Song of the Sea Maid (15 page)

My passage from the ship through the dockyards to a coach is not quite as savoury as the view from the river suggests. The muddy streets of Lisbon smell as badly as the worst of St Giles, especially as they bake in the mid-July sunshine. It is so warm that the ravens perched in trees stretch out their wings to cool themselves. The roads are teeming with men and women of black skin carrying out any number of jobs in the streets, coming and going from rich houses and poor, selling mussels and other foodstuffs in stalls and washing linen, not unlike the dark-skinned people I have seen about St Giles and the docks in London. Here they are somewhat more exotic, as some I see playing guitars and mandolins, while one dances in a rather shocking manner. Passing through are paler men of the cloth in their purple, black or white ecclesiastical robes – there seem to be priests everywhere one looks – alongside gypsies and peasants and gentlemen followed by their footmen in livery who wait for them by closed doors smoking cheroots; street vendors hawking fish, wheat, chestnuts and rainbow-winged parrots; packs of wild-faced children running about the streets like dogs, of which there are also dozens; though apart from the poor women, there are precious few ladies anywhere to be seen on the streets, unlike my home city. I take this as a warning of its dangers and resolve to avoid studying too closely the human life on the streets of Lisbon, and instead aim to concentrate on my study of the safer territory of plants and animals of the Berlengas Islands at the first possible opportunity.

I arrive at the English Hotel, standing on the highest ground near Lisbon, nearest the sea. The road past the hotel is jostling with carriages and coachmen, and gentlemen on saddle-horses, all of whom convey a superior appearance as they go out together for an airing after luncheon. I take a moment to turn and look out across the city. It stretches across seven hills, beside the shining broad river. I would estimate one can see fifty miles across country from here. Such a contrast from the restricted dark views everywhere one looks in London. I had no thought that a city could have such a handsome prospect, despite masking its grubby nature at street level.

Inside the hotel, I meet the owners: Mr and Mrs Dewar from Northumberland, old friends and business associates of Mr Woods. We all speak fondly of my benefactor and they know well of his propensity for drink and we share a humorous tale or two. The hotel is frequented by a great deal of company: English, Irish, Scots and Welsh; gentlemen, ladies, merchants and servants. I am shown to my room, which is clean, with flowered walls and a comfortable bed. There is even an escritoire for my work. At the first opportunity, I ask Mrs Dewar to make arrangements for me to be taken to Peniche, the town from which I will be visiting my warmly anticipated islands. She reveals it is all arranged, after receiving word from Mr Woods to that effect some days ago. I am to be taken there tomorrow morning, after an early breakfast. And thus I only have a few hours to rest, prepare and wait for my first visit to Ilha Berlenga.

Before I go, Mrs Dewar presents me with an impromptu gift: ‘Take one of my parasols, dear. You’ll need it this time of year, especially by the sea. No lady wants to be turned brown, eh?’ Yet as she says this, I see her frowning eyes scan my face and deduce she notes the natural duskiness of my complexion, though is too polite to mention it.

It takes all day by coach, with the horses rested three times on the dusty, potholed yet picturesque roads to the attractive coastal town of Peniche. Mrs Dewar has arranged for me to stay during the week in a small guest-house on a hill overlooking the sea owned by the sister-in-law of a wine merchant known to Mr Woods. She is a Portuguese widow of late middle age named Dona da Seda (in English, one could call her Mrs Silk), dressed in black from head to toe, though I know not how long ago her husband died. She is polite yet taciturn, and I welcome this; I know I will not be distracted from my work by this lady of few words. From this house, I will travel daily by ferry to the island, returning at night to eat and sleep. On Saturdays I will return to the English Hotel, where I am required to write my weekly diary, which is given to Mrs Dewar and forwarded to Mr Woods in England. Such are the minimal requirements laid upon me by my patron. He also wants to ensure I am well looked after at the hotel at least once a week, as the Peniche guest-house is plain in the extreme, with bare walls painted white, the minimum of furniture and no decoration of any sort, besides a crucifix on the wall above the low narrow bed. It is not without comfort though, and scrupulously clean. It suits me perfectly, far more than the hotel which, though congenial, would be far too sociable for collating my notes each evening.

In the morning, Dona da Seda brings me a simple breakfast of goat’s cheese and bread. It is like my orphanage days, yet a good-sized portion, and this time I relish the plain food, to settle my stomach. She shows me the road I must walk down to the sea, adding the name of the man who will ferry me to the island – Horacio – the name of his boat and that he wears a red neckerchief. I carry with me a bag, in which I have my sea floor viewing box; three little boxes suitable for animal specimens; a book of thick paper for pressing plant specimens; a notebook and pencils; a leather water bottle and a simple lunch of figs, chestnuts and bread wrapped in muslin by my hostess. I wear a cap and carry my parasol to guard against the weather.

Squat white houses with red roofs line every street, while every few houses I find one painted green, or pink, or a rich terracotta, with yellow window frames or filigree ironwork balconies, or an attractive image painted on the closed shutters, of flowers or fruit; on walls there are lines of flat fish hung out on wires to dry in the sun, their black shadows thrown sharply against the white walls by the bright sun. I walk past an open workshop full of women and young girls making lace placed over bolster cushions. I slow to peer more closely and see that the lace is pinned on to the cushions in elaborate designs, each thread attached to large clusters of round wooden bobbins. The ladies nod at me as I pass.

‘
Bela
,’ say I and they smile.
Beautiful.

‘
Obrigada
,’ they say and I walk on to the sea.

At this moment, I realise this is the first walk I have taken without a companion in years. The first time since my street days that I have been able to proceed, alone with my thoughts and impressions, able to speak to people I pass; without recourse to another, without care for another, without the opinions of another to guide or hamper me. Nobody knows me here, nobody expects anything of me or wants anything from me. And I own a sovereignty over my life that heretofore I have never had. For a moment only, I close my eyes as I walk and feel the seaside air play across my cheeks and the Portuguese sun beat down on me. I am truly free.

The sea spreads sapphire blue from the tumbling rocks of the coastline, frowned over by an imposing grey fort. The beach is butter yellow and soft, as I trudge across the sand to find the boat I need, the
Gaivota
, or the Seagull to you and me. I cannot see any names on the rowing boats lined up on the beach but there is a fellow with a red neckerchief beside one. He is waving at me. He confirms he is Horacio and says that I must not be sick in his boat. He mimes vomiting over the side to ensure I understand. He stows my bag, takes my hand in his rough, calloused one and helps me step in. I cannot see how this petite craft can possibly convey us all the way out to the Berlengas without dashing us on the rocks. I am about to question the wisdom of such a journey when I see he is rowing us towards a small sail boat anchored further out,
Gaivota
painted in white letters on her bow; and I think that for a person of scientific mind, I can be insufferably stupid at times.

Soon we are proceeding westwards, away from the Peniche harbour and out into the choppy seas. The journey seems endless, but perhaps is two hours or more. I vomit four times, I am glad to say over the side and not in Horacio’s boat. Every time I am sick he roars with laughter and nods. I am annoyed the first time, but by the third I wipe my mouth and try to laugh with him. He tells me the return trip is not so bad, as the winds and waves act differently towards the mainland. This gives me something to focus on, as I hold my stomach and gaze ahead, willing the islands to race towards me and end this misery. I resolve that there is no way I can stomach this trip twice a day, five days a week, four weeks a month, and six months altogether. I simply cannot. When I arrive, I will enquire about a place I can stay on the island, for perhaps a week at a time, and resolve to stay over in Peniche on Saturdays and Sundays instead. My benefactor may not understand, as he has an iron stomach from his sailing days. But I cannot waste my study time and risk my health by undertaking this despicable journey twice a day. I vomit again, my breakfast all gone, my head light with hunger and exhaustion, retching emptily now. To think I strolled down the streets of Peniche this morning, the happiest woman in town, and now I am in misery: the costs of liberty.

At long last, the
Gaivota
arrives at Berlenga Grande, the largest island hereabouts. The mooring-place is at the foot of the fortress I had seen from the
Prospect
. The water in this cove is luminous turquoise, almost green, and crystal-clear. Ahead of us rise stately granite rocks painted red, yellow, pink and grey by nature and the sunlight. We dock by a short jetty beside a bobbing row of boats with oars, and I step out on unsteady legs on to thick clumps of bright green grass that curl round my shoes in fleshy tufts. Oh, how I love the land! Horacio passes me my bag. He tells me he will see me here when I am ready to return, but will come to find me if he tires of waiting. He says it all with a cheerful grin, then steps back into his boat, settles down on his back, folds his arms and closes his eyes for a nap.

I turn to my island. I retrieve my sketchbook, lunch and parasol, leave the bag on the jetty and spend this first day exploring the length and breadth of Berlenga Grande, getting my bearings. On my climb up to a headland, I pass by a small stone hut by a well. I look down the well and judge the water to be clean, as it smells sweetly. The dwelling looks like it was once used by a goatherd or some such thing, and needs a good clean out. But it has shutters that are solid and not rotten, and even an old stove and a fireplace. I carry on up to the very top of the highest cliff on the island and look out at my domain. I see clearly the three groups of islets that make up this archipelago: here is my island and its adjacent reefs, then nearby the rock that surely must have once been a part of this island: the Ilha Vela
or Old Island, somehow cut off from here, by an ancient disaster, an act of God perhaps. Further off are two other island clusters: nearest are the Estelas and quite far are the Farilhões. They are home to many seabirds, I have heard, and to no people: a perfect menagerie, unadulterated by human interference. I will ask Horacio to take me to all of these, in good time.

I look to the fortress, which became so only in the last century, as it was built on the ruins of an ancient monastery. I think of the religious men who praised God here and tried to fight off attacks from enemies of Portugal, pirates and corsairs, often unsuccessfully; dying of untreatable diseases or falling from the cliffs, eventually driven away for good. I know there is a small garrison here in the fort, and there used to be some goatherds and fishermen; I contemplate why they chose to come to this island, away from the comforts of the mainland. I think of the people who made their way over here in ancient times, in boats far less reliable than Horacio’s; perhaps on rafts, or even floating logs. And I marvel at the human need to explore, conquer and settle. I wonder how long we have been doing it, how many hundreds of years. Or, could it be, thousands? For now, there are no people evident from my viewpoint up here, and I feel I could be the only person in the world, the last woman alive. But I am surrounded by life. From where I stand, I feel the islands throb about me with independent existence, rich with industry and a battle for survival, against each other, against the pounding sea and the scouring wind.

The goatherd’s hut will be mine. I am determined to have it for the duration of my stay, to reside on the island for some months and not to return to Peniche at the end of each week. After all, no one else makes use of the hut presently, so what is the harm? I go to see the captain in charge of the small garrison at the fort and ask him to arrange for a spare bunk and simple bedding to be sent up. He looks at me strangely but sees I am quite serious and does not refuse. He also agrees that his men will divert the course of their evening patrol to within shooting distance of my hut, in order to protect me. From what? I wonder. Vicious seagulls? When I tell Horacio of my plan, he clearly thinks I am insane and tells me so. He tells me there are a few malefactors incarcerated at the garrison and it is not safe. But I assure him I trust the soldiers there to guard them efficiently, at which he narrows his eyes and shakes his head. But he knows me enough already to doubt he will ever sway me, once I have set my mind to something. A few miscreants in a heavily guarded fort will never prevent me from my course of action, nor even the entire army of Portugal, I warrant.

Eventually I win round Horacio and he says he will enlist his wife’s help in thoroughly cleaning out the hut and even providing some home comforts. We go back to Peniche and I purchase supplies of food, blankets, crockery, cutlery, candles and soap, Horacio agreeing to furnish me with more necessities from time to time during my stay. I tell Dona da Seda of my plans and she looks sourly upon them. I give her two letters: one for Mrs Dewar at the English Hotel – firstly to order for me some coloured pastels and more sketchbooks, for me to fashion accurate drawings of the wildlife I find on the islands – and the other to my benefactor in England, informing both recipients of my movements, for courtesy’s sake. They may not approve either, but they are miles away and I am here. I am my own person and nobody can stop me. I have a mind to do something and – if it not be against the law of the land or cruel to another person – I will do it, and I will brook no objections on the grounds of what is normal, or usual, or even considered wise by others. If I hear protests, I question them carefully, I tease them to pieces and thereby destroy them, but gently. It is a method that seems to work very well for me, so far.