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The girl from the farm

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A birthday was the motto for the reminiscences of a friendship.

The event of the twenty-first anniversary of Quinta do Revoredo, in Santa Cruz, has recently been marked with a gathering whose motto was to remind the founding of the first House of Culture in the archipelago of Madeira, unique in its kind, in which was addressed the inherent challenges and difficulties of a time of public financial constraints, external and internal bickering, institutionally and other against the purchase of a property exclusively dedicated to culture, an aberration as many thought and was also the recovery of memories about that beautiful place facing the sea.

All that talk turned out to have the power to make submerge my own affections, I reminded the girl from the farm, as I dubbed, which I envisioned daily in the summer holidays, from the Palmeiras Beach pontoon getting out by one of the access doors towards the pebble to dive in the blue waters of the sea. I imagined how wonderful it would live in that mysterious house held onto the rocks, as if daring the ocean forces, surrounded by magical dragon trees and other old trees where they could live a thousand and one adventures. Until one day fate would introduce me to this girl, coming from the distant South Africa and that this meeting was born a friendship and although she did not live any more in the Quinta do Revoredo we decided in the night of end-of-year, me, her and my brother to make a last visit to what was only her home.

In the late eighties, the building was the target of a deep architectural intervention and there was a scaffold that came from the top of the wall to what is currently the largest beach pool and in what I decided to call an outbreak of juvenile unconsciousness, I started to rise the tube where the cement slided before the puzzled look of my brother and the pleading gestures to descend from my new friend. Gradually there I was climbing the fear and when I reached the top, almost incredulous with my own audacity, I might add, stated in full lungs to shout that I would not leave and they had to come get me and so, one by one, more or less upset my companions followed my dangerous example. Laughter and euphoric joy of relief echoed through the night to celebrate the auspicious beginning of this our adventure. After recovering our breath, facing the main building facade all that was enough so the door would open was just a little push and we come in to an almost unrecognizable space, somewhat disappointing, full of building materials and waste. Without much ado we went up to the first floor where the girl from the farm served as a guide, showing us her old room, the parents dormitory and her sister's which I did not know then and no longer lived with her, the living room and the old kitchen. It was a trip back in time that recalled her the days of idleness in which they played in the gardens of the rocked farm by the constant chirping of birds and the breeze laden with salt that beated the foliage of the leafy trees. During stormy weather, unlike other children, instead of counting sheep to fall asleep, they told the waves lapping against the wall to combat insomnia. She also remembered the lonely young man who appeared always to play sad songs on his guitar only at full moon and the well audible sighs of lovers and other more strange couples seeking the blackness of rocks that frequently were driven out by her father, for obvious reasons. Already the dawn threatened to rupture when we decided to terminate our tour and we left thru the other wall that faced the main road, but not before launching one last grin for that it was no longer a place full of mysteries, but rather what became one pages of the memorial of a friendship. Happy birthday Quinta do Revoredo!

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