I spent six months in Norway in my youth working on a farm and one day in September we went to the mountains. Imagine my shock horror when the farmer and his sons killed “Rudolph” to replenish their freezer for the winter. I nearly died of shock. I was very English, very green and had only ever seen a reindeer on Christmas cards pulling Santa’s sleigh!

Here in Santo Tirso in Portugal, the Christmas window settings have been appearing slowly but surely. The local council have put up all the lights and turned them on (seems earlier this year but I don’t mind, they’re so beautiful). The loud speakers are set up ready to pipe out Christmas music in the city centre to get everyone in the mood to spend more money. I don’t mind, it’s nice and people only spend if they want. It’s an option which I don’t really go in for much but I still like the atmosphere it creates.

I saw someone’s balcony decorated with Christmas lights yesterday – the first but haven’t seen any Christmas trees yet. They’ll appear all of a sudden on 1st December. The Food Bank had their first collection yesterday and I’m waiting for the barrage of “give, give, give” to start but that’s part of the deal, right?

I’ve always enjoyed the build up more than the actual day which I find an anti-climax but again that’s OK. I have a almost a month of build up and only one day to get through so seems like more than a fair deal to me. We (the children and I) always used to make our own Christmas cards which was all part of the build up. It was so exciting. Cutting the white cardboard to the right size, folding it, tracing the image, colouring it in, decorating them with sticky gold stars, glitter glue, ribbons. A couple of years, I even embroidered (cross stitched) the special cards for the special people! Now, I wonder where I got the enthusiasm/energy from. Where does it go?

The actual day was always a joy when the children were small and we lived in France on the Swiss border so it invariably snowed on Christmas Eve (heaven!) and my parents always came over to spend two weeks with us. Moving to Portugal changed everything. Gone were the snow-covered Christmas Days. It’s never hot up here in the north in December but it can be sunny and warmish or cold and damp. Not the same.

The last couple of Christmases have been non events since my husband died in 2003 but this year, I’m determined to make a go of it. So next weekend, I’m going off to buy my Christmas tree, out will come the decorations which I might have to replace a lot of – one of my cats peed in one of the boxes!!!! – and I’ll light the candles. I made mince pies last night, the wood burner is red hot and a delight in my kitchen. There’s a blanket on the floor next to it with my two cats curled up, basking in the heat. There’s a chicken roasting in the oven and b*gger, the sun’s just come out … Foiled again!

Since I married Antonio, we always had two Christmas dinners. The Portuguese celebrate Christmas Eve as well as Christmas Day. Bacalhau (salted cod) is the traditional meal on Christmas Eve. Christmas Day lunch was always ropa velha (old clothes) which is a fry up of the left over bacalhau, onions, garlic, boiled potatoes, carrots and cabbage sprinkled with cumin. I’m not too keen on bacalhau but I like ropa velha. I used to do the turkey dinner on Christmas Day evening and we always had the presents in the morning on the 25th as opposed to midnight on the 24th, which is normal here.

They have a very silly tradition here in Portugal which dictates that whoever invites the family round at Christmas does a repeat performance on New Year’s Eve with exactly the same meal!

Boiled bacalhau, potatoes, carrots and cabbage. Sprinkled with chopped garlic and olive oil. Imagine eating that while the rest of the (wealthy) world is eating caviar, smoked salmon, Chateaubriand, whatever for a special occasion!

Apart from the meal (!), New Year’s Eve was always a delight. The local council put up a marquee in the town square and put on free live music all night. Everyone pitches up with a bottle of champagne in one pocket and glasses in the other. At midnight, we have an amazing half-hour firework display and then everyone spends the rest of the night dancing in the (freezing) open air. I miss that. It’s much nicer than spending a fortune on a show at the casino.

This year we’re off to Manchester to spend Christmas with mum and dad who have got past travelling, at least in the winter and with the help of the airlines who’ve dispensed with the already semi-direct flight to Manchester! We’re flying RyanAir to Stansted, picking up a car hire and driving up to Manchester – three tickets all for less than the price of one semi-direct with a four hour wait in Lisbon!!!???

I won’t be going anywhere near the city centre, will have a Christmas tree in my hand luggage and will be as stressed as hell on the 27th, driving back to Stansted wondering if I’ll make the plane or not because of a horrendous traffic jam around Birmingham. But we will survive…

See ya!

Halloween here is usually spent at the cemetery in preparation for All Saints’ Day, 1 November. On this day, the cemetery will be alive with activity and the smell of bleach. Come rain or shine the family grave will be washed and scrubbed till it shines, a whole year of dirt and grime and green mossy gunge will be spurged. A ton of fresh flowers will be carefully arranged on each grave and candles lit ready for the church service which will be held the next day in the cemetery.

No-one will admit it but there is of course a fair amount of competition to see who’s spent the most on flowers or who’s done the best flower arrangements.

On 1 November, the cemetery will look like a market place with vendors of alcoholic drinks, hot dogs, roast chestnuts, candles, etc., outside and hundreds of people inside. People will turn up hours before to get a parking space just outside the gates and take folding chairs to sit on. It’s a time for catching up with the local gossip and family news and is quite a sociable occasion really, considering why everyone’s there in the first place. It is, of course, a time to remember the dead and pay homage to our loved ones.

Portuguese cemeteries are worth a visit on any day of the year but especially on this day, or just after, to see the amazing flower arrangements and well-tended graves. Even the nameless paupers’ graves will have been tended with fresh flowers and candles lit. I hope this is one of the traditions that will never change.

So what does Halloween mean to people in other parts of the world? Roast chestnuts, mulled wine, fake blood, witches’ Sabbaths, just another excuse for a party?

I googled Halloween and came up with Operation Pagan. Has Halloween been given a Hollywood makeover? Is it George Clooney’s latest offering? No, alas, it’s much more mundane and all too familiar.

The curse of Operation Pagan

A police force has renamed its latest crime crackdown to avoid offending heathens.

It had seemed a good idea for Kent police to name the six-week campaign Operation Pagan because it coincided with Halloween. However, the force had not reckoned with the Pagan Federation, which said the name of the operation, to tackle vandalism and violence linked to longer autumn nights, was offensive.

Brian Botham, a spokesman for the federation, said: “They wouldn’t have called it Operation Christian, Operation Jew or Operation Muslim. So why Operation Pagan?”

A police spokesman said: “We’re sorry if the name caused distress.”

The operation has been renamed Excalibur. “We’re waiting for some Arthurian society to complain that we’re besmirching Camelot,” said one officer.

(David Sapsted, Daily Telegraph, 8 October 2005)

Love the tongue in cheek comment at the end about the Arthurian society! Oh well, it was a nice try. You just can’t please anyone these days, it seems.

Anyway, back to Hallow E’en (Irish), Hallowe’en (Scottish), Nos Galen-gaeof (Welsh) and of course, Halloween (English). All Hallows Eve, the night before All Hallows or All Saints’ Day – 1 November. “Hallow” meaning “sanctify” in old English. aka All Hallow’s Eve, Hallowmas, Day of the Dead, Third Harvest, Hallowstide, and, of course, Celtic New Year.

The furthest back we can go to find the roots of Halloween is to the Celtic festival of Samhain (summer’s end) which was the opposite of Beltane. Samhain was also known as the Druid Fire Festival or Feast of the Sun. The ancient Celtic calendar had only two divisions, summer (Beltane to Samhain) and winter (Samhain to Beltane). If you’re Irish, Samhain is pronounced “sow-in” (as in cow), in Wales it’s pronounced “sow-een” and in Scotland, “sav-en”. Apparently the Americans pronounce it “sam-hane”, sounds like the fastest gun in the west from a spaghetti western! Mind you, I don’t know what I’m getting superior about, I’m a pom and would also say “sam-hane” if I hadn’t already been enlightened by the previous couple of lines!!!

In Latin countries, the eve of a festival is always more important than the actual day. Halloween is one of two festivals in non-Latin countries to follow this tradition, the other being New Year’s Eve, quite appropriate really because Samhain is also the Celtic New Year. The Celtic New Year paid homage to those who had died during the previous year and looked forward to the future. It was ancient belief that for this one night of the year the dead could, if they wished, return to the land of the living to celebrate with their family, tribe or clan. Extra places were set at tables for the visiting dead. Perhaps that’s where the idea of laying an extra place for absent friends originally comes from. Interestingly, the ancient Egyptians and pre-Spanish Mexicans also celebrated the dead on the same day.

Some of the Roman celebrations which took place in October included Feralia which also honoured the dead and in the first century AD, the Celtic and Roman celebrations were merged. Another Roman celebration which took place in October honoured Pomona (Roman goddess of fruit and trees) and this might explain the tradition of bobbing for apples at Halloween.

The Christians had a damn good try but failed miserably at attempting to wipe out the Pagan cults and traditions until in the 7th century, Pope Gregory I changed strategy and decided to use the Pagan customs and beliefs to his advantage. All Saints’ Day was marked on the 1st and All Souls’ Day on 2 November. Not content with hijacking the Pagan feast days, the Druids were branded as evil and the Celtic underworld identified as the Christian Hell. Followers of the ancient ways went into hiding and were branded as witches. The rest is history.

Want a really authentic Halloween experience? Try this. Put your clothes on inside out and walk backwards on Halloween night. At midnight, you’ll see a witch.

Ladies, how about a bit of divination? Place some hazel nuts along the front of the fire grate, one for each boyfriend! To find out which one you’ll marry, all you have to do is chant “If you love me, pop and fly; if you hate me, burn and die.” Don’t blame me though if they all burn and die.

Here’s another one. Slice an apple through the middle (horizontally, not vertically) – you should see a five-pointed star inside! Eat it by candlelight in front of a mirror. Your future husband will appear over your shoulder. Euch, a bit creepy that one. Well, at least if he does appear in the mirror, you’ll know he’s not a vampire.

We used to do this one when we were kids. Peel an apple in one go. Don’t break the peel so you’re left with a long, curly snake. At the same time, recite “I pare this apple round and round again, My sweetheart’s name to flourish on the plain, I fling the unbroken paring o’er my head, My sweetheart’s letter on the ground to read.” Now I know why it never worked for me, we didn’t recite anything but just threw it over our shoulders and it still looked like a long, curly snake on the floor.

Or even … If you just happen to have a spare snail hanging around, make it crawl through the ashes of your fire (cold ashes, please). It’ll spell out the initial letter of your beloved as it moves, assuming it’s literate, of course.

Now, if you’d been condemned to walk the earth for all eternity ‘cos neither God nor the Devil wanted you, what would you do? Well, there was this Irishman whose fate was no better and he very cleverly hollowed out a turnip and put a glowing coal in it to light his way. Our ancestors obviously thought this was a good idea so pinched the idea to light their way to Halloween parties. If there were no turnips around, swedes (rutabagas), large beets or mangel-wurzels could be used but they weren’t very easy to hollow out which is why we use pumpkins today. A lot easier, methinks.

Whilst we’re on the subject of food, turnips, apples, nuts, beef, pork, poultry and gingerbread are the order of the day at Halloween, washed down with mead, apple cider, mulled cider and mulled wines. If you’ll be doing any herbalising then angelica, burdock, catnip, pennyroyal, rosemary, rue, sunflower, sage, thyme, wild ginseng, tarragon and mugwort are what you’ll need. Sounds like an all-female football team from Hogwarts! For flowers, calendula, chrysanthemum, cosmos and marigold. (They’ll be the ref and lineswomen perhaps)

Whatever you do this Halloween, have a really good time. Make a mental note to drive up the coast this weekend to buy my pumpkin before they all go!

See ya!

My initial reaction to (Portuguese) weddings is: “Please, please, don’t invite me, please!” Obviously I don’t actually say that, but it’s what I think when someone tells me they’re getting married.

They cost a fortune here to have and to go to. I must point out at this stage I’m talking about weddings in the north of Portugal. I was interested to find out recently that down south (and around Lisbon) they’re not such a big deal. There is no such thing as a small Portuguese wedding and I don’t think there’s any such thing as a Register Office wedding either. Never heard of one, anyway.

Your typical Portuguese wedding is this. I went to one just like it a couple of weeks ago. It was better than the previous one I went to earlier this year because I didn’t know anyone except the bride and groom. Perfect. So anyway, if you’re a friend of the bride, you go to her house and the same for the groom. You’ll watch her being photographed and generally socialise for about an hour, you might get fed and watered if you’re lucky (traditionally, yes). Sustenance for the church service. Keep one’s strength up. Everyone then drives to the church in convoy.

After the ceremony, you spend another hour, at least, hanging around outside the church (god knows why) and sometimes there’ll be a group photo on the steps. Next step, two options. All drive in convoy again (horns tooting non-stop) to a pretty garden to have millions of photos taken or drive straight to the reception place which will be a very posh manor house or “quinta” in its own grounds, complete with swimming pool, etc. You get out of the car and are greeted with trays of pastry things and drinks.

The bride and groom appear in a horse-drawn carriage and make a grand entrance. Then we all go into the gardens for more food and drinks, tables and tables of the stuff plus waiters come round with plates of hot food too. There’s always a seafood table as well. By this time, you’re getting really full and most definitely sloshed.

Then we have the magical mystery tour of the manor house and finding out which table you’re sitting at (round, of course). The tables have names. Magic River, Moonlit Beach, Sunset Strip, bla, bla, bla. Having found your table – no mean feat among the other couple of hundred guests (minimum) – the food starts to appear. Soup, fish course 1, fish course 2, meat course 1, meat course 2 and a slab of icecream thingy to clean your palate.

Since the soup, the background music will have been getting louder and louder and after you’ve cleaned your palate, you’re expected to dance, after the bride and groom have opened the floor of course. About two hours later comes the good bit, the desserts, cheeses and fruit. Tables and tables of the stuff.

By this time I’m usually so stuffed all I can do is feast my eyes, cursing myself for having eaten too much before. But what can you do? They just keep shoving it at you and you have to do something to while away the time. By this time, it will have been about eight hours since we met up at the bride’s house!

Right, so now you have to dance and do the conga for another couple of hours, conversation being totally impossible because the music’s too loud. The cutting of the cake is done outside in a special little garden with a firework display. Everyone eats their cake and drinks champagne while the staff set up the table outside for a barbecue supper! It just goes on and on. If you manage to hang on until the very end, you’ll be offered Caldo Verde soup (remember the cabbage tree stuff) and hot chocolate, for god’s sake.

The bride and groom don’t have the luxury of disappearing before everyone else like they do in Britain. They’re there for the duration. More fool them for having planned the thing like that in the first place. I don’t know how they manage to cope. They’ll have been up since the crack of dawn, totally stressed and won’t get to bed until probably about 5am the next day. I left after the cake and champagne and it was 2am. 12 hours of excruciating torture! Actually it wasn’t, I enjoyed this last one, met some interesting people.

That, my friends, is your average, common or garden wedding, in Portugal, nothing fancy! The gypsy weddings here go on for a week, literally! Both my kids have strict instructions to find someone with money or get married in England or better still, elope (as long as they tell me where they’re going so I can pitch up at the last minute). Bonnie’s told me she’s no intentions of getting married (she’s my girl!) and Robert really couldn’t care less about fancy stuff so I’m in with a chance. Mind you, I suppose it depends on who they marry too (they might actually have something to say on the matter).

See ya!

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