Back in the village of Colva, we wandered aimlessly in the afternoon, looking for lanes that we had not explored when we visited in the monsoon. Another chapel! This one stood in a small ground, and looked taller than it was broad. It had interesting doors, shut tight.
Earlier, just outside the pleasant cafe where we’d spent a nice hour after lunch, we’d come to the large village church and its graveyard. This section was recent. I looked at the names on the gravestones. Fernandes, Rodrigues, Mascarenhas. Familiar names, common across the Portuguese speaking parts of the world. Interestingly the Portuguese had exported family names along with their brand of Christianity. Once someone took the religion and the name, they would be considered a citizen of Portugal. This was a very different style of expansion than the extractive empire that the English and the Dutch developed.
We continued walking down the narrow lane past the chapel. Here the houses were set far back from the road. The lane wound between tall and dense stands of garden flowers trying to escape. When these I see these feral flowery plants growing tall I wonder whether plants find any advantage in becoming a woody tree. Maybe the competition to grow taller than any overshadowing neighbour eventually drives stems to become more rigid and woody. Is the capacity to produce wood hidden in the genes of every flowering plant?
Walking on, we came to a fork in the road. One way led further into the village, past the kind of local houses that we admired. The other led on to the beach. I looked a question at The Family. She nodded towards the beach. It would be silly to come to Colva and not take a long walk on the beach at sunset.
Don't hold your breath 
