Something Iāve learned recently about life in Portugal is that the most magical experiences arenāt the ones you plan. Theyāre the ones youāre invited into.
Our landlords, Antonio and Aura ā who have quickly become two of the kindest, most generous people weāve ever met ā invited us to join them for a local festival in Alferce, a small mountain village near Monchique. The festival was called Magusto, a traditional celebration marking the arrival of autumn and St. Martinās Day, where the community gathers to roast chestnuts, drink wine, and welcome the colder season together.
We didnāt know quite what to expect. We just followed Antonio and Auraās car up the winding roads, past hills blanketed in cork trees and the faint smell of woodsmoke in the air. When we arrived, the village square was already buzzing ā long tables lined with food, music echoing through the narrow streets, and clusters of people laughing beside open fires.
And then came the chestnuts.
Piles and piles of them, roasting in makeshift fire pits right in the middle of the cobblestone streets. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and sweet, earthy chestnuts. As the fires burned down, everyone gathered around to scoop up the roasted treasures from the ashes, their hands blackened with soot and smiles wide. People with black hand prints on their face, back, and arms from embracing – without stopping to clean their hands first.
Someone pressed a handful of warm chestnuts into mine, and I felt this sudden wave of gratitude ā not just for the food, but for the gesture. For the invitation. For being welcomed into something thatās been happening here for centuries. Old Portuguese men dug the hot chestnuts out of the firepit into the street to cool by Rory and Gannon so they could scoop them up without getting burned. They beckoned us to dance with them in the town square where the band played festive Portuguese music. We didnāt understand the words. We didnāt know the cultural dances. But we danced anyway. And felt so welcomed by everyone.
Magusto isnāt flashy. Thereās no big marketing campaign, no tickets or schedules, no influencers snapping photos (well, okay ā maybe just me). Itās simple, communal, and real. People come together to celebrate the season, the harvest, and each other. Though I did find this webpage with info about the festival details. Check it out!
And standing there, smoke curling through the mountain air, I realized this is exactly why we came here. To live in a place where the small things still matter. Where community means showing up, sharing food, laughing together, and finding joy in whatās already around you. It occurred to both Stacey and I that we werenāt afraid that some maniac was going to show up and start shooting at people. We werenāt afraid that anything bad would happen to Rory and Gannon while they ran off around the festival grounds by themselves with a crisp 20 Euro bill in their hands. The safety here is actually palpable. It, too, is what we came here for. Safety. Peace of mind. And it feels like weāve found it. The only thing missing are our friends and family from the US. I wish they could all be here with us.
After the fire burned low and our fingers were sticky with roasted chestnut sweetness, we walked to PassadiƧos Barranco do Demo, a stunning new walking trail nearby. More on this to come! We hiked a short section ā just enough to cross the suspension bridge and take in the view ā before heading home, smelling faintly of smoke and feeling very, very lucky.
Thereās something beautiful about a celebration that begins with fire. It reminds you that warmth often comes after the burning.
And for us, this was one of those moments where Portugal stopped feeling like āthe place we moved toā ā and started feeling a little bit like home.
Till next time, BehansOut.
