

On the run back to the guesthouse, my aunt stopped and lifted her arms to the sky.  We looked at the mountains and she said “doesn’t it feel great to be alive?”