Azeitona. Olive harvest. October 2024. Portugal

I am in Serro Ventoso, the interior of Portugal that never appears on colorful postcards in tourist shops. Here it is the realm of the green palette: pine, sage, emerald and their various shades. It is the land of white, milky mist that covers the hills. The thick fog that comes from the ocean and nourishes the soil, the locals say. People here are tough and resilient. The harshness of the landscape is reflected in their faces. They greet strangers with a piercing, stern gaze, not frowning, but not smiling either. For centuries, people have struggled in this rocky land, where rivers and waterfalls fill only after heavy rains. "When I was growing up, we had very little fruit. Only apples and figs in season. There was not enough water in this region to grow fruit," says 65-year-old Filomena. She and her nine siblings were all born in the same house where she now lives with her husband, their daughter and her boyfriend.

The younger generation of the family works outside the village, and I'm spending most of the day with the parents. "Tomorrow we'll go to azeitona late, around eight-thirty. I need to make cheese in the morning," warns Filomena as we are gathering around a large wooden table for dinner. She fills the plates with a hot, hearty, flavorful soup that traditionally starts an evening meal. It is my favorite Portuguese dish, and I happily accept seconds. "We're going to have a picnic in the field, and you should bring your own lunch." — In this family guests get a precious chance to be a part of everyday life, and I appreciate it immensely. That's why I travel to remote places off the well-trodden paths.

The next morning I wake up at seven. I don't want to miss the ancient magic of cheesemaking. The milk hasn't arrived yet, but Filomena has already had her breakfast and is outside, tending to the animals: goats, sheep, chickens and dogs. "Everyone has to eat in the morning," she remarks with a smile. From the open door I hear a staccato of droplets, as if rain were knocking on the cobblestones. It is fog that is dripping, still resting on the ground, too sleepy to crawl up the slope to the ridge. Filomena comes in with a bucket of fresh milk. A tiny drop of rennet is enough for curds to start forming up. She gently scoops them up with both hands and places them in small circular cheese molds. "It's a very simple process," she says, pressing the mixture with her fingers, "now all we have to do is add salt." For me, an observer, it is a miraculous transformation. The cheese will gradually mature and age, as it has been for centuries.

When we arrive to harvest the olives in the valley, the morning mist is lingering on the hill, the grass is still wet. We cover the ground around a tree with a huge net. We cut low branches and pick olives with our bare hands. It is manual labor: repetitive, meditative, and slow. We move between the trees, dragging the nets in which the fruit jumps like giant oval beads. There are seven of us today: four women, two men and me. All the women are Filomena's older sisters and each has a plot with oliveiras, an inheritance that their parents divided fairly. Every year in October they get together to help one or the other and today it is the eldest sister's turn. "When we were young, our family had so many trees that we collected azeitona for several months, well into winter. Through cold, rain and wind. Now it's only been three weeks and we're almost done.” The trees are small and don't yield much, but the full sacks are heavy. I watch as the women fill them and carry them to their pickup trucks. "We only finished four grades of public school. In those days, children had to help in the fields. Boys were herding cattle in the mountains from the age of six or seven". I do not even ask about the fate of the girls. Filomena already told me that all her older sisters had married at eighteen. "And what did you do for a living?" — "Agricultura," they all answer.

Women here are strong and hardworking. They greet strangers with a solemn, serious look, but gradually open up, smiling and making jokes. They tell me how their mother used to ride a mule to the market to sell wheat, olive oil and corn, and how they used to dry the fish she brought back from town. And many other stories of people who have survived in this green but harsh land for hundreds of years. And to hear them I have come to the interior of Portugal, which never appears on bright postcards.