Mountain magic
There’s a startling traffic jam on the ancient Roman road from Bracara Augusta to Asturica Augusta: a big, beautiful Barrosã cow is squatting on the path. We (two teenage nephews and I) are on the last stretch of a leisurely week-long hike through the mountains of north-west Portugal, and we’ve become so used to having the route to ourselves that the sight of another creature – particularly one with enormous lyre-shaped horns – stops us in our tracks.
“How now brown cow grazing on the green, green grass,” I say amiably, as a way of indicating we are friends, not foe. Bessie, as the boys nickname her (“because cows are often called Bessie”), gives me a disdainful look and carries on munching. Satisfied she’s cool with our company, we sit down and join her
