Its colour, its mystery and its splendid wilderness were no more. Forests had become managed woodlands, rivers were bridged, villages were encircled by cabbage patches and advertisements for coffee were stencilled on walls. What was to be expected of Villa Real de Santo Antonio, we had enquired of our fellow travellers. They had shrugged their shoulders, preferring evidently not to be the bearers of ill-tidings. Despite the grandiose name it appeared more as an untidy village with dogs disputing the rubbish in its streets, and most of the inhabitants looked like criminal suspects temporarily free while awaiting imprisonment in chains or deportation. The problem facing normal inhabitants at this moment was the closure of the frontier, provoking, as we were to discover, a species of claustrophobia. We had been met by a member of the council who led the way to a Portuguese version of a Nissen hut that was to be placed at our disposal. Following our inspection of this, I put the question, ‘Do foreign tourists come here?’ His reply was, ‘Sometimes earlier in the year, yes—but at this time the weather is not good.’ ‘How do they occupy themselves?’ ‘The café is open two nights out of three,’ he said.
