It’s freezing cold. Bone-chilling ice. As if a confused dragon had mistakenly spat out a breath of frost instead of fire. Also the children, who get up early and then leave the room to play, pretend to smoke a pipe, exhaling the condensed air with sticks hanging from the corner of their mouths.
Outside, on the other side of the window, the trees and bushes hint at the winter in which they live. All of them naked and with their branches flapping in the wind, they stand tall and convinced that this is where they belong, even though their skeletons of skinny trunks don’t seem to be putting up any resistance. Appearances can be deceiving.
The dew covers the grass, like a carpet that clings to the toecap of the boots that run over it. The gray, heavy sky twists into a grimace like a baby before throwing a tantrum. Sooner or later, the rain will be mourned. The best thing to do is find a shelter to watch it fall without getting soaked and cold.
By the time you’ve worked up the courage to get out from under the blanket, which you hold in a warm, heavy embrace, the hidden sun has already advanced a few steps. At the root of the motivation to pull aside the covers and tear your body apart is the promise of breakfast ready in the living room.
If naked trees resign themselves to the conditions that nature brings, dropping their armor in the wake of the last leaf, we humans haven’t yet become human enough to do so. We need to cover our bodies with several layers of wool and flannel, put a cap on our remaining heads and zip our coats up to our chins to cover our necks. Only with that, and another pair of boots tucked into thick socks, were we ready to come out of our cocoon.
The main house breathes heat through the smoke from the chimneys. The milk is heated over a low heat next to the scrambled eggs that make omelettes. The pancakes wait stacked on a plate, and the boiled tea is at the ideal temperature for drinking: hot enough to cozy you up inside, cold enough not to burn your tongue.
Between the Alentejo bread, the cake, the yogurt with homemade granola, the fruit and the crispy croissants, the only problem with breakfast is that you have to decide. You want everything, but everything is too much. Or you take over the big lunch and call hunger back at snack time. There’s room for everything and plenty of time to choose. The only thing that doesn’t exist is haste.
With a full belly, the rest of the day remains to be filled. Taking your boots for a walk is the best pastime a wintry morning in Matinha could ask for. The path is wherever the dogs want to take us. Dino and Gina lead the way, launched into an unbridled race to see who can reach a finish line that doesn’t exist first. Paz, on the other hand, follows the rhythm of his two-legged companions and occasionally turns his neck to make sure the pack hasn’t left anyone behind.
The walk whets the appetite, and hunger opens the door to a lunch so well served that it quickly turns into a siesta. When you wake up again, under a blanket, you stay there. With a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, you read a story by the light of the stove, which pumps heat into the entire room.
Nothing can be seen of what’s happening on the other side of the window. The day fell quickly, and night arrived in time to replace it. Now, through the glass, you can only see a reflection of the interior: a cozy setting made up of blankets, fire and homemade cake.
They say that winter is harsh and rigorous, but at Herdade da Matinha, this season is treated like any guest who passes through here: someone entitled to all the pampering and refinements to feel welcome when they arrive and essential when they stay. With your heart warmed in this way, there’s no cold that won’t melt the ice and turn it into something desirable.
That’s how you become as surrendered to winter as the bare-trunked trees outside, which, although you can’t see them, are undoubtedly there, resiliently rooted in the ground they walk on.
