The annual olive harvest is happening early this year in my part of Central Portugal.

All around The village the narrow valleys buzz with activity as workers strip the olives from the branches.

Not wanting to miss out on this experience, I volunteered to help my neighbors, Sarah, James and their Workaway volunteer, Agne, to do some picking. It’s a pretty labor intensive job. We stood on ladders and either stripped the olives from the branches by hand, or used a little rake device. The olives fell onto a huge net spread under the tree. When we’d finished with one tree we gathered the net together to push all the olives into a pile, then we scooped the olives into a big plastic bin.

My neighbors take their olives to the local press, or lagar, where they are rendered into oil. If you have enough olives, I’ve been told 300 or 500 kilos, you can get your own “pressing”, and your very own oil. Otherwise your olives go into the mix and you get oil from many sources.

Portugal is a big olive producing country where most of the olives are used for oil.

On Sunday I wandered down the hill to my neighboring village of Chaos to watch how the locals handle a national election.

In my former life as a reporter, I trolled polling places looking for interesting stories. The Portuguese are a lot more low key than in the U.S. where the atmosphere at polling places can be tense and even threatening.

National elections in Portugal are held on a Sunday when most people are not working. In my rural area, voting took place in a small room next to the local Junta de Freguesia, or parish council, office. I dropped in and chatted with a panel of four friendly young people who checked voters’ “Cartao de cidadao” or identity card issued by the Portuguese government. Voters then stepped behind a privacy screen to make their choices on a paper ballot. Once done, they inserted the ballot into the opening in a large black box sitting in front of the panelists.

As of 2019, there are nine parties with representatives in the Assembly of the Republic, several more parties have representatives in local legislatures, according to Wikipedia.

After doing their civic duty, my Portuguese neighbors continued about their usual Sunday routine, shopping for fruit and vegetables at the regular market and enjoying coffee and a gossip.

By Monday The Guardian was reporting the results, which showed the existing prime minister, Antonio Costa, would have to continue working with a coalition of parties after his Socialist Party failed to secure an outright majority.

I’ve been in Portugal nearly five months now but stiil don’t read the daily papers or watch TV news. Hence it only dawned on me a few days ago that the political party billboards and leaflets I was seeing meant there is an upcoming election.

I looked for information in The Portugal News, the English language weekly, but didn’t find anything. Luckily, The Guardian, had a comprehensive piece to bring me up to speed.

My first guest arrived this week, bike club friend Rita Wormwood.
We’ve cycled the scenic back roads, explored my local tiwn of Tomar and had fun at the Friday market.

Rita developed a taste for coffee with a “pastel de nata”, or custard cream pastry.

Early this morning, I joined about 30 members of surrounding villages in central Portugal to help harvest the grape crop for local shop owners, Arminda and Manuel.
I went with some Dutch neighbors in their old VW van to the remote vineyard where we joined the others, buckets and clippers in hand. We worked up and down the rows for two hours, then drove in convoy to another remote site, deep in a valley.

Manuel brought us water and cakes while we worked.

Afterwards, we went back to our hosts’ home where they’d laid out a feast for the workers.

I sat with a Russian family and a Portuguese lady who lives in Switzerland and my Dutch neighbors. Copious amounts of the local wine and good food made it a jolly celebration.

I recently discovered that I had 90 days from the time I received my Portuguese residency permit to obtain a local driving license. This according to the Citizens Services information on the US Embassy website.

Since I received my residency permit in mid-June, I realized I’d better hurry up or risk falling foul of the law.

Actually, my British neighbors said the chances of getting in trouble were slim. Given how scary it can be to drive on the winding, narrow Portuguese roads where local motorists are constantly passing me, I thought I’d better comply anyway.

I checked this Expat information website to get instructions, however, the easiest route, my neighbors said, was to go to a driving school (Escola de conducao)in Tomar, our nearest town. They kindly showed me where to go. The receptionist told me the “doctor” would be in at 3 p.m. You first have to get a medical certificate. The “exam” consisted of answering a few routine questions like, are you on any medication, etc. The doc spoke good English. He gave me my paperwork and I paid 25 Euros.

Next stop Santarem, a large town about an hour’s drive away where I had to go to the IMT office, Instituto da Mobilidade e do Transporte. I wasn’t sure if they would accept my old UK license, which until Brexit, is still an EU license. I got the license in 1976 and it said it was good till I turn 70. Amazingly, the very nice IMT lady accepted it, filled out some paperwork, gave me my temporary Portugese license and charged me 30 Euros. She said I should watch my mailbox for the permanent license which should arrive in a couple of months.

it’s official, the little stray dog who showed up on my doorstep a few days after I moved in, now has her own doggy passport.
Yes, Divina, has been microchipped, vaccinated and spayed. She also has a “Boletim sanitario de caes e gatos”, or official health card, in her name and she’s registered in the Portuguese doggy database. And I’m a bit poorer. Actually, not bad. The vaccination and microchip by the municipal vet cost 19 euros, spaying, 170 euros and paperwork 7.50 euros at my local Junta de Freguesia, or parish office.

September 5 marked four months since I arrived in Portugal to live. I still look up at the brilliant blue sky each morning and marvel that this is where I LIVE, not just a vacation.

My day starts with a powerful cup of coffee made in my Italian style percolator. I think this low-tech device makes a much better brew than those fancy machines that beep and grind. By the time I’ve downed coffee my dog Divina, is nearly wiggling her little tail off eager for a walk. We set off at a brisk pace down the dirt road that passes an old ruin, eucalyptus trees and heads for a tiny hamlet.

This week marked a milestone as I finally got Internet service installed. My frustration with the phone company, MEO, had been an ongoing topic of conversation with my expat neighbors who all had their horror stories to tell. Internet connectivity can be a challenge in rural Portugal.

MEO is the phone company that provides a lot of Internet service in this country. The folks in the MEO store happily sold me on a contract for TV, Internet and a landline for 34 Euros a month back in mid-July when I moved in. Weeks went by with no service, every time I’d have to drive into town to find out why no technician showed up on the appointed day. This because the shop staff rarely answered the phone. Every week they gave me a different excuse.

I had to rely on my mobile phone which eventually ran out of data. I then had to buy a SIM card especially for Internet service and perform card swap surgery on my phone multiple times a day because I couldn’t make or receive calls if the data card was in the phone.

I finally went to a small electrical shop, Comfort Electro, in my nearby town of Tomar, where the owner said he could hook me up the next day with a different provider, NOS, same price.

I called MEO and canceled my contract. This required persistence because the person I was put through to kept trying to sell me on their service. The wonderful guy from Comfort Electro arrived on time the next day put up a satellite for TV, a router for Internet and, hey presto, finally I’m connected.

Now I can talk to friends via WhatsApp, watch some Netflix movies and don’t have to do surgery on my phone five times a day.

In the month since I moved into the tiny Cental Portuguese village of Cumes, I’ve met all my expat neighbors. They’ve been friendly, welcoming and helpful. I’ve now got a storage shed for my bikes, thanks to the muscle and woodworking skills of James, Pat and Ahmad, three British expats.

My Italian neighbor, Rossana brought me a sprig of oregano that grows wild everywhere here.

I’m enjoying adding it to dishes I cook.

Almost every Portuguese village has its bread man, the guy who drives by each morning, tooting his horn to alert you to the arrival of fresh rolls and loaves.

I’d seen this four years ago when I walked the Camino de Santiago route through the Spanish countryside. In Spain, where the word for bread is ‘pan’ we’d nicknamed him, “the pan man.” It doesn’t have the same ring in Portugal where the word for bread is ‘pao”, which sounds like “pow”, if you pinch your nose as you’re saying it.

As soon as I settled in my tiny village of Cumes, Central Portugal, my neighbors told me to watch out for the bread man. He’ll come by some time between 7 a.m. and 8:30 a.m. If you catch him, you can see what kind of bread and rolls he has and make your choice. Once he knows you, just hang a shopping bag on your gate and put a note in it showing the number of rolls you want, and the coins. Plain white rolls cost 14 Euro cents, brown or seeded rolls and loaves cost a bit more.

What I didn’t know, was that Cumes has not one, but TWO, bread vans that come round. I dutifully hung my bag out, weighted down with money, a note and a small stone because of the habitual breeze, but no one stopped.

Next morning, I waited for the sound of a vehicle passing in the narrow street. I rushed out and met a rather grumpy middle aged guy who charged me 23 cents each for the brown rolls I chose.

The next morning I rushed out again and came upon a different van with a smiling young man who showed me his selection. His bakery is called “Pequeno Divino”, a little divine. I loved the sound of that.
“Don’t worry about a bag,” he said, “When I come by, I’ll just go peep peep to let you know I’m here.” (He said all this in Portuguese. My language skills are improving.)

Now, every morning, it’s “peep peep” and I’m out the door with money in hand for my lovely fresh rolls.